The Ghosts of Everest

One of my favorite books on my bookshelf is The Ghosts of Everest: The Search for Mallory and Irvine. It is definitely a must-have for anyone who has a respect for the mountains and the brave, pioneering souls who climb and explore them.

I have always loved the mountains having grown up literally in the shadows of the San Gabriel mountain range on the north end of the Los Angeles Basin. Though the range is relatively unknown it has a rich and intriguing history for locals. John Brown, one of America's greatest unsung heroes, is buried there. John Muir wrote in his journals of the difficulty in navigating it's steep canyons. It was once the destination of the rich and famous who were ferried to the peaks by railroad where they cavorted at an exclusive resort. All over the peaks stand remnants of railroads, cobblestone foundations, and abandoned missile silos, acting as ghosts of what once was. A great part of my fascination with the mountains has always been the mysteries that exist there.

As I became older I started reading about mountaineers like Reinhold Messner and Royal Robbins. For a time I even entertained the idea of following in their footsteps. Unfortunately that never panned out but I did become an enthusiastic hiker, a novice climber, and a lover of mountain literature. The first book that really captured me was Annapurna, by french climber Maurice Herzog. It is the story of the first successful ascent of an 8000 meter peak. Among many things it was an education and history of Nepal and its way of life and how climbing used to be before modern technology began to exert it's influence on the discipline. It was the romance of human and beast powered transport across parts of a world unseen. It's the type of travel that allows a traveler to absorb a people and their culture firsthand and unfiltered and to experience the land as nature meant it to be, with respect. It was a story who's drama and intrigue hinged on a glorious ascent and a death defying descent that resulted in the loss of many body parts.

Mt. Everest has always loomed as The Mountain of all Mountains. It was one of the last great mysteries on earth. It wasn't until 1953 that it was successfully climbed by Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzig Norgay. The story of Hillary and Norgay is gripping and fascinating but sometimes the stories of valiant failures can be more compelling than the stories of valiant success. I find the story of George Mallory's attempt to climb Everest to be such the case.

Mallory climbed for the glory of the British Empire, or so it is believed. It was part of the English mindset of the time to prove themselves superior to all other people on the globe. They established their superior presence on every continent. As a person of color, I can't say that I support what they did in Central Asia, South Africa, and the Americas, but I do have respect for individuals like Mallory, who were driven not by notions of British supremacy, but by the notion of the limits of human capability. When asked why climb Mt. Everest, it is Mallory who is quoted with the famous saying, "Because it's there."

Mallory's ill fated attempt was made in 1924 when the most advanced piece of equipment was the oxygen bottle. Initially he disdained the use of oxygen as he was a purist but he conceded to it after watching others use it to surpass the 8000 meter mark in the Himalayas. Other than oxygen, all Mallory had at his disposal was wool clothing, leather boots, ice axe, a wind up watch, pocket knife, sewing kit, pencil and paper, and a camera. Probably what aided him best was his courage, superior climbing technique, and the heart of a lion. Those who climbed with Mallory always mention his unique technique which was powerful and fluid, almost serpentine. He made climbing look effortless even when climbing the most difficult and technical routes.

It is still a dangerous and daring undertaking to climb Everest but today's climbers are aided by computers, satellites, radios, video cameras, topography maps, fixed ropes, pre established base camps, helicopters, high tech clothing, medical support, paid guides, and armies of Sherpas in support . Hundreds of people a year climb Everest, at times there are literally traffic jams to the summit, but even with all the support and equipment people still die up there every year. Back in the time of Mallory, if you were on Everest it was just you, your climbing partners, and handful of Sherpas in support. It was a lonely undertaking on the loneliest place on earth.

