Burning XIII – Northern Exposure with Toast

With a white Stetson tipped forward on his dark wizened forehead the old Mexican sitting quietly next to me paints a picture of patience. He’s a silent teacher and I can learn a lot about how to wait for a bus. The San Ignacio depot is a dirty affair, a ramshackle store front office tucked into a concrete jumble of shops. The attendant selling tickets for just the one bus uses this opportunity to argue with her mother via cell phone while her husband sets up an evening taco stand. Such is the enterprising life of San Ignacio residents.

We wait. The old man, his beautiful graying hair and perfectly trimmed mustache, nods and chats briefly with passers by as the sun drops out of the sky. Three hours of this small town Mexican bus depot ‘entertainment’ and I’m jittery. The ‘waiting’ lesson only went in skin deep.

Aquila Lines arrives and I’m all set to roll north - a 10 hour trip to Ensenada. But 5 minutes out of town we slow to a stop at the military check point. Passengers are shuffled out of the bus and told to wait as gun totting soldiers sniff the bus and search bags. I tense knowing I don’t have a tourist permit and know if they ask for my passport I could never explain why I don’t have a permit. My bag gets pulled onto a bench and I am called over. A young soldier empties my neatly packed wares onto the dusty road. “Joo ‘ave any draaggs, any gaanns?” He watches my eyes as I answer and walks away satisfied leaving me to pack it away.

The night ride through the desert begins. I pull out my sleeping bag to drift off and am woken only by the stench of the mud flats in Guero Negro. My dreams are broken and scattered but compelling enough to keep me sleeping. So much so I almost sleep through the Ensenada bus station, but wake suddenly and stumble off the bus. I say "Ensenada?" to the driver who is having a smoke with a bus station attendant. He says “Ci Ensenada ci.”

It’s 5 am and I wander the empty streets a little dazed. This tourist town wakes up early and by luck I find a place that serves good coffee, toast and eggs. The sun rises exposing one of Ensanada’s attractions, a massive Mexican flag which flaps in the cool Pacific breeze wafting a wash of shade over the foreshore. Tijuana is only an hour north. I’ll spend the day here and arrange cross border transport for tomorrow. That will get me in San Diego in plenty of time to catch the train to Seattle. Tijuana … the border … my heart races with the thought.