another day, another lemon puff

low-maintenance planting

We normally start the day with a crossword.

"What's up with you?"
"This tea looks funny"
"What do you mean funny?"
"It looks like washing-up water"
"Oh stop being fussy!"
"I'm not - I just think if you're going to make me a cup of tea you should put the tea bag in it"
"!!&$!?*&%#!£!! And what did your last slave die of?"
"...........Insolence"


In an attempt to keep fit/stay healthy/break up the day/justify another biscuit
we fit in to our hectic circadian schedule twelve minutes of exercise courtesy of Mr. Motivator.  Mr. Motivator, or Derek now that we're on first name terms, used to do an exercise slot on breakfast TV back in the day.  Now he's in his late sixties but happily uploading his Daily Dozen workouts (12 minutes, twice a week, but we forgive him the misnomer) which are recorded in his kitchen with him and his wife doing the routines and trying not to kick the washing machine, the corner of which is always just projecting out into the front left of picture.  We hold canned chickpeas whilst we exercise instead of weights.  To be perfectly honest, I detest doing exercises like this - I'd much rather be playing a sport - but these days there doesn't seem to be an alternative and we spend the rest of our days in a prone position.

We wake one day and the sky is full of clouds.  It's the rainy season but Baja California rarely gets any of it.   The dark clouds provide some relief from the hot sun, but it's an illusion.  The air is heavy, humid and hot.  By mid-afternoon it's 40 C.  

Marie celebrates her quarantine birthday with Juan

Juan and Marie, our cycle-touring neighbours, sometimes suggest a Friday evening drink on the shared patio.  We tell them our plans:  we have decided to leave Mexico and return to Europe.  We want to carry on cycling but not here.  We have too many doubts about the situation here.  We are waiting to see what restrictions are being lifted in Europe and where we could go.  We are also looking at flights.  Usually, looking for flights is a cheerful  pastime full of hope anticipation and excitement but at the moment it has an obsessive and somewhat desperate feel about it.

quarantined in La Paz

Good news!  We are orange.  Not literally.  But the federal government has designated certain states as orange which allows the state government to relax some restrictions.  This means that the malecon is now open to cyclists and most of the beaches are open.  Restaurants too - although this doesn't impact us as we rarely eat out.  Social distancing rules still apply and numbers are restricted at the beaches.  

We suddenly feel like we're on holiday.  In the early morning we cycle down to the front and ride out to a beach.  There are quite a few locals exercising and riding bikes, jogging.  At the beach, some swimmers.  The sea is cool and there's a nice breeze first thing.  Ooooh, we could do this every day.

The strange thing is that the Covid cases are not going down here.  The situation isn't better than it was when the quarantine began.  The government simply amended the criteria by which it defined the 'traffic light' system of re-opening. Bad news masquerading as good news. Red to orange.  You know when you've been tango'd.

red light (spells danger)

On the radio we listen to a podcast that looks at statistics that occur in the news.  It's usually light-hearted but inevitably with the corona virus all over the news the recent editions have been more sober listening.  One edition had a look at the high rates of infection and deaths recorded of BAME people in the UK.  Currently the research does not throw out one particular reason - it is most probably a combination of causes.  However, there was reference to vitamin D deficiency which is common for people with pigmented skin in the UK.  There is no evidence to suggest that vitamin D can help against Covid-19 but it has been identified as a positive factor in helping the immune system fight other respiratory illnesses.  So we are determined to keep sunbathing despite the heat.

Mexicans have another ready source of vitamin D, sold in 1 litre tubs.

I started to read an article about the damaging psychological effects that the virus is having on people, but the more I read the more anxious I became and I had to stop.

