In the morning I told Vance I was going to teach him how to shop third-world style. We loitered around the back streets, Vance asked the price of a knick-knack.

"One dollar."
I said, "Don't buy it, ask for fifty-cents."
Vance said, "fifty cents."
The man said, "One dollar." I said, "watch."

I went about the store. How much is this and how much is that? Twenty dollars, twenty-seven dollars. Fifteen dollars. "Okay, I'll take these three for thirty five. But only if you give us (the knick-knack) for free. "Yes," he said.

"And wrap it up really good. We're going to the Sierras."

We took to the rocky road to Laguna Hansen, reportedly named after an American who was burned to death in a cauldron of boiling water by a friend. We were stopped at a federale post north of town. "You speak Spanish?" "No Spanish." "Open your back window." I obliged. "He your brother?" "Vance? No he's traveling with me."

"Where you been?"

I pointed to the map. Here. There. Tapping my finger on the map in quite a few areas.
"Where are you going?"

I pointed to a distant place without a name. He took the map and stared at it for a while.

"Okay, thank you."

It always seemed to work. It worked for the Pinacate, and it worked at the borders. Federales liked that we had been to these places. Surely they had trained in similar conditions.