Article written by me some time after our trip to Ensenada on Todos Santos Bay. The date of the trip was April 6, 1932, which I got from our entry permit, and that is still with my original copy.

1932

The sun had already set on the rocky cliffed shores of the Pacific when we rounded a sharp bend in the road with a towering precipice on one side of us and a vertical drop to the ocean on the other to find ourselves at the edge of the little town of Ensenada, Baja California in old Mexico. We had come two hundred miles that day, but the sixty odd miles from the United States border to Ensenada had taken longer than coming twice that distance over California's hard surfaced and scientifically constructed highways. Nevertheless, the trip had been thoroughly delightful despite the fact that we had traveled over part of the foreign territory after dark.

Indeed, it was a country about which one hears many tales of terror from presidential murders to insurrections. Friends who had lived much of their lives in southwestern United States spoke of their antipathy to Mexicans as they saw them in their own communities; other friends who knew nothing of the country or its people except what they read in the newspapers, warned us not to enter for fear of our lives. Still others who had themselves visited the territory had promised that we should find this part of Mexico quite as harmless as the United States if not more so. We learned later that the people of Lower California are very friendly and peaceable, seldom carrying weapons, whereas those of Mexico proper often carry a pistol or machete.

Baja California, or Lower California as we name it here, is a long narrow peninsula about which one seldom studies in geography courses or about which one rarely reads in newspapers except for a few racing and gambling towns of which TiJuana and Agua Caliente are examples. In all the peninsula has an area of 55,000 square miles and a population of about 65,000. Its width varies from thirty to one hundred and fifty miles, and its length is approximately 760 miles. In this entire area there is no railroad except where the San Diego-Arizona Railroad crosses the border for a short distance in the north. Communication is carried on chiefly coast-wise by water; practically all the roads are very poor and in many places are almost impossible for automobile travel. Burros are used commonly for short distance transportation across land and mountain trails. With so small a population and communication so difficult between settlements, it is indeed an empty country where one human being is ever happy to meet another, where a hand is raised to everyone on the road in hospitable greeting. Driving through the country one wonders how it can support even the number of people who apparently do exist there.

After stopping briefly in TiJuana where hordes of pleasure seeking Americans had come to spend their half holiday, we passed over mile after mile of beautiful country with only an occasional cabin and a makeshift shelter for cattle to indicate the presence of human beings. Many times we were miles from the nearest dwellings, and even the loneliness of a big city could not surpass the desolate feeling of inadequacy in case of an emergency. Two strangers in a sometimes temperamental bit of mechanism, commonly called a car, were far away from help if help should be needed. My husband's confidence that we would be safe was not reassuring enough for me, but my fear of the unknown added to the thrill of the drive. It was early spring and the hills were still green from the winter rains, but we could see that it would not be long before these hillsides would be parched. How would these cattle which we saw at intervals live through the long dry summer until the winter rains brought relief from the heat and food scarcity? Along this particular part of the coast there are several valleys where water can be obtained from mountain streams, but in most of Lower California, as in the southwest generally, these are lacking and the rainfall cannot be depended upon. In many localities there are times when very little or absolutely no rain falls for periods of from one to five years. In years when the rainfall is good, the cattle increase rapidly until another period of severe drought when they die by the thousands, and the ranchers' profits are lost. Our road which at first was fair became more and more rugged until our speed was reduced to fifteen miles an hour or less. In most places it wound along the shore of the ocean which appeared more beautiful here than it had in many places above TiaJuana. It was bluer and the waves were more dazzlingly white as they broke against the rocky coast. At times, vistas of bays, both great and small, flanked by pointed headlands of sunburned rock, added to the silent loveliness of the unfolding panorama.

On the other side of us were low mountain ranges. Not far into Mexico, a mesa appeared on the horizon which arose in perfect solitude from a plain. It was far distant from us, yet it stood out clearly, its upper surface as flat as a table top and as barren as the banquet board after dessert has been served.

Now we were close to the ocean, so close we could hear the breakers as they splashed upon the cliffs at the water's edge; then we had climbed a hill and were winding up hairpin turns where the ocean could no longer be seen or heard. Gradually it grew darker. The ocean if it were near, faded from view. It was dark; the road was rocky, rough, winding, and unmarked, but we could not get lost for there was only one road. Occasionally we passed a car, but while driving over these entire sixty miles we saw, perhaps, no more than a total of five cars; less frequently even did we meet a native on horseback.

So as we turned the curve on the ocean's brink, it was with some relief that we saw the little town of Ensenada, nestled on the Bay of Todos Santos. We were tired and hungry, but easily found the Chinese restaurant, recommended to us by friends. After glancing over the menu, we found it necessary to call the Mexican waitress for assistance in interpreting the fare. However, she knew barely more English than we of Spanish. We finally ordered the article of food which was written in English and which both parties concerned could understand--chop suey.