All has been peaceful in La Paz during the quarantine.  There is little traffic on the streets .  However, the one sound we do hear clearly from our casita is of sirens.  They are not frequent, but they are noticeable.  The government's official figures show that Baja California Sur is one of the states with the lowest number of known cases of Covid-19 but at the same time it is in the top states for the highest rate because the population is relatively small.  The government publishes a series of charts and graphs each day on their website.  I also check the english-speaking Mexico Daily News for a report in english and a local website for news specific to the state.  Chatting with Juan, our neighbour, one day he looks cheerful. "The curve is flattening.  It's good news."  But we've just read that the last three days have had the highest recorded case numbers.  Juan has been looking at the government website too.  How could we have such differing views of the situation?  Sure enough, the government graph shows the curve flattening but the actual table with case numbers over the past three weeks shows a steady increase.  After 7 weeks of quarantine the numbers are getting worse.

John and Juan discuss lies, damned lies and statistics

I am finding that I am more emotional these days.  I get irritated more quickly. Raise my voice when a politician annoys me. Sitting listening to a particular piece of music can make me feel joyous.  An interview on the radio can bring tears to my eyes.  I'm not used to these emotional swings.  One day, on a walk to the shops to stretch my legs and just get out for a change of scene, I come across a huge bougainvillea bursting out of the confines of a garden fence and pouring colour onto the street.  The flowers are vivid purples and reds.  I stop walking just to stare at it, a whole mixture of feelings running through my mind.  I think I'm going soft. Gayle just thinks I'm being moody.

located opposite a school

In an inspired moment of experimentation we have devised a new cocktail for our daily sun-downer.  It has a slice of lemon, 2 parts gin, 1 part iced earl grey tea, and 3 parts Indian Pale Ale.  We have named it a 'Downton'.  

A large queue outside the local supermarket.  No 'sana distancia' (health distancing). Half of the people are not wearing face-masks (the city rules are currently stating that masks should be worn for all public activity, even driving your car).  The supermarkets have a limit to the number of customers allowed in at one time.  I decide not to wait and walk on to another supermarket.  Here there is also a queue.  The security guard is getting people to distance properly, but still half the folk are not wearing face masks.  Why is there a queue? I ask the man in front of me. Hay cerveza, he tells me.  I raise my eyebrows.  Do I stand in the queue and risk it for beer? I look at three or four customers just yapping away to each other, unmasked.  I feel edgy.  I walk off.

Today the government announces the end of the national quarantine.  Confusingly the health emergency is not over.  Restrictions will be enforced by each state, based on a traffic-light system based on health criteria.  A red light means maximum restrictions, orange allows for businesses and factories to re-open, then there is yellow and ultimately green. The health minister displays a map of the country which shows every state, bar one, is red.  Jalisco is orange.  So that probably means they can start making tequila.  For everyone else it's more of the same.......

crikey

We read the news about the pandemic response  in the UK.  (I've just deleted three paragraphs of angry comment and criiticism, so thank your lucky stars.) There is so much wrong with what has happened in the UK and is still happening.  Fortunately we have a prime minister who knows how to get his message across.  First of all, do it on telly on a Sunday night (taking a leaf out of Trump's book -  ratings, ratings, ratings).  Then get a team of intelligent communicators to write a script which conveys the message effectively.  Hey presto!

There follows an understandable amount of derision.  My favourite skit comes from Mark Steel on Twitter here. 
 

¡caramba!

Meanwhile here in Mexico the beer ran out weeks ago. No wonder the government wants to reopen the factories..........  There are accusations that they are hiding the number of deaths and cases in the country.  Mexico has one of the lowest rates of testing in Latin America and is relying on disease modelling.  Mexico City has had about 700 deaths according to the official figures, and yet the city authorities have counted 2,500 (according to a New York Times article).  The low numbers may mean that Mexicans don't take the social distancing too seriously.  At the same time the government, like the UK, has begun talking about how they will relax the quarantine rules.  It's a poor message to be sending out when the pandemic has yet to peak here.

