Tijuana Gringo |
Michael Thomas |
9 December 2000. |
Somewhere in the desert wilderness of Sonora, sometime after midnight, the bus to Tijuana will break down. Isn't that an unwritten rule in Mexico? Every fourth bus must break down? I climb out into the bitter cold to piss against a barbwire fence. Then pull out my bedraggled pocket notebook. Scribble scribble, Mr. Gibbon.
We've stopped in front of a mechanic's shop in the middle of nowhere. The three men working on the wheel look like an electric white campfire in their small floodlamp pool of light. I walk back toward the fence and stare up at the brilliant stars.
Excruciatingly bright diamonds dripping in spite of the screaming full moon. I shudder to think what it would be without the moonlight to wash it, bleach it, dilute it. An overwhelming cacophony of countless suns. No. Better this, this Moon holding them back. The is more manageable for the city brain.
In the distance, silver mountains float on the landscape of night. By the angle of the North Star and Moon, I guess it's something around two a.m.
No. I don't carry a watch.
They're putting the wheel back on. When they're done, I shall get back onboard the bus. I'm lucky -- have two seats. Bus is only two-thirds full. My seat is on the left, where I can watch the moon sink toward dawn. Shhh... time to sleep.