Mallory made his ascent just shy of his 38th birthday with a group of about eight British climbers led by Edward Norton. It was the third attempt by the British to climb Everest and Mallory had been on them all. This was to be his last try at conquering Chomolungma, the Great Goddess Mother, as Mt. Everest was called by the locals. Six camps were established with last being at 27,000ft. At the time it was the highest anyone had ever been. Before Mallory made his attempt there was a failed attempt by Norton and Theodore Somervell. They made it past 28,000 ft, without oxygen or ropes, just below the famous Second Step, but due to their deteriorating condition could go no further. To go further in their minds was to invite certain death. Labored breathing, and damaged throat linings, along with loose rocks on the Great Couloir convinced them to retreat. They were approximately 900 ft. from the summit and barely made it back to Camp VI alive. Somervell nearly choked to death on the desiccated mucous membrane of his throat.

Despite the failure of Somerveld and Norton, Mallory decided to make one last attempt at the summit. He chose Andrew Irvine to be his partner because of his technical expertise with oxygen tanks. Noel Odell would go up with them in support. On June 6, 1924, Mallory and Irvine set off with their oxygen tanks to reach the top of Mt. Everest. Odell would be the last human being to see Mallory and Irvine alive. He last saw them as they were climbing past the Third Step, about 600 ft. from the summit. When they did not return Odell searched in vain but was unable to get to the place where he last saw them.

For decades the climbing community debated on whether or not Mallory made it to the summit. Given where he was seen by Odell it certainly was possible. Nobody had a clue what happened to Mallory and Irvine until 1933 when an ice axe was found by Percy Wyn-Harris as part of a British expedition. The axe was found on the Northeast Ridge at about 27,760 feet. It had to belong to Mallory or Irvine because nobody else had been up that high on the mountain since their ill-fated summit attempt. The three notches on the axe's handle indicated it belonged to Irvine. The finding of the axe only fueled speculation, it was not proof that Mallory had reached the summit. It would be 42 years until the next evidence of Mallory and Irvine was found. In 1975, Chinese climber Wang Hongboa found a body that he described only as an "Englishman". He described the body to a Japanese climber as having the cheeks pockmarked from being pecked by birds. Hongboa died in an avalanche the day after finding the body so he was never properly interviewed, but it was enough to revive the interest in the fate of Mallory and Irvine.

In 1999, 75 years after their disappearance, the Mallory and Irvine Research Expedition team set out to find Mallory, Irvine, and the 1975 Chinese camp. They calculated a small search area based on the Norton's ascent, the location of the ice axe, and Odell's last sighting of the pair. The team of climbers discovered a half dozen bodies in the search area. It was like a graveyard of climbers. The dead climber's bodies were twisted and mangled which indicated they had died from long falls. Judging by their clothing, they were also climbers from recent times, wearing plastic boots and Gore-Tex. After discovering the dead bodies, one of the climbers, Andy Politz, on instinct, decided to head further down the slope. You have to understand, any deviation on the planned search area was a great undertaking due to the conditions they were working under. After climbing down a few hundred feet Politz saw a patch of white that was whiter than the snow and rocks around it. The patch of white was a body, a body that had been there for a long time. Dave Hahn, the first climber to reach Politz described what he saw.

"There was absolutely no question in my mind that we were looking at a man who had been clinging to the mountain for seventy-five years. The clothing was blasted from most of his body, and his skin was bleach white. I felt like I was viewing a Greek or Roman marble statue."