“Let’s move toward this new mortality,” said Jorge Alcocer, the Mexican health secretary, before correcting himself: “New normality.”  (The Guardian 13/5/20)

"when there's no beer people may resort to cocktails" Leon Trotsky 1919

mañana means mañana

"How is it out?"
"They're dropping like flies out there."
"Who are?"
"The bluebottles.  Everywhere.  Spinning in a death buzz and just dying".

We're having a heatwave.  A tropical heatwave.  It's hardly surprising.  the temperature's rising.  She certainly can can-can.

"Forty degrees.  Again."

I've been meaning to fix the two slow punctures we've got.  They can wait. Mañana.

apparently play is important in these situations.  I didn't actually get around to buying the game.....

The early mornings are beautiful and tranquil.  Birds flit from tree to tree. The sun is warm but the morning air remains fresh and cool.  By 9 o'clock it's warmed up and the sun is too hot to sit in comfortably.  By mid-afternoon our little concrete casita is getting hot.  Thank goodness for air-conditioning.  We try and get our chores done in the mornings.  When I say 'chores' I am essentially thinking of anything that does not involve lying down.  My only afternoon chore is cooking dinner - this is often the highlight of my day, if not Gayle's.

finally got round to using up the flour we bought

On a Wednesday evening I hear a stone drop onto my plate.  At least that is the sound. We're eating dhal so at first I assume it's a stone that got mixed up in the lentils.  But then a cursory check around my mouth with my tongue reveals a gaping hole in my largest molar.  The filling has dropped out.  The tooth had already cracked about three years ago.  But what a time to let me down.  The remaining shell feels loose.  I probe it again and again with my tongue.  There's no pain - I'd had root canal work done on this tooth in Iran in 2014.  Maybe....

"Gayle, have you got any strong sewing thread?" 
"No, why?"
"Oh nothing. Just thinking........"

imagine the size of the hole

After a couple of days the tooth has got looser and the hole is bothering me.  What if it gets infected?  I find my pliers wrench from the toolkit and thrust them at Gayle.
"What do you want me to do?" she looks alarmed.
"Do you want to try pulling it?"
"No I don't!!"

Gayle texts our friend Tuly to ask if she knows of any dentist that might be open.  We think it's unlikely during the 'emergency' but Tuly replies almost immediately to say she will ask a friend who has a dental clinic.  Things move rapidly with a bit of back and forth, questions and answers, ending with an appointment that afternoon at 2.  The dentist had asked for a photo of the damaged tooth.

The clinic looks shut and the front door is locked, but a masked man opens it for me.  He asks me if I understand Spanish and I say yes.  He says something else and I don't respond.  What did he ask me? We are both wearing masks. The man switches to English and introduces himself as Lester.  He will be extracting my tooth.  He takes me into the surgery which is set up and ready for me.  I notice the table of instruments looks rather crowded.  The metalwork is covered modestly with a cloth.  Lester has a full face visor as well as gloves and a face mask.  He looks nervous which I put down to the anxiety caused by the corona virus.  I have already answered all the health-check questions with 'no'.  No cough, no fever, no recent illness or fatigue.  But who's to know?  And what about Lester?  I don't ask him how he's been feeling lately.  He is after all about to do me a favour.

Lester begins by giving me some numbing anaesthetic.  When I can no longer feel my tongue tip he gives my damaged tooth a good old poke to see if I can feel anything.  No, nada, I tell him.  And then he reaches for the tools.  Oh, and what tools.  Something that looks like a metal punch but which screws into the broken tooth.  Then after a few of those, something that looks like it could remove wheel nuts from a carwheel.  Occasionally I espy a bloodied chip in his hand as he lays it on a paper towel.  My tooth is coming out in bits.  Lester explains it is fractured and he can see no sign of infection.  Then he goes to a cupboard behind me and rummages around.  He can't find what he's looking for and he appears to be sweating profusely now.  Up to this point I am fairly relaxed.  But in between bouts of jabbing and poking, Lester keeps going back to rummage in the cupboard.  I begin to fret.  Finally he finds a colleague who can supply him with the tool he needs.  "A twenty-three" he says, handing Lester something that looks like you could jack a car up with.  It does the trick - Lester finally extracts the two roots.  He holds the last one up proudly.  I almost faint.  Do I want the tooth bits?  All I can see is a gory mess on a paper towel.  No!

