Bahia is our last real stop. It has been sort of a destination. In the old days, maybe 30 years ago, I took a year’s leave of absence from work and my ex and I packed the kids up, and Bahia was our first main stop. I believe we did that haul as a young family twice. In those days, it was 40 miles of rough dirt road and no gas stations, and no lodging of any kind unless you called rough camping in a sort of palapa structure way down the beach “lodging”, though there were two small markets which made us feel like we had reached civilization. It was remote, and frighteningly hot.
Punta la Gringa, one of our traditional favorite places from which to camp—-still free. This bay is a brew of fish this time of year and dozens, if not hundreds of whale sharks slurping up plankton in the Fall.
Then later I went with Aria and Sierran, and their friends, not to mention my girlfriend Norma Jean. Norma and I did at least two trips down here. Over the years I have continued to climb down to Bahia from the spine of the Baja as it has oddly expanded, almost like a real town. It is still a remote little way station of sorts, at the end of the road, but the road is paved all the way to the village! And there are two Pemex’s—-not just one! And now there has to be at least a half dozen motels and several really fine restaurants though “Covid” seems to have put a cramp on business. It’s a great place to disappear (if you were ever wanted by the law—-I used to fantasize where I would go to fall off the map if need be).
I have had some of my best close encounters with nature while in Bahia: a head on collision with a torpedo of a shark I was sure had me on the menu while I was out snorkeling alone, a very close encounter with Orcas while getting ready to drop in the water from a narrow panga to scuba dive, and four years ago, my second encounter with whale sharks while diving here. This is a world class destination that only the natives know about for whale sharks in the Fall. But it is always something, if not in the sea, then on land, in the shadowed ravines where I have bumbled on the largest scorpion I have ever seen, a rosy boa, a bale (!) of marijuana, elephant trees, a region of land strangely unique. I could go on about all the little adventures that have produced themselves here thus always compelling me to return for more, but it is all old history.
Looking across that narrow strip of land between Mauro’s on the wall of ragged martian landscape to the west, and the Sea of Cortez and long Guardian Angel Island shadowed in the distance to the east.
North of Guerrero Negro, a dirt road meanders up the coast and is always diverting into remote areas only the occasional ranchero knows about or to a lesser degree, surfers. In the summer that entire tract of wilderness is known to a sparse class of good surfers near and wide. They collect for the big waves with long curls. The wind comes in just right. Of course the water is a little chillier than across the baja in the Sea of Cortez where taking a dip in the summer and Fall hardly reduces the discomfort of a breezeless, stifling heat. But in places like Marron, the air temperature ranges from breezy and a little brisk to just under comfortable, and the water temperature is about the same. Ideally a three mil wet suit is a good thing. But the waves can be superlative, 8 to 10 feet high with curls that run perfectly for 200 yards.
This time of year, with a good four wheel drive which we have, you can bang your way down to some beaches scarcely known to all but die hard, baja travelers—-along this section, mostly surfers. It is a different type that indulges in the eastern side of the baja. There, you might find divers, certainly fisherman, people who like to lull in the landscape, and explore the miles and miles of open coast. No especial agenda except the remoteness attracts the traveler. And no telling from whence these expats have originated.
Both sides, north and south, is a great place to find a certain type of renegade, free spirits for sure. Covid doesn’t seem to be as much of a theme as life outside this part of the world. A reminder that life is good and not so stifling.
An very amicable Ranchero came along and let us know there was a $5 fee to camp out here. It all sounded reasonable. He was a very friendly sort. We let him know we needed firewood and he let us know he could go back to his place to fetch some wood or he could find a dead Coastal Agave and he let us know it would work fine. We went with the latter and he brought us an agave cactus. It worked great.
In the meantime, he engaged in a conversation with a young man from the San Diego region, a surfer and free spirit who had hoped to hook up with friends, but as many people do in these parts, he got separated by the endless miles of beaches and never hooked up with his friends. This young man ended up joining us in our camp and brought a little firewood to the cause. Between his firewood and our Mezcal Agave, we had a great fire under a dark sky of eternal stars. Turns out, Tony Chen, was the son of a former Red Chinese intellect who had a most interesting take on world politics. His dad had come to the U.S. to complete his Ph.D, but decided to remain in the U.S. to which Tony was born into. Tony was a free spirit, intelligent, out to enjoy life. Very knowledgeable young man for only 27 years old. We sat around a roaring fire, listening to the waves, sharing philosophies, drinking beer.
