My First Trip to Mexico
Stranded in Sand, Soldiers, and Turtles: Falling in Love with Mexico
By Dorothy Bell
Taking a right turn into Mexico in 1992 , Our new Westy became our home.
A wise man once told me that all good stories are inevitably travel stories. I agree. From Beowulf and Canterbury Tales to my simple family anecdotes, it seems that travel evokes both the best and worst in us. This is the story of my first trip to Mexico—a journey that led to falling in love with its charm and character.
Bill and I were traveling around the Southwest U.S. in our new Westphalia camper van during the summer of 1992 with our babies, Adam (4) and Dylan (2). Adam sat proudly—strapped into the back seat—while Dylan was still snug in her car seat.
We loved road trips—an opportunity to talk about everything and nothing, listen to music, share laughter, and dream together. Then we saw a road sign pointing towards the Mexican/USA border.
“Want to go to Mexico?” Bill asked.
“Sure,” I said without hesitation.
We crossed the border at Nogales—we saw no immigration offices, no government posts. Just like that, we were in Mexico. The roads immediately changed—potholes and rough pavement replaced smooth highways. With only a one-page map of Mexico tucked into the back of our Rand McNally atlas, we pressed on. Guaymas seemed close enough, so we headed there.
It was hot and dusty. What little civilization we saw appeared humble and rustic. We kept going, passing through Hermosillo, where Bill pointed out a prison.
“My uncle was in there for several years,” he said. “Hermosillo Prison. He was a WWII veteran who tried to make quick cash by loading a plane with pot and flying it to San Francisco. The pilot turned out to be a USA DEA. undercover agent. He was given a life sentence. His family bribed his way out after 5 years.”
Eventually, we reached Guaymas and checked into a small hotel by the highway. It was old, clean, and empty. We made a makeshift bed for Adam out of pillows, and Dylan slept in a drawer we pulled out of the dresser. I wasn’t so sure about Mexico. Dusty, poor, and hot weren’t my ideal vacation vibes.
The next day, we hit the road early. The morning weather shifted quickly from brisk to muggy and hot. We searched for a place to eat, but nothing appeared. Finally, desperate for a break, we veered toward the coast. Without GPS, cell service, or Google Maps, we were winging it.
When we finally reached the Sea of Cortez, we stumbled upon a lively palapa restaurant filled with Mexican families. “That’s for us!” I said, and Bill turned in immediately. We were the only non-Mexicans there.
We grabbed a table by the water. The kids played in the sand while we sipped cold drinks and marveled at the warmth of the locals. After the very late lunch, we decided to nap in the van, lulled by the sea breeze.
The next morning, we awoke to the sound of gentle waves and a deserted beach. The restaurant was empty except for an elderly man sweeping sand off the tables.
Then we noticed it. Our van had sunk into the sand. The tide was creeping closer.
We panicked. Improvising shovels out of wood and a pail, we tried digging ourselves out, but the van only sank deeper. Bill ran to get help while I stayed with the kids.
The kids, meanwhile, had discovered tiny turtles hatching and making their way to the sea. Adam and Dylan were thrilled, watching the little creatures emerge from the sand and crawl toward the waves.
Bill returned with six men in an old flatbed truck. They tied a chain to the van and, with everyone pushing, pulled it to safety. Bill handed them enough money so they didn’t have to work the rest of the day.
We escaped the tide, but we were hungry again. Spotting a small town in the distance, we headed toward it. Smoke filled the air as workers burned the fields.
“Smells like pot,” I said.
“They’re burning the fields after harvest,” Bill replied. “It fertilizes the soil.”
The town appeared deserted. Shops closed. Doors locked. Then we saw them—soldiers, rifles in hand, sweeping through the burning fields.
Six soldiers intercepted us. One motioned for Bill to get out of the van. Another opened the sliding door.
And there stood Adam, saluting the officer with his tiny hand.
The soldiers broke into smiles. Mexicans and kids. They waved us through. Another family road story to tell.
By this point, I wasn’t sold on Mexico. The beach was nice, but the food had been mediocre, and the sand and soldiers weren’t exactly my dream vacation.
Then we reached Mazatlán. Bill pulled up to Las Flores, a beachfront hotel he had visited before. It had a doorman, pool, and restaurant. Compared to our earlier accommodations, it felt like luxury.
We settled in. The kids played in the pool and the sand. We discovered Jungle Juice, a breakfast spot we returned to for years. The staff treated our kids like family, whisking them away to see cats or meet the cook. Friendships were formed.
At the end of the week, we boarded an overnight ferry to La Paz on the Baja Peninsula. It was no cruise liner—mostly truckers and salesmen heading to Baja to sell goods. But by morning, as we docked in La Paz, I saw something magical. Quiet. Clean. Tropical. Peaceful. We drove along the Malecon and it captivated our imagination.
“I want to retire here,” I told Bill.
We stayed a few days at the historic Perla Hotel, which quickly became another family favorite. By then, I had fallen in love—with La Paz and Mexico.
We were young and not so bright.
We didn’t have passports.
We didn’t get tourist visas.
We didn’t have Mexican auto insurance.
We didn’t have health insurance.
Maybe that’s why, to this day, we have so much patience for travelers who fail to get their paperwork right. After all, we’ve been there, too. It was also the nucleus of creating a website where people could read about the legal and proper way to enter Mexico by Road.