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Maps in baja norte in baja sur
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Although brother and father would rant for some time about ‘what’s right’ (taking the offer to go to the station), I figured that the politics of corruption are for Senor Fox, whose status in Baja California is that of hero and corruption-killer. Three unfinished bottles of tequila, some limes, some pears, some avocados, those were for us. The infringements that disciples of power enact toward us is a matter of punishment of time. Six hundred pesos is nothing next to thirty-days in Jail in Sinaloa, or years of courtroom battles in California because some fuck decided to enter your life into the legal system. Now, at the border in the salt-mining and whale-tourism town of Guerrero Negro, the Officiales in yellow-chemical suits sprayed the truck with herbicides and said, “You have any contraband? Fruits? Vegetables?” “Yes!” we said, opening the cargo door. “Here’s some tomatoes,” I said, giving him the contents of our cooler. “And limes, and pears. Oh and here’s some oranges. You want our avocados too?” “I think I see another pear in your cooler,” the Official said. Hours south, past fields of red-rock volcanic lava-tubes, distant volcanoes, and the palm-lined citrus town called San Ignacio, we stopped at a datil stand to buy palm dates. Small ratty dogs followed us to the stand, where weathered men were playing Backgammon and sipping Tecate. The store owner threw rocks at the dogs, and issued them to leave us alone. Hans said, “never throw your date-seeds out the window. Bring out everything you bring in.” Pulling away, the store owner picked a few more stones for her dogs and they yipped and jumped. People, and the way they treat their animals, is a tell-all of their own lives. We passed Volcan Tres Virgenes, the third largest peak in the Baja’s, listening to Miles Davis’ and John Coltrane’s Flamenco Sketches. When we passed a zone of knobby pencil cholla, and the high notes kicked in on the piano, I looked over at Brother Hans, and back at Father, none of them talking. I realized that home is not a run-down house in LA with a palm tree and a grill, or even a fireplace and some snow - but a collection of family, together wherever that may be.
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I didn’t have my registration. I said, “Absolutely,” and gave him
some paperwork from my last maintenance tune-up. He looked over it
carefully, or at least that’s what he thought we thought. I already knew
what was coming. “I can give you the ticket here, or we can go to the
station,” the officer said, “but if I give you a ticket here, I can’t give
you a receipt.” “We’ll just pay for it here,” I said, imagining my
car-keys thrusting into his eyes. “Six hundred pesos.” I gave him sixty
dollars. “That’s sixty-four dollars,” the officer with the large head and
poofy-jelled hair said, “enjoy your stay in Mexico.” 
