Mexico dressed from Mexico one morning in which I was landed in Guerrero Negro, A town lost on the map that I stumbled after a short route through Baja California Sur. His fields were dry and sandy like dead pots. There were millions of cactus and Syrians, A strange endemic plant, Spreading a flat terrain like the tombstones of a cemetery. The wind was the only thing that seemed able to move. That was the arid Mexico with which I dreamed in my childhood, A different place from the one I contemplated in Yucatan, The DF or Veracruz, The places that I know so far from my new house.
Maybe it's because I love deserts, or by returning to the sandy roads, or perhaps because of that impressive sunset that threatened to march while we contemplated cave paintings in the coat of a rock called the Cueva de la Almeja? I don't know why it was, But I know that I separated without saying anything from the group, I sat on a stone and recovered those somewhat distant sensations of my Africa by feeling the total loneliness of a place that is foreign to the man. It was an infinite lacking vital commitments that were not the total silence of nothing. I guess I get crazy with those places where everything invites you not to say anything.
The world still has corners where the hello and goodbye were not regulated
Then, already in the car, I spoke with our guides dedicated to natural conservation and told me that free camping is allowed, In the desert or beach, And that the gringos do, and that no one imports the absolute freedom of the camper and that the world still has corners where the hello and goodbye were not regulated. And me, that I only like camping in the lost places where there is no one around, I made my accounts on the maps and promised that one day I will make a trip from the DF to here, loading a store, To go back to sleep a night away from everything, even from me. I will cross sonora and I will go down from Tijuana all the Baja California when he feels nostalgia from the other life, that which is done with its back to human laws.
That night we had dinner in a hostel-restaurant, Mirrum, which was a lost paragraph of a nineteenth -century whales novel. Then I think there should be a tavern where the sailors came to drink tequila in coffee cups while betting in a game of cards who would fish the whales tomorrow with the anchor and who with a hook with a hook. Surely they would do it in a town called Guerrero Negro, Translation of an old American ship sunk in that lagoon called Black Warrior.
The candles dripped blood while the men hunted whales with their harpoons
That demonized wooden mask, in which the candles dripped blood while the men hunted whales with their harpoons, He went to the fucking hell in those waters when one of those cetaceans found a way to burst the bones. The locals, Unknown to the name of the winning whale then decided to put the name of the victim to the place, Black warrior, that, also, He had the courtesy of not disturbing with the procedures of the funeral.
Thus it must have been, or so I invented it, My conscience told me as I listened to more stories from the place in that malary where the Vomiting of the Sea has collected for decades. In their showcases there are some bottles that still keep their messages, pieces of anchors, of masks and souls. The waters spit everything and they kept it by making the bar at the moment a museum of wet lost objects.
The malalar is the bar where I want to get drunk with mezcal every night
Modernity gave the business of that lost place the rogue air of places where you never know which half of the things are lies and the other half are uncertain.. It does, Malarrimo is the bar where I want to get drunk with mezcal every night with patrons who tell me that they sleep with the ghost of Moby Dyck.
Then, next morning, We woke up in a road motel that was nothing other than a long black line that joins the south and north. On the ride with the cars in the town I understood that no one would bother to give rope the clocks. The salt stuck to the facades avoiding later paint hands. It was a lost site, I thought about that naive glance. It was the place I want to return to.
His heads and queues came out and entered between the waves
And suddenly we saw each other in boats and furrowing the waters of the Liebre Eye Laguna. The place is surrounded by desert dunes. Nothing, except a salt factory. Nothing. And there, In the middle of those waters, dozens of gray whales appeared before us. They left everywhere. We turned the heads after a noise, A blow or a moving of the waters. His heads and queues came out and entered between the waves.
We looked stunned by excess and the captain promised us that we would patiently touch the cetaceans. Mexico has turned what was once a place where whales came from Alaska to reproduce and were hunted by hundreds, In a sanctuary where animals up to 18 meters in length live in freedom. They have been born there until 1.198 specimens in a year and its population has reached 2.305 Member.
What happened to us happened and when the mothers and young got used to our presence they approached the boats and let themselves caress. Your skin seems covered with a certain soft jelly. Rock produces a strange effect, As if so much life were possible to cup in the palm of one hand. And did not, As that fascinating desert that is Baja California does not fit in the eyes, Another of those places where man is still anecdotal. A privilege in this today.