Tony, sharing his thoughts with Sierran and I.
It was all pretty typical of the whole Baja experience full of intriguing people: interesting, unique, rather fearless people doing their thing. At a certain point, Tony went back to his camp and Sierran and I called it a night. The next day we hiked out to an abandoned lighthouse and climbed around. He told me that was where older brother, Jason, and he had snorkeled and speared many fish two years ago. The water was magically clear.
The rest of the day, we explored the coast via dirt road, intermittently rolling into lone beaches, always searching for the perfect place, which of course, does not exist, but it was fun. Finally we returned to paved road and made our way to Mauro’s on the Cortez side of the Baja. There can’t be any place quite like Bahia for geography and plant life, but that will have to wait for another day.
Mulege is a wonderful metaphorical island of the old Baja of years past. It is a place time seemed to go around except for a subtle, and positive, polishing of the veneer. Businesses were small, slow, peaceful, but always quaint. There are lots of nice eateries and places to grab a cold beer. We drove from south of Loreto, through the coastal mountains, down along the sea, north to Rosarito, another fabulously quaint and peaceful place to the casual traveler. There we enjoyed a late lunch, exchanged our thoughts, and played on the internet, taking advantage of the Wifi.
From Rosarito we drove to Concepcion Bay, and reveled in the holy sight of a rather vast blue to aqua marine bay surrounded by the mostly empty mountains separating the bay from the Sea of Cortez. It seems like that whole stretch of region, from Loreto north, has been lost to real change. It’s nice knowing this land scarcely supports the needs of big resorts. We drove by mostly unchanged coves and inlets we camped at and frolicked in in the past when I was married, and the kids were small, and then later when they were young adults, and even more recently. We debated whether to find a cove and camp there again, or to drive on to Mulege and indulge ourselves in the comfort of a hotel. The latter won out. A good hot shower carries weight.
Mulege seemed like a place free spirits of the 60’s and 70’s, along with a younger generation of kindred souls, have come to settle and share their calm, temperament, and insights: artists, a few musicians, adventurers—anyone comfortable with letting the world whir on without them. Mexicanos and ex-pats were both birds of a similar feather, and both shared a like mindedness—they knew what they had.
We had taken an expensive room ($75?) in a fort of a pleasant place coming into town, down a dirt road, in a quiet community with lots of palm trees, bougainvilleas, succulents, along with cobbled walkways and a quiet, deep-blue swimming pool. It was a nice place with a quaint dining area, and a piano whose pianist new all the chords to yank on my heart strings. I wish I had taken some pictures of the town, but true to my form, the wilderness catches my attention, all the more.
A nice place for a fire, enjoying the solitude while Sierran climbed farther into the surrounding hinterlands open to the unusual
First of all, merry Christmas to all. Needless to say, we have been away from all Wifi, camping mostly. I hope everyone is having a good holiday season. It’s been a helluva year. And I am sure everyone has an interesting story. Remember, be positive.
…When we were in Cosme, conditions were as right as they were going to get for taking hallucinogenic mushrooms. Normally speaking, mushrooms can be rather mind expanding. It’s been a long time since I have taken any mushrooms though when I was younger—-late twenties, perhaps early thirties—-I had my first experience while backpacking way back up in the Sierras alone. Some long haired, bearded fellow and I met one evening miles and miles, days really, from anyone. I shared with him some tequila I had brought. In fact, he drank most of the bottle. For some reason, I didn’t really mind. He was so appreciative of the evening we had spent together around a fire that he gifted me with a very generous helping of hallucinogenic mushrooms he dug out of his pack. It couldn’t have been a week later that I decided I was going to have a mushroom experience, so I went hiking along the crest of some Sierra foothills with my little bag of mushrooms. I sat atop a hill and let the world unfold. Instead of watching the sun set, I watched the earth rotate. Something big was taking place.
It was such an extraordinary experience…a sort of magical door unlocked to a previously unimaginable perspective. I had been doing a lot of thinking and wondering about whether or not God existed…I mean, what God could possibly be?). There was a part of me that desperately needed more in life than what I was experiencing so I was very receptive. In a nutshell, on this particular day, during the experience, I had an epiphany that blew me out of the water. For the first time at least in my adult life, I had a vision powerful enough to make me realize, consciousness radiated from the brain like a sphere, or a radio wave going out in all directions, as though I was in a bubble of awareness and the more powerful a person’s consciousness, the deeper they could “see”, or that is, understand (the nature of existence). Consciousness probably existed in everything. But certainly biological life produces consciousness. It is the invisible light of the Universe.
