Outlaws in the Land of Misfit Toys

“ While we are looking for the antidote or the medicine to cure us, that is, the ‘new’, which can only be found by plunging deep into the Unknown, we have to go on exploring sex, books, and travel, although we know that they lead us to the abyss, which, as it happens, is the only place where the antidote can be found. ”

Roberto Bolano, The Savage Detectives

Years ago, while I was backpacking in Central America, I met a history teacher named Barry, from Toronto. He said something to me one day over a bottle of Rum in Northern Honduras that stuck.

“I have travelled all over the world. In places like this you meet three types of people; outlaws, missionaries, and misfits. Some people are a combination, but almost as a rule, they fall into one of those categories,” Barry said.

From that day forward, I can’t say Barry was wrong. On a recent trip down the 750 mile Baja Peninsula of Mexico, I found myself right in the middle Barry’s theory about humans in the far-off places.

After a long day of two-tracking with Bruce, a 67 year old ex-con living in a small motel in the northern section of Baja, I found myself starving, and the motel wasn’t serving food. I was the only guest. Besides Bruce, but he is a resident, not a customer. He lives in the old caretaker’s quarters, and keeps an eye on the place.

Since Bruce and I had established a sort of friendship I decided to go ask him for a snack. His room was filled with big box store treats, and I figured he wouldn’t mind parting with a few handfuls of pub mix.

I only had some tequila, and a few liters of water.

Earlier, I had walked into the kitchen area, and asked the owner’s son, Luis for some food, it created one of those awkward scenarios that only food can conjure up. He told me there was no one cooking, and I’d have to come up with something else.

I peeked my head into Bruce’s room, and roused him from a nap.

“Hey man, they aren’t serving food. The other restaurant around the way is closed. I just checked. Can I steal a few handfuls of something to kill this hunger,” I said.

Bruce stood up, shook himself awake, and looked around at his supplies.

“Man, ok. I don’t eat much at night. It keeps me up. I think I have some carne asada I bought a few days ago. I got a grill too. I’ll cook it up,” he said.

“Hanging out with you is the most I’ve eaten in a long time. You’re like a kid. You need food every few hours,” he added.

I don’t have vast experience with people who have been in jail, and lived a life less ordinary, but I have some. Asking an ex-con for food was definitely my last option. It never serves to come off as weak.

Over the last few days Bruce had told me some wild stories. He was originally from San Diego, and he embodied an anachronistic version of Southern California. One that only older generations can remember. A scene with less rules, cheaper real estate, and a touch of the Wild West. A place that made Bruce who he was, but a place he no longer felt at home, or even welcomed.

He had been a lifelong construction worker, much of it as a roofer, and a carpenter. Those are grueling jobs, and they usually leave people wrecked in their later years. Bruce was no exception.

We spent the majority of our time driving around, that’s when Bruce would open up, and tell me about his life.

“I did a year in Calexico. That’s in Mexico. It was pretty scary. The first few days were bad, but after an altercation with some Mexican dudes, I got to talking with some guys. Once I told them who my brother was, and who we worked for, I got all the protection I needed.”

Bruce didn’t elaborate much on his brothers, but they seem to have some pull in the tangled intersection where the drug trade, and construction collide.

“You need to keep your head down, and just let the guys who run the prison do their thing, and stay out of the way. I remember one night a new dude, a white guy, kept changing the television channel. He didn’t want to listen to Spanish. They cut him up pretty bad, and he had a rough time in there,” Bruce said.

“Another time, a new guy stole my little shaving kit they give you. I had left it by my bed, and when I got back it was gone. Some of the Mexicans beat that dude up, and he didn’t steal anything again.”

Going to jail in Mexico, or anywhere for that matter is high on my nightmare list. It occupies a spot right next to shark attack, and kidnapped by jihadis.

Bruce then proceeded to tell me myriad stories from his misspent youth. The stories largely started with “so we were down in Baja,” and then went from there.

He had gotten heavily into methamphetamines, which is common for hardcore laborers, and his drug use eventually got him into all sorts of mayhem.

“I had gone into Mexico to get payment for a job I did. This guy had been ducking me, he went down to his family’s place to hide out. When I got there he was gone so I took a bunch of his tools as payment. On the drive back I was pulled over by a federale. The dude had called the cops on me. Yeah, that’s how I ended up in jail in Mexico,” he added.

“I got in to guns too. At some point you start messing around enough, you have to have guns so people know not to fuck with you. We were selling meth, and marijuana, sometimes smuggling dope across the border. That is when I started getting into real trouble,” Bruce said.

He told me about an AK-47, and a sniper rifle that he had purchased. Those guns, and a drug charge eventually landed him in an American penitentiary.

I asked him if it was during the assault weapons ban that was passed in 1994 by the Clinton administration. I had recently read an article about it, so it was fresh in my mind.

“Yeah. Right around 2003. I got hit with a couple strikes because of that stupid law. Landed me in jail for a few years,” he said.

I met Bruce in the empty bar the first night I arrived. I was scribbling in my notebook, when I heard him.

“Hey Luis, I’ll take one more margarita. Make it a good one ok?” he said.

I looked to my right and thought “who is this dude?”

He was older, large framed, wide-eyed, and has that surfer-like drawl that many Californians have. I have heard people say that people in California don’t have an accent, but I disagree. I can pick it out quickly, and it didn’t take an anthropologist to identify someone from California sitting in a nearly empty motel in Baja.

“I only drink once a month or so. You caught me on that night. It’s good to have a few drinks now and then. It clears ya out. I piss like a motherfucker when I drink,” he said without any inquiry from me.

Bruce is a talker. The kind of guy who will keep going, shifting between stories, and eras that he has lived through. Most of the time I wouldn’t have to say anything. He would fill the space with his tales, and I would simply listen, and add a few words so he knew I was paying attention.

“My brother is a drinker. Motherfucker will get drunk, and stay drunk all day. When they are down here they just drink. My other brother too. Then they get stupid, and start fighting anyone who will have it,” he said.

Bruce, I discovered, did not like being pressed for details. A few times I would notice a discrepancy in his story, and ask him to clear something up for me. He would give me a side-eyed glance, and either carry on, shift gears, or start into something else. I learned to just let him go, and keep things on a pleasant scale.

In my travels I have partnered up with some dangerous characters, and I learned to let them drive the narrative, and call the plays for the most part. Being pushy towards violent men is a good way to get hurt.

I fell into a conversation with Luis. He was young, interesting, pale, yet very confident, and had the whisper of a mustache trying to come in above his mask. His posture was very erect. He was in College in Tijuana leading up to the Pandemic, but now lived full time at the motel his grandfather built.

