Monday 2/7/2000 From Nogales, Arizona to the middle of nowhere near H. Caborca, Mexico

The day started with groans, and I pulled myself up and took a long hot bath in the motel, and got my clothes on. The guys sort of opened their eyes. "I'm going to go buy Insurance. Do you want to come?" No answer, unless one grunt (John's) and a low groan (Tom's) qualify as a response. Finally one of them muttered something that I interpreted as 'why would we want to come?'

"I just thought it might be cool, they could have maps and stuff, but hey, if you aren't up for the fun I will do it myself." So out on my own, trying to find 2921 Grand for Sanborn's Auto Insurance. The Nogales High School advises that we 'never let yesterday use up too much of today.' What? Not dwell on the past until the ghosts of yesterday scare you into hiding in bed with the covers over your head? How strange. Isn't that how everyone lives their life?

I discovered how to make a big loop around Nogales. Getting on the freeway, going north as far as Western Avenue and coming back across to Grand Avenue. I have the sense of having traveled a great distance, without having gotten anywhere. I don't think that I will add that skill to my resume. On the other hand, putting the radio on 'seek/scan' is entertaining. The tuner blips through the numbers, stopping long enough to unload a cultural snippet for my consideration, and then moving on. It is a lot like dropping people off at the airport.

10:00 am, listening to syrupy sappy music. Filled up with gas, and bought insurance. Time to get the guys to drop their cocks and grab their socks. We packed up and went to Denny's, just down the road from the Time Motel. I tried to call Heather from the parking lot. No answer. Then she called me back a few minutes later. She had taken Maddy to Debbie's. Maddy told Debbie "My Daddy's in Mexico. He's having soup." The last time I had talked with her, the night before, was when we were in the abridged Denny's, and I was eating soup.

We sat in the same booth that Tom and I were in, when we returned from the eclipse in 1991. We finished our meal and I was ready for the border, but instead, we went shopping at the Basha's mercado. It was more a Mexican than American market. Heather went to high school in Arizona with Basha kids, who were neither Mexican, nor Catholic. We bought far more than I thought we needed, and finally, we departed. We crossed the border with minimum formalities, in fact, we were waved through.

We stopped to get tourist permits, and we hit the road, with me driving. I did all of the driving Monday. It was the first time I had bought Mexican Insurance, the first time I drove across the border, it was my first time for a lot of things that seem important to do. Rights of passage deferred still need to be done. The rituals that we skip must be made up later. 90 year old Jewish men who somehow missed their Bris are getting circumcised, who am I to skip crossing the border. While important to do, these things are not as hard as I had thought.

Buying Mexican Insurance is easy, crossing the border is easy. Driving in Mexico is, well, it was a little stressful to drive the Mexican way. It is a give and take style of driving. You let people in, and people let you in, clearences are tighter, lanes are for losers, and lane markers are offered in a spirit of brotherhood rather than command. Driving through Nogales I started to feel like I understood the system, I even felt comforatable. But then, in Dan Bern's words, 'whenever I got too terribly giddy I saw crosses by the side of the road.'

20 km south of the border we had to get a car pass. $178 somethings, hopefully pesos, but probably dollars, were charged to my credit card. Hopefully as a deposit, probably not. It is not at all obvious what you need to do in order to bring your car into the country. The 'Solo Sonora' program is obvious, but we thought (wrongly as it turned out) that we would also want to go to Chihuahua. There is a big sign that says 'car stuff' but then there is a smaller sign that says 'we can only process cars in the Only Sonora program.'

I wandered about, went in, found a window, the people made copies for me, and asked me to pay what I wanted. So how much? "one dollar" Also in that window was a small boy sitting at the counter. He and I played while she made the copies. The language of making faces is universal. She was new at the job, asking for guidance at each step. Someone was helping her. She had a paper with english translations of travel words. The paperwork fell to our good spirits and we continued on our way.

In Magdelana de Kino, the people mostly sell tomatos for Jesus. You can buy a whole bag of tomatos, a lot of them look pretty green, for a dollar, maybe less if you're a Mexican. I don't imagine that Jesus would be making much money from gringo targeted Febuary tomato sales in Magdelana.

