Drug Lords Ruined My Weekend Haven

I've been hearing tidbits from friends about how Rosarito, the beach town 30 minutes south of Tijuana, has been a hot bed of violence over the last few months. I initially chalked up the heightened tales to paranoia and over-caution, but then I began hearing about it more frequently, most recently from this story in the LA Times.

It's a shame, really. Rosarito was just getting on its feet and making a name for itself, what with the influx of more upscale restaurants and Donald Trump moving into the nabe with his spa tower and high-class cuisine. When I first started visiting Baja just over a decade ago, Rosarito was little more than a street full of rival frat parties, most notably at such mega-bars as Papas & Beer.

Then, just a couple of years back, I began to notice a change, and not just the number of new concrete settlements being hastily constructed along the "Scenic" Route 1. Rosarito now had a jazz bar. And French food. And high-end spas. An Italian restaurant with creative Mexican infusions sported a cavernous underground dining room that hosted murder-mystery dinners. Heck, the area was even beginning to make a name for itself with its wineries, with trendsetters such as San Diego's legendary Hotel del Coronado importing local vintages for their cutting-edge restaurants.

Yes, the rowdy college crowd persisted in taking its parties to the streets, and friends still returned with tales of corrupt police extracting exorbitant bribes for offenses as minor as jaywalking. But Baja was still a great weekend bargain, especially for stocking up on custom furniture and wrought-iron works.

I was planning to spend another New Year's in Mexico, but the recent stories have made me rethink those plans, which is a shame. I was looking forward to introducing my friends to such favorite spots as Chipotle (not the chain, a family-owned establishment with delish breakfast dishes), the naked lady house outside Puerto Nuevo (pictured, from two New Years ago), and Fox Studios Baja, a pseudo-theme park that your insurance company would rather you never heard of. But I guess those moments will have to wait. C'mon, drug lords, can't you take your shenanigans elsewhere? Leave Rosarito to us turistas.

Good News for Sharks!

Who'da thunk that Mexico would lead the way in environmentalism? In an email sent to me by Patric Douglas, the CEO of Shark Diver (the outfitter who ran my great white shark diving adventure), I learned that our friends south of the border recently passed landmark regulations protecting the most feared of ocean denizens. Granted, Mexico stands to earn some top tourism dollars from this feat of altruism, but if all other countries heeded this lesson, think of all the species that would reap the benefits -- not to mention the locals who could make a buck (or two) on us eco-loving tourists.

¡Viva México!

The Sharkiest Place on Earth

After several months of waiting, I finally get to see my great white article on AOL Travel. It's on the front page today, and it's supposed to be on the Welcome Screen Monday, so I'm hoping it'll get a lot of traffic. For some reason, they used a generic photo rather than my brilliant one of a great white chomping on some bait. But what can you do?

¡Felíz año nuevo!

I've been making the occasional weekend trip to Baja ever since I moved to SoCal just over nine years ago, during which time the area has undergone massive changes. The once barren hillsides of the scenic road from Tijuana to Ensenada are quickly filling with shoddily constructed, homogeneously designed stucco buildings that often never get completed, mostly due to financial reasons. Rosarito has experienced a gentrification (as much as can be experienced in Mexico), with jazz bars and French bistros now dotting the main thoroughfare of Benito Juárez Boulevard, and nearby wineries now making a splash on menus just north of the border. The frat-friendly bars, complete with popper-peddling waiters and buckets of Coronitas, maintain their stronghold, but with Trump properties now setting up shop in nearby Punta Bandera, Rosarito stands to undergo a resurgence like none before.

So I was glad to get a glimpse of Rosarito over the New Year's weekend, before it becomes all Disney-fied and the ubiquitous sidewalk potholes become a thing of the past. I'm going to enjoy the beachside town in all its seedy glory for as long as I can before The Donald's influence spills over his property lines and down into town. My friends and I took in the sea air at Los Pelicanos over margaritas and ice-cold Bohemias, the beach teeming with locals, tourists on horseback, and wild dogs chasing each other in the surf.

The next night, in nearby Puerto Nuevo, a tiny town renowned for its lobsters, I scarfed down a quesadilla while my seafood-loving pals cracked open a clawless crustacean. (Pacific lobsters lack the large boxing-glove mitts of their Atlantic cousins.) We'd hightailed it down the toll road (cuota) while there was still light in order to get a shot of the Naked Lady House, as Tabitha so eloquently refers to it. If only this property could get listed on MLS -- I can only imagine how they'd deal with the photo, which MySpace deemed too racy and deleted from Tab's page. (How would they react if someone posted a pic next to Michelangelo's David?) What you can't see in this shot is the pool area that circles the crotch. I'll be sure to get back down when the house is completed.

For New Year's Eve, we ventured back into Rosarito, only to find stalwart party establishments such as Papas and Beer (which has lots of beer, but, to my dismay, no papas) closed. (Note to Rosarito Travel Board: WTF?) So while the boys stopped to buy some Cubans, Tab and I headed to the bar just beyond, where we spotted a sign for a rather tempting and (in the U.S., at least) verboten beverage: absinthe. I'd conveniently repressed my experience with the Green Fairy in Prague, and so convinced my cohorts to order a shot apiece. Within seconds I recalled why I'd forever sworn off wormwood, and not just because of the noxious licorice taste. But Tab saw fit to knock back a few more of the bile-green shots, and even accepted a drink of rattlesnake-soaked tequila (which I dubbed "carcass juice") from two strangers at the end of the bar. (How many problems can you spot in that scenario?) No surprise that Tab -- having already knocked back two margaritas, a red wine, a crappy martini, and some beer -- felt a might bit ill a while later. Instead of a visit from the Green Fairy, she found herself visiting the porcelain throne for the better part of an hour, while Dick Clark slurred his way into '07.

And thus the New Year was ushered in. Next month I plan to return so I can visit a few old faves I didn't get to hit, as well as spend more time at Foxploration. In what other country would the highlight of a theme park be a pair of trained rats? Just another reason why Mexican kitsch should never die.

Heading to Fort Lauderdale and the Bahamas in two weeks. Any suggestions?

Back From Shark Diving

Yes, many of you thought I'd return with missing limbs -- or at least a few digits. But here I am, as intact as ever -- physically, if not mentally.

I've got some kickass video of my shark dives, but unfortunately my camera made all the files .avi, so if anyone knows how to convert to .mpeg, please share the secret. To see the crappy-ass .avi files, check here:
http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=B4B577EB2D1004A4

Aside from many wonderful sharky bits of trivia, I learned that Guadalupe is not a place for young, innocent men of a certain sexual inclination. ("The village has its own laws," says Mauricio, the PhD student who lives in the lock-less shack on the island's eastern side.) Also, my introductory scuba instructor was absolutely correct: You can indeed vomit into your regulator. The 20-hour crossing, complete with 14-foot swells, rocked our boat to the point where lunch was, most definitely, on me -- and those in the shark cage next to me. During our first day in the washing-machine lurches of the cage, I chummed enough for the whole boat. Luckily, by days 2 and 3, I'd regained my sea legs and my stomach-emptying feats came to an end.

People, you ain't lived until you've had a 16-foot white shark pass within inches of your camera lens.