We talked about Mexican politics, bouncing between English and Spanish. He wanted to practice his English, and if we were looking for a word, or way to grasp a concept we’d lapse into Spanish where we could clarify things, or vice-versa.

Bruce jumped into our conversation, and started talking about the reasons he doesn’t like being in The United States.

“I did go back twice recently to get the vaccines. It’s not bad driving from here. About a tank of gas. There are too many people, and San Diego isn’t cool anymore.”

Having been in San Diego for a few days recently, I can see how Bruce doesn’t fit in. He told us about getting in a scuffle with police on the beach. His brother, his buddy, and himself had gone down to a parking lot to hang out for the day, and do some fishing.

They had strung a tarp between two vehicles, and were sitting in the shade sipping some drinks. Apparently, that is against the law, and a local officer showed up to let them know.

“So this cop shows up. He is acting like a total jerk. We are just some old dudes trying to make some shade, and drink beers. So he keeps talking, and my brother gets mad. It got stupid. I wasn’t going to let some cop beat up on my brother,” Bruce said.

He stopped talking, and refocused on his margarita for a moment.

“I live in another truck if I am there. I park it out in the desert west of San Diego, and just keep to myself. As I get older I like to be by myself. People are dangerous,” he said.

His twitchy persona, his large calloused hands, and the dirt caked into his nails all told me he doesn’t spend much time in relationships. But if there was one thing Bruce liked to talk about; it was women. He had a deep quiver of stories about women he had slept with.

“I had a girl out there with me for a bit. She was 19. Which was cool, but at some point you can only shack up with a younger chick for so long,” he said.

Over the next few days I noticed a theme swirling in some of Bruce’s stories, there were quite a few younger women along for the ride. He also had the habit of describing young girls we would see out and about as “prime.” I certainly questioned how deep his sexual perversion ran, but it was a topic I didn’t press upon.

“Yeah. That girl, I knew her since she was 7 or 8. Friends’ with her family,” Bruce said.

He is also the type of guy who can say something racist, then tell you all about the women of color he has bedded.

So a few nights later, when I was confronted with asking Bruce for some food, it was one of the weirder moments of the trip.

While firing up the grill he had in the congested yard, next to a pile of canned dog food, and a few mismatched weights, he told me about his time in culinary school.

“Ya know, you get out of jail, and part of probation can be having to take classes. To learn a new skill. They offered me a spot in San Diego’s nice cooking school. The white chef coat type school,” he said.

I was listening and trying to imagine this burly, drug-running former roofer standing in a culinary arts kitchen learning about food safety and French Cuisine.

“I was a problem. I had a hard time listening to the teacher. He was rude, and I am not used to people talking to me that way. So I kept calling him boss, and using other shit I learned in jail to fuck with him.”

Bruce then pulled the thin, stringy flaps of carne asada from the flame, and flopped two pieces of white bread on the steel section jutting off the grill. He reached under the table, and pulled a piece of paper from a dusty box, shook it off, and laid it out flat. He slapped some mayonnaise, and a bit of ketchup on the bread, and smeared it in with a knife.

“You like hot sauce?” he said.

“Yeah man. I love hot sauce. Do it up.”

The paper served as a wrap to contain the pile of meat and stale bread. As I took my first bite Luis popped his head in, and said his grandma was making stuffed peppers, and asked Bruce if he wanted some. Then it dawned on him I was standing there with meat juice dripping onto the slab of crumbling cement.

He looked at me sheepishly, and spun on his heels.

“Ok. I will bring some food then,” Luis said.

He came back with a plate of food, and some tortilla chips. Bruce offered me some, and I took one bite of the pepper and told him I was ok, the sandwich would be fine. I remembered some beer I had put in his fridge earlier that day, and grabbed one to choke the carne down.

The air got tense, and it felt territorial.

“Thanks man. I appreciate it,” I said.

Bruce watched me walk away, and then after a few seconds called after me. He came into the shadows by the gate, and had a look of confusion on his face. Like someone who came out of a dream, looking for reality.

“What’s your name again?”

“Rusty,” I said.

He looked at me like he was trying to figure me out. His eyes bulged out taking in the information, and I could see him trying to make sense of things.

“Alright then. If you want to go to that fish taco place again. Let me know. Those things were good. You know where to find me. Goodnight.”

I walked across the crushed stone parking lot wondering what the fuck just happened. We had spent the last two full days together on and off, and I had heard him say my name.

Was he dehumanizing me so that whatever part of his brain that was used to crime would override the part that made good decisions?

Glancing over my shoulder I stepped towards a blue plastic barrel that served as a trash can, and dumped the meat into the rubbish. Something about it freaked me out. I rested my hand on the knife I carry in my pocket, and pushed open the door to my room, then locked the door behind me.

My imagination can run wild, but it’s also why I love to travel. It replaces the imaginary with the real. Truth is weirder than fiction on the road.

I suddenly felt exposed and naïve. My mind became a tumble of irrational scenarios. Was that meat the last idiot who thought this dude was ok? Is Bruce going to club me to death with that aluminum bat rolling around in the bed of his 1990 Toyota? Had I pushed it too far, gone beyond the abyss, and found myself in real Mexican hell?

Pushing my spiraling thoughts aside I grabbed the bottle of tequila I had purchased the day before, and took a long swig. I fumbled around looking for the one glass I had seen earlier.

The glass was next to the sink, and I stared at myself in the mirror for a second.

“Get a fucking grip. You’re ok,” I muttered to myself.

Is this what people think before they are bludgeoned, and buried in a shallow grave in rural Mexico? Or anywhere. Do people place too much trust in people, disbelieve the evil that lurks in man, and tell themselves it will be alright? My instincts were oscillating between flight, and what to do if I had to fight.

When writing a story about travel it becomes easy to try and come off as heroic, someone braving all odds to confront a scary scenario, but it is seldom like that. Most often, it came from some poor choices, lack of planning, and a bit of bad luck. Historically that is the recipe that has landed me in dumb spots.

I poured a few fingers of tequila in the glass, and slid open the sliding door that led onto the shared back patio next to the other empty rooms. I peeked left and right, making sure no one was out there, and hopped the fence. I walked out to the stone walkway that led into the small bay, and looked at the blinking light on top of the volcano across the water.

The strange dance over food in a motel at the end of the road was the perfect precursor to a murder story. What if Luis, Bruce, and the other assorted family members I heard screaming at the television at night are cannibals, or just good old fashioned murderers?

