Baja, Mexico: Guerrero Negro -> San Ignacio -> San Rosalia -> Mulege (Day 3: 12/23, Tuesday, Part 2 of 2)

On our way back out of the salt-marshes, we come across some ospreys, one adult perched eye level to us, driver and passenger in a car, tolerating our gawking, the others, young ospreys in nests atop power lines. We've stopped and pop, a tiny head comes peeping over the sticks. Eric has a photo.

Despite my usual, somewhat impetuous, some may deem reckless, hurtling after one of those EcoTour buses--"let's just see where it goes; maybe it'll lead us to their office"--we decide against staying the night in the hopes of whale-watching the next day. The weather, after all, was, if evocative and appropriate for a jaunt into the salt marshes, not exactly what we'd envisioned for a trip down the Baja peninsula.

We drive on, towards San Ignacio, and I, once again, send Eric into a holy terror with my driving. Passing is difficult when there are only two lanes, one coming and one going, and when the entire road is a serpentine curling, blind curves and hills in an endless, tortured gray ribbon.

Passing is also difficult when, rather than using rational and spatial reasoning to make decisions re: "to pass or not to pass," I rely on my level of impatience with the cars ahead of me as well as my refusal to listen to any imperatives--no matter how justified, panicked, and non-patriarchal--from a person bearing XY chromosomes.

Absurdly low and impossible to abide by speed limits are also problematic. The consensus, easy to come by between two, is that if Mexico were to increase speed limits to something approaching reality, drivers would actually heed them, and there wouldn't be all this needless passing at high speeds and, um, head-on collisions, and signs that read, "Mas vale tarde que nunca" (Better late than never.).

Also: more lanes would be nice.

At any rate, in my leg of the drive towards San Ignacio, I make an ill-conceived attempt to pass two ATVs, a vehicle appears in the oncoming lane (that I'm currently in), I have my typical "changing of the mind" when Eric screams, "get back," which I do, but then change my mind back and decide to proceed, after having lost several seconds for having changed said mind. There's honking and a hitting of brakes, and later, as we arrive at a military checkpoint, Eric tells me we better hope we can get the fuck out of there before the ATVs arrive behind us because he's sure--sure--they're pissed.

Which is reasonable, since I did nearly kill us all.

San Ignacio is an oasis of palm trees (dates) in the midst of cirio cacti and desert. It's lush lush and charming and sunlit in a way we haven't yet seen, something out of a guidebook, but hotels are expensive and we're told there have been no whales, so we're onwards again, to Santa Rosalia, what used to be a mining town, where we pass the Eiffel-designed church, pass Panaderia El Boleo despite the review of "obligatory" by Lonely Planet, and stop by an unidentified taco stand for ceviche and a shrimp taco.



Yum. Here, Eric frustrates my attempt to add some concoction of sour cream or mayo (indeterminable creamy white food stuffs) to my shrimp taco, murmuring something about it sitting out all day. Gotcha.

We bust out of town again for Mulege because we are not--not--traveling at night. The stupefying and stupefied cattle grazing on the side of the road (or crossing it), the skid marks in the asphalt, the mangled metal barriers, and the shrine after shrine to the accidental dead are each reason enough to stay yo' ass at home when darkness falls.



When we arrive in Mulege, we do a quick turn around town in the car, looking for digs to stay in overnight and find a room at La Noria for cheap. The exterior is a buttery yellow and hummingbirds are still helicoptering around a row of sugar water feeders.

Inside is a different story. Our room smells like mold, reeks of it, but we're both too exhausted to discriminate, and head back out to town for dinner. I force us to stop at the local internet cafe, and again, we ignore LP for what looks like a popular taco stand. Beets still hanging in green and red bunches sit next to container after container of condiments (creamy guacamole, salsa, pico de gallo, pickled onions, cabbage, jalapenos). They serve only carne asada here, and I take two with a side of Coca Cola and a cigarette while Eric has four and jimaica. The metal cafeteria table we're sitting on overlooks a deep, litter-filled ditch, but the food is delicious and makes up for the less than picturesque setting.



"Maybe we can have this for breakfast tomorrow," I say to no one in particular, more of an invocation than a query.

Returning to our room at La Noria, I step out to get away from the stench and smile at a kid, screeching back and forth on the concrete platform in front of our first floor room, a benevolence born only from being well-fed and fatigued.