In the 60’s “mind blowing” was a common expression associated with psychedelic experiences. To someone straight, what does that mean? Nothing, really…it just means something big, something dramatic. It’s a metaphor. But there are no words for the actual “mind blowing” experience. My mushroom trip was the first time I actually realized, or i.e. to say, understood to the extent that a human can, what consciousness is! I knew then and there, consciousness is the backdrop to everything—-and powerful. My conscious thoughts were not something I produced as much as they were a form of energy the human brain profoundly filtered. It was comparable to the realization that the earth is not the center of the solar system, but instead it is a planet revolving around the Sun. (And how much more are we capable of discovering…I mean we are on an exponential rise rocketing up the curve of knowledge at the moment).
My ordinary state of consciousness is what makes me human. Humans generate or filter consciousness a specific way—it is what makes us human. If we were substantially more conscious than what we are, we would not be the same species. That is our evolutionary goal, to expand in consciousness. In a sense, this is the “war” we are in, between those who know, and those who just exist and accept the “norm”. But something big is happening. Still subtle, but powerful.
Sierran came wandering into camp around sunset. He was subdued, quiet, introspective. I prodded him a little to see how it went. Neither of us had taken a very substantial dose of mushrooms—-I am more cautious these days. But Sierran had gone down a path a little different from what he normally does. Sierran was sad. Sadness is a unique state. It is painful, but it has good value. There was nobody in his life that he had not thought about on this little journey while trekking the ravines. Losing his grandfather, caring for his Uncle who has brain cancer, and his 99 year old grandmother. Thinking about the people he once had connection to, friends, relatives. And just recently he and his girlfriend of several years parted ways. And there were many more people who have had an influence on him. His brothers Doron and Jason, his sister Aria, his Mom. The list was inexhaustible. And underlying this, of course is always the Covid, not to mention the political war that has been formulating here in the U.S.
It wasn’t long that I too, was on this same emotional path. Together we discussed it, we shared our thoughts and did what we could to come to some kind of grips with it all. It was almost like we came together to create a strategy to deal with the struggle that enclosed us. It’s not that we can do anything to change the broader challenges, but we could better deal with ourselves; we did have control over our own actions and thoughts. There was a strength coming to us and we needed to be mindful. Yes, death, illness, and negative energy is all around. It is the norm to get sucked down a tunnel. But it is possible to honor the things that deserve honor, honorably acknowledge those who have died, be as positive as is possible with the ill, and don’t embrace the negative. Nothing worthy of our attention is easy. We will stumble over and over, but it is always up to us to get up and continue our climb, being as strong as is possible. We must forgive to the best of our ability and remember, that we too, are mortal. It is natural to judge the behavior of others, but “Judge not, lest ye be judged” immediately comes to mind.
Somehow, almost miraculously, we both felt at peace and realized how blessed we were to know all the people that we have known, and continue to meet. What an amazing journey life has been. The fire felt nice as we listened to the waves rolling in, felt the warmth of the evening air, and took pleasure in the little things of the moment that we did have.
As Sierran and I wound our way through the back country of the mountains, admiring innumerable phenomenal mountains sculpted to prevent humans without climbing gear to ever reach the peaks, we came across some free flowing water. It seemed almost unnatural to see water coming down a ravine almost in an abundance that seemed impossible in such an arid and desolate landscape. But it was there and looked as though it had been there for years and years. There had to be springs percolating up from somewhere.
We both looked at each other like, “what do think? Should we stop?”
We had to stop because it looked so unnatural and so colorful. We picked our way through a shallow ravine, across a gully, to the water’s edge. The mountains were dense with some kind of palo verde tree and a heavenly type of mesquite tree with shiny white bark—like that of aspens—-and luscious green leaves. How could they stay so green in such an endless dry environment?
