queque

One morning I saw a guy picking up garbage in the middle of nada. That’s not something you see everyday in Mexico. He was a troquero, owned a trucking business with his brother. They ran out of hydraulic fluid so his brother had to drive to the nearest town to find some. He was picking up botes (cans) to redeem for scrap while he waited. Luckily there was no shortage as the most popular pastime is downing tecates and throwing the bote out the window. In baja cans (lata) are called bote, and bottle (botella) are called ballenon.

Another day a German firetruck stopped ahead full of a German Vermont hybrid family. The father was once the only importer of Mercedes German firetrucks to North America.

In the South of Baja, flowing surface water can appear seemingly out of nowhere. Usually people always live nearby. In San Ignacio I was informed that the “enthusiastic” Indians helped the Catholic priests build a mission there.

Since sleeping under the stars every night I became aquainted with so much wildlife. Spiders, scorpions, cockroaches, lizards, they all want to snuggle. A few days ago I found a dead mouse under my sleeping pad.

And I became even more personal with the ground since my thermarest pad lost a war with the cactis.

The priests and their enthusiastic Indian helpers aren’t the only ones who have loved the oases of baja over history. Our mosquito friends brought dengue, malaria, and a new guy, chikungunya