Painkillers and ice.  Five days' rest.  Do nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  And I had so much planned..............

"You can still cook the dinner, can't you?"  Gayle asks when I get home.
"Yes, no problem, but the laundry and the cleaning will have to wait." I say as I lie down.  I can't see Gayle but I hear her laugh.

now then, where was I?

time management

"What day is it again?"

It's the start of our fourth week in the casita.   We thought our little house would be the perfect place to quarantine.  Gayle would finish uploading her photos and sew a quilt.  John would blog. (This may sound unimpressive to you but it would appear I have a whole year's worth of journey to record in sharp, witty and interesting prose.  And if that isn't demanding enough I have to cope with a severely failing memory, amongst other defects) We have lots to read and plenty of films to watch.  It would be the perfect interlude in our journey.

contemplating all the productive things I could be getting on with

In weeks two and three we found ourselves Skyping, Zooming, Whatsapping almost incessantly.  Well, at least every day.  That seems incessant to a couple of travellers who like to switch off their mobile phone after breakfast.  We have chatted to family and friends in the UK   We have chatted with other cyclists and other friends all over the world.  We even had a call with Miss Hien, one of our favourite colleagues when we were in Viet Nam.  Everyone we have spoken to is experiencing some variant on the quarantine.   Tom, the Belgian cyclist we met last September, is in the north of Guatemala.  He seems remarkably chipper - every day he is meditating, swimming, writing.  I don't know how he fits it all in.  

Week four and the rot has set in.  We are slow to rise in the mornings.  We spend far too long looking at Lockdown memes.  I am still reading too much of the news and not enough of my book.  Gayle is finding out about other cyclists whose blogs we follow.  The sewing has stopped.  Now she is watching old episodes on Youtube of the Great British Sewing Bee.  I still haven't started the blog.  It's become 'an issue'.  We are on series three of Downton Abbey and we really really can't miss an episode.

waiting outside the supermarket

To avoid total insanity we still go for a walk each day and, once a week, a bike ride to the large supermarket on the edge of town.  We watch exercise workouts on Youtube.  We have a gin and tonic when we cook the evening meal.  There is mention in the local paper of a Dry Law being enforced.  I hurriedly nip out for another bottle of gin.  It turns out it's just a rumour.  The Corona brewery has shutdown.  This is true.

There's plenty to do but for some reason or another we're struggling to do much of anything........

kind of blue

Marie and Juan ask us if we've heard the news. The British prime minister is in intensive care.  We'd caught the headline the previous evening so we'd got over our initial shock, moved onto indignation and then settled down in despair. Our European friends note that Boris had been visiting a hospital with Covid-19 patients and walked around shaking hands - exactly the kind of thing that you're not supposed to do.  Hardly a great example.  Meanwhile English friends in the US comment on how well Boris seems to be doing.  But they're comparing him to Trump.  Everyone looks good next to Trump.

morale-boosting french crepes for breakfast thanks to Marie

We experience sudden mood swings.  Sometimes, sitting with a good book in the yard in the sunshine, a woodpecker tap-tapping in a palm tree the only noise, I feel very happy.  And then guilty.  Then restless.  Then happy again.  It's not bad this quarantine business.  