Padre Eusebio Francisco Kino was a Jesuit missionary who spent 24 years creating a great string of Missions in the Sonoran desert of what is now Northern Mexico and Southern Arizona. Kino died in 1711 in Magdalena, and was buried in the square. 1994 Presidential Candidate Luis Donaldo Colosio was born in Magdelana, and after his senseless assasination during the campaign, was also buried there.

We stopped in Magdelena to see the good Father's bones. They had cleaned up his final resting place. There are alcoves in the wall, covered with glass. Last year the murals were peeling, big flakes fallen down among the sacred objects. This year they had been repainted, white. The bones looked the same, except that John or maybe Tom, noticed that he had six toes on his left foot. The workers had whisk broomed their tracks, except for one partial boot print.

In the town of Magdelena de Kino is a square. In that square, across from a cathedral, is a pavilion sort of thing. The inside ceiling is domed, with a majestic circular mural on the underside. The most prominent feature of this mural are strident figures of topless indians. The idea is to allow Father Kino, whose exposed bones are within the pavilion, to stare at indian breasts for all of eternity.

I really like the whole catholic looking at the relics thing.

"Hey John, maybe we could sneak in with him and take pictures of ourselves laying down next to him."

John's response was more groan than command "Rich..."

"You're right. They'd probably put us in jail if we did that."

"I would hope so!"

We are trapped in our conceptions of proper behavior, and even an open mauseleum door doesn't tempt us, most of us, into hanging out with the corpses. Even 300 year old Priest Bones that are in plain view, protected only by a rather gintzy looking lock, are relatively safe from molestation.

"Yeah, well, what would you do with a stupid old femur anyway."

We walked from the square in the obvious direction. We were given the opportunity to purchase lots of cheap plastic things. We were undettered, continuing on to the Taqueriea Lupita, which is where John and I ate last year.

There was a bathroom, which was convenient. The lid to the tank was off, and strands of nylon twine came out, which is how you flushed the toilet.

We left the Lupita, and a wiry little guy said "Hi guys." The guy was in his twenties. Tom and John saw it for a scam, and with a token backward glance left me to deal with things.

"How are you doing?" He was in Magdelena to sell tomatos for Jesus. "Get you good price."

Our friend used to live in Nogales, but now he was here He made frequent gestures, up. Glancing up but never looking fully up. Perhaps his Lord is a shy Lord and doesn't like to be stared at.

I declined the tomatoes. We walked on to the Deposito and bought beer. Pacifico and Negro Modelo. The beer guy held up a bottle of Corona and told us that it was 'mucho mejor' as he pantomimed drinking.

"Proximo vez" I said. "Proximo vez." (next time).

From Magdelena we drove on to Caborca where we zipped past a beautiful Father Kino Mission. I think it was a Father Kino Mission. Okay, we drove past a beautiful and old looking religious building. Probably Kino's. Maybe it was Kino's. A flock of black birds, like a vision from above, hearelded our arrival at the church, so we drove by and then we took a tour of 'the slums' that were not really slums. Lots of people running about, to every which way. We turned turned the mission at John's instruction, after having passed a turn off for 'Puerto Lobos.' Continued on through the slums, and then got ourselves oriented around, crossed over the other way, a long way, finally got ourselves to a Pemex station, got a fill and a drain, and got instructions.

With the frightening words 'es muy facil' (it is very easy.) echoing, we blew out of Caborca looking for a place to buy tortillas. Tom asked "So what would a place that sells tortillas look like?"

John helped him out "It will say 'tortillaria.'"

"Or anything that says 'tortuga.'" I offered.

Tom was not in favor of that. "I am not eating anything that has anything to do with a turtle."

"How do you know? It might be very good. After all, turtles are really cute, and cute things taste good."

Tom and John shrieked, and I slammed on the breaks, in time to avoid a collision with a Suburban.

Tom and John claimed that I had had a stop sign. Since I didn't see it, I can't vouch for the accuracy of their report. "Rich, did you know that you had a stop sign?"

