When entering Mexico via Baja California, vehicle registration is not required.  It is required at all other crossings, including Baja California (Sur) to mainland Mexico, from the point of departure.  I learned more about my vehicle when registering at the port of La Paz.

    I knew the van had suffered hail damage.  What I did not know was that the previous owner had filed an insurance claim and written the van off as “salvage.”  This designation set off alarms in the system and the agent claimed that the vehicle I had just driven 3,100 miles was deemed inoperable in Mexico.

    After hours of phone calls and waiting, the agent either told me the truth when saying, “We got lucky and someone happened to be in the office after 5pm,” or he finally accepted that I wasn’t about to pay a bribe.  I gave him the fee, he gave me the necessary stamps for a 6-month registration, and I was the last one in line for the overnight ferry to Mazatlán.

    I was on my first big boat in twenty years, when my father had splurged on a roundtrip cruise from Long Beach to Ensenada for himself and his wife, my two siblings, their spouses, and me.  My tastes were already turning then.  I enjoyed the food and the drink, but was rather disgusted by the gluttony and the spending.  I opted instead for the decks of the ship, away from the masses, with a sky full of stars above me and deep waters below.  There is opportunity for a sense of awe and humility in the presence of either, becoming nearly inescapable floating between both.

    This overnight ferry to Mazatlán was hardly as opulent as was the cruise ship, but it did afford me vantage points similar to its luxurious distant cousin.

    There was festive, spirited, crazy karaoke of which I captured video and stills.  But I predictably spent most of my time either in my cabin - happy to be a passenger for a bit, especially on a ship – or outside, on the decks, inspired by Mexico’s dark sparkling skies and waters.

    I drifted off for a short sleep as the ferry brought us towards the mainland.

    I awoke shortly before sunrise, as we approached the greater body of Mother Mexico.  Announcements led me down to the vehicle hold to be reunited with the Bestia Verde.  She seemed grateful for the breather, as if she had enjoyed the ride.  

    And then I was in line, motor started, then off-loading, then driving.  It occurred to me just then that I hadn’t really made a plan for Mazatlán.  No map, no directions, no destinations.  I was rawdogging it.

    I took a left out of the port.  The only thing I knew for sure is that I wanted breakfast.  I headed downtown as best I could tell.  Soon I found myself around the mercado central (main market).  There’s gotta be something around here.

    I asked someone where I could get some breakfast.  “Across the street,” they said.  So I went across the street.  They were serving some sort of soup.  No way.  I asked someone there where I could get some breakfast.  They said, “Down the street, across the way.”  They were closed.  I asked a third person, who gave me the exact answer I had no idea I was looking for: “There’s a lady who cooks meals for people in her house – cops and stuff.”  I was sold.  I turned right at the next corner and walked halfway down the block, where there was an open gate and open front door of a house behind it – just as I was told.  I approached the threshold of the door.  “Leti?” I asked.  “Pase, pase,” she said, telling me to come in.

    I walked through the living room, through some beaded/fabric curtains into the small dining room, barely big enough for the three men seated around it.  Two were chatting while the other was reading a newspaper.

    “I hear this is the place for breakfast,” I announced from the dining room entrance.

    They barely flinched, any of them, and made some room for me.  I put my camera bag down and made myself at home, per request.  Leti suggested meat, eggs, rice, beans, and toast.  Sounded good to me.

    When this slight bit of breakfast business was done, the surreality was finally addressed.

    “How in the hell did you find us?” asked one of the men, dressed in clean, simple business attire.

    “This is what I do, man.  This is how it is.”

    We all laughed.  I told them about the van and driving here from the U.S. and the long road that lie ahead.  They were variously intrigued, excited, impressed, jealous of, and worried about me.  They offered some advice – some of it new…

    “Keep to yourself.  Don’t tell people what you’re doing – especially how far you’ve come and how far you’re going to go.”

    It was sad, sobering, important advice.  As imprudent as this whole thing was – it was imperative that I exercise as much prudence as I could.  The cost of my fuel alone indicated access to more resources than many along the road might ever know.  Not everyone was on such a spiritual sojourn.  There would be some just trying to survive.  By any means necessary.
I thanked them much, but also pointed out that were I to be so closed off and overconcerned, I might never have had the pleasure of meeting them, of breaking tortillas together, and hearing these very words.  I spoke of the need for balance between  vigilance and openness, between prudence and adventure.  They agreed, but invited me to place the former before the latter.

    I was grateful for the last guy I asked on the street who had turned me on to Leti’s.  I was grateful for her, her home, and her food.  I was grateful for these three men – for their company, generosity of spirit, and concern for this wandering stranger’s welfare.