Gayle is harvesting a huge wild tomato plant at the end of the driveway

Listening to the BBC news is sometimes exasperating.  The government press conferences seem patronising to me.  Something in the tone of the ministers' speeches.  It must be the repetition of the slogans and the reminder that "as always, we are guided by the advice of the scientists".  The weasels.  After a change in policy they're trying to catch up.  Promises are made, but can they be met?  Why make promises?  Why not just explain what the problems are and how they're being addressed.  

still thinking about updating the blog

On many evenings I experience feelings of melancholy, amusement, anger, depression, anxiety, relief.  These usually leave me with an undefinable (but I'll give it a go anyway) empty hollowness.  Things improve radically when we stop watching Downton Abbey.

lockdown or quarantine?

the street art makes up for the concrete architecture

Our daily walk or ride takes us past a supermarket.  There's one that discounts fruit and veg, there's one that sells real tomato puree, one that sells gin and another that sells tonic.  So each day we can go somewhere different and still feel like we're not trapped in.  The Mexican government finally announced a national 'quarantine' for a month at the beginning of April with a principal message of "Quedate" - Stay In.  It has slowly taken effect.  At first many of the regular shops stay open.  Now most are closed up completely, after prompting from the local government.

Spot The Difference:  our street before quarantine

our street during quarantine

The language used by authorities and in the media is interesting.  In the UK there is a Lock-down.  It sounds like a form of imprisonment.  Is this a phrase the behavioural scientists have suggested?  There is also talk of waging a war, fighting the virus, battling the spread of the disease.  The NHS staff are at the frontline.  If that is true then it appears the UK government is sending our troops to battle without helmets or boots.

I'm critical of the Mexican government, in particular of the president, for the mixed messages he has been giving out.  He does have a serious problem here.  Any prolonged quarantine of the nation will have a serious impact on the majority of the poorer people - everyone who works in the informal economy.  We can see it with the little taco stands that dot the street corners here in La Paz.  Some are staying open, some are closed.  Some restaurants are serving take away only.  Most work has stopped.  People are staying at home.  The mayor has shut the malecon, the seafront promenade, because too many people were going there to exercise and take the air.  It's a real shame because this is the best public space in the city.

I'm also critical of the UK government.  I read from the editor of the UK's most respected medical journal (The Lancet) that the group of scientists giving advice to the government did not include an epidemiologist or anyone who worked in Public Health.  It seems that the UK government has made some poor decisions at critical points.  These have determined how the disease and the government response to the virus have developed.  I am furious.  But at times of war, should you be critical of the government or unite behind it, unquestioning, unjudging?  

What to do now that we really are isolating self-isolating?  Gayle is already at work on her 'quarantine' quilt, having bought fabric in the market before the shops all closed.  We should have bought that Mona Lisa jigsaw when we saw it - it wasn't there when we went back for it.  Happily we have plenty of books on our Kindles and Gayle is keen that I get our blog up to date.  There's also the BBC radio to listen to.  And the news.  No, not the news again.  We have to stop looking at the news.  That's not healthy.  What we are doing is having lots more Skype and WhatsApp and Zoom calls with family and friends.  This is keeping us busy enough.  Which is just as well - we might be here for some time.........

keeping busy swatting flies oh, and thinking about updating the blog

paranoia

 

quiet streets of La Paz

At the supermarket there's a member of staff in a face mask who stands by the

the local sex shop prepares for Covid-19

entrance and squirts anti-bacterial gel onto my hands.  She then sprays the trolley handle and wipes it down with a paper wipe.   I'm doubtful as to whether this will protect me from contracting Covid-19 but at least the trolley handle is clean.   At some point in my shopping I discover that I'm pushing the wrong trolley.  Some idiot has taken mine and walked off with it.   Oh, hang on a minute,  I'm the idiot who walked off with someone else's.  I hurry back to swap them over before anyone discovers the mistake.  In the tinned beans aisle a woman starts coughing.  She makes no attempt to cover her mouth.  I do an emergency u-turn and move into another aisle.  But the woman is following me.  And she's still coughing.  At the checkout there are stickers on the floor to indicate where each shopper should stand in line, 2 metres apart.  An old man with only three items asks if he can jump ahead, and I nod yes.  Now he's stood in the no man's land between me and the woman at the till.  He twists his head to read the words on the sticker on the floor "Sana distancia".  Healthy distance. He looks around, bemused.