The hobnail boots told them the body had to be Irvine. No Westerners had been allowed in Tibet between 1949 and 1979 and this type of boot had been out of style since well before WWII. Nobody had died at this altitude between 1924-1938. At first they thought it was Irvine. On inspection of the clothing they found a laundry tag with the name "Mallory" on it. This wasn't the body that had been found by the Chinese, this was the body of George Mallory. They had been searching for Irvine and they found Mallory instead. They figured if one of them had fallen it would be the less experienced Irvine not Mallory. The photographs of the body are some of the most amazing I have ever seen. The body is completely preserved, the muscle tone still very visible. The body is clinging to the mountain, like Atlas holding up the world itself. Wrapped in tattered rope, fur lined cap, and almost completely disintegrated wool clothing, one almost expects the body to extract itself from the mountain and start climbing again. The skin truly looks like smooth marble, like a statue. The boots are off so the bare feet are exposed. One leg is broken. It was impossible to free the body as it was solidified to the mountain in rock and ice. The expedition team chipped away just enough to find several artifacts on Mallory's body. They found several handkerchiefs, perfectly preserved hand written letters, a tube of petroleum jelly, nail scissors, a matchbox, a tin of meat lozenges, a pair of sun goggles, a pencil, a pen knife, and an altimeter. They were unable to locate the one item they wanted to find most and that was the Kodak collapsible camera that Somerveld gave to Mallory for the summit ascent. If found it was believed the film would still be in good enough condition to be developed, and would solve once and for all the mystery of whether Mallory and Irvine were truly the first humans to ever reach the top of the Mt. Everest, at 29, 029 feet, the highest place on the planet.

We live in a world today where the derring do of men like George Mallory is rare. Nobody in their right mind would attempt to climb Mt. Everest today using only the clothing and technology that was available to Mallory in 1924. I wonder at times what price we have paid in terms of the loss of the human spirit for our love and reliance upon modern technology. We love our automobiles but most of the world was discovered by humans on foot or using wind powered ships and boats. The pyramids in Egypt have stood for thousands of years yet the World Trade Center towers were brought down in an hour's time. The empires of Persia, Alexander, and Rome crossed mountains, deserts, and continents without the use of machines or vehicles. We marvel at our GPS devices and i-Phones but how good are they once the batteries run out? How long would our infrastructure last without fuel and electricity? The machines can't live without us and we can't live without the machines (or so we think). Have we gone too far? Are we too dependent on technology? Sometimes I think our fascination and dependence on technology is only hastening our existence on the planet. Sometime I think to myself, "What's the hurry?" A traffic jam is a fitting metaphor for our times. Wrapped up in our cars with satellite radio, leather seats, and heating and air conditioning, we are stuck on a highway going nowhere fast. We can always choose to just get out of the car and be free but rarely do we. We have bought into the system that says we do this or that because we "have to". I tend to believe life is more about what Mallory said. I do life because, "It's there."

Memories of Baja

I have finally reached the age where I can look back and say I remember how things used to be. Not in the sense of longing for childhood but in the sense of maturing and becoming an adult. I became an adult in the 80’s during the Reagan era. I endured the usual trials and tribulations of young adulthood experiencing existential angst and trying to discover who I was and what the world was all about. Now in my 40’s I can definitely say that my 20’s was my most dynamic and unpredictable decade. I lived many lives and had wild times a plenty. The 80’s for young adults were trying times. Even though I was a natural born optimist and idealist the 80’s seemed to me like the end of days with the Cold War in full swing and economic opportunities for young people fleeting I honestly thought I would never reach the age of 30 alive or intact with my sanity. Like many other young people I lived for the day which meant trying anything or doing anything no matter how crazy or absurd. Much of my wild, live for the moment adventures took place in Baja California, Mexico in Rosarito Beach and Ensenada.

