Malarrimo: Liquor for breakfast
September 14th, 2014 ($252mxn)
Malarrimo (50Km-ish)
Liquor for breakfast? Generally not, but if it’s a liquor bottle found at Malarrimo, count me in for a drink of victory! As with most days when camping, I woke up with the sun, it was early and Malarrimo beach, along with the countless lost cargo it promised, was in the vicinity. As if that wasn’t reason enough to start off my day with anticipation, getting out of this debris-filled dead end canyon we had to camp in was also motivating. Instead of trying to find this concealed and elusive dirt road that would take us north directly into Malarrimo, we would instead go the long way: ride to Bahia Tortugas, have a hearty meal, and head north from there, via the clearly existent and defined road on the map, and scout for this wonder beach along the coast. So, maybe liquor for lunchtime.
In town, not much exploration was done. Bahia Tortugas was merely a pit stop for birria tacos, the hearty kind, and gas; exploration of this town would take place later, possibly in the comfort of new tennis shoes found at Malarrimo beach and not the daily stiff motorcycle boots. With our hunger satisfied and our gas tanks full, we headed north out of town until we reached the coast. From there, we would back track along the coastline, searching for the target beach. A beach with the description that we had, one where cargo lost in the Pacific Ocean washes up, should be fairly simple to identify; it’s the beach with all the foreign items scattered across it. At the coast, where we began to backtrack east, the dirt road was evidently not maintained, but we would follow it playing duck-duck-goose with each beach until the chosen one came to sight.
After 45 minutes, or so, of riding, and seeing nothing and no one, except hills and cliffs leading down to the coast, something peculiar came to sight. It was a tiny house, lifted a few feet off the ground, consisting of only four walls with enough space to perhaps fit a couple of beds. The house, at the very edge of a cliff overseeing the huge Vizcaino Bay, was odd to see, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but sand and ocean around. As curious as I was, Tom and Dominic were ahead of me, and I didn’t want to miss out on lost treasures waiting for us ahead.
The scene changed shortly after the house on sticks. It became extremely sandy; picture the ocean, cliffs, and sandy desert dunes as far as the eye can see. Little by little, the track we were on became increasingly difficult to read, as if there was no track at all. I suppose not too many travelers reach this point and, the tracks of those who do, are promptly covered by the endless desert sand around. One particularly large hill, put my lacking riding abilities to the test, and mocked me. So much so, that I decided to go around it, in search of an easier path. Days later I would realize I never decreased the pressure in my tires to increase traction on the loose terrain. It is supposed to help, I am such a poor rider I hardly notice subtle differences when it comes to this. On that same dune, Tom had some difficulty near the top, and it required all three of us handling his motorcycle to get up to level ground. In this maneuver, Tom realized the high tech, excellently ventilated, waterproof Klim riding pants we had were not resistant to hot exhaust pipes. The exhaust on his motorcycle burned through the outside layer of his pants without him noticing until after the fact, leaving him unharmed and with a story to tell.
Click here for a video of Tom riding up this hill, by Hobo Moto.
The treasures of Malarrimo were not coming at a low price. “If getting to them were simple, there probably would not be any left,” I said to convince myself to keep going. The sand became so abundant one would need paddle tires to ride in these conditions. With the tires we had, our motorcycles began to get buried. Dominic needed to get off his motorcycle and push it out of the rut his tire had spun into, which is by no means an easy task. Sadly enough, I could not help him, because my kickstand would sink into the sand if I tried putting it down; all the luggage on the bikes did not help for this either.
There was sand everywhere, not only every direction I turned to, but also inside my shirt and, what was worse, my pants, my helmet, my mouth and nose. The sun was directly overhead, I felt miserable and, just like my kickstand sinking into the sand, I felt the dream of reaching Malarrimo sinking away too. We had been riding for hours. By this point, we had most likely already passed the spot we tried arriving through the night before, and yet there was no sign of a beach full of whiskey bottles, boxed tennis shoes, or wood drift to at least make a small bonfire! Even if we could see this elusive beach, it would be at the bottom of a cliff we could not get down from! If it was out there, we would not be making it to Malarrimo. Maybe a simple beer and getting these stiff boots off would be rewarding enough after such a disappointing end to an arduous day.
In silence and with crushed spirits we headed back in the direction we came. We eventually arrived back to the tiny house on sticks and stopped to ask for background information on the area. They also had shade, which was more than I could ask for at that point. It turns out the tiny house, was actually a watch station, which is why it stands on sticks so close to the edge of the cliff. Through talking to the two men on duty at that time, we found out they live there for one week at a time, making sure nobody who is not authorized catches lobster from the bay. From my understanding, lobster fishing belongs exclusively to the town’s ‘cooperativa’, composed of most of the existing families within the town of Bahia Tortugas. Lobster season, which begins sometime between September and October, is the main source of income for not only this town, but also many others in the Baja peninsula.
We continued our retreat and decided to camp somewhere between the watch house and the maintained road back to Bahia Tortugas, a spot that had access to the beach and was not all cliffs. I took off my stifling jacket and helmet, followed by sand-filled stiff boots, I switched out my pants for board shorts and washed off my disappointment with a swim in the ocean. During dinner, the group spoke about the letdown Malarrimo turned out to be. I suppose that, at least for me, high expectations were made from the moment Dominic told us what he had heard from another traveler regarding this beach. In my mind, it was a sure thing, but that conversation between Dominic and his source of information could have very well gone something along the lines of: “I heard there’s a beach by the name of Malarrimo where lost cargo washes up, I have nothing to substantiate that statement, but you could always just try it out.” I never did my own research to have conservative expectations, nor did I stop to think that, if this beach did hold all these objects I imagined with anticipation, others might have already been there consistently enough for there to not be any left. Heck, maybe that is actually what did happen. Yes. That has to be it. The treasure beach did exist. With Jose Cuervo’s and Adidas scattered throughout, we just got to it a bit too late. That’s what happened.
Here’s a link to an article in the Smithsonian Magazine on Malarrimo Beach for more depressing info on the wonders we missed out on.
(Featured image by: Hobo Moto)