The thing about military checkpoints in Mexico is that they don't spook me. They shouldn't, of course. I'm not smuggling illegals in my chassis or heroin in my spare tire. They sometimes lead to fun surprises, like the time Regina and I stopped and one and inadvertently agreed to give an entire platoon a ride in the back of my truck. But, they're also manned by boys with automatic rifles who look like they're learning to shave and frequently feature a guy in a sandbagged bunker with a .50 caliber trained at passersby. So, yeah, they can be a little intimidating.
Checkpoints work like this: The non-smiling military man in full camo and a shemagh around his neck leans into your window and says something unintelligible in Spanish. I look blankly, then turn to Regina for support. Then, in English, the non-smiling man asks, "Where are you going?" I tell him, and usually because I know we'll repeat the blank stare game for at least another round, preempt any further awkwardness by asking if we can get out of the truck. We enjoy the break, generally. Regina and I stretch, the kids play, and the military check out our beat up camping gear before they send us on our merry way. But when the non-smiling man takes something from your console and gives you a look of both fear and WTF, then you know you've really f'ed up. The thing? A single bullet, forgotten from a hunt three months prior. The look on his face told me they were going to tear the Titan apart, piece by piece until they found the rifle that accompanied the bullet. I told him he could keep it, which was dumb. Regina, suddenly fluent and chatty, told them I was the greatest American hunter who ever lived and I was taking a break from a grueling season to visit their beautiful country. Or, she said, "My husband's an okay hunter and a bit of an idiot. Have mercy on him." Either way, it worked and so began our Christmas in Baja.
The rest of the vacation was all shrimp tacos and cold beer. We met great people who invited us into their home for Christmas and fed us pie; we smirked at the young studious kids getting off the giant "research vessel" parked out in the bay until we realized it was the Sea Shepherd and they were probably spending their holidays hosing down whale poachers; we ate fresh sea bass that Regina caught; we visited great-great-grandfathers grave; and we drank wine on the beach while the kids build sand castles. I could have stayed another month (and when we returned home to -10 degree weather, I wish we would have).
Our trip home took us from the Sea of Cortez to the Pacific ocean, and over a snow covered mountain range (something I'd never seen in Baja, but impressed just one person: Me.). My Spanish is just bad enough to misinterpret most things I hear or read (See: checkpoint anecdote above), so I passed the long hours of driving by interpreting the road signs for Regina. Some read, I think: Don't Drive Like a Jerkwad, Your Family Waits For You. I like that someone in the roadsigns division decided to make that one personal. You! Yeah, you, Carlos. Slow 'er down, buddy. Usually, a few kilometers past the first one would be be another, less stern warning that, Drinking and Driving, You Know, Might be Bad. Mr. Roadsign maker must've had a few Coronas when he came up with that one. And my favorite sign, but definitely the most lazy, just read: Obey the Signs. Okie dokie. Thanks.
So, we obeyed the signs, drove up through Baja's wine country, which we thought would be like driving through Alabama's wine country, and we were a little more than surprised at the great wines we tried. Granted, we had to use 4-wheel drive just to get to some of the vineyards, but they were Napa-gorgeous when we finally rolled in. We sampled and bought more than a few bottles to take home. So when we passed through our last military checkpoint -- the border -- with waaaaay more than our allowed 2 measly liters of wine limit, I didn't bat an eye when the guy in aviator glasses asked if I had anything to declare. Nope, I said and smiled as I drove on.