It is almost staggering to me to read the news about what goes on in Baja these days. Extreme violence has invaded the peninsula. Mass murders, shoot outs, police killings, kidnappings, and random dead bodies on the street are now the norm in Rosarito Beach. Back in the 80’s the Pablo Escobar drug cartel wars were mostly confined to Colombia and Bolivia. Nicaragua, El Salvador, Honduras, and Guatemala were knee deep in Marxists revolutions. Mainland Mexico had its share of drug violence (half the GNP was Pemex oil the other half was drug trafficking) but Baja was relatively quiet. You could drive down to the tip of the peninsula from Tijuana and all you would encounter were empty beaches, poor but friendly Mexicans, and American surfers. You wouldn’t even see a Federale until you got to Ensenada. I always felt safe in Baja, safer than I did in Los Angeles which at the time was a shooting gallery for the LA street gangs. Last year I went to Rosarito Beach for the Rosarito-Ensenada 50 mile fun ride. Back in the day the fun ride drew 10,000 riders and it was the biggest party on wheels you could ever imagine. Rosarito and Ensenada would be packed with young people partying like there was no tomorrow. The bars would be so packed people would be literally hanging out the windows. Twenty plus years later I was shocked to see how much things had changed. The buzz and the electricity of the event was gone. The pre and post ride partying was non-existent and there were fewer than 5,000 riders. Armed men in uniform were everywhere. The violence that now stalks the streets of Rosarito has sobered the place up. The fun and charm has been ridden out of town. I hadn’t been in Baja since 1995 so I was totally clueless about the transformation. I like to think that progress is linear but I have learned that progress is more like two step forwards and three steps backwards. Baja for me was definitely nowhere near the place it used to be.

Even though I had gone to Tijuana as a kid with my dad and brothers a few times it wasn’t until the mid 1980’s that I really came to know and love Baja. Around 1984 when I was 21 years old I became good friends with a fine chap by the name of Scott Smith. At the time I was doing double duty at the Foothill YMCA in Pasadena working as a camp counselor by day and a front desk receptionist at night. Scott worked the front desk as a receptionist during the day. Scott and I became fast friends as we were both black, young, broke, and always looking for a good time. Scott and I grew up in Altadena but attended different high schools. I attended the mostly white and catholic St. Francis High School in the 99.99% white La Canada Flintridge while Scott attended John Muir High School in Pasadena which was a diverse high school with a significant number of black and latino students. Had I gone to public school I would have attended John Muir. The beauty of John Muir and Pasadena at the time was that it was happily integrated. Just about every social group was mixed and Muir had a reputation for being a party school. I was a student-athlete for my entire high school career and first two years of college. At age 21 I had finally given up playing organized sports and had turned my attention to the life of booze, drugs, women, and music. Well, that wasn’t my whole existence as I was also working two jobs, trying to continue my education, coaching youth basketball and soccer, and fully involved in an ant-racism Marxist activist group.

Scott seemed to know everybody in the John Muir party circuit. Even though they were two and three years removed from high school the Muir social groups remained intact. Scott always knew where the good parties were and he knew plenty of girls. Scott had an impressive collection of vinyl so we would spend hours late at night in his converted garage apartment listening to records and telling stories. Scott was a pretty funny guy and a great storyteller and through him I learned the intimate details of the many girls we would run into at the local house parties. Through Scott I met and became best friends with Wes Wilson and this is when my trips to Baja began. Wes lived with his mother who was already in her seventies. His father had died when he was in the 9th grade so as a young adult living at home he had carte blanche to do whatever he wanted. Wes’s room and backyard with swimming pool became our headquarters. The three things that marked the existence of Wes and Scott were Volkswagens, weed, and women. Wes was an expert on older (60’s) VW’s and he and Scott would spend hours in Wes’s garage working on VW engines. Wes owned a small fleet of VW’s including a notchback with a two litre engine that was strictly used for racing but what he loved most was VW vans and trucks although he rarely ever used those terms. He was a purist so a van was a “tranporter” or a “Type II” as they were known in Germany. Only transporters pre 1967 with the split window interested Wes and Scott and the older the better.

