The year was 2008 — the height of the Mexican narco wars. A time when Baja California was making headlines for all the wrong reasons. Homicide rates were through the roof, and most people north of the border wouldn’t dream of heading south..
Myself and two mates had been soaking up the good life in Pacific Beach, San Diego — surfing every morning, smashing burritos by the kilo, and basking in that golden California sunshine that makes time feel like it’s standing still. But Baja was always on the cards. Mexico wasn’t just some spontaneous detour — it was the mission. We’d circled it on the map from day one. So when the time felt right (and our Spanglish felt just passable enough), we packed the car, grabbed our paper map — yeah, paper — and pointed the wheels south.
No smartphones. No GPS. Just a clapped-out van, a few surfboards, and a thirst for adventure. We crossed the border into Tijuana and instantly got very lost. Like, “looping the same roundabout four times” lost. Between our broken Spanglish and a maze of signs that made no sense, it took hours to claw our way out of the city and into the great unknown.
And then… silence.
The chaos of TJ melted into eerily quiet desert highways. Rocky outcrops, humungous cacti, burned-out buses. Every 30km or so: military checkpoints. And I mean serious ones — soldiers in camo with rifles, mirrored sunglasses, and no time for gringos on a surf trip.
At the first checkpoint, nerves were high. We handed over our passports like kids caught sneaking into a pub. The soldier disappeared for a few tense minutes, then came back, handed us our passports… and with a knowing smirk said:
“AC/DC… Australia!”
Mate —
Right there, in the middle of nowhere, under the blistering Mexican sun, we had found the one international bridge between our two worlds: rock ‘n’ roll. Specifically, Bon Scott and the boys.
From that moment on, it became our secret weapon. Every time we approached a checkpoint, the windows went down, and Back in Black went up. It was our unofficial visa. Our sonic passport. Who knew Mexico ran on tacos, tequila, and a healthy dose of Angus Young?
We spent the next few weeks weaving our way down the peninsula — chasing waves, dodging potholes, and turning up the volume every time we saw a camo jacket on the horizon.
Was it smart? Probably not.
Was it safe? Definitely not.
Was it unforgettable? Hell yes.
And that, amigos, is how we survived Baja California in 2008 — powered by youthful stupidity, good vibes, and the immortal riffs of AC/DC.
