We were playing 'Strunz & Farrah' - a Costa Rican and Iranian duet, and 'Tito Puente' on the radio. We were flying across a barren wasteland, a flat sand and sole saguaro kind of desert - right out of 'Speedy Gonzales' or 'Bugs Bunny in Mexico'. When we arrived in Puerto Penasco, a dusty fishing village against the Sea of Cortez, we passed a sign that was fluttering in the wind which said, "Alcoholicos Aninimos" and another that said, "Paraiso Desierto" - it was a trailer park. So we went straight for the 'Toro Bravo', an outside bar which hung over the blue ocean; dolphins breeching a hundred yards out.

The margaritas were the color of Ajo lichen, and now I understood the lure of a - real - margarita. A few more and we started the walk through the bazaar - fish and oysters and cheap trinkets handmade for American white trash. When we saw a lobster-burned, pot-bellied American dancing to 'La Bamba' with two marraccas in her hands, I said, "You know, we're the kind of Americans that Mexicans like."
"Yeah because we can make fun of Americans."
"Yup."
"And we can play a rippin' mambo."
"Yup. And we're dirty like dogs.the vendors know better than to solicit us."

Hans said in a Mexican accent, "Hey Meester, you wanna look at some of my junk?" We sobered up in the warm ocean - our shower - and left Puerto Penasco with a trail of dust in our wake.

An hour later, after a street sign that said, "No Molestar La Fauna," we were standing in the open-windowed cabin that was the entirety of the ranger station at the 'Reserva de la Biosfera de El Pinacate y Gran Desierto de Altar', talking to the aging ranger in his broken English about what lay west, opening up ratty maps and 'The snake, he no bite. He save...how do you say...hees poison...for hunt."