Our own customer systems development manager, Brad Van Orden, recently put our Air Breeze personal wind turbine to the test during a two-week trip through Mexico’s Baja Peninsula. In this short series, Brad will share his adventures on the road and how the Air Breeze helped to keep the wind in the sails of “Nacho,” his 1984 Volkswagen camper van, along the way.
When traveling abroad my wife and I live by the doctrine that while every place has danger, in general people everywhere are good. This sentiment was clearly not shared by our friends and family upon their learning of our intentions to travel overland in Mexico for two and a half weeks. My grandfather made a lingering moaning sound in a minor key. My mother-in-law made a grim face while sliding her finger across her throat. My neighbor suggested I build a flamethrower.
“You’ll probably need about $100 per day for bribes.”
“I heard they will kidnap and torture you.”
“My brother’s friend’s uncle knew a guy who saw a van that had been shot over a thousand times.”
“If someone tells you to stop, just run over them.”
Approaching the border I recalled the two warnings common to each of our advisors; “Don’t stop in a border town or you’ll be killed,” and “Don’t eat at street carts or you’ll get Montezuma’s Revenge.” Life-saving advice always follows the same pattern; beginning with an action that should not be attempted followed by a hyperbolic statement of consequence should the subject be foolish enough to perform said action. We crossed the border unarmed and promptly stopped for tacos at a street cart.
After more than a week, one can imagine my surprise at having reached the end of the Baja peninsula without being tortured, killed, or afflicted by Montezuma’s Revenge, although we were undoubtedly on the edge of danger at all times. In one case, a burly man on the roadside holding a greasy car part gave me directions while enthusiastically smiling. The directions were correct and we didn’t end up in an ambush situation. Later, a gang of street kids surrounded us and told us how to get to the highway. We weren’t robbed, and again arrived successfully at our destination. We entered one military checkpoint after another and were met by the intimidating boyish smiles of young soldiers, with whom we made small talk and discussed the intricacies of our wind turbine battery charging system. One afternoon while stopped on the roadside, a car pulled over and its driver got out. He hurriedly approached my window and without any hesitation he violently and savagely…offered advice on where to find a local fish market at a nearby beach.
Despite so many close calls, we finally did lose our battle to the Mexican militants while camping on a beach at Pichilingue. After enjoying a dinner of Italian sausage and peppers, we turned in for the night. At this point the militants moved in and stealthily set up their operation at a thatched hut just down the beach. They turned on loud music with accordions, and began to sing along in unison. As the militants became imbibed with alcohol their singing became less coherent and more off-key. This was obviously a tactic to get me to put in my earplugs, at which time the perpetrators saw their opportunity and struck swiftly and with a vengeance. Two of them (one having size 12 feet, the other size 8) stealthily crept into our camp and put on our sandals, and then slipped away, veiled by the cover of darkness. In the morning upon realizing that we had been attacked, I slumped onto the sand, craned my neck skyward, and between slobbering sobs I wailed incomprehensible sentence fragments while feebly punching the air.
In the end, our “people are generally good” doctrine held true. Of the dozens of encounters in Mexico, we had a single negative experience. We still cling to the hope that they were just having such a drunken good time that they accidentally grabbed the wrong footwear, and are still searching for the rightful owners of those sandals.
“Are you bringing a gun?”
In Log Book from the Sea of Cortez, John Steinbeck describes Cabo San Lucas as a sleepy fishing village marooned at the end of a lonely and seldom-traveled finger of land. Much of Baja retains this character, but the ensuing 71 years since Steinbeck’s visit have seen Cabo become discovered, developed, modernized and infiltrated by mega resorts, Wal-Mart, cruise ships, and the jet-set American tourist. Prices are in dollars and people speak English. Whereas food establishments elsewhere on the peninsula invariably identify themselves with handwritten signs proclaiming “restaurante,” in Cabo they are flamboyantly named “Monkey Business” or “The Giggling Marlin.” When we find ourselves cornered by predatory timeshare salesmen, I spew forth a fountain of elementary German phrases until we’re forced into a language barrier stalemate.
“Hello sir, you like free money? You like parasailing? Why not? Just for fun!”
“Ich arbeite im krankenhaus. Wo ist der flughafen? Ganz Berlin auf einen blick!”
Although we prefer to speak Spanish and use pesos while in Mexico, the immediate change in culture and scenery adds to the sense that we have arrived back in civilization after a long and remote adventure. We feel a sense of accomplishment at having successfully traveled the entire length of the peninsula and arrived in one piece. In fact, all of our mechanical and electrical problems have occurred as a result of the daylong stretch of jarring dirt road in Northern Baja. We decide to treat ourselves to an RV campground with hot showers and electrical hookups in celebration of our indescribable machismo and navigational proficiency.