And what a treat, a lone traveler.

I had overheard the grandmother saying something to the effect of “well he should have found food.”

But not, “Let’s brain this clown.”

The stars were sparkling, and I stared at the jettisoned sailboat that sat alone in the low tide taking small swigs of tequila. The booze had a calming effect, and I sat a while with my feet dangling off the ancient wall. I dropped onto my back. I watched the night sky come into sharper focus, and my mind got clearer.

I drifted into a sort of sleep paralysis, and snapped out of it with a jump, knocking over the glass. I laughed, and reminded myself that I was ok. I don’t have a memory of getting back to the bed. It wasn’t the tequila, I think it was some sort of defense mechanism, my brain gave me a break so it would be ready for whatever was coming the next day.

The cooing of doves, and the crackle of a rooster woke me up. It was 6 a.m. and there wasn’t coffee until 7, so I took my computer to the wobbly table near the main building so I could get on the weak Wi-Fi, and choke some photos onto my hard drive.

Rocco, the hard-boiled Belgian Shepherd that sleeps outside Bruce’s room, came jogging up and hopped onto the table, nudging my computer away from me. He wanted love and attention. It made me feel better.

Here was a rough pup, with patches torn from his coat, the result of some recent scraps with other dogs, looking for some love. It made me feel like all my twisted ruminations were silly. Maybe, I wasn’t going to up with my head under Luis’s Grandmother’s mallet, her unsteady hand preparing to strike, and someone holding a bucket by my face to contain the gore.

While I was rubbing Rocco down, Bruce came ambling out of his chamber.

“Ok then,” he said.

“Rocco loves to get attention. He’s one of the toughest dogs I have ever seen. This guy had a piece missing the other day, and he came up to me looking to get a pet. I ended up having to do some first-aid on his wounds. But Rocco didn’t seem to mind. Mexicans don’t take care of dogs like we do,” he said.

We were both scratching Rocco, and I felt a bit more at ease, but also still wasn’t sure if I was standing next to the guy who would try to kill me.

“Watch out for the other one. Yeo. He is tied up by the front. That dog will tear your arm off. He is the most thick-headed dog I have come across. You beat him and he thinks you’re playing with him. No matter how hard you beat him,” Bruce said.

I chuckled to myself, Yeo is a pseudonym for cocaine, and it all seemed very apropos.

I excused myself and walked back to my room, and put my computer away. As was my routine, I did a few sets of push-ups, and some yoga to limber myself up for the day ahead. I glanced out the window, and saw one of the kids who works there come out of the building with a Styrofoam cup.

“Hey man, you want to try that place that was closed the other day. It’s really good. The old man will just keep piling up your plate. The coffee is better too,” Bruce said.

“Sure bro. Sounds good. I am still going to grab a cup to go. I run on a lot of caffeine,” I said.

“Alright. Ok. See ya in a minute, I’ll start the car,” he said.

We drove the one winding road past the half finished stone walls, and homes that dot the countryside in Baja. The sea fog that rolls in off the ocean was still thick, blotting out the sun, and it was cold enough to appreciate the hooded sweatshirt I had grabbed.

You enter a very risky game walking along these roads. The cars drive fast, and there is no shoulder. At this point I was yet to experience a toe-curling walk, that would come a few days later.

We drove past strawberry fields, and I could see tendrils of smoke trailing off the hillsides, and I said “fire.”

Bruce told me that it was one of the places where they burn all the trash.

“They just burn that shit. They don’t care down here in Old Mexico,” he said.

I was trying to paint a picture in my head of what that operation must be, and smell like. I imagined some version of Dante’s inferno, a place where soot-faced workers drive aged-bulldozers, things that would be long retired elsewhere, forcing trash into the blaze. Surrounding the acrid haze would be the lowest men, on foot, working a shovel, a few feet from the smoke, and an occasional flame.

Bruce was reminiscing about some Olympic swimmer he had met 20 years ago in San Diego, and her otherworldly appetite for sex, when we pulled up to a small roadside eatery.

The outside was covered in stickers from all the gear-heads that come through here during the Baja races. Over the last few days Bruce had been telling me about the time he and his brothers had spent down here working as part of a pit crew. The Baja 1000 is the famed race that covers nearly the entire length of the peninsula. There are also shorter versions ranging from 250 km to 500km. It’s one of the world’s craziest courses. Motorcycles, trucks, and other off-road vehicles tear across the desert-scape at break-neck speeds. The accidents are horrendous, and the parties are wild. Bruce spent a good piece of his later life in the high intensity pit-crew world.

“Your job is basically making sure shit doesn’t blow up. The gas is under so much pressure. You can fill a huge tank in seconds. If something goes wrong, a spark, something knocks the hose out, you’re in trouble. We sweat our asses off in all this fireproof gear. It’s tough, but man it’s fun to watch,” he mentioned.

We creaked the door open to the dirt floor restaurant. I was greeted by a husky man with a scowl, and a pair of women working over the stove right in front of us. It smelled terrific, and I asked Bruce what the game was.

“You just point out what you want. They load ya up. We sit down, and that lady will bring us coffee,” he said.

I said good morning, and asked what was in each pan. The round guy’s mean mug softened when I chatted with him in Spanish. He stirred a huge mix of potatoes and onions. After a couple minutes he decided it was good to go, and we all pointed to what combination of food we wanted. I got a scramble of eggs, ham, veggies, and some of the much-anticipated potatoes.

I said good morning, and other greetings to the few people seated at the plastic tables. We grabbed a spot, pushing the chair legs into the earth to achieve balance, and settled in. One of the women brought us steaming mugs of coffee, and condensed milk.

“The old man isn’t here. This dude must be his son. If the old man was here, he’d be trying to load ya up again,” Bruce said.

I was wiping up the remainder of my meal with a homemade tortilla, and couldn’t imagine another plate full.

They had a shelf with some small souvenirs, and I decided I’d buy one of the big Baja maps I had seen in various places.

“I’ll frame this thing when I get home. It’ll make for a good reminder to get out there and live,” I said.

“No doubt,” Bruce said.

I had brought my camera inside, and I asked if I could take a few photos after I bought the map. They seemed to think that was a good trade, and I snapped a few photos. We laughed a bit, in the bizarre way of someone having their photo taken, and they handed me a marker to add my name, or message to the wall. I drew a big heart, and scribbled; from Detroit, while Bruce found a spot to write his name.

When we walked outside Bruce took out his phone, and took a photo. He seemed almost childlike, or as much as a big, rough-hewn former convict can seem infantile.

