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Bodacious Baja Blonds Corrupt Mexican Checkpoint Soldiers
By Suzanne C. Ganatta

Rolling to a stop at the Baja California military checkpoint south of San Felipe, I told the soldiers we would bring them cold sodas on our return an hour later. At 104 degrees, heat waves swirled above the softened asphalt. They say dry heat isn’t so bad. Tell that to a Mexican soldier inspecting cars, in the desert, away from town, standing on a hot black surface with no shade and nothing cold to drink, in full long-sleeved uniform. Water drank at air temperature isn’t that pleasant when it’s hot enough to fry at egg on tar with sunrays.

After securing a supply of ice, beer, and ceramic parrot banks, I turned my Hummer away from town. Nearing the checkpoint I suggested we whip them up a batch of margaritas. It was a far more relaxed attitude than a few days earlier at the start of the trip. Baja’s magic was working.

Crossing the Tijuana border presented “no problema.” We were an ecliptic group, humming along to the tunes of Conway Twitty, the Drifters, and James Taylor. A quick 2 hours later we were seated at a favorite lunch stop in Ensenada, El Taco de Huitzilopochtli. Jeans and myself (GeoRock) assigned nicknames to the Mexico first-timers while munching. I’m not sure why the skinny blond was named “Rope,” but it stuck throughout the trip. Purple was named for her love of the color, evidenced by daily wear of it. We came up with an egotistical title for our group of four women: Baja Bodacious Blond Babes. The shoe may not have fit, but we were wearing it anyway. At least we all laid claim to being blond.

Located on the slope of a mountain surrounding the town’s basin is this back street café, a hidden secret of Ensenada. A heavy Aztec influence dominates the menu. My favorite dish is the Huauzontles plate; a small leafed plant imported from the mainland, molded with cheese, dipped in egg batter and cooked in a mild red chili sauce. One eats it by using front teeth to scrap the plant off the woody stem.

Swilling the rest of my icy Pacifico beer to wash down a corn tortilla stuffed with limey, salty Oaxacan cheese and orange pumpkin squash flowers, I teased Rope and Purple with suggestions they order the lamb head cooked in a mesquite oven. Guess that was just too native, it ended our meal. At least they became bi coastal after lunch, crossing the Baja Peninsular from Pacific Ocean to Sea of Cortez in one day. And they were taught a non-touristy secret: stomp the brakes hard when you see a roadside stand selling coconuts. For a couple of bucks you’ll have a refreshing drink and a snack. After drinking the cool coconut milk, the concessionaire scopes out the tender white flesh, douses it with hot sauce and then squeezes fresh limejuice over the top with a sprinkling of salt.

About 32 km south of San Felipe, we set up camp at Nuevo Mazatlan Campground. The owner’s father planted tamarisk trees, many of which have grown to over a 50-foot height and provide much appreciated shade. Our campsite was just steps from the beach. Hot enough to sleep with just a sheet; I watched a crisp full moon rise out of the sea. This moon had no rings or orange tints to it, just brilliant white.

 Days were spent getting lobster red on the beach. Extreme heat was abated with dips in the 80-degree water, and by blended margaritas laced heavily with Gran Centenario tequila. Thank goodness for car battery powered blenders.

The soldier corruption wasn’t planned. As we neared the checkpoint, perhaps it was the dirty old shopkeeper in town who tried to sell Jeans a “porno” cactus that influenced us. It began innocently enough. All of us gullible blonds were admiring a papier-mâché cactus. The shopkeeper kept repeating the word “porno.” In what is now an obvious blond moment, I thought it was a Spanish word I didn’t recognize. When none of us blonds seemed to comprehend, he took great pleasure in pulling off the cactus top to expose the, ah, well, a particular man-part.

Still laughing from our blond moment, we pulled onto the dirt shoulder as we approached the checkpoint. No other cars were in sight. I filled the portable blender with ice, a little margarita mix, and a lot of tequila. A group of 5 cars slowed to a stop. I grabbed a dishtowel to hide the blender, but lost my grip. Two soldiers laughed and pointed at my failed attempt to hide the evidence. In the passenger seat of a waved through pick-up gasped a late 60ish gringa, jaw hanging down and eyes bulging at the margarita blending. The Bodacious Baja Blond Babes and the three camouflaged men burst with laughter. The soldiers didn’t care if anybody witnessed the whirling of the blender’s beverage. Pulling away, I noticed another car approaching. El jefe, sipping his more tequila than mix margarita under the boiling sun, impatiently waved it through.

Call me a bad influence, call me a corrupter, call me what you will. But the fact stands that us gals gave those guys a frosty drink on a hot day. I wonder if they will remember the loca Americanablonds whenever they drink a margarita?

Returning to the states through the Mexicali border crossing, a very friendly U.S. Customs guy was so surprised to hear four women had camped in Mexico, that he asked if we had a man on top of the Hummer (amidst the pile of sleeping bags and beach chairs). Purple yelled, “NO WAY!!” At that he laughed and waved us through with the parting words, “Go home to your husbands!” Driving away I added, “and corrupt them!”

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