Gayle has met a friendly American in the supermarket.  She is with her husband and daughter on their sailing boat, moored in a marina and awaiting some navigational equipment that had to be sent to the US for repair.  She has texted to ask if we would like to meet for coffee at the marina, socially-distanced, of course.  

an infusion of hibiscus leaves, known as 'jamaica' in Mexico

We ride out to the end of the bay.  The marina is part of a hotel/beach/golf course complex.  There's a gated entrance.  We can get take-away drinks at the cafe and sit apart and chat with Joanne and her English husband Paul.  We don't talk too much about the virus but more about our respective journeys.  They have sailed down from Washington.  We have a really enjoyable chat, interrupted by a young couple from California with children who tell us they came down to Los Cabos for a wedding and have decided to stay on, since California is now under lockdown.  And it will be here too, soon, we say.  Oh, but we'll still be able to do what we want here, the wife replies. It'll only affect the locals.  Even her husband looks askance at her. 

Anna and Adrien have returned from their boat-buying trip.  Without the boat. The deal is off. They are staying with Tuly again.  Anna is learning to play the charango and Adrien is practsing his accordion.  They come over for a visit after first checking on our isolation status.  Are we isolating self-isolating or just self-isolating?  It appears there are different levels of isolation. 

isolating self-isolating or just self-isolating?

Marie and Juan have had a visit from an American couple who they met cycling in Alaska back in September.  Jake and Linden have just arrived and are paying a visit before moving into a rented appartment for a month with their dog.  Having just arrived they seem to be unaware of just what a shitshow is about to befall us.  Or are they still in denial, hoping optimistically that all will pass quickly and they will be able to continue on to Argentina?  Linden's parting comment "Now we've all met we can get together and hang out"  leads us to ask Juan and Marie, are we isolating self-isolating or just isolating? 

Each time I read some detail about the virus I begin to identify possible symptoms.  Last night before going to sleep I had a dry tickly cough.  (We had the air-conditioner on to cool the room down a bit but it also dries the air out.)  However, in the night I woke in a sweat.  (At this point the air-conditioner was off, the windows still closed and the room was stuffy.) This morning I fetch a refill of our 19 litre water bottle from the water purifcation place.  (It's only a five block walk but I have to carry the full bottle using both arms to balance it on my shoulder.)  And now I feel a bit weak in all my limbs.  

(thinking about) updating the blog

 
Apart from the risks of physical illness is The Virus impacting my mental health?

phoney war

Having a bit of space to think about our situation isn't necessarily a good thing.  Have we made the right decision?  Absent-mindedly we find ourselves mulling it over at all times of the day.  Weighing up the pros and cons, best-case scenarios (back on the bikes in June) and worst-case scenarios (the zombies are coming!) 

shops still open

We take a walk past the cathedral and down to the malecon.  It's quieter than before, but still a few locals and tourists taking their exercise.  The seafront gets breezy in the afternoons - the seasonal winds they call 'las coromuelas' blow into the bay and across the town.  They're named after a British pirate who used to sail in these parts, Samuel Cromwell.  I guess he sailed in on the winds and raided the place........solid British traditions. Probably what some Brexiteers are harking back to - when Britannia waived the rules......

I don't think that's 1.5 metres, is it?

We meet up with Marie and Juan.  They too have decided to stay.  The town is still going on with its business as usual - it's only us who feel like we should be behaving differently - because we've been absorbing all the news from Europe.  Our friends are planning to cycle all the way south to Ushuaia and are optimistic that the borders will reopen once the peak of the pandemic has passed.  The national news is that there are some cases of Covid-19 and some deaths, but cases are relatively small for a country of 130 million.  It's early days.   We have an ice-cream and enjoy the fesh air at the seafront.  If anything helps you to live in the moment it's ice-cream at the beach on a sunny day.