Wes’s family owned a beach house just south of Rosarito Beach. It wasn’t one of those bleached white picturesque beach houses you that might come to mind when thinking of Mexican coastal living which dotted the Baja coastline. It was more like a trailer park type house that was more fitting for the locals than well to do Americans. It was located on a bluff above the beach in a small resort known as Calafia where existed a semi famous restaurant called Francisco’s which was known for it’s cliff side patio seating and white painted fence that led down to the beach. A few clicks down at kilometer 38 was a well known surf school. It was an ideal location as we had the beach and the restaurant right at our doorstep and Rosarito was about a 10 minute drive north and Ensenada was about a 45 minute drive to the south. We usually traveled from Pasadena to Baja in Wes’s 1965 Westfalia which most people know as the camper van. The crew usually consisted of Wes, Scott, myself, other friends, and any females we could recruit so normally there would be 4-6 people. Most people would take the 5 freeway to get to the border but the 5 was always crowded so we usually took the lesser traveled inland route; the 210 east to the 57 south to the Corona freeway south, to the 15 which went through Escondido and the Lawrence Welk Ranch, to the 805 in north San Diego county, which took us all the way to the border in San Ysidro.

Along the way we would listen to radio stations KNAC out of Long Beach and 91X out of San Diego. 91X had a similar format to KROQ in Pasadena which was our regular station. We were all heavy into ska and reggae music and these were the only stations that played it. KNAC played everything from avante garde to punk but in the mid 80’s it switched to a metal format except for Sunday nights when Roberto’s Reggae Revolution took over. On our Sunday night drive homes it was always Roberto which was the show to listen to if you wanted to know about the latest reggae music coming out of Jamaica or England. Heavy in the rotation was UB40, Yellowman, Pato Banton, Tippa Irie, Steel Pulse, Aswad, Sly and Robbie, Black Uhuru, and of course Bob Marley. We usually arrived in the dead of night always being waved on across the border by the not to vigilant border patrol agents. Approaching the border at night I was always struck by the random pattern of lights on the Tijuana hillside. In the states city lights are patterned and organized confirming life on the grid. The randomness of the TJ lights reminded me of a Christmas tree welcoming the prospect of surprise and unpredictability. For night arrivals if you were at the wheel you had to be frosty for the last part of the drive from TJ to Calafia. The coastal highway back in those days was a barely lit, one lane each way road with big, swooping curves and no guard rails. The “Curvas Peligrosa” signs that were frequently seen on the side of the road were usually accompanied by crosses bearing flowers and wreaths to honor those who lost their way on the road.

If it wasn’t too late we would stop at one of the many “licor” stores in Rosarito and stock up on beer and tequila. Back in the 80’s the dollar was killing the peso at a rate of about 2000 to 1 so even for an impoverished, working class guy like myself Baja was very affordable. I was able to do weekend trips on $20 if I stuck to the basics (tacos, beer, and petro). A case of Corona was $6 and a litre of Jose Cuervo was $3. You can always tell Mexican Corona from American Corona because the Mexican bottles were scuffed and the labels worn from the constant reuse. The locals actually preferred Tecate so sometimes we would get that or some Sol. We’d also get some Kahlua, some Cusano Rojo Mezcal with the worm and some El Presidente brandy. When we were feeling immortal we would get some “alcohol”…it didn’t even have a name it was just clear liquid in a plastic bottle with “196 proof” on the label in big red letters. We gave it a name, we called it “fire water”. Fire water was a game changer. Nobody messed with it until all the other booze was finished and drunken bravado replaced common sense. Partaking of the fire water meant your night was over because sleep or unconsciousness usually followed imbibing the mighty liquid. After fire water you were lucky to wake up the next morning in one piece. Fire water had no past, the next day you could never remember what you did after drinking fire water. You had to rely on your friends and forensic evidence to retrace the events of the night before. First night arrivals though were very mellow. You didn’t want to cash all your chips in on the first night. Usually we had a few coronas, maybe a few shots of tequila and hit the sack.

