Dec. 22, 2013 – The Crossing

There’s a pretty good chance that no one from San Diego has actually been across this border.

After two days of hearing from just about everyone I talked to that I had a death wish, it took just a few hours to squash the nerves I’d carried through the morning.

I hadn’t slept well in my San Diego dorm room. Gus, down and out after a recent divorce, had been up late with the bottle, while the Italian underneath me had snored loudly through the night.

But I’d woken up energized, excited to finally cross the threshold into Latin America and begin a journey nearly a year in the making. After three months of thumbing it across the southern United States in late 2012, the transition to a desk job had been difficult. I craved the freedom and unpredictably of living from a backpack, and the variety of characters and landscapes that accompany the lifestyle.

This would be a much bigger challenge my last trip. With eyes on Brazil 2014, I wouldn’t just be exploring an English-speaking neighbour to the south. I’d be walking down into a vast and diverse region (culturally, historically, geographically) with limited of the local languages for my longest ever stretch on the road.

I didn’t have friends scattered through Latin America. I wouldn’t be able to board an emergency flight home for $300. I wouldn’t be able to turn my brain off and shoot the shit in my native tongue whenever I craved company.

It had been a strange few days getting south to San Diego. After spending month bouncing around beautiful British Columbia, spending time with loved ones while soaking up the fantastic landscape, I eventually walked into the America with a heavy heart.

On either side of a Seattle-to-LA flight, I warmed up the hitchhiking muscles with jaunts from Vancouver to Seattle (slowed down by a nosy American border guard), and Los Angeles to San Diego. For the final 30 miles from San Diego to the border, I boarded the trolley for the bustling border.

I cashed in $80 USD for about 1,000 pesos and joined the masses heading south up the ramps and through the turnstiles. No documentation required for this crossing. As I took my first breaths in a new land, I saw the long (read:still) line of cars waiting to go the other way. That crossing would take hours.

It wasn’t as mind-bending as I’d been told to expect. Street hawkers were more polite than obnoxious. Taxi drivers reclined against their cars, not pressing too hard for rides. After taking note of the ABC bus station, I started following the signs to the Baja highway in hopes of a lift south to Ensenada.

The Tijuana outskirts were vibrant and a little stinky, with trash strewn through run-down fields and music pumping from various buildings. But the folks were friendly. Even the bums would give me the odd wave as I scoped out various on-ramps.

After walking a good 30 minutes in hopes of a good lift spot, I decide to stop. I had no map, no real sense of direction, and was fairly certain few would bother stopping on high-speed highway. It was too busy. Sweaty and tired from the weight of my too-heavy pack, I sluggishly returned to the bus station. Baby steps, I guess.

The 90-minute ride from Tijuana to Ensenada is a stunning coastal ride down a twisting and bumpy two-lane highway – the same one I’ll be following 1,400 km south to La Paz. Some halting conversation with Herrero revealed the challenge I’d be facing on the language front.

Soon enough, I was getting dumped in the middle of downtown Ensenada. The narrow streets bustled with activity. Cars clanked through the streets and citizens crowded the sidewalks while taco vendors papered every corner.

I popped into an internet cafe to receive the good news that Ruth was able to put me up for a few days. After mowing down a few tacos de pescado, I made moves for Avenida Abasolo.