We have now booked the casita til the end of April.  Already we are thinking that our journey has probably ended. Without a vaccine, I can't imagine being able to cycle freely across borders.  And in the meantime countries are going to place themselves and their citizens into economic crisis.  A double whammy. Cor, I'm pessimistic aren't I?

Juan and Marie move into one of the empty casitas, so we are together again, but apart. Socially-distanced.  The weather is good, we can sit out in the sun and read our books, listen to music.  "Update the blog" Gayle suggests helpfully. She has begun to sew a "Quarantine" quilt.  Already she has uploaded all her photos to Flickr.  And we can still wander freely, cycle or walk.  The supermarkets are well-stocked.  It all seems so easy, this self-isolation thing.

looking well-stocked

And then the UK government sends us an e-mail:

As countries respond to the COVID-19 pandemic, including travel and border restrictions, the FCO advises British nationals against all but essential international travel. Any country or area may restrict travel without notice. If you live in the UK and are currently travelling abroad, you are strongly advised to return now, where and while there are still commercial routes available. Many airlines are suspending flights and many airports are closing, preventing flights from leaving.

It rattles us. The language used in the media and by governments is one of war.  We are fighting a war against the virus.  Time to retreat to our country?  It's hard to reconcile the advice our government is giving us now in light of their retarded approach to the crisis in the first place.  Stay or go.  We think stay.
Have we made the right decision?

nothing to do but update the blog swat flies

don't panic mr.mainwaring

Monday morning and we need to pack up the tent and get ready to catch the ferry across the Sea of Cortez to Mazatlan.  Gayle shows me an item on Facebook, a post that purports to come from an Italian doctor, who is unnamed. You know the kind. It looks like one of those classic "fake news"/misinformation/alarmist posts but actually looks authentic.  It describes the writer's alarm (yes, alarm!!!) at the UK's response to the coronavirus, in light of his own experience dealing with it in Italy.  "It's like watching a horror film - one where we already know how it turns out."  Yes, alarmist, alarming.  We are alarmed.  

We have already spent a week immersed in the news reports.  We have watched in great disappointment our Prime Minister appearing as his usual bluff and blustery self.  His advice is to wash your hands for as long as it takes to sing Happy Birthday.  Wow.  In Italy the corpses are piling up.  Boris is suggesting people might not go to the pub for now.

Steve Bell's cartoon from The Guardian, 3rd March

In La Paz they held a Triathlon at the weekend just gone.  Competitors from all over Mexico came.  We saw them registering to race on Saturday morning on the malecon.  There was an enclosure which we could walk around full of stalls selling bike stuff, swimming gear etc.  Coronavirus?  Here, have some antibacterial gel for your hands...........

We decide to stay in La Paz.  We think it would be difficult to continue cycling through Mexico.  We might actually spread the virus.  The responsible thing would be to stop and sit it out.  We like La Paz and we'd rather wait here than get stopped somewhere later in a place not of our choosing.  There's also something preferable about being in Baja California Sur during the pandemic.  We're at the end of a long peninsula - in a low-population state.   To get here from other parts of Mexico you have to take a ferry, a plane, or a very long drive down the highway from Tijuana or Mexicali.  Geography might help reduce the spread of the virus.  At least this is what we tell ourselves.

So we say goodbye to Tuly and move into an Airbnb place - a casita, small house in a quiet spot near to the centre.  There's a kitchen/lounge, a bedroom and bathroom.  After a week of constant conversation and talk of coronavirus it feels like a little peaceful oasis.  Here we can take stock of the situation.

when in doubt........make tea

We go out on our bikes to explore the city centre, down by the seafront.  The modern city sits on a wide bay with several marinas and a nearby port.  There are some good beaches nearby.   Along the malecon is a bike path going the length of the bay.  Touts hang around looking to recruit tourists to the daily boat trips out to where the whale sharks are.  You can swim with these huge fish.  Gayle joins Juan and Marie on an excursion.  I decline, as I get nervous jumping into deep water and I'm a lousy swimmer.  Gayle loves it, of course.