“Hey, lets go check out Guerrero Negro. It’s this cool little town south of here. You wanna go?” he asked me.

“Sure. One more day of exploring. Let’s do it,” I said.

Bruce talked about working in a food pantry after his last stretch in jail again as the landscape shifted. We left the more open space, the looming volcanoes vanished behind us, and the land took on a more mountainous feel. It was in fact the foothills that started to lead up to the big mountain range that sits in the center of Baja.

I had already heard most of what he was saying so my mind started to drift back to the first morning we went out for a drive. Our goal was to go to the same restaurant we had just left, but it was closed randomly so we had to figure out where to eat.

“There’s a nicer hotel out on a pretty cool beach a few miles from here. Wanna check it out? They got a restaurant. The beach won’t have any people,” he said.

We pulled onto a side road, wound through fruit fields, and I could see the occasional stooped body of a farm worker through the foliage. This area had been the scene of a large scale farm worker protest recently. I noticed the occasional sign left over from the efforts taped near the grocery stores, and I wondered how it went, if it made any difference for the lives of those people picking strawberries.

It has been an ongoing struggle in the area. In 2015, hundreds of protesters demanding better wages clashed with police. When it was over 30 people injured, some gravely. When the landscape is full of neat rows, you can bet it is also covered in the blood of those who work it.

“They got the best produce down here. Seriously, just stop at one of those stands, and it’s the best fruit you’ll ever have,” Bruce said.

There is a micro-climate in Baja. One formed from the Pacific on one side, the Sea of Cortez on the other, and mountains running along the center. Bruce wasn’t lying. The fruit, herbs, and vegetables I had on this journey were top-notch, and their quality is a common refrain among the people who live in, and know Baja.

Bruce’s little truck pulled onto a dirt road, lined with huge mango trees. A lone lady, a gringa, was walking through the dust kicked up by a passing farm truck. We made eye contact briefly as we drifted by. We were likely thinking the same thing.

Who is this person? I am supposed to be the only weirdo down here alone.

The traveler can often lean towards narcissism. Especially when confronted by someone who doesn’t seem to belong in the place that you are drifting through. It’s the same reason a lone traveler can find elation in the fact that there are no other tourists around. It is a sort of self-driven delusion that you are the one discovering a new place. When in fact most places have been long explored, and you are simply the most recent person to think they have undone The Gordian Knot of travel. I am guilty of those thoughts.

We passed a few more farms, and turned by a hand painted sign that said “La Mision Hotel.” The land opened up a bit, and I could see the ribbon of beach. It would be the first time I saw the ocean without a bunch of tourist redoubts dotting the shoreline.

The hotel was big, relatively old, and seemed totally abandoned. I walked up the steps first, and was standing in a prototypical Mexican indoor plaza. I was watching the water bubble in the fountain when I noticed a front desk off to my right in the shadows. I startled a lady sitting behind the old wooden partition, and she quickly shifted her mask over her face.

“Good morning. Is there a restaurant here?” I asked.

“Good Morning. Yes, it is right around that corner” she said.

“Thanks. Have a beautiful day.”

I jogged back to find Bruce staring at some tiles on top of the a-porte-cochère, where the non-existent guests would unload their cars.

“See that tile there. The broken one, about to fall off?” he said.

“Yeah. Sure. The one that is going to split someone’s wig soon,” I offered.

“Yeah. See, back home, that falls on somebody, the whole place gets sued. It’s how it is down here. They don’t care about things the way we do back at home,” Bruce said.

I heard this sort of statement over and over again all throughout Baja. I would be sitting in a bar, sipping a beer, and fall into a conversation with an American, or at times a European traveler. They would eventually make reference to a lack of foresight in regards to construction, or find some other crumbling detail as an example of Mexican dereliction. That will always be the case where there are less resources to pour into certain projects, and in more out of the way places there is not a vast bureaucratic machine checking every joist and nail.

The cleanliness that I saw was more striking than some rebar sticking up where it wouldn’t be in a German or American city. Every morning the streets were cleaned, shop owners and employees tirelessly battled dust. The effort to keep plastic out of the ocean was encouraged, and advertised routinely. As someone who lives in a major American city, Detroit, I really appreciate the effort to keep things clean. Littering is a way of life in parts of my hometown.

There is also a snootiness to travel. When people peek around, and find the shortcomings in a place I think it is sort of projection, or some form of denialism; a way to avoid some truth about their home or themselves. Let’s be honest, there is a ton of things falling apart, neglected, and flagrantly wrong in the United States and Europe. Or any of the countries that tend to consider themselves “1st World.”

Anytime I do things in Detroit I am confronted with shocking poverty, and a withering infrastructure. That urban scene around me is repeated 1000 times over all across the country. That is why I try to avoid dwelling on cosmetic issues when I travel.

We pushed open the swinging doors to a large, airy, echoe-y dining room. There were two older women hand-patting homemade tortillas, and a grey haired, mustachioed waiter sitting behind a longer table sipping coffee. As their first customers, they sort of nodded towards a table, and we grabbed a seat at a large round table overlooking the beach.

I am not sure what led Bruce to the moment where he told me he was a Mormon. I did remember him mentioning that the food pantry he worked for a little while was run by Mormons.

What I didn’t know is to benefit from the food, someone needs to be a member of the church, or very willing to have a conversation about becoming one.

“You’re a Mormon, get outta here” I said.

“Yes, I am. A card carrying member. I believe in the one true God, Jesus Christ,” Bruce said.

He pulled his thin leather wallet out, retrieved his Mormon identification card, and handed it to me. I hadn’t seen one before, or really any sort of card that identified someone as a church member, so I gave it a once over.

“Bruce. I am not that guy. I don’t have interest in Mormonism, or any Christian religion to be honest. I am not against anyone who does, for the most part, but let’s not spoil this delicious breakfast by trying to convince me that there is a planet waiting for me when I die,” I said.

Bruce laughed at my sarcasm.

We discussed a bit of the framework around Mormonism, and their views versus other sects of Christianity. As with many conversations I have with people on religion I am left with a very similar feeling; why is your God better than the other God? Can’t people have faith, a relationship with God, without having to shell out 10% or more of their income to the church? It all smacks of a hustle to me.

Throughout history it seems the loudest quacks reverberate through time, and Joseph Smith did just that. His story of receiving the true word of God inscribed on gold tablets, ranks up there with the biggest yarns of all time.

“Alright then. We won’t talk about Jesus Christ. I am thankful though, it helped me get off the speed, and other things I was doing. Let’s go check out this beach. It’s huge and there is barely anyone out there,” Bruce said.

