The famous Mexican pace
is starting to sink in. We're moving a little slower, thinking
a little clearer, and we're a little more in the moment. Everyone
and everything is calm here: the desert doesn't move for anything,
not even the wind, and the people are very much a part of the stillness.
I have yet to see anyone move quickly or raise their voice, and usually
people don't move much at all. Driving through the little towns,
which all have the hand painted signs, dirt sidewalks and teeming stray
dogs (none of which move much either), the locals are mostly all sitting
down, looking around with a mellow gaze. When we wave they
hardly even wave back, probably equally to conserve motion as because
it's just a silly gringo custom. If Pascal was right in saying
that all evil in the world stems from man's inability to sit still in
a room alone, then these are some very nice people.
On top of The Buss, behind
Roby and his new friend, Ryk and I are taking down the tent. Last
night we went to sleep under the amazing lightshow of stars, with the
surf churning away 100 feet below. And then, delight of delights,
we woke in the pitch black night under an angry rain, and somehow we
didn't come to consciousness until our sleeping bags were already soaked.
Pitching a tent in the dark cold windy rain is a real joy.
We climbed in the tent (all the sleep spots in the buss were already
taken, and besides that's for sissies), we shivered for a while, and
engaged in a little sleep simulation. We mostly lay there in our
soaking bags waiting for the roosters to crow.
And crow they did, thank
god, from every direction, and we broke camp and got back on the "road".
We went back through the little town, with it's sporadically paved main
and had absolutely no
difficulty staying under the posted speed limit. Something
about a 10 ton buss packed to the rafters with traveler miscellany,
swinging wildly over potholes and around curves just lends itself to