On our first morning in El Sargento, I woke up before the sunrise to the sound of roosters screaming bloody murder, crowing with such emphasis, that I wouldn’t be surprised if we later found some of them with their chicken heads clear off.
Inside the trailer, all was quiet, and I read my book as I watched the sun to come up, and the pour over coffee slowly drip itself into existence.
Although it was a work Monday, we decided that after three long days of driving, the plan for the day was that there was no plan. It was a free day, we could do nothing, we could read all day, or sleep all day, guilt free.
That attitude persisted throughout most of the morning, and until the middle of the afternoon, when motivation struck for me to go on a bike ride.
Pulling up the map of bike trails in the area revealed that there may be a trailhead a couple miles up the road that was next to the RV park.
I got on my bike, and began huffing up the road, tires burying in the sand, at times deeply enough to throw me off the bike, the strong afternoon sun burning my face. The farther I went up, the more tired I was, but also the more committed to getting to the trailhead above, even if I didn’t actually get to ride on the trail.
Every so often a car would drive up this road throwing up dust plumes, with the occupants appearing to question what kind of idiot would be biking up here at this time of day.
Looking at the map, I was inching toward the trailhead ever so slowly, 300 yards, 200, almost there. At the last 100 yards between me and my goal stood a herd goats protected by a giant dog on watch for predators, or bikers.
Goals can change quickly, and in that moment the primary objective changed from a commitment to make it the trailhead, to survival. “I guess I’m turning around then”, I thought to myself.
Not wasting any time, I flipped the bike around and hurtled down the hill that I just so nearly conquered, though with the help of gravity, at ten times the velocity, every so often looking behind me to see if Kujo was about to do what he is best at.
He was not, in fact I felt a little tinge of disappointment for I don’t believe he even cared about me.
As I approached the bottom of this hill, my disappointment at being ignored was quelled by a much more aggressive beast, a mighty chihuahua that jumped out from a roadside yard, charged the bike, and attempted to finish the job that Kujo wouldn’t. Fortunately being gifted with tiny little legs that belied its roar, prevented this beast from being successful in his rush.
Once back in the protection of our fenced RV park, I could again relax as only Casper could.
Our dinner plans typically get made in haste. 45 years in, and yet each day both of us continue to forget that we need to eat, and usually about the same time. This day was no different, and at the last minute we decided that for dinner that night we were going to make some fish and shrimp tacos. I believe that is the only meal that is de rigueur on a first day in Baja, nay, every day if I may be so bold to say. Of course it was eight minutes before the Pescaderia was closing, so Lisa and I jumped on our bikes and pedaled down the hill at maximum speed, Lisa giving me permission to not wait for her. Being now practiced in hurtling down hills, I made it to the store before closing time, though it was probably an unnecessary rush, as the closing times are just suggestions here. The store closes when the store closes.
A kid in his twenties ran the store, presiding over a mostly bare case of fresh skipjack filets. I asked him in very broken Spanish if the skipjack in the case was the only fish he had, and after he thought about it for a second he said that he also had some yellow tail in the back, and motioned to me asking if I wanted to see it.
He took me to a back room with a few pieces of fish in a cooler. In retrospect it was probably his personal stash of fish that he was going to keep for his own enjoyment later that night. He asked me how much I wanted, so I had him wrap me up a small filet.
Having procured our fish we biked back up the hill so that Lisa could start grilling, and as would be expected, I could start eating the grilling.
Before we could eat in earnest, I did need to bike down the hill one more time to what has become our favorite corner store to get some tortillas, and while I was at it, some pan dulce to surprise Lisa with and take her taste buds back to the distant memory of her childhood in Mexico city.
The tortillas that we got at this store were not the tasteless round flops of cardboard that Mission tries to pass for tortillas distributed nationwide to your local supermarket. These were flavorful, locally made, delicate pancakes, thinner than a crepe, yet with just as much depth, as if they came off the griddle only a few minutes before. Perhaps they did, I couldn’t tell.
They were so good, I ate the whole package in one sitting. Some to carry the yellow tail that Lisa grilled to perfection, and when that filling was gone, the rest were devoured for dessert with a black currant jelly, like a desert blintz.
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