After setting up in the corner of the campground, I pop up the camper and plug the van into an outlet to charge the batteries and switch our appliances over to AC power. Our Air Breeze has done us well and we give it a celebratory rest in the comfort of Nacho Bus. In an effort to unwind I saunter off to the shower where I discover that the hot water valve is broken, rendering the shower cold. Probably the only cold shower in all of Cabo San Lucas. I forego drying myself off so as to take advantage of evaporative cooling while I walk back to Nacho Bus, and the resulting sequence of events is a perfect storm of man versus electricity. I reach out and grab Nacho’s sliding door handle with my wet hand and WHAM! My arm is attacked by a swarm of angry bees while being simultaneously punched by a swarm of angry Dolph Lundgrens. I recoil and see my reflection in Nacho’s window. My face is the physical manifestation of the words “how could you!”; a cross between abused puppy, defensive politician, and perpetually surprised Joan Rivers. Somehow, my brain decides that the best option at this point is to try again, just in case I imagined the first one. WHAM! Dolph Lundgren! Bees! Joan Rivers!
It seems the brutal dirt road has also caused a ground fault in our AC power system, which has gone undiscovered until now. I hastily unplug Nacho from the outlet, open the door, and apologize to our Air Breeze wind turbine for cheating on it with the RV hookup. When day breaks we and bid ado to Cabo San Lucas and head North, eager to test our equipment and our luck on the vast remote expanses of Baja once more.
Our own customer systems development manager, Brad Van Orden, recently put our Air Breeze personal wind turbine to the test during a two-week trip through Mexico’s Baja Peninsula. In this short series, Brad will share his adventures on the road and how the Air Breeze helped to keep the wind in the sails of “Nacho,” his 1984 Volkswagen camper van, along the way.
"Luke, the Australian heavy machinery mechanic and fellow beach camper, peered into the engine compartment of Nacho, our proud 1984 Volkswagen camper van. “I reckon we’re gonna need an aluminum can to fix this, mate,” he said.
After eight hours of abusive dirt road travel the previous day, we had limped onto the beach, our bodies tired, and our van nursing a new and somewhat severe exhaust leak. It took the better part of the morning, but Nacho emerged stronger and more confident, sporting pieces of Arizona Iced Tea can like Medals of Honor in place of a disintegrated exhaust gasket. “You’ll want to bleach your cutting board mate; it’s covered in my blood,” proclaimed our Aussie friend.
Looking at our map of Baja, Mexico, we hadn’t realized that the line heading south from San Felipe along the Sea of Cortez signified a dirt road. My wife’s official road trip title was “Navigation and Map Technician,” but I’m certainly not placing blame on her for falling asleep just prior to our fateful southerly turn. The exhaust leak wasn’t the only way in which the 8-hour dirt road ravished our poor little Nacho:
Hour 1
After having grown tired of dirt road travel, we detoured for a beach stop, thinking a short swim would soothe our woes. Upon approaching a distant beach palapa, our Nacho suddenly sinks to the axles in the sand. An hour and a half of digging and stacking rocks sees us back on the road, dirtier and more tired than before, our dream of frolicking on the beach crushed; spit on like a common dog.
Hour 3
Temperature gauge fails. Out comes the Bentley manual and the problem is traced to the engine compartment. All bags and belongings are moved into the road, the engine compartment is opened, and we determine that the ferocious jarring of the road has caused a wire to break in half. Wire is used to suspend the Brooklyn Bridge, yet this road has proven stronger than wire, stronger than the Brooklyn Bridge. As I fashion a connector out of a piece of scrap metal, a truck passes by on the road. Its dust settles over all of our belongings and cloaks my motivation in a shroud of dirt. It is the only other vehicle we see on the road all day.
Hour 6
As evidence of our skillful project planning we determine that we don’t have enough gas to complete the entire dirt road. In a moment of weakness it is decided that the best option is to take an unmarked dirt road to the East to see if we can find any gas. Minutes later we find ourselves driving full speed into deep sand. Two Mexicans see our predicament and offer to pull us to a nearby beach where the sand is hard enough to drive on. Two beers change hands in thanks and we find ourselves driving on a beach, still without any gas.
Hour 7
Finally having arrived at a gas station near a remote military checkpoint, Sheena decides that the only thing that can save the day is an ice cream bar from the gas station. A comprehensive search reveals a distinct lack of ice cream, and I witness the very moment when Sheena’s little heart gets crushed like my dreams of ever getting off of this dirt road alive.
A 3,000-mile Mexican road trip in a 27-year-old vehicle may seem like a foolhardy endeavor. While it is true that many days we limped onto the beach in the evening knackered from the day’s adventures and mechanical mishaps, we remained soft to the core by pampering ourselves like vagabonding Hugh Hefners. We would pop the camper top, raise our trusty life-breathing Air Breeze wind turbine, turn on the tunes, dim the lights, throw some machaca in the microwave and grab a cold one from the fridge, and then watch each other melt into content piles of mush, ready to do it all again."
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