Baja, Mexico: Catavina (Day 2: 12/22, Monday, Part 2 of 2)

We return from the second mini-hike hungry, and head into town--where earlier we'd gotten gas on the side of the road because the PEMEX station there, for whatever reason, isn't running. I use the term "town" loosely, essentially a single strip of corner stores selling Coca Cola and cigarettes and chips, and a road, with its lavish distribution of speed bumps, that slows you to 40 km/hour (25 mph).

Gas from cans and a tube that the gentleman huffs into.

"How does he know when to stop pumping?" I ask Eric. "When it comes squirting out the..."

Ding, ding, ding. Yes, he knows he should stop pumping gas when it comes streaming down the side of the car.

Anyway, we're back in town for what Eric claims will be amazing Mexican hot dogs, something wrapped in bacon, which I've seen outside clubs in L.A. and which I've always previously assumed are only comestible after a night on the town and several lines of coke.

No go. Which, thank god, leads to our return to the Ranch and to my discovery of machaca, a dish originally made from dried beef as a form of preservation, but nowadays a pulled-porky kind of concoction.

It's only thing on the menu I've never heard of. Horrible squid experience notwithstanding, I give another (fork-)stab in the dark. And it is delicious...



It's frigid by the time we decide to pack ourselves into the tent, with Eric worrying that we'll freeze in the desert night. I am a little less concerned, and offer to take the non-winter sleeping bag. Because I like being cold at night. And because I'm a bad-ass.



The stars are gooor-geous, first a smattering, then a dusting, then a full-on assault, and as we make pillow talk and try not to fall asleep at 8 p.m., a dash of raindrops hits our faces. Yelping, we burst out of our bags and pull the roof-flap over, benighted and entitled travelers bemoaning the disappearance of "our" stars.

Sleep overtakes us, until I'm woken by the violent flapping of the tent in the storm. It doesn't occur to me to wake Eric, and I lie there considering the possibilities and convincing myself of the insignificance of a little rain and wind. The problem is that despite my ability to send myself off to sleep, the spray of rain intermittently slanting sideways into the tent and onto my face, the snapping of the tent in the wind keeps jerking me awake.

I'm a miserable insomniac and Eric finally wakes, in turns squealing because he'd been trying to freak me out earlier with references to the Blair Witch and shamans and offering such reassuring comments as, "if this was hurricane, no one here would know. And it's not like anyone would trek out here and tell us."

Thanks.

A restless, broken sleep, then the too loud, too close mooing of a "mad and horny" (Eric's words) or "cold and lonely" (mine) cow. Maybe she's lost her baby. Maybe she's just lost from her herd. My sympathy for her/him/it is muted by my fear that, what with the tent flapping, she'll charge the tent. Inside my sleeping bag, I slip my sweats back on, then skooch (sp?) around, making sure I know where my possessions are. Camera? In bag. Wallet? In jacket, in bag. Hiking boots? Next to me. At a moment's notice, I'm ready to bolt and head for the car. I didn't come to Mexico to be trampled by a cow.

Fortunately, she makes her sad trek away from us, and my pity for her increases with her distance. Poor thang.