Santa Rosalia

When we got to Santa Rosalia, Siji was still carrying a papaya that she'd purchased in Tecate with her. Though its supple yellow flesh was bruised, it had not bled any juice - in fact, cradled in its nylon shopping bag, we'd come to regard it as a hardy infant. Every day, she'd swear that the papaya's hours on this earth were numbered - yet the days continued to slip away and the large golden fruit remained untouched. I continued to enjoy fresh-squeezed juices, licuados, and fruits in every town, while Siji passed them up - after all, she had her papaya. Again, in this funny little old mining town, she swore the tropical delicacy wasn't long for this world - she'd finish it off in the city plaza before we skipped town. Suuure.

Santa Rosalia was a funny place - and the counterpoint to San Ignacio in many ways. While San Ignacio was sleepy and sprawling, Santa Rosalia was densely packed and bustling. San Ignacio was notable for its cleanliness, while Santa Rosalia's litter-strewn streets made it indistinguishable from many mainland Mexican towns. San Ignacio's sole _lavanderia_ (laundromat) was non-operational, but Santa Rosalia had several to choose from. The only local "industry" San Ignacians boasted was selling the fruit of the date palm. Santa Rosalia's cityscape, however, was dominated by a gigantic copper smelter and its surrounding buildings, erected by a long-gone French company in another age. Though the mine was no longer operational, the sense of industry prevailed. It seemed like merely looking busy was a full-time occupation for many of the locals: people skirted the town in their fuming cars with no particular place to go, held raffles in the plaza for inexpensive appliances (like Black and Decker clothing irons), and pedaled their elotes carts so rapidly that those of us who actually wanted to buy some of the spicy corn kernels barely had the chance. Heartened by the balmy temperatures, I tried to buy _raspados_ (cups of flavored ice) from a kiosk advertising them, but the vendor wouldn't have any of it: it was "too cold", he reasoned. Standing there in my sleeveless t-shirt, I was decidedly mystified, but hey - when in Rome, right?

Santa Rosalia's pace could largely be attributed, undoubtedly, to its ferry connection with Guaymas, in mainland Mexico's state of Sonora. While most Baja towns were lacking in the fresh produce department, SR's farmer's market was teeming with fruits and vegetables that were...well, almost up to par. The busy marina was rumored to be a fine place to hitch a ride on a rich European's yacht - and its waterfront malecon was, too, a fine place for a hungry kitten to set up shop. (I certainly fell for her wiles, running into the mini super to fetch an 11-peso can of tuna.) A path wound up the hillside, taking us to another residential area. We wondered about the cemetary high above the hill. It seemed that one family's driveway would halve the time of our approach, so we asked the young children playing in it for permission. The rank odor of stale death filled the air; we soon realized that the carcasses of both land and sea animals filled the yard: fitting, considering our destination. Perhaps it was best not to ask too many questions. Arriving at the cemetary, filled with plastic flowers and strewn trash, it was hard not to think about our cultural obsession with permanence. Natural flowers would decay, or at least require upkeep - whereas synthetic ones would stay bright and upright for years. I seemed to be in the minority, but I'd much sooner have withered begonias on my final resting place. Descending back into town, where our time was decidedly limited, we sketched out a plan. If the hotel proprietor wouldn't mind babysitting our backpacks in his office a bit longer, I'd explore the mining ruins and Siji would get to work on that papaya. Setting off, she seemed pleased: "It's delicious!" The novelty wore off quickly, however, and by the time I returned her tune had changed. "Did you finish it?", I wondered. "No, I didn't eat very much. It wasn't very good." Still, her effort meant that she finally had license to throw the thing away. It was time to move on to Mulege. I ducked into a hotel doorway and hastily changed into my "hitching clothes" in broad daylight, hoping no one spotted me in my underwear. (They didn't.) Scarcely five vehicles had passed us before one stopped, urging us to hop in the back of their pickup truck. We pulled our windbreakers out, crouched behind our backpacks, and enjoyed the scenery.