We walked a bit onto the vast, wide open beach. It seemed endless, and there was a lady in the chilly surf digging for clams. As far as my eyes could see the sand was absolutely littered with clam shells, and sand dollars. In all my life, I have never seen a bit of beach so covered in “souvenir” shells.

I saw a few cars in the misty distance, and a couple strolling not far from us. Other than that, it was one of the largest, emptiest shorelines I have been on.

Bruce walked up to me holding a gigantic clam shell. I wasn’t aware that nature made them so large.

“That’s a Pismo Clam,” Bruce said. It sounded like pizz-moe.

Those clams are able to grow to such a large size because they were not over-harvested by humans, and had less natural predators then their fellow clams up the coast in California. There weren’t many people around anyways, and a lot of these beaches are protected. Mexico has had to take some measures to protect its waters. Over the years foreign fishing outfits, primarily out of Asia had nearly collapsed the stocks of seafood along The Pacific coast, and even more so The Sea of Cortez.

“Back home these clams were almost gone. They have started coming back. They actually help fight off those algae blooms that pop up. Otters also eat them. If there a lot of otters they can wipe out a whole season of clams,” Bruce said, surprising me with his grasp of clam ecology.

I picked up, and dusted off a large Pismo shell, then found what I deemed to be a fine specimen of a sand dollar. I like to bring my wife home something natural when I travel.

Bruce had picked up a smaller clam, and was digging the tip of his pocket knife tip into the sealed edge. He finally popped it open and said, “lot of these things look like lady parts when you crack em open. See.”

“Yes it does dude. Let’s get out of here. If were going to make it down south a bit, and back to the motel by sunset we should make moves,” I said.

“Yeah. Ok. Alright let’s go,” Bruce said.

The sun was breaking up the mist, and the sun was lighting up the hillsides along the main highway. We drove for a half hour or so passing the occasional convoy of Mexican soldiers, or more ubiquitously, pick-up trucks with Mexican Marines rattling around in the back.

After a long, winding climb I noticed a sign that said “La Lobrera.” It was a word I recognized from a guidebook I’d thumbed through in a bookstore on the California side of the border.

It is a large sea cave in which the roof collapsed, revealing a secret beach for sea lions to gather. It sits next to a rugged shoreline, and can be reached by a twisted, lumpy road, that after a few years of no maintenance is a little tricky in spots. If a driver wasn’t comfortable driving off-road, or had a car with a low clearance, it would be a good road to get stuck on.

“You wanna go for it,” I asked.

“Sure thing. I think we will be ok,” Bruce said.

His small 1990 Toyota had proven itself a steady ride on the many dirt roads we had covered in the last couple days. I had nicknamed it “la poderosa” after the Motorcycle from Che Guevara, and Alberto Granado’s South American journey in the late 1950’s, that would become the book and movie “The Motorcycle Diaries.”

By no stretch were our outings on par with crossing the better part of a continent on a motorbike, but I thought it made for a funny handle while we bounced around.

The road eventually got a little tough, and a few spots a proper 4-wheel drive car would’ve been helpful, but Bruce, after a life of driving trucks off the beaten path was navigating the undulating track well.

“Every Mexican wants to buy this thing. Anytime I am out and about someone asks to buy it. It’s a good truck. I put in a new engine and other stuff. It runs good,” Bruce said.

We came over a rise on the road, and saw two motorcyclists with their Harley Davidson’s pulled off to the side of the road. It seemed an unlikely place for a pair of bikers to be. Once we got closer it turned out to be a man on a Harley, and a sun-glassed woman on a crotch-rocket.

Bruce cranked down the window, and we made sure they didn’t need any sort of aid.

“You guys ok? You need any help?” Bruce said.

“We are ok. The bikes just can’t go any further. You know how far it is?” She said.

“No fucking idea,” I responded.

“Our friend is up there a bit further,” she said.

“Right on. We will check on him,” I said.

We came across the third guy in their group manually moving his Harley into a low spot between another road that split off to the north. We had the same conversation, wished him well, and rambled down a dicey section where I thought we were going to get high-centered.

The view was large, and the ocean lashed the side of the rocky coast. I snapped a few pics of the sea lions lying idle on the crescent shaped beach below.

The lady came walking over the hill first, then the other two guys. We laughed when they got down there, and I took a few pictures of them with their phones. She introduced herself as Ronda, she had a huge smile, and a mischievous glow about her.

They were riding their bikes from Mexico City, up mainland Mexico, around and down The Baja Peninsula. From La Paz, the capitol of South Baja, they would board a ferry, and ride back to their city. It seemed fantastic, and I was impressed by their giddy-up.

Ronda called after us from the other side of the hole. When she got closer she asked if we could give them a ride.

“Sure thing. They will give the truck some more weight. It will be helpful to get back through,” Bruce said.

Ronda jumped in the bed of the truck. Her two companions stepped up on the bumper, and grabbed hold of the small roof rack. I jogged behind to snap a few pictures wanting to stretch my legs.

We dropped them by their bikes, and carried on back towards the highway.

A few minutes later they caught up. With Ronda riding point, a big smile on her face. They waved, and disappeared over a hill.

“What a savage. No helmet on a two-track, on that bike” I mentioned to Bruce.

“Yeah. That’s a badass broad.”

The three bikers waited for us at the road to make sure we made it out. They were putting on the requisite gear that goes with the raucous nature of highway 1. We pulled out first, and they followed along behind us towards the south.

We drove through steep cliffs, broken up by the occasional stretch of desert, and farmsteads. The road poured into the edge of a town, and we were again surrounded by civilization.

“Yo. This is Rosalia. The other town is about 4 hours from here,” I said, getting confused as to what is going on. My phone had tapped into a cellphone tower, and I was able to double check our location.

We drove past outdoor stalls with mannequins modeling women’s clothing, and a children’s baseball game playing out on a dirt field.

“There is an awesome carne place around here. I can’t remember. Hey, you want to drop in on an old buddy of mine? He lives around here.” Bruce said.

His demeanor had changed, his eyeballs shifty, and he had an air of awkwardness that hadn’t been there all day. I told him I wanted to get back, catch the sunset, and sort my gear out since I was taking off for somewhere else the next day.

“Oh yeah. Sure. You sure? Ok then, let’s go,” he said.

This was another point where I questioned my safety around Bruce. He had asked me how much a camera like mine cost. I said something about it’s condition, and it wasn’t worth what I paid for it. Following my answer we didn’t discuss the matter again.

I was glancing at the pepper spray in the rusting ashtray, and the large knife on the floor in a leather sheath by my feet. It all made me question myself. I began to wonder again if I’d misread things, and I was going to pay a big price.

It’s another tendency of travelers to over value themselves and their stuff. Most people don’t care about you and your shit, but things can happen.

I have had a machete pressed to my throat on the backside of the Corn Islands in Nicaragua, a switch blade pushed towards me in San Jose, Costa Rica, and few pickpocketing attempts in Europe, North Africa, and other spots in Central America. There were also a few instances of being extorted by large leather-jacketed men in Spain, Argentina and Hungary, but looking back almost all of those instances were self-induced.

We turned around in the gravel by a taco stand, and headed back through a mix of sunshine, and big puffy clouds. After an extended silence we came up on a military checkpoint. On our southbound piece we passed it, unchecked, a soldier with his back turned. Apparently they were more concerned with whatever was coming north. The same thing would happen a few times as I got farther down the peninsula.

As we pulled up I sat my camera on my lap, and put on a goofy tourist grin. I wondered what sort of things Bruce was running from, but then thought that was silly. The Mexican military would likely be unconcerned about an old man, and a guy who looks like he was wrapping up a surf session.

The soldier peered at us, no spark in his eyes, the only thing I could sense was coldness above his snow white mask. Due to the heat, and sun the soldiers in Mexico wear a mix of white and grey on their uniforms, looking more like winter soldiers than desert warriors.

“Where are you going,” he asked.

I responded quickly with a big smile, and said we were out exploring. We were staying just north of there, and we had just checked out La Lobrera.

“It’s really cool. Have you been?” I asked him.

His gruffness softened, and I saw a bit of smile lines form next to his brown eyes.

“Go ahead,” he said.

This was another instance I was over-thinking in my head. We had no guns, no drugs, just a camera, dusty floor mats, and a few tool boxes in the back. Everywhere I went in Mexico I saw a lot of personal protection items like pocket knives and mace. I doubt he took the time to look into the car once I told him what we’d been up to. I heard from a few people that they’d been held up, and further searched at checkpoints, but I never heard of a horror story regarding travelers and checkpoints in Baja.

It’s no secret that Mexico is a dangerous place, plagued by drug related violence, and The United State’s insatiable appetite for the drugs. Baja, however, was a much more tranquil part of the country. It didn’t see anywhere near the amount of gunfighting you could find on the mainland.

We both felt better, and an air of levity filled the cab. So I decided to ask Bruce a few questions.

“So you watch the place, make sure the kids don’t get into too much nonsense while Tony, his mother, and his wife are gone right?” I asked.

“Yeah. They just want me to make sure they don’t party too much, or anything else. I also feed the dogs, and I have been building some things for the rooms. I work with Emilio, the 85 year old dude, that rides his bike 5 miles back and forth each day,” he said.

“The grandma doesn’t stay behind?”

“No I think she is the reason they leave a lot. To take her back and forth from Tijuana,” he said.

I was curious how rowdy the motel bar could get. Luis made a point my first night to tell me it was quiet there, and most of the craziness around there happened at the bar next door. His comment seemed strange.

“The National Guard has shown up a few times, but here it is quiet” Luis had said.

Bruce then told me a story that gave me pause, but it’s not like I could do anything but ride along, and listen.

“About a year ago. This time of year I’d guess. When it’s quiet. There was some guy, a Mexican from around here. He was in the bar real drunk, starting problems. He actually pissed on the floor. I went over and grabbed Julio to help me deal with the dude,” he said.

Julio was the guy next door who went out each morning in his fishing skiff, and brought back things from the ocean that he sold cheaply from a cooler on sunny afternoons.

According to Bruce, Julio was also the local stud. He had been complaining recently that he had been with all the women in the area, and it was getting difficult to find a lover.

“Yeah. It was just him. Me and Julio figured we could beat his ass to death. Take his truck and his shit, and bury him somewhere out there. If you went a little ways into the desert you could get rid of someone pretty easy,” he said.

I laughed, pretending it was normal to have a conversation regarding murdering some lone drunk, and disposing of the corpse.

“Or we could take him out in the boat and throw him in the ocean,” he said.

I could see a bloated corpse washing onto the shore wherever the strong current took it, damaged from curious fish, with a generous dent in the skull.

“Glad it didn’t come to that,” I said.

“Life is cheaper down here. They don’t get as upset as Americans about death, well at least they accept it better,” he said.

I couldn’t speak on it much, but I have seen plenty of grieving, wailing mother’s and daughter’s on the news and in documentaries whose husband, son, teenager or whomever had been slaughtered by the cartels or by the other violent crimes that haunt Mexico. They never appear accepting.

There are countless efforts by families to find their missing loved ones all over Mexico, and recently that effort has had support from the government. Ceremonial or not, it’s a step in the right direction for human rights. It has been perceived as a win for activists, because for a very long time the government has avoided addressing the immense number of disappearances.

There is a horrid record of violence against women, and it was spurning a large feminist movement in the country. Each time I read the news I saw something referring to the high rate of disappeared women and girls. I had also been tracking a story about a serial killer they had caught in South Baja, dubbed “The Monster.”

He was responsible for an unknown number of violent murders, and he had numerous videos capturing despicable acts of torture, and homicide. When he was asked why he had killed so many, he said, “I hate women.”

Turning onto the brief stretch of black top that leads to the hotel we decided to stop at the seafood restaurant again. We did the same; three tacos each, and then me deciding to get a fourth.

This time around a younger girl came over to take our order, not the owner, I am guessing her father, who helped us the previous day.

She was pretty, bobbed dark brown hair, cloudy, caramel-colored eyes, with a glint of street-smartness that told me she was sharp beyond her years. She had a bull-like piercing in her nose, and a handful of tattoos on her exposed back, and arms. I guessed she was 15 or so, and her life outside the restaurant was dangerous.

“Man. That’s when you want to get these girls. When they’re young. Before kids,” Bruce said.

“Dude, she is probably a sophomore in high school, or whatever equivalent. If she is still in school. That is a little kid,” I said.

“Yeah. But these girls, you’d be surprised. They are horny and experienced,” he said.

“Well that is a kid,” I added.

“See those tattoos. That’s gang stuff,” Bruce said.

“Maybe.”

The tacos landed on the table, and we got to the business of eating. A few guys came into to get some shrimp cocktails, and I welcomed the noisy distraction from our conversation. I paid for our tacos, and handed the girl a tip, the same as I’d given her father the day before.

We came into the motel, and clouds were beginning to erase my hopes of a killer sunset. Bruce and I got to talking, and thought the sunset would be better up north. He hadn’t poked around on the roads back there, and we decided to go.

“We gotta take that road by the military base. That should take us there. It’s pretty gnarly over there, you’ll see,” Bruce said.

Off the main drag the road turned rugged, and we passed a more impoverished spread of land with homes partially rendered, and many no more than tin sheds. We rode passed ostrich farms, strawberry fields, and a depression in the land where someone had been mining for salt. We managed to not get stuck on the sandy sections, and I was jumping in and out of the truck to scout anything questionable.

The road t-boned, and the hillside dropped into the ocean. We hopped out. I shot a couple of photos, and we decided we would take “the long way back.” Which meant nothing to me, because at that point we were dead reckoning, and relying on the relative position of the sun to figure out where to go.

We pulled to stop on the washboard road, and looked out over the bay from the opposite side. You could see the landing where the motel sat, the camper someone was living in, or cooking speed in, the ribbon of highway 1, and the drifting fingers of garbage smoke coming off the hillside.

I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel,the rumble of an old engine. I turned around to see a pickup truck full of locals kicking up dust. I made eye contact with the group of men, I nodded, and they nodded back.

Over to my right Bruce had opened the rear window of his truck, and had pulled the aluminum baseball bat up to waist height, out of sight, but ready for whatever may happen.

The truck full of men got smaller, and turned into nothing but a cloud of sun-filtered haze.

“You never know man. They could be drunk. Lot of these guys around here are drunk all the time. They could try and rob us. But I would start cracking heads if it got to that,” Bruce said.

“I don’t think so, they seemed fine. Looked like they were piled in after a day of work, it’s just after sunset, probably smashing some beers to unwind” I said.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Bruce said.

The way people assess risk in travel, particularly in pairs has always interested me. The two people can interpret circumstances differently, and the outcomes of situations can vary. In my view I saw a group of men coming back from a day working, maybe in the gravel pits, or one of the farms that dot the shore. Or perhaps it was simply a group of guys driving around in a truck drinking some beers, as dudes the world over do in rural spots. Bruce saw something else; he saw the potential for a violent scenario. I am no stranger to violence, but my initial reaction is seldom the nuclear option.

The sun was dropping out of sight, and we were curious what lay at the end of the road. We passed by oyster farms, and small homes where fishermen stepped off a dock each morning to do their work. Mounds of discarded shells lined the road.

The road ended at a restaurant with a long wall made of oyster shells. I am always struck by the creative touch of humans, and how out of necessity or convenience they build things from the detritus they create.

I popped out of the truck inspecting the caged shells, and a man crept out from behind a gate. He was squat, quasi-neckless in the way of many Mexican men, and his head had the shine of a recent shave.

“Good evening. If you want to take photos it’s ok. Come in, you can see the dock. Take a photo inside,” he said.

“Cool. Ok,” I said.

“It’s ok my friend. I am the security guard. People come up, and I tell them it’s ok to take photos. No problem. I used to be a police officer. Now I watch this place until it opens this summer,” he said.

“Because of the pandemic?’’

“Yes. It will get better, and this place will open. It is amazing. Best oysters you will find. People come from far away. They camp near here. It becomes a big party,” he added.

Reputation is a wild phenomena. When the man, who’s name was Juan Carlos, mentioned he was a retired cop, my inner dialogue told me I was in danger. Is it simply because the news, or the books I have read told me Mexican police were dangerous, nefarious, or otherwise on-the-take?

I looked over my shoulder, Bruce had wandered the opposite direction and I decided to slink through the gate to have a look. The sun had cast an ethereal blue light over the dock, and few pangas rolled gently in calm water. I spun on the crushed shells that led from the cement apron, and noticed the security guard walking over to a dusty Geo Tracker, a relic from the 1990's.

The door opened with a strained whine, and he reached his hand inside like he was looking for something. My first thought was “sweet, a gun. It is robbery time.”

Instead, he pulled an aluminum thermos from the front seat, and smiled at me. His eyes had a sparkle of recognition. We didn’t need to modify the acknowledgement, and I smiled back.

“Come look at the front. It is nice too,” he said.

Bruce’s large head appeared on the other side of the shells, and we let him in through the gate. We exchanged small talk, and shook hands. I said “thank you,” as we neared the gate. I glanced back, and saw nothing but a smiley man with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

By the time we picked our way through the tangle of roads back to a strip of businesses it was dark. Bruce’s lights were dim, faded, in need of an upgrade, but it didn’t matter there was enough ambient light pouring from the storefronts, and the mixed-bag of vehicles whipping around the road.

“See what I told you about the night. People come out of nowhere. It’s wild,” Bruce said.

It was another taste of Mexico. All the cars lacked license plates, motorbikes piled with young people in seemingly impossible formations, some barefoot, hanging on the back wheels. A few apocalyptic ATV’s revved their engines, and played slalom through the cars when the lights turned green.

The expedition-ready American tourist convoys didn’t seem to travel at night.

I asked Bruce if we could stop. My stash of tequila was low, and I wanted a cold beer to knock the dust from my mouth.

“Yeah. Ok. There’s a grocery store called Rosita’s. It’s got everything. The checkout girls are usually hot too. Keep your eyes peeled outside, sometimes there’s women who will ask if you want to bang em’. They will be dressed a little nicer, more makeup,” Bruce said.

I thanked Bruce for the heads' up. We paid the guy outside to wipe the windows, and also keep an eye on the car while we’re inside. I grabbed what I needed quickly, and walked a few blocks down the street to have a look.

There was definitely a harder edge to this place.

I walked by a younger man, a White Sox hat tipped over his face, probably in his 20’s, with one burned out eye. It had that shallow, sunken in look that is associated with being mutilated. There are many examples of people being maimed to serve as a better-beggar across the globe. He struck me as no different, but he was older, his time spent begging seemed to be behind him.

The street had the electric vibe that starts when the lights come on, and the freaks come out. I saw a grubby child in rags, with one arm pulling on people’s clothes asking for money, and I was grateful he was distracted when I walked by.

I reached into my pocket, and poured the coins I’d been collecting for a few days into an elderly woman’s basket. Her eyes were sullen, she seemed sad, not just to be on the streets, but the melancholic look that follows profound loss. I emptied my change in front of her, and she looked up briefly, but her despair didn’t waver.

There were stalls selling the usual curios that can be found in Mexico. The trinkets that occupy the space on someone’s desk, or bookshelf, but also items that sustain life. I could see a dimly lit cantina, and I shuddered at the thought of entering. When I was younger the allure of strange saloons usually ended poorly, and I imagined so would this one.

Years back, in Guatemala, the choice to enter a half-opened door almost ended in gunshots. At one point a pistol with a rubber-banded grip was pushed in my lap, and I was told to defend the honor of my girlfriend at the time.

One of the drunkest men I have ever seen, was on his knees, proposing to her. He had another pistol stuffed into the waistband of his tight jeans.

He was repeating “I from. I from,” over and over. Which I took to mean “where are you from?”

Luckily we thought fast, and kept ordering shots of the local firewater which put the men in catatonic stupor, drool swinging from their chins. The sort of knockout that can only be delivered to someone who has been drinking for over 24 hours straight. Then the bartender, a man with his family behind a colorful curtain motioned for us to make a move, and we left the dangerous men swinging in their seats.

Walking swiftly, I covered the few blocks back to the parking lot, and found Bruce in front of the store with a few little kids swirling around his legs. He passed each one some pesos in coins. They laughed, and showed off their loot to the adults that accompanied them.

“I always give the kids a few coins. It makes them happy. They are very poor around here,” Bruce said.

Each time we turned onto the highway to or from the motel we would pass a vast junkyard, filled with picked-over cars, and vehicles stacked one on top of the other. It seemed like this was the resting place for any car stolen north of these crossroads.

“Most of the stolen cars from southern California end up down here,” Bruce said, as if reading my mind.

We heard Yeo howling at us as we turned into the parking lot, and Rocco came bounding up to welcome us back. We both scratched his rough fur, and I excused myself.

“I am taking off in the morning, or afternoon, whenever. I am not sure where, but I think if I go back to that bus station I can figure out where to go. You mind giving me a ride,” I said.

“Yeah. Ok. No problem. I get up early, so I’ll be around,” Bruce said.

I sat on the wall behind my room again, and looked up at the clear sky. I cut up some crumbly white cheese, and a slice of green apple I had bought at the grocery store, thankful I had remembered to get some food. I poured myself a glass of tequila, and decided to take a few photos of the night sky. The previous night’s anxiety had gone away, and I felt free and content.

The following morning I woke feeling rested, and excited for what’s next. Yet, part of me wanted to roll around with Bruce more, check out more of “Old Mexico” , but it was time to go.

I organized my camera kit, and was feeling sorted out. I pulled out the last two cold beers I had in a small cooler I had borrowed from Bruce. I placed the beers on top of about 10 dollars in pesos to serve as a gratuity for Luis, and his buddy who cleaned the rooms.

Right as I was walking out, I put my bag down, and retrieved the copy of National Geographic I had been carrying since the airport. I had finished it days before, and I rearranged the beers and pesos on top of it. I scribbled a little note, told Luis to study hard, and he could read this to practice his English. National Geographic served me well when I was learning Spanish in Spain, exactly 20 years ago.

I put my gear outside of Bruce’s Toyota, and hung out with Rocco until he came out of his bunker.

“Well. You’re ready to go. Let me do something quick and we can go,” Bruce said.

“Sure dude. I am just chilling with Rocco,” I said.

We hopped in the little red truck, and made our way to the strip of stores. It all looks the same until you are familiar, and neither Bruce nor I could pick out the small portal that led into the bus station. We stopped, and I asked a lady pulling her children where it was.

“I was way off,” I laughed.

“Yeah. I haven’t taken a bus so I don’t know,” Bruce said.

He waited for me to duck into the station, and see what time a bus south was leaving. I looked at the handwritten list of destinations, and decided I would bite off a bigger chunk of the journey with a longer bus.

“Which one of these stops is cool,” I asked the lady sitting in a swivel chair eating her lunch.

“You would like Mulege. It’s just on the other side. The Sea of Cortez side. It is very nice there. But it is not until 3 pm,” she said.

I had no guidebook, and no cellphone reception. Bruce’s advice was that “it gets cooler the farther ya go.”

What I wanted to do was explore the mountain range that separated the two coasts, but after talking with a few people, it seemed like a tough place to get around without a car. Nor was it a good place to hitchhike.

“Ok. Mulege. I will be right back, let me tell my ride,” I said.

Bruce was leaned up against his car and I told him the bus wasn’t until 3. Which was in 4 hours. We looked at each other, both realizing our time together had come to an end.

“No doubt. Thanks for all the driving. Rub Rocco down, and tell Luis to keep studying, and practicing English,” I said.

“Will do. Safe travels. This will be where you meet the people who are part of the next chapter of your trip,” Bruce said.

“Hey, if you do any camping make sure you bring dog treats, and dog food. That way they can be your alarm, and keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks dude. This is all camera gear and clothes. I won’t be doing any camping, unless someone else has the stuff,” I said.

I snatched up my bags,and walked towards the door looking back after a few steps. I saw Bruce take a quick picture of me as I neared the door. Was he alerting his murderous band of pals? Sending them a picture so they knew who to rob, and toss into the sea?

No. The big-boned former wild man was taking a photo as a keepsake. Something to remind him of a good time. We had just exchanged phone numbers. He took the photo in the same semi-surreptitious manner that I had taken his photo a few times. What’s fair is fair, and we all need something to remind us that our mind’s aren’t making it all up.

Bruce was a glimpse into a tougher existence, before the internet, and the gig economy changed our world. I could see him in his “prime” , a big mane of hair dancing on powerful shoulders. His long powerful limbs, tanned, and not yet spotted.

He had told me his nickname was Horse. A name that had followed him from childhood, through high school, and into his life of construction, and crime.

It all made sense. He had been, and to some extent still is, strong as a horse. Now, in a Mexico that resembled the 1800’s with cars; Old Mexico, he was out to pasture in a motel, a place that was old, and sturdy just like him.

Bruce fit into all 3 categories.

He was every bit of an Outlaw. I could imagine himself, and his brothers on the run in a 1970’s muscle car, or on horseback, after having shot the sheriff in a seedy border town.

His religion, his conversion to Mormonism, his salvation from the scourge of crystal meth, and crime; made him every bit the missionary.

I count myself as a misfit, just like Bruce. We find solace in the others that don’t fit into mainstream culture. I have always been on the fringe, but not totally outside the wire. The land of misfit toys is were I am happiest. It isn’t new, I just needed a reminder.

And the son-of-a-bitch was right. Every time we got out of his car, someone approached us, and asked to buy his truck.

* Mercenaries, missionaries, and misfits is not original to Barry. It is a concept that is typically applied to the sorts of people found in chaotic regions across the globe. Specifically related to aid-work in developing countries.