The end of the road, at least from Hermosillo, is Bahia De Kino. It is a fishing town on the sea of Cortes. Few of its streets are paved, the rest are packed sand. The beach is lined, wall to wall, with fish-packing and distribution hangars. I would have loved to stay here, but the the fishing industry claimed the sea front, pushing the few hotels, to the inside streets. In fact, the road does not end right there. It continues along the white-sand bay, and after a significant empty stretch, reaches Bahia de Kino Nuevo. Only a few kilometers separate the towns, but the cultural distance is enormous. No Mexicans live in Nuevo (new). The single road is lined on both sides by spiffy vacation homes owned by Gringos (mostly from the northern USA, and Canada). The beginning of April is the end of their season, and most snowbirds have started the migration North. The houses, white washed and well maintained, stand shuttered, with "For Rent" signs on the front gate. Late afternoon, no people, no cars. I turn the radio off, and cruise the deserted street very slowly. In the silence, I feel as if I have entered an episode of the "Twilight Zone". Down the street, I encountered a few stragglers, who are still camped along the beach, in huge motor homes. They are friendly, and eager to talk. It must be hard loosing all your friends.
This invading species is gentle, yet persistent. In Mazatlan, the snowbirds are sprinkled throughout the town. In San Miguel De Allende, they took over the town. Here, in Bahia De Kino, they built a new town. Fortunately, Oaxaca is too far for snowbirds, and the few ex-pats just add their own hue to the cultural tapestry of my sensuous Mexican city.
The long deserted beach overcame my cultural misgivings, and I chose a furnished room, with a balcony that sits right on the sand. With sunrise, I take a long swim (Thanks, TI), and at sunset, another. In between, I watch the pelicans fish.
