I finally found a friend adventurous enough to accompany me on an adventure, which seemed almost imaginable among the Utah crowd. We planned to drive from St. George, Utah to Puerto Peñasco, Mexico-- some 9.5 hours, and the quickest, cheapest route to cross the border.
Our journey through the Southwest was unremarkable, except that the desert seemed increasingly barren, hostile, and inhabitable as we neared the border. In Southern Arizona, we saw motorcades of police cars and immigration raids as we neared the border. It all felt increasingly ominous. As we passed through the National Monument, the radio warned us to be aware of potential illegal activities as immigrants used the park as a border crossing location. I cannot imagine anything more terrifying than trying to make my way across such a dangerous, desert landscape.
Our trek to the border was uneventful. We were not stopped or searched, just motioned to pass through and come on in. After crossing at Sonoyta, it was another 100 kilometers to reach the ocean, Puerto Peñasco. We passed ejidos that appeared abandoned. Thousands of "for sale" signs. Abandoned RV resorts. A decrepit home for orphan children. Alongside the road, desert flowers were in bloom.
We arrived into town and drove toward the El Mirador--the viewing beach, found a room in a dilapidated motel--either under construction or in the advanced stages of decay--probably both. All of the resorts on this side of town were crumbling and vacant. It was decidedly strange. All of the infrastructure for tourism, but a ghost town.This was to be my companion, Nate's first seaside vacation and we were eager to see the sunset. We passed pharmacies, RV parks, pharmacies, abandoned resorts... and more pharmacies, externalities of overly expensive American healthcare I suppose and lax Mexican regulations. Interestingly, many of the signs were advertising medicines that were easily procured in the US: antibiotics, insulin, viagra, ibuprofen, soma, cialis...
The city is located on a small strip of land that joins the Baja California Peninsula with the rest of Mexico. Located in the Altar Desert, it is one of the driest places in the larger Sonoran Desert. Originally, fishermen camped in the bay, and searched for a fish called totoaba, used medicinally. As it lacked water, the area was not settled until the 1920s, until John Stone from Ajo, Arizona arrived and built a casino in the prohibition era. He drilled a well, and set up flight service to bring gringos in to drink, gamble, and fish. Supposedly, Al Capone frequented the place. In the 1930s and 1940s, a railroad town/fishing village was built, and locals made a living from shrimp fishing. It was scarcely populated.
Until the 1990s, there was very little tourism there--except campers, fishermen, and college students (taking advantage of Mexico's legal drinking age of 18). They found pristine beaches, crystalline waters, and little development.
Then, in 1993, there was a push to develop the area for tourism, where the government made partnerships with private investors to build condominiums and other facilities. It was hoped to capitalize on its close proximity to the United States, and appealed to "snow birds." It has been nicknamed "Rocky Point" or "Arizona's Beach," as it is relatively close to Phoenix, Tucson, and Yuma. Supposedly, the efforts were inspired by the success of Cancún, which was nearly a virgin beach before public/private ventures developed it. Tourism also became an important source of revenue, as fishing catches declined, due to overuse and pollution. The federal government contributed 2 billion pesos in infrastructure, for roads and an airport, and the area was declared a "free zone" (meaning tourists did not need passports).
Between 2002 and 2007, the place boomed, with economic growth at 12%. A golf course was built, expensive resorts, and condominiums--99% were purchased by North Americans. Yet the speculative boom busted after the financial crisis of 2008... as did the markets in arts and crafts and so on.
After dinner one evening, I waited for Nate on the street, and spoke with a taxista. In English (most seemed to have an uncannily good grasp of it), he told me that Puerto Peñasco's economy was based on two things: tourism and fishing. Tourism only lasts during Spring Break, for one or one and a half months each year. This is their busy time, and the folks are celebrating. He explained that the city was booming, until the financial crisis of 1980s and then everything stopped. "It hurts us much harder than it hurts you guys there... That's why La Cholla is full of half-built mansions and empty houses... that's why the resorts are falling apart."
We went to the "Best Western" to park and spend the day at a more sandy beach. This side of the city was more active, brimming with spring-breakers from AU.
We had just set-up our blanket, when we were approached by an elderly woman, wearing a large straw hat, skirt, leg warmers, trudging up the beach selling jewelry.
I asked to see her offerings, and wanted to know where she came from.
"Oaxaca." She replied.
"You are very far from home... Do you like it here?" I asked.
"No. It is very cold, and then very hot... But I'm here because the people say that the gringos have lots of money."
"Well, we are teachers, we don't have much."
She seemed to understand a bit.
"It's hard times for everyone, I guess."
I bought a few bracelets from her. She wanted us to buy in dollars, but we only had pesos. She didn't know how to do the math to convert 17x15. We gave her the money and wished her well. She didn't know if we had short-changed her or not.
The spring-breaker students approached us later, and wanted to talk politics: about the impossibility of single-payer health care, the improbability of Bernie Sanders. They were emphatic that we learn to haggle with the beach vendors, and I refused (See the film, Cannibal Tours).
That night, we were approached by a man from Southern California. He was trying to get us to make purchases at the pharmacies. "You want oxycontin? Vicodin? What do you want? Marijuana? Ecstasy? Cocaine?" The streets were full of spring-breakers and their sound pollution. Lame college boys consuming pre-fabricated fun, filmed from their selfie-sticks. In front of one of the clubs, a sign had been placed out front for the females: DO NOT LEAVE THE CLUB WITH STRANGERS. BE CAREFUL WITH YOUR DRINKS. AVOID SEXUAL ASSAULT.
Puerto Peñasco was surprisingly silent, aside from the blaring of bad hip hop/dub step/whatever electronic garbage the kids now mistake for music. The only local music we heard was from two men. They set up an amplifier, and accompanied on the drums. That was it.
We pilfered through art galleries. Everything was covered in dust, abandoned.
That said, I've not eaten as well since I left Peru in 2015.
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