San José del Cabo | Scott and Bev are not caravanning

Cabo San Lucas, or CSL. The southern tip of Baja California, where the desert meets the sea and the tequila flows before noon. It’s a place of contrasts. On one hand, the stunning natural beauty: turquoise waters, towering cliffs, and the rock formation known as the Arch, which punctuates the very bottom of the Baja peninsula, and is where the sea of Cortez and Pacific Ocean collide.

That’s Sly Stallone’s house on the far left

On the other hand, Americans: a rotating cast, split at an age point I’ve yet to accurately determine, though they can bleed across. Forties-ish up, they head for their time share apartment or all-inclusive resort and don’t leave until it’s time to head back to the airport – unless it’s to play golf. The younger set are on a different trip, sometimes quite literally, altogether. If not the famed American Spring Break crowd, it’s the bachelor and bachelorette parties, eternal in their youth and questionable choices. They descend in herds, wearing too little, drinking too much and accessorising with sunburn and classy headbands proclaiming various proclivities, such as Ass Muncher or I ❤️ cock. Their parents must be so proud.

Activities centre on the water: glass-bottom boat tours, snorkelling, scuba diving, jet skiing, paddle boarding, kayaking, sunset sails, catamaran parties, private tours – the list is endless. As is the relentless touting. It’s impossible to meander along the beautiful marina without really wanting a T-shirt that shouts LEAVE ME ALONE – I don’t want silver plated jewellery, a beaded wristband, a blanket, a hat, a headband, a tequila tasting, a glass bottom boat trip, 2 for 1 watered down margaritas…

Still, there’s fun to be had. The snorkelling trip I take is just me and a couple of Indian families, tech imports to San Jose, working for Meta, so there’s no pumping music. As we leave the bay we glide past the fabulous rock formations and craggy cliffs, punctuated by a couple of small beaches with sea access only. We head for the Arch, the postcard picture of Cabo. There are many, many boats out there – it’s a like a nautical version of the Black Friday sales, but the skippers are skilled at jockeying for position so everyone can get the shot with the Arch in the background.

At the very end of the peninsula the seascape is quite different as the force of the Pacific rolls in. This entire west coast to the north is popular for surfing, and you can see why. Not so many boats venture around this side, and those that do keep their distance from the shore as the swells are heavy. We head back for a snorkel around Pelican rock. Nemo and all his mates are there, but the viz isn’t as clear as the Pacific Islands, and the area is limited – not least so you don’t get mashed by a boat.

Thirty minutes east of Cabo San Lucas lies serenity in the form of San José del Cabo. The two towns form Los Cabos, the Capes, but they couldn’t be more different. In San José del Cabo the margaritas are made with fresh lime, the art scene actually means something, and no one is selling boat trips – the big harbour and the punters are at CSL. But you can beach walk for ages and not be deafened by electronic dance music, or be accosted by itinerant hat sellers. In San José people quietly stroll. They meander through the Thursday evening art walk, where local artists create a huge outdoor gallery in the main square. It’s an enchanting mix of complete crap, skilled craft, and interesting work, along with tourist tat and great street food. Middle-aged couples discuss whether that cactus-shaped ceramics piece will clash with their Napa Valley kitchen, and buy handwoven rugs they’ll never find a place for at home.

A day trip to Todos Santos takes us an hour or so north of Cabo. The desert opens up quickly as we leave town, the Pacific with its famous surf breaks glinting off to the left. The stately cacti fascinate me: some tall and solo, others with arms up as if they’re being robbed. There’s hundreds of different varieties and I’m happy to steer clear of all of them. Then, Todos Santo – dusty streets, bright bougainvillea, and a quiet, creative buzz. At our first stop we learn of the long history behind the traditional glass seed bead work with its roots in the Guaycura people of the area. It’s exquisite and painstaking decorative work. I hanker for the cow head, but I’m guessing it won’t fit in my hand luggage. The surf board, which looks spectacular, took two artists three months to bead. I’m curious about where the beads originated, and it seems Chinese immigrants chasing the Californian gold rush brought them. That includes Mr Wong, who built the Hotel California over three years from 1947, opening it in 1950, so although there is no connection whatsoever to the Eagles or the song, it doesn’t stop everyone believing it does. Anyway, you can’t check in any time you want because it closed during Covid and hasn’t reopened.

Cabo San Lucas is beautiful, chaotic, and just the right amount of absurd – like if a postcard had a hangover. The most baffling thing? The sheer number of pharmacies. I’m not exaggerating: you can walk one block and pass five of them. It’s like a bizarre pharmaceutical Disneyland. Naturally, I investigate. The answer? Americans. Not just the spring break crowd, but also those hunting for Viagra, Ozempic, Ambien, or basically anything you can’t casually ask for at home without a stern lecture from your doctor. But they’re not cheap. We priced a sleeping pill, the one we get at home on script for zero dollars, and it was $650 NZD for 90 pills.

Not subtle, but I wonder about the positioning of the erection

Ultimately, both sides of Baja are part of the same glorious, sun-drenched contradiction. One side shouts show us your boobs from a passing booze cruise. The other murmurs, This pottery speaks to the soul. You choose.

A walking food tour of San José del Cabo isn’t a stroll, it’s a full-on flavour mission, and it’s not for the faint hearted. We meet our guide, Adrian, at 10:00am in the town square outside the historic Mission Church. Originally built by the Spanish but rebuilt several times over, the building is small and plain but beautiful. It’s interesting to see stained glass windows that open to let the breeze through.

Adrian leads us to El Pisito. We wonder where the heck we’re going as it looks like an old garage, And it is, but as we climb the steps at the side it starts to smell like a restaurant. We’re here for the enmoladas. Picture soft tortillas wrapped around tender chicken, blanketed in rich mole (pronounced moll-lay) negro. There are hundreds of different recipes for mole, a dark, nutty sauce with just the right kick of spice. It is deep and earthy, clinging to everything in the best way, and it’s a I want to lick the plate dish.

At the next stop, the Mercado Municipal, the town market, we see huge containers of different moles for sale. When you make mole it’s difficult to make a small amount as it usually includes twenty or more ingredients, many requiring their own preparation, and it takes hours. I know, because I made it myself – once – and if I remember rightly I gave the dinner guests containers of mole to take home.

The mercado is very small by market standards. Typically we’d expect a farmers’ market with lots of fruit and vegetable sellers, but Los Cabos is in the desert and there are no farmers. Almost everything is brought in. At the food stalls, we sit at long tables with the locals out for a late Sunday breakfast, and Adrian orders quesabirria. These are sensational. The history of the dish is short he tells us, maybe ten years, and it’s an adaptation of a birra, a dish of marinated meat cooked in a broth for ten or so hours. Taco sellers would sell birra on tacos and it was a few short steps to creating the more easily eaten quesabirria. It’s a cross between a taco and a quesadilla. The stew, usually beef, and cheese are inside a corn tortilla that has been dipped in the flavorful fat leftover from the stewing process, then crisped on the plancha. They’re messy and soft crunchy and delicious. I especially like my Nemo plate.

So following chicken and beef were ready for pork. It’s time for carnitas, the soul of Mexican street meat. Carnitas starts with the whole pig, you read that right, nothing is wasted, slow-cooked for hours in a cazo, a wide copper cauldron of bubbling pork lard. The kitchen is busy with cooks brandishing cleavers and chopping mountains of pork, crispy crackling skin, and tripe. The tripe sits in the display, twisted into plaited ropes. Adrian tells us he comes here at least once a week for tripe carnitas and dark beer. They’re not for everyone, but apparently unforgettable for the bold. We are not bold.

We’re beginning to waddle at this stage because no, I can’t leave anything on my plate. I was brought up to think about the starving children in Biafra. While there’s a good walk between the stops until now, Tacos Rossy is nearby. It’s time to go to seafood. The specialty here is sea bass fried in a very light batter so it is light and crisp, topped with slaw and spicy salsa. One bite cuts through the fat of the earlier meats, fresh as the coast.

The finale, after almost four hours, is a frozen fresh fruit popsicle from a quiet corner shop. I go for mango, Scott for lime. Cold, clean, and just sweet enough. The perfect finish to a tour that doesn’t pull any punches, and imparts a sense of place through the history of the dishes and the regional variations. This is the best food tour I’ve ever done, and now I need a lie down.

Scott and Bev are not caravanning

continuing our travels, but not by caravanning

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