San Ignacio

Stepping off the bus in San Ignacio, we wondered if we'd made a mistake: its famed mission was nowhere in view, and the only things in sight were a few tired service buildings and a gigantic whale skeleton. We were encouraged by the sight of two other backpackers, figuring that if we'd made some terrible error then at least we'd have company. The four of us soon spied a sign for the historic town center, though, and veered off in that direction. I'd thought the young French couple an odd pairing, and soon I discovered why: they were siblings, not paramours. We hadn't ventured very far down the road before the arid landscape gave way to thousands of date palms, and then it appeared: a shimmering pond, bisected by the road - an actual oasis in the desert, like I'd only seen in cartoons. You could've easily convinced me that I was in ancient Baghdad rather than present-day Baja.

Scouring the sole street of San Ignacio's "business district" for something warm and vegan to eat, we were invited in for a house tour from Sofia, a Mexican-born Los Angeleno nurse who had recently purchased a vacation home there in her grandmother's hometown and was eager to show it off. She was looking for a "place to relax", she claimed, and she'd certainly picked an ideal location. San Ignacio's pace couldn't have been more languid - even the bees on the roof of the bathroom at Hotel Posada didn't seem to be in a hurry to vacate their hives. The town was so sleepy, in fact, that it begged the question: why all the military patrol trucks circling the town? Much more benign - appreciated, even - were the spirited political campaigners with their megaphones, drumming up support for the would-be leaders of the Mulege municipality.

Granted, there wasn't a ton to _do_ in San Ignacio once you'd had a look at the church (sure, it was purty), but we didn't mind: we were off the bus. Siji decided to celebrate with a cold Tecate, and used her Spanish to sweet-talk some cafe owners into making us beans cooked in vegetable oil. Feeling bold (if not expectant), we even dared to request some vegetables. While the frozen carrots and potatoes we got with our tacos might not have been a foodie's dream, the abuelita with the small booth by the plaza was every bit the locavore: she had date bread, date pie, and date empanadas on the offer, and the German tourists were certainly biting. As for us, we went for the ground scores - finding the perfect date has never been easy, and this was no exception!

San Ignacio was a pretty charming spot, though I couldn't put my finger on it: perhaps it was the fact that after seeing litter carelessly scattered throughout most of the towns along Highway 1, San Ignacians seemed to have a sense of stewardship for their humble little town. Had I known that it would be the most genuine small town I'd come upon in Baja, we might've stayed a day or two longer - but I was glad for the fact that the lion's share of Baja travelers seemed to skip it, and Sofia undoubtedly was as well. Heading out of town after a night's rest, we decided that our stop wouldn't be complete without a paddle around the lake: for around four bucks, we were loaned a dirty old pedal-boat with erratic pedals, non-functioning steering...and two oars. Glamorous, no, but it afforded us a second-to-none view of the spectacularly animated avian life of San Ignacio: graceful winged things (were they herons, or egrets? I'm no Audubon, I'll admit...) swooping, hopping, and gliding as though they _owned_ that lake...and indeed, they did.

I didn't imagine it would be hard to hitch a ride out of town - good riddance, prohibitive bus fares: it's sunny out! - but I didn't know just how easy it would be to special order a lift. After several young man in sports cars had passed, a trusty four-wheel drive vehicle drove past. "It'd be nice to get a ride with a family," I mused. No sooner had I said it than they'd pulled over to the shoulder a hundred feet ahead of us to offer us passage. They didn't have any room, mind you, but they weren't going to let that stop themselves from being hospitable: four of us shared the back seat, our knees and elbows jutting awkwardly into each other's personal space, while the nine-year-old young lady now forced to share the spacious hatchback with two lumpy rucksacks asked if it would be a very long ride. Not terribly so, but an hour and a half for 30-odd miles meant some sinuous roads were in store. Monica, a hip grandma in her early fifties, and her son Juan Carlos (who, she pointed out, was "muy guapo") were happy to show off the Volcanes de Tres Virgenes: they cut a striking figure in the landscape, as did the black volcanic rock they left in their wake. When they dropped us off on the outskirts of Santa Rosalia, per our request - they were headed all the way to Ciudad Constitucion, many hours south, in the new truck they'd just purchased in Ensenada - they gifted us with an abalone crucifix not unlike the ones our juice-stand pal had displayed. That neither of us consider ourselves Christian didn't seem especially relevant: it comforted them to think of us traveling with Jesus watching over us, and we'd allow them that harmless superstition. After their generosity, it was the least we could do.