(Note: the day of our last (and first real) blog entry, I came down with the flu. It took several days to recover, so we’re behind on blog entries. I’m also learning this blogging app and software – I ended up needing to re-type this entry, as I thought it had posted but apparently lost it somewhere in “the cloud”. So, please bear with us, as we get into a writing/posting routine!)

Crossing the border in late January, we were fully loaded: the total length of our F350 truck, cab over truck camper, and tow behind trailer is an impressive (some would say outrageous) 48 feet. Had we been aware that some travelers towing RV/trailers have been denied entry at the tiny border crossing of Los Algodones, being directed by Mexican border officials to back up all the way to the US and seek entry elsewhere, we would never have attempted it.

But ignorance is bliss, and we gained entry without incident (other than my needing to purchase another Mexican tourist visa, because we crossed a day earlier than planned, and the one that I had paid for and printed out online bore the next days date). As we entered the narrow, 2-lane street leading from the border crossing into the town center, gringos and Mexicans alike stared in wild, wide-eyed wonder at our rig. One gringo, sitting at a restaurant for desayunos, shot us a wide grin, giving us a thumbs up as he shouted over the rumble of our diesel engine: “Road Trip!”. We grinned back, nodding. As we lumbered on down the road, looking for the dentist’s office, we nervously checked our width, length and height against the available clearance. Finally, at the west end of town, a set of branches from a tree extending over the street from an adjacent plaza forced us to turn off the main street. We continued on for a few blocks, before finding a place to park.

After appointments with the dentist ($180 for two sets of X-rays and cleanings), and a tasty lunch of tacos de camerones y pescado, we loaded up and prepared to head out of town. Our height-induced detour had taken us away from the main route out of town, and we weren’t exactly sure of our next steps. As we sat in the cab of our truck, finally pulling out the paper RandMcNally map as our electronic versions weren’t working, a local man noticed our uncertainty, and approached. “De donde quiere va?” he asked. “A la San Felipe,” we replied. We knew from experience that most Mexicans aren’t familiar with Punta Bufeo, our actual destination, where we share a house with friends on a remote stretch of beach some 90 miles south of San Felipe. Within minutes, speaking only Spanish and augmented by plenty of hand gestures, he had us on our way.

South of Los Algondones, there are two routes to MX-2. Our local guide recommended one, our map, another. After a short moment of indecision, we decided to go with local knowledge, making a U-turn in a well-used turnout overlooking the Colorado River canal. Southbound, paralleling the east bank of the canal, our rig took up every inch of the narrow, potholed, scarcely paved road leading us out of Algonodes toward home. Further down the road, windows down and enjoying the sunshine despite the road dust, as we approached a stop sign in the midst of a tiny village, we heard the telltale signs of a flat tire. Inspecting our side mirrors, we found the afflicted tire on our trailer, passenger side.

JD searched in vain for a spot to pull over, out of the main lane of traffic. Finding none, he pulled over what inches he could on the compacted, earthen road, still occupying 3/4 of our lane. To our left, across the street, was a small shop of some sort, boarded up and seemingly abandoned. To our right sat a rusty, dilapidated but maintained mobile home, well-weathered by decades of wind and dust, surrounded by chest-high fence made of a mixture of wood and barbed wire. Within the fence was a barren, wind- and broom-swept yard, containing two playful, yet scrawny dogs and several piles of scrap metal and other seemingly miscellaneous objects. Other than a man coming up the opposite side of the road on a rusty, dilapidated bicycle, there wasn’t another human in sight.

We got out of the truck, walking around to inspect the damage. The tire was flat for sure, with no obvious culprit. As we began hauling tools out of our trailer, JD noticed a bicycle leaning against the fence in front of the trailer, immediately beside the passenger door to our truck. In our (my) haste to get out and check out our tire, we had left truck windows down, and wallet/purse easily within reach of a passer-by. Our German Shepherd Pelli, who travels behind the passenger seat in the extended cab of our truck, is anything but a guard dog. JD asked me if the bicycle was there before; I said no, and began to walk up to investigate while JD crawled under the trailer to begin securing the jack. As I approached the bike, a smiling, wiry-thin older man exited the fenced yard, approaching me with a mixture of mild concern and genuine interest. I smiled back, gesturing and pointing to JD, and our obvious flat tire. He nodded with understanding, walking with me back to the site of our problem, where he stood with me at JD’s feet, which were the only part of him visible from beneath the trailer, where he lay on his back, fighting with our jack, which was not cooperating.

JD explained, from beneath the trailer, that our hydraulic floor jack had no lift – it would only raise the trailer a few inches, not nearly enough to get the flat tire off of the ground. Being under the trailer, it was impossible for our Good Samaritan to read JD’s lips, and it was evident he did not speak much English. Speaking some Spanish, and relishing any opportunity to practice (even a flat tire), I worked to translate for him as JD slid out from under the trailer, covered in the dust of the earthen road. The man nodded with understanding, raising his finger and saying “momento”, as he hastily retuned to his house. Within moments, he was back, carrying an old, completely rust-covered, screw jack. JD chuckled with appreciation, as the man apologized somewhat for the condition of his offering, while suggesting (again with ample hand gestures) that we needed some water to lubricate it. He began ladling some water from a barrel situated just outside of his fence on the jack, while JD located some motor oil and offered it as a better alternative for greasing the jack’s moving parts. As we worked to get the screw jack functional, the man returned again to his yard, bringing