While waiting for the Chinese cook to prepare our supper, we had time to gaze about us. From the outside it had appeared that our restaurant was simply a whitewashed shed glorified by the name of Juan Wong Cafe. The interior in no way altered our first impres-sion. The inside walls were also whitewashed but unplastered and were decorated with cheap calendar pictures nailed here and there. A few small windows gave light during the day. The floor which was made of wide soft wood boards showed no signs of recent cleaning, and when I noticed our cook through the doorway to the kitchen at one end, drop some food, I wondered if that would be discarded or added to our meal. Several long tables were ranged in the dining room with white or blue and white tablecloths, but it was evident from their appearance that several meals had already been served on them.

An antique phonograph occupied one corner of a table, but we were not dependent on it for our music. It was not long before we had a concert which we enjoyed as much as many we had heard in concert halls. Our private entertainment, though the artist had no idea we existed, came to us through the board walls of the restaurant from the saloon next door. To the accompaniment of a guitar, a Mexican youth sang native songs with a voice that was superb in harmony and quality, and might have been the envy of renowned singers. That bit of pleasure as we were eating our not too relishable chop suey will never be forgotten.

Nor were our anxieties entirely over when we had finished the Chinese dish. We had yet to find a safe place to spend the night. Again, in spite of my husband's assurances, I was frightened. We did not know then that Lower California is very different from other parts of Mexico in its reputation for peaceable character. Nevertheless, we spent some time walking up and down the main street and visited a shop where we purchased post cards to send to the friends who had warned us not to enter Mexico. We, at least, had arrived safely.

With some difficulty after driving over a few rough, unpaved side streets, we found an auto court owned by a couple whom we learned upon inquiry, were Canadians. It still interests us to wonder just why they should have chosen this outlandish but intriguing place to live. Their home, however, appeared comfortable, tastefully furnished, and with a radio bringing news and music from the United States seemed not altogether lonesome and forlorn. With these as our hosts, we lost some of our fear, or, rather, I did, and slept the sleep of the tired traveler while from a quarter mile away came the recurring thunder of the waves breaking upon the beach.

Early the next morning we spent a short time driving about the town. Ensenada is primarily a fishing village, and though it has a population of approximately 2000, one would not judge it to be so large from the size and number of dwellings. Although space means nothing, since the land is practically all desert, the homes in parts of the town were crowded close together. Most of the business buildings were of lumber while the dwellings utilized diverse materials such as tin, canvas, boards, several types of thatching, adobe, and other odds and ends, and ranged in size from tiny shacks to respectable houses.

It was interesting to see a wood peddler selling fagots of branches which were carried on burros' backs. We saw him twice, and apparently he had a successful day (it was Sunday), for most of the fuel had disappeared from the pack saddles later in the morning. Our next venture, though unexciting in itself, was a stroll along the beach. In front of a large American built hotel, a Mexican soldier was idly cleaning his gun. My husband greeted him with a "Buenos dias, Amigo" (My husband had studied Spanish in college, but this was possibly all he remembered), and he responded likewise. There our mutual understanding ended, for my husband could think of no more fitting Spanish words, and our English

questions were answered with only a shake of the head. We presumed, however, that he was on duty to guard against smuggling.

The beach along the lovely Bay of Todos Santos was hard, and except for close to the edge of the water where waves had made a series of perfect sand ripples, was smooth. The water here was bluer than it had been farther up the coast in the United States where the greater density of population and the manufacturing gave the water a muddy and oily appearance in many places. Beyond the beach rose a sand dune region which was literally covered with two or three different species of plants bearing flowers which varied in shades from white to pink. Would that we had more time to saunter along this delightful beach in the balmy air of a Mexican April and continue to watch the rhythmical ebb and flow of the waves.

But we wanted to see still more. Our hosts of the night had told us of a lovely drive toward the south to the Mission of Santo Tomas and beyond. However, time did not permit us to go the entire distance, so we compromised by ambling out on the road to the south. In an hours time, we had gone about ten miles and then turned back. The vegetation seemed different from the last we had seen the previous day and many new species of cacti were conspicuous. We saw several families living in tents, two of which interested us particularly. They were living in close proximity with a palm thatched shelter for animals between the dwellings. Several goats were tied to the upright supports of the shed roof, and chickens and a dog were running about the yard. In front of one of these tents a Mexican father was busily cutting his child's hair while keeping up a conversation with his neighbor who squatted beside him. The scene was so quaint that we could not resist an attempt at a picture. Again my husband gave his greeting and was answered. Pointing to our camera, we implied we wished a picture, but he most emphatically though not angrily refused us that favor, indifferently continuing his Sunday morning task.

Our return to Ensenada and thence to the border was without excitement though we enjoyed again the lovely scenes along the way and especially those we had missed during the darkness of the night before. The trip was comparatively easy in spite of the ungraded roads, and this interesting land so close to our own country is well worth a visit by more Americans.