In the morning we would roll into Rosarito and go to the Calimax market to stock up on basic food items like huevos, leche, hielo, tortillas, chips, pan, zucharitas, and limons. Calimax market trips for me were always fun because on every visit I would be followed by a gang of giggling small children. Being 6’5” I was a giant in Baja and it brought me instant minor league celebrity status with the Chiclets selling street urchins. It was an experience that would replicate itself when I visited other parts of Mexico and when I visited Peru and China later on in life. I know for a fact I was in the Calimax market on January 28, 1986. The radio was playing on the loudspeakers and I wasn’t really paying attention but something was being said about the space shuttle and I remember the radio announcer saying, “and everyone died.” I asked my friends if they knew what he was talking about but nobody was paying attention so we just went on with our shopping. The next day while shopping in Ensenada we saw the cover of the LA Times with a photo of the exploding Challenger Space Shuttle. We were all stunned. It was shocking. We had no tv or phone at the beach house and mobile phones were still a decade away. Newspapers from the United States were always a day old so we were out of the loop when it came to the news. We didn’t care, we actually preferred it as it leant to the sense that we were living in the moment. It is strange by today’s standards because living in the moment today seems to be defined by constantly checking in with Twitter or Facebook to see what has changed in life in the last two minutes.

In Rosarito we were known by name because we frequented the same shops every time we visited. Fireworks were always high on the agenda. Setting off fireworks at night on the beach was a nightly ritual. We would get the standard stuff like bottle rockets and firecrackers but what we liked best were the waterproof bombs. These were literally miniature sticks of dynamite. They were made by the US Department of Agriculture because they were prominently labeled “USDA”. I always wondered how the Mexicans acquired the bombs and why the USDA needed waterproof explosives. On the edge of the surf we would simultaneously throw three or four of these bombs into the waves and wait for the “womp womp womp” and the greenish flashes in the water. It was a cheap thrill. What can I say, we were young and not all that sophisticated. There were other sundry items that we would get on a regular basis like Aztec pipes carved in stone or marble that cost one to three bucks. We always brought “mota” with us but we had to make sure we finished it all before the border check getting back into the states. We would ditch any paraphernalia we had before arriving at the border so the cheap pipes were disposable. $3 straw hats, $5 tire tread leather sandals, 3 for $10 cerveza logoed t-shirts, and Mexican hoodies were also mainstays. A lot of my wardrobe back then was bought in Baja. Last but not least on the must have list were Mexican blankets which came in small body wrap sizes to queen size bed size. Arthur Dent had his towel and we had our Mexican blanket. There’s about a million ways to make use of a Mexican blanket. You could use it to upholster the seats in your car or the furniture in your house, you could spread it on the ground for a picnic, you could wrap yourself in it at night when sitting around the campfire or wandering aimlessly on the beach, you could wrap your cold case of Corona in it to keep it cold, you could hang it on the wall as decoration, you could use it on your bed or in your tent for sleeping or roll it up to use as a pillow, and they made for nice gifts for the folks back home… it all came down to your imagination and creativity.

Without a doubt our favorite place to visit in Rosarito was a small,wooden, white painted taco stand called Taco’s Erika. Located just off the two lane main drag on a dirt road, Taco’s Erika was more a shack than a stand. It was just big enough to house one person and a large cooler of ice where the carne, cold drinks and condiments were stored. On the fold down wooden counter sat a wooden block for chopping the grilled meat, two bowls filled with fresh cut cilantro and onions, a small bbq grill, and a large metal pot atop a bunsen burner throne that held the legendary stewed barbacoa meat. Taco’s Erika, hand painted in red, was the official moniker of the taco stand but we never called it that. For us it was simply known as One Legged Joe’s. This was in reference and reverence to the stout and tanned smiling man named Joe who owned and operated the joint. The name was fitting as Joe only had one leg. He was a full leg amputee so he would hop on his one good leg around the shack taking orders, cooking the meat, making the tacos, and taking the money. He was a one man show. Joe was always in a good mood and always happy to see us greeting us with a robust “Hola amigos!”. Joe looked like he walked right out of the 1950’s with his pencil thin mustache, short wavy pomaded hair, freshly creased tan slacks with one pant leg safety pinned up at the hip, black loafer, and always ironed white short sleeved collared shirt. Joe could work all day and his white shirt never got dirty or stained which is very impressive if you have ever been to any kind of establishment that serves tacos. Joe had a simple system for customers, you either ordered corn or you ordered flour, we always ordered both with the standard being four of each so all we had to say was “four and four” or hold up our hands with four fingers up on each. The tacos were to die for. The corn tortillas were doubled up and stuffed with just the right combination of grilled carne asada, onions, and cilantro so that every bite from start to finish was a mouthful. Joe never cooked up the meat until you ordered so the corn tacos were always fresh and hot. The larger flour tortillas were filled with the stewed barbacoa and were rolled up like a skinny burrito but it wasn’t a burrito. The chipotle flavored barbacoa slow cooked in the pot all day and was almost black in color. When Joe took the lid off the pot a plume of steam would rise out of it and looking in you could see the molten bubbling stew looking like primordial ooze. Red toxic looking hot sauce was a standard part of the flour experience. It was the kind of sauce that had little habanero seeds that made your lips burn and your head break out in sweat. A bottle of Mexican Coke was the only way to tame the red sauce beast.