The town is relatively quiet, not too touristy, although there are a fair number of gringo and Mexican tourists about on the malecon.  Elsewhere, the grid formation streets have light traffic and few pedestrians.  At junctions there are taco stands or convenience stores advertising how cold their beer is.  Trees provide some shade along the streets, bougainvillea are in flower.  La Paz feels modern, functional, ordinary and low-key. Tranquilo.

there are a few classic old houses in the centre

Each day we discuss the latest news from Europe.  Gayle goes to the swimming pool with Tuly and her daughter for their morning swim.  Colin is psyching himself up to leave for the mainland - he's been here a week and needs to move on.  Adrien and Anna have arranged to spend some time on the boat they hope to buy with its owners.  They are setting off on Sunday.  We are dilly-dallying a bit and putting off our departure for no other reason than we just want to stop in this quiet city and relax a little.   We're quite good at this.

the town beach

And what do you do when a global pandemic is declared and you're thousands of miles from home?  Put the kettle on.  Juan is from Madrid and is reading the news from Spain with what I can only imagine is some horror.  We have all been in contact with our families.  Everyone is okay.  Video memes from Spain and France lighten the mood.  Laugh in the face of adversity.  The Italians might be the best ones - they've had years of practice I suppose. 

Another cup anyone?

at peace

After about six weeks cycling down the Baja peninsular we have finally reached La Paz, the town from where we can catch a ferry to the mainland.  We are staying with Tuly, a legendary Warm Showers host, camping in her carport with Juan and Marie, who arrived at the end of the same day we do.  There's also Colin the Manxman in his hammock.  You rarely meet travellers from the Isle of Man, so its no surprise that we remember meeting him outside an outdoor shop in Calgary 6 months earlier.   Also staying at Tuly's  are Anna and Adrien.  They first came to Tuly on bicycles and they have kept returning here.  But now they have sold their bikes and are currently in negotiation with an American couple to buy their yacht.  They are thinking about another way of travelling.

Juan prepares soup for dinner

despite appearances, Adrien is not your typical Frenchman

We hang out here in this shady peaceful setting, thinking about our onward route and catching up on messages from home. Sitting around Tuly's kitchen table we talk with her and Juan and Marie about the coronavirus in Spain, in France and here too.  The first case has just been recorded in the resort area of Los Cabos, a hundred miles south at the tip of the Baja Calfornia peninsula. "A British man" Tuly says, raising her eyebrows at us.  I feel embarrassed.  The man had come to a wedding from Florida, it is thought.  

Tuly with one of her pugs

Meanwhile Adrien and Anna seem blissfully unconcerned.  "La Grippe" Adrien jokes.  I'm a little envious of them - they have no smartphone.  We got ours before we flew to Canada and right at this moment I feel like a slave to it - unable to keep from looking at it, wondering what the latest coronavirus news will be.  We are also in a Whatsapp group set up by Mexicans to support cycletourists travelling through Mexico.   Juan told us about it when we first met a month ago.  The group means you can ask about safety on a route, or for help or other information about bikes and accomodation.  Juan has just posted information about Guatemala closing its borders.  The phone now pings incessantly, calling out to be looked at.  It is driving me insane.  I can't silence the pinging.

a shady safe haven

The group administrator posts official government advice about what to do.  We're at the wash hands, cough into your elbow stage.  Foolishly the president is still holding rallies and acting as if everything is normal.  When challenged he shows the journalists his religious medallion worn around his neck.  "This will protect me."  So, he's alright then.  Meanwhile a minister in his government claims the virus won't attack the poor.  It is a rich man's virus.  All the early cases reported in Mexico are of wealthy Mexicans who've picked it up on skiing trips or cruises.  It doesn't bode well.

with Marie and Juan on the malecon