"No, John, if I had known, I would have stopped." I vowed to drive more carefully. We Stopped at a small 'Supermercado.' The first thing that I saw was cheese! Cheese in the 'estillo Sonora,' I made my purchases and returned to the car.

"So what did he get?" Tom did not sound entirely confident in my choices.

"Well, let's see. There is cheese, tortillas." John seemed pleased so far. He went on, with a voice of doom. "And Ding Dongs." I felt the weight of moral approbation at his indicting words Later we discovered that Sonoran style cheese is soft, and white, and melts pretty good when you put it between tortillas in a pan on the back packing stove.

I have no report on its' taste, since I was unable to detect a taste.

We swept from town with our cheese and tortillas, and a package of 'Penqinos' (chocolate frosted cupcakes, NOT ding dongs), towards the airport, and our turn off, to Puerto Libertad. And it got dark, and I was driving and I liked it so I kept driving. We drove through flat farmland and Ejidos outside of town. John geeking with the GPS, figuring out which way we were going. He found Puerto Libertad in the GPS database and set a destination 'goto.' So we had an idea as to whether we were pointing sort of towards, or sort of not towards, Puerto Libertad. Later John said that without the GPS he would not have felt comfortable going as far as we did on the roads that we traveled that night.

There was a turn, a choice of options, straight or left. John said 'Left' so I turned, then saw headlights so I stopped, put the dome light on, got out of the car, stood with a map in my hand, by the door. "I think that they will stop and give us directions."

They didn't. They flew by in a cloud of dust, without a wave or a honk. I guess that I wouldn't stop for some weirdo by the side of the road outside of my home town.

Would you?

We drove through a small village, past a grandfather with a small kid. We stopped and asked for directions. He drew things on the dirt, but I didn't understand what he said, except that it wasn't closed, but there was something the size of the car that we had to look for.

John and I thought he was saying 'bridge.' We thought he said there was a 'puerte out.' At one point I thought it was a drawbridge. John then thought he was talking about a bar. "Sure, you can go to Puerto Libertad, but the bar is closed, so why bother."

We kept going, I went 25-35 mph on the dirt. After a long time I pulled over and we had a chat about going, staying, whatever. John had not been complaining about driving. I assumed that he wasn't into it. The whole night driving thing is worth consideration.

We finally found a campground and exited into the quiet, the silence after the late night dirt road in wilderness bumps.

I looked up and saw the Big Dipper. Not where I expected. "Look at the ground and point where you think North is."

Tom instantly pointed, without looking, at Polaris. John took a bit more time and pointed at something else. Something that wasn't north. John believes that a sense of direction is like perfect pitch. You either have it, or you don't. Gyro Tom the Rhyming man has it.

"There is an old photographers game that I want to play." After an appropriate merriment over the name of the game, I explained the game, in which you attempt to guess where the sun will come up. Tom drew his arrow in the sand. Then I drew an arrow, radically more south, and John drew an arrow, quite close to Tom's. I drew lines extending Tom and John's arrows, about 10 feet, till the lines intersected.

"Okay, so if the sun erupts from the earth, right here, you both win."

"If that happens, we will have greater problems."

(John, the next morning, judging the game.)

We started up the back packing stove and had chili and tortillas and quesidillas and tequila and beer. The pan that john bought in Nogales was covered on the bottom with sticky paper that we could not remove, so we decided with our boy scout wisdom to burn it off.

That decision had consequences.

I had a quesidilla in the pan, tortilla, chunks of cheese. I held the pan in one hand as flaming bits of paper flew into the back of the Explorer. "Rich! put it on the ground, just put it on the ground!" John was waving his arms about, screaming and ranting about fire and the 500 pounds of explosives in the back of the car.

I took my bowl in my other hand, and very gracefully turned the pan and gently slid my quesidilla onto the ground. I don't know if it was my little flourish at the end, but there I was with dinner on the dirt. John and Tom found this hilarious, and laughed at length over my misunderstanding of what was to go to the ground.

After that the evening became fuzzy as we dropped into tequila induced giggles, and discussions of the 1981 Guaymas/Baja trip.