Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Southern Baja: Part 11

Matt told me that he once ran across a friend with a killer, abalone detailed belt buckle. The belt buckle was made by the inmates of the Mulege prison. The prison is a concrete box set just enough back from the coast to ensure that no cooling ocean breezes ever makes it through the prison's barred windows. I can only imagine that in the summer time, the guys inside slowly stew in their own body fluids, convection cooking themselves in that brutal cinder block hell. So when Matt told me we were going to check out the prison shop, I have to say, I was a little apprehensive.

Mulege super-max prison, dirt road in, no way out. The guard held onto our passports and opened the gate. There was no smiling public relations guide and the guard only gave us one verbal direction, "Adelante". We obeyed, walking forward, trying not to make eye contact with the inmate jamming his head out a small window looking down on us. It was creepy. And the little gift shop was odd. A prisoner in orange came out, unlocked the door and stood silently by as we checked out he handicrafts. He was very quiet and, when we mistakenly overpaid him he told us so and made the correct change. There were no cool abalone belt buckles but there were all kinds of Virgin Mary paintings, wooden dolphin ear rings and a couple non-operating wall clocks that seemed to be constructed from bark, cactus spines and plywood- those were actually pretty cool. 
The prison was interesting but once we realized there'd be no belt buckles in our future, we were determined to get back to the surf. It was pedal to the metal until we hit the turn off to our old faithful camp/surf spot. Pro-tip: never drive past free firewood- and don't load it where you sleep unless you'd like to cuddle with a scorpion or snuggle with a centipede.
The surf was flat. Fortunately for us, motorcycles always want to make you happy. While we set up camp, Matt, Dakotah and Luke did a beach run up to the big point.
We decided to camp out at the inside point. Cold beers were cracked, our campfire built and dinner prepared. Perfect.
Well, it was almost perfect. Almost perfect because the next day, "the asshole" showed up. Remember him?

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

C'mon. Tell us about the asshole. Love your writing, John.