But there was one tree that stood apart from everything else. It grew not terribly far from the water’s edge. It looked like it started on a boulder of maybe basalt. There appeared to be no soil. It grew down this rock and only managed to find more basalt into which the roots commenced to penetrate. From the top of this rock, heavy exposed roots had reached down like spider legs, and found “earth”. It had to have taken years for the roots to reach down from the rocks out of which it had begun to grow. And the leaves were broad and lush, like those of a persimmon tree. In fact I wondered if it somehow could have been a persimmon seed someone sitting at the shore of this stream had tossed in that rooting spot. But it had tiny fruit on the tree, fruit the size of small yellow figs. I split one fruit that was hollow, but was densely lined with a myriad tiny seeds. It had no taste. I’ve never seen this kind of tree before. And it was the only one anywhere to be seen. It really was a beautiful tree.
So we thought, that was that. Interesting. Who knows what that tree could be let alone the natural history.
Two days later, when camped down on the beach, Sierran and I took a hike. After a mile or more I called it a hike. To get up the ravine, a torrent of a waterfall when conditions were right, I had to become a bit of an acrobat, and I was not in the mood to do it. Plus I was tired. Sierran carried on like a good soldier and in the process came across some big horned sheep scaling some seemingly unscalable walls. But the amazing part of the venture, in my opinion, was he saw another one of those trees! It was growing on a cliff, down a 15 foot wall of rock and appeared to not need any soil. So that is two samples of that same tree that seems to be native to this kind of country! Who would have guessed. I was sure that one tree had to be left as a seed by someone sitting along the rivulet eating lunch, but now that theory can be cast to the wind. The tree is native to these ravines and canyons, but it is rare comparatively speaking.
Many moons later, I researched the mystery tree and rightly concluded it was a variety of wild fig.
Really, most of the Baja is a wonder. It will be one of the last places within a reasonable latitude to be settled in North America. Fresh water, that is the key. And there are so many roads that go and go. In my mind, energy is another valuable asset. You’ve got to have energy to constantly be self-sufficiently living, often day to day. Once you found a place that you can call home for weeks or even longer would be an extraordinarily delightful adventure: diving perhaps, certainly fishing, kayaking, hiking, writing, thinking, and meditating if you have the discipline, but to a large extent living independent of a system enthusiastic to suck in as many participants as who are willing. We may not know it or acknowledge it, but behind most of our conforming views is fear. Trust me, I speak for myself as much as the general public. We have to be so mindful of how the system works, inundating us with fearful thoughts. I don’t know if it is intentional, unconscious, or both, but nearly everyone I know becomes susceptible to the Fear (without knowing it) and we, as a species, create this wave of direction. And right now, the wave is big and not healthy. The larger the herd we are in, the safer we think we are. And we may not know it, but it is important in our minds to get people to conform. It is the nature of our species.
True, there are things we should acknowledge as having the potential for danger, we can never escape it all. The most we can do is take care of our own mental state, to face fear to the extent that we can. As soon as we start imposing on what other people believe or at least hold to be true, we become a serious part of the problem. A true leader leads by example, not with force and manipulative fear.
(I think I lost everything on this blog from this point on—-you know, continuing to write when I have been bumped off line. I don’t feel like trying to re-write things, so will call it a blog (-:)
(yesterday) Now we sit in Santa Rosalita and peck out our thoughts, enjoying lunch and a Vanilla latte, basking on the edge of the sun, admiring the blue sea, and preparing to meander further north. I know Guerrero Negro is the next town we will hit, hopefully by sunset. Sierran wants to make a lonely beach north of Guerrero, but I think we’ll be lucky to make Guerrero. For those of you who do not know it, there is a bay adjacent to Guerrero Negro, the reproductive sea grounds of Grey Whales where they will begin to congregate in Feb. It is their home base and it is known world wide for its Grey whales.
My philosophy has always been be as free as you can, but know you are connected and as long as the system can be counted on, (and your health holds up) that will work. But as we are finding out, the system is fragile, and health is finite.
These excursions (into the unknown) are important. They shake me from my lassitude; from my belief that what I hold to be true is not any bigger than myself. I really know nothing relative to the big picture. It is only a general picture so proceed with caution. Self is a good place to begin.
Coming down a windy, dirt road into the stretch of beach known as Cosme.
Traveling on the Baja produces new challenges in terms of blogging or trying to communicate with friends or family. The towns are far and few between. And there are many roads that lead to the sea or the ocean, but that is where they end and frequently it is a dirt road with no habitation except for maybe a palapa or a fisherman’s camp. It’s really a wild country in many ways. I always think to myself that it is maybe like Western Australia or Namibia.
Making ourselves at home.