There was always a price to pay later on after indulging in the flour experience. We affectionately called it “fire booty”. The hot sauce could be felt all the way through your system and when it came time to expel it your anus felt like a ring of fire. I remember times being on the commode and clenching my teeth so I would not scream and stuffing cold compresses up my butt for relief. The flour tacos were so tasty and satisfying they were worth suffering for. In addition to the superb taste was the bottom basement cost. Corn tortillas were 50 cents and flour was 75 cents so you could eat all you want and not break the bank. Joe knew we were addicts so as we were halfway through our first set he would happily ask us “dos mas?” and we would always nod our stuffed mouth heads up and down in agreement usually upping the ante to quatros mas. Our addiction was so deep that after feasting on two sets of flour and corn we would order two and two or four and four to go which Joe would tightly wrap in foil. On the way back to the states stopping at Joe’s was mandatory to fill our bellies for the ride home and get a plate to go to feast on when we returned to our homes or to give to friends who had gone on previous trips and knew about Joe’s. Often times the tacos never made it out of Baja being consumed as we waited in the hours long line to cross the border to get back into the United States.

There was only one other taco place we would go to and that would be in the morning or late at night when Joe’s was closed. It was an actual walk in and sit down place located on the main drag. The tacos were good but not as good as Joe’s but the guy who made the tacos could make tacos at lightning speed and it was fun to watch him make the tacos. He would grab a small piece of paper in one hand, use it to grab a small corn tortilla, and with the other hand he would use a wooden spoon to splash the carne asada on the tortilla which was immediately followed by dipping the spoon into the green sauce which he would flip into the air and catch with the tortilla like a baseball player and then deposit it on a paper plate. He did this all in one continuous, smooth, flowing motion so he was able to whip up a dozen tacos in about 30 seconds. On Sunday mornings the locals would come in and order 20-30 tacos at a time for their Mexican brunches and he would knock out the orders in no time flat. At 25 cents each it was a real bargain. We were also huge fans of fish tacos which we only ate on our many day trips to Ensenada. We always visited the fish market in Ensenada to get fresh fish and right outside the fish market was the best place to get fish tacos which were deep fried in batter and lathered with shredded cabbage and green sauce. Fish tacos were 50 cents each or four for a dollars so we always opted for four or eight tacos. Whereas an icy Coca Cola was the perfect match for Joe’s tacos a cold Corona was the perfect match for a plate of fish tacos. Los Angeles had some good taco joints and some awesome taco trucks but none came close to matching the taco experience in Baja where everything was tasty, hot, fresh, and cheap. Cheap tacos made $20 weekends in Baja possible. If all I could do was eat tacos on a Baja trip I would be a happy camper.

I’m going to stop here with this entry and tell you about some of the crazy adventures I had in Baja in the next blog entry so stay tuned!

To be continued….