No problem… we’ve got this.
As we drove, we kept thinking the gas station was just around the next bend, all while watching the needle slip slowly below a quarter tank. Thanks to my excellent driving, and keeping it under 50 mph (80 kph), we made it to what felt like the only gas station within a light year of Camp Beluga.
Even better, we had cell reception.
Janice, with a sparkle in her eye, asked, “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
Confident that my effervescent positivity could handle anything, I chose the bad news.
“We missed our campsite 20 miles ago.”
“And the good news?”
“We’re 15 minutes closer to San Ignacio!”
After heroically avoiding head-on collisions with semitrucks and athletically dodging potholes, without triggering the passenger-side alarm, I bravely suggested we take a break and then continue on to San Ignacio. The gas station, after all, was the major tourist attraction in the middle of the desert.
I filled up the tank and found myself in a playful tug-of-war with the attendant over the squeegee. He clearly wanted to wash the windows (and earn his tip), but I was determined to do it myself. Suddenly, a woman, who I assumed was his boss, came out and scolded him for letting the gringo out of the carro and then losing a match of keep-away with the magical squeegee.
He looked sheepish as he finished pumping the gas.
Feeling a bit sorry for him—and with a yard of pesos in my wallet, I tipped him 20 pesos for his trouble (don’t tell Janice).
Since I had skillfully left my Costco card in a Mexican restaurant in Red Bluff, I handed him Janice’s card. We use it, of course, so she can do cartwheels at the Costco customer service counter when we get our annual rebate.
He wasn’t quite sure how to process the transaction and asked his boss for help. She instructed him to have me place the card in a curved metal tray beneath a thick glass window. I did, and she handed me a receipt, about a foot long, to sign, presumably to accommodate all the digits required for our several-thousand-peso fill-up.
Transaction complete.
Next, I wandered over to what I thought was a taquería to buy tortillas so we could make our own burritos and save money, especially after spending billions of extra pesos funding global misadventures and golden monuments.
Unfortunately, no tortillas.
So naturally, I bought four burritos.
In what I can only describe as perfect Spanish, I ordered:
“Cuatro burritos con pollo… por favor.”
As she cooked, a man in a highway vest launched into a rapid-fire Spanish conversation with her, animated, intense, and far beyond my comprehension. She listened calmly, as if this was just another Tuesday at the grill, while Juan seemed deeply invested in the philosophical complexities of refried beans.
Meanwhile, I smiled and nodded at what felt like appropriate moments, all while quietly wondering how many thousands of pesos these burritos were going to cost, and whether we might need to mortgage the motorhome.
Eventually, Juan wandered off.
The mujer simpática (kind woman) finished my order.
Total cost: 200 pesos (about $11.50 USD).
The deal of the century.
I thanked her profusely, in Spanish and and returned to the motorhome triumphant. The burritos were fantastic… though I forgot to add queso.
Back on the road, we spent another couple of hours on what I had previously described as the “highway to hell.”
Fortunately, the government (muchas gracias, Juan) had done significant repair work. Between that and my near-perfect driving, it turned into a relatively smooth journey, no oxygen masks dropped down from the ceiling.
About an hour past Guerrero Negro, we stopped in a small town where Janice wisely suggested we exchange some dollars, just in case her Costco Visa didn’t work later.
Inside a bank tucked into the back of what looked like a Best Buy-style store, a kind woman greeted me. I explained I wanted to exchange $500 USD. She informed me of the daily limit was $300 and directed me to remove my hat and present my passport at the window.
The young woman behind the glass spoke no English, but through a combination of Spanish, gestures, and sheer determination, I successfully communicated my request.
At one point, she asked me "De que trabajas?" I told her, “I’m retired,” in English, then quickly corrected myself with the help of my translation app:
“Estoy jubilado.”
She smiled.
After carefully inspecting my bills (one of which was stamped “track me.com”) that I had to repace, she handed me a glorious stack of pesos. I tucked them safely into my now-bulging wallet and thanked both women warmly.
We arrived in San Ignacio around 5:30, about five hours after leaving Camp Beluga.
The campground was even more beautiful than we remembered: hundreds of date palms, flowers, and plants everywhere. Our favorite site, backed up against a lava field mountain, was waiting for us.
We set up camp and I went to pay. Andrés, the owner’s son, was cleaning near the restrooms. He recognized me immediately and warmly welcomed me back.
I spoke in Spanish. He replied in English.
It was good to see my friend again.
He directed me to his father near the gate, where I paid for three nights and told him, in Spanish, how wonderful it was to return to beautiful Paraiso Misional.
Closing Reflection
San Ignacio is more than a destination, it is a feeling. An immersion into a slower rhythm of life, where kindness, simplicity, and quiet resilience shape each day. Here, among the date palms and desert light, we are reminded that abundance is not measured in possessions, but in connection, to place, to people, and to the shared humanity that transcends borders.
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