Camping is a challenge. Make sure you have enough fuel, a way to change a flat, and water. Lots of water, though this time of year is merciful in terms of heat, relative to summer and fall. Late December and the wind is almost as bad as it is going to get.
Our camp site, a hundred or more yards from a long term ex-pat, way down below
Strangely, lots of animals in these wild and very ragged mountains. yesterday Sierran came across some big horn sheep. There’s wild horses and deer. I imagine there are pumas, but who knows. And the sea life is prolific. There are four other camps down in this area—-look like ex pats—-living self-sufficiently in the bush. Everybody has a kayak and fishing gear and are always bringing in big fish.
I really wanted to send photos just to get something going, but I can see the wifi is too weak. Story of the Baja. Maybe if we take a room in Guerro Negro I will have better luck…no, wait…a picture went, yeah! I’ll try one more…Yes! Maybe Sierran emailing Martijn is good luck.
Sierran in the distance, Gabriel in the yellow boat
The next morning, Gabriel was there at the agreed upon time, ready to go. We had Sierran’s kiyak, built for the ocean and speed. We drove up to the hotel, Rio Vista, where we picked the other two “kiyaks”. We strapped all three kiyaks down on the roof of the vehicle transporting us, and drove up the river about an hour’s float from the town.
Again, beautiful river, great float. Lots of birds. I wish I was a birder. And it seemed half the tall trees had something worthy of focused attention. I had expected to see more fisherman out for lovina, but Gabriel said it was Sunday, plus the best fishing was in the reservoir up river. In the old days, this river would have compelled me to snorkel it for all clearness and the aquatic growth. Gabriel made it sound like snakes and turtles were a common sight in the spring and summer and of course, that would have me in the water taking all kinds of chances with snakes I did not know, though it is hard to imagine water moccasins in this part of Mexico.
It is all interesting and peaceful. We listen, we watch, and we learn. Life is interesting, to say the least. And for every high, there is a subsequent low. It’s all a part of life, the journey.
I think Sierran’s illness has run its course. Sorry, I did not get sick. It would have made for a great blog if I had eluded death by inches, ended up in ICU, hoping, wanting to blog it all because that is my nature, penning the experience of death if I had had the strength, but I am still alive and well. Near death will have to wait to be recorded, as curious as I am about crossing into that realm.
And just for the record, we have now crossed the Gulf, and we did go through a rather hellish experience. Does Hell exist? Maybe. But maybe it is all just relative.
The next morning, at the rustic dining area, along the garden’s edge of La Choza Hotel, while I was pecking peacefully away at a blog, sipping my cafe con leche, relishing the sunshine and temperate air, someone politely addressed me. I looked up and saw a young man in his late thirties who asked if I was the owner of the kayak strapped down on the red Toyota pickup. We began to chat. He explained that he was a guide and wanted to know if I was planning to kiyak the Rio Fuerte. I hadn’t thought about it, I told him. But somebody had asked us about the kiyak the evening before and he praised with earnestness the River Fuerte, with all its wildlife, particularly waterfowl and the famed lovina, black bass, for which the river was known near and far, passing through town just a few blocks north of us. I was curious about the river so the fact that somebody was offering an opportunity to explore it, caught my attention. I went back to the room and let Sierran know and he came and joined us.
After listening to Gabriel, we decided to take a walk down to the river and size up the possibilities. Just before we got to the river there was a couple of young people selling discount tickets to the local horse races, a half mile walk further out of town. The races were set to begin in about 30 minutes and both Sierran and I were thinking it sounded interesting. We discussed the idea of watching the horse races as we proceeded to the river.
At the river, flocks of water fowl were everywhere. The river, surrounded by woodlands, was broader and more forceful than I expected, however there were many little diversions of inlets that meandered into pockets filled with bullrushes, shallows, and wading waterfowl. It looked like a birdwatchers paradise, with many large flocks of different species of ducks lazing in the sun as they cautiously watched us. We saw osprey, egrets, herons, coots, and innumerable exotic bird types outside my range of familiarity. I was surprised they were so abundant.
Yes, it was a go. However, we wanted to do it the next day since we both decided the horse races sounded like a great opportunity to partake in a favorite local pastime. So we cast an invitation to Gabriel to join us at the races—-he could be our host.
We meandered down the road, beating off the invisible swarms of little blood sucking biting midges—I was wearing shorts so was particularly vulnerable—-until we hit the dusty fork and headed a quarter mile to the race track. I had been expecting a Belmontesque track with 8 lanes. I guess we visualize things with which we are familiar. Instead, it was a straightaway maybe 200 yards long, built for two horses to compete. They blasted out of the gates (actually built for three horses) and the professional-looking jockeys sky rocketed down the track like meteorites. I was impressed.
We sat in the top row of covered bleachers, drinking beer, eating dried shrimp, watching races every 30 minutes. The Canciones de vaqueros blared in the forefront of the excitement. Big-butted, Mejicanas dressed in skin tight blue jeans, painted in red lipstick and black mascara and under white cowboy hats took the bets. Blue jeaned cowboys in white cowboy hats everywhere lined the railing eager for the races. Fancy horses and talented cowboys pranced to and fro as they warmed the race horses up. And the race horses were nervous, high strung, ready to explode. The jockeys were tense and nervous. It really was a sight to behold, a world far away from anything I knew, yet compelling, kind of like a scene in a movie. This was a cowboy culture.
When the races commenced, it was all a flash and it was over. It was a little like watching cock fights in the Philippines—-it all happened like lightening, or cap guns going off, bang, bang, shouts, and these horses came by at 60 miles per hour.
We stayed until Sierran started feeling sick again and then we headed back. Interesting experience. As I recall, Gabriel and I then went down to El Texano and I indulged myself in the lovina, the famed black bass of El Fuerte. Wow! What a meal. Caught the same day, almost as fresh as it gets, thick and tender fillets, smothered in garlic. I wish I had snapped a shot of the meal.
Looks calm enough, but put a saddle and a jockey on him, and you have a nervous rocket with four legs.
We decided we had two days to explore the surrounding region. “Let’s start with La Fuerte,” we postulated. We needed to find a hotel. Instead of following the little highway smack dab through what we believed was the main road through the heart of La Fuerte, we took a perpendicular road that looked like a part of the town that might be more built up. The buildings turned to stone, the streets were cobbled, and we came to a plaza of great, quaint old buildings with all the traditional old businesses along with pubs and restaurantes. We found an old hotel that we had to look into. It was two stories, built like a fort, brick and stone, surrounded by gardens, cobbled walkways, parrot cages, a quiet pool, and profound peace and quiet. It cost a little more, $59 dollars, but it really was a gem.
“We’ll take it!”
The always-cheerful Jesus, owner of El Texano, Gabriel, polite and efficient guide, and the Covid stricken Sierran. (Jesus removed his mask for the photo)
So, from there we explored the town. We found a place called El Texano. Because they had no draft beer, we decided to explore all about the area around the Plaza. Lots of quaint old places, but still nothing that appealed to us quite like El Texano, so we wandered back and made ourselves comfortable on the street. The owner was a young guy by the name of Jesus who gave us a good history of the town, which was founded in 1563 by the first Spanish Conquistador to explore the Sierra Madres. In 1610 it became a fort, El Fuerte, to stave off two fierce Indian tribes, the Zuaque and the Tehjueco, fully opposed to the presence of the Spanish. Eventually it became the main population center for trekking north through Sonora, Arizona, and into California. In my mind, I am thinking these coastal towns have been here as long as any population center in northern Mexico and they were the supply stations headed north. Evidently, not so. La Fuerte was the point from which all settlers and explorers going north departed. Sierran and I have both been very impressed by this historical town, and the tranquility and friendliness of the people. Everyone seems polite, curious, and enthusiastic to share information with us.
After leaving El Texano, we hit some back streets to indulge in the local street fare—-that would be food. It was as good as it gets in my mind, but that’s Mexico. I told myself not to over indulge, but after drinking three Bohemia Obscura beers, I was a little too enthusiastic to partake… Music, smoke, compelling scents, the appealing sight of sizzling meats, chilis, onions, radishes, greens. Ah, to be alive in Old Mejico! Wonderful! Just like the old days.
That night I suffered a serious bout of indigestion, but thank god we had a very nice hotel with a great bathroom (moments like this). I could have thought Sierran’s Covid 19 finally caught up with me, but for some reason, it felt like a penalty I was paying for having a little too good a time eating on the backstreets. (Just for the record, Sierran suffers roving aches and pains, no sense of smell or taste, but maintains a good spirit. Nada mal para me. I am okay, and continue to dodge the bullet of mal petite).
rubberboa 