ROADSIDE STORIES
The chill of the desert morning gripped us as we drove down the lonely Baja Transpeninsular Highway. Even the emaciated road vacas (cows) so prevailant in the Baja frontier looked even thinner in the cold. My roadweary buddy and I had been driving most of the night. We were bleary-eyed from the lack of sleep and concentration it takes to drive this very special road. Not to mention, we were alternately squinting into a rising sun that was quickly going to start toasting the desert, making it harder to see as we alternately seemed to be in shadows or blinded by light in that early dawn.
Shivering from lack of a heater and somewhere east of here and west of over there and a zillion miles from anywhere, we pulled over to a lonely loncheria (lunch house) so typical of the Baja roadway. Our tires crunched over the gravel dirt and halted in the dust of a building that was not much more than a turquoise cinder block and wooden structure not much bigger than a small mobile home. Chickens scurried and a Mexican hound came out happily to greet us. Scraps of stuff littered the yard. A meek attempt at a corral stood next to the house made of bits of this and that. A skinny horse couldn’t be bothered and a sign above the door advertised in crude letters “Comida Buena” (good food). Well…good enough for us.
A stretch of cramped legs and we poked our heads inside the shadowed doorway. I’m not sure if there was even a door. Eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness but a smiling dark-haired man came to greet us in what was essentially a converted living room. An old sofa seemed to brace a wall and 2 large family tables had been set mid-room.
“Bienvienios amigos! Bienvenidos”came the sound of welcome from our host as he came from the shadows of the rear kitchen. Short, weathered and mustached, he smilingly ushered us to the tables. There were no lights other than through musty glass frosted with dust and scratched by sand and through cracks and holes in the walls where sunshine slid in through lasers of light and dust filtered through everything. I could hear the wind whistle and hum. But it was warm and friendly and we were hungry.
I nudged my partner. The “wallpaper” was made of jigsaw puzzles that had been glued together then pasted to the walls obviously with much pride and care. In 10,000 pieces upon 10,000 pieces… In fact, the room was wall-to-wall jigsaw puzzles. There was England’s Big Ben and another of that famous castle in Germany that was the model for Disney’s castle. A tropical island graced the spot above the old tube TV that probably didn’t work served as a candle altar to the Virgin de Guadalupe. A tumbleweed rolled past the open doorway. Clint Eastwood’s Josey Wales or High Planes Drifter woulda loved this place. If the floor was dirt, it was the best swept dirt floor I had ever seen.
We were given menus, but that was pointless since we found out that they only had tortillas, huevos rancheros, potatoes, onions, beans and fruit. Well, then…that sounded fine and he clapped happily as mama in the back began banging pots and pans and soon the smell of roasting onions wafted out. Our host genially sat with us and poured steaming cups of coffee we held in hands grateful for the heat. Like an old stagecoach waystop, he wanted to know what we had seen and heard “up the road” and where were were going and where we were from. Mama produced heaping stacks of homemade flour tortillas and a slab of butter he said he made himself which melted instantly when slathered in the steaming tortilla.
Dabbing away dripping butter from fingers and mouth, we exchanged names and he shook our hands warmly and explained they didn’t get many visitors. The nearest town was 60 miles away and once a week he went to town to get groceries, gas and water. He made a living by selling goat cheese and of course, the restaurant.
At this point, mama brought out the food…fried eggs with green salsa. Grilled potatoes and onions and torilla chips covered in a delicious melted cheese that we wolfed down hungrily.
Asking how he had come to be so far away from things, he explained that he was actually part Italian and his father had come over from Italy at the turn of the century to fish the Baja waters in search of a better life. Standing up and taking something from the family albums, he showed two indredulous road travelers worn dog-eared-sepia-toned photos of his father and mother, looking every bit like so many other intrepid immigrants who left Europe so many decades ago. Like so many others in similar photos who landed on American shores, the eyes hold you and draw you into the photo. What were they thinking? Some came to New York. Our host’s father chose the harsh environs of the Mexican Baja.
Is this still your father? The photo showed a sandle clad young man holding a rifle with bandoleers hung over his shoulder. “My father rode with Pancho Villa, ” said our host proudly. He showed other photos and explained that his father had been conscripted into the army of the revolution and fought proudly with the great general. “He was an Italian in the Mexican revolutionary army!” He claimed to have fought both the French and the Americans under General Blackjack Pershing as well as the Mexican federal soldiers. “Me? I have a little restaurant in the desert.” He said with self-effacing modesty and a friendly shrug…as if existing in the middle of nowhere was no big deal.
We mopped up every bit of sauce with our tortillas and we stayed to chat for the better part of an hour as he told us more about his father. He told us about caves in the hills with unexplored pre-historic drawings; of areas where fossilized shark teeth were in abundance; and where a steam geyser turns the desert yellow. So much more, but for another time. The road called.
As we climbed back into our dusty truck, he thanked us for our visit and made us promise to visit him again and he would tell us stories of a “barco” from outer space which had landed many years ago. It left strange markings and burns on the rocks that still glowed colors at certain times of the night.
Breakfast cost us 30 pesos each…three bucks. But the stories he told kept us chatting for many miles down the road. We tried to find our friendly host again when we drove through 3 weeks later, but never found this little roadside place. They may all look alike, but each must hold a thousand stories.
That’s my story. If you ever want to reach me, my e-mail is riplipboy@aol.com.
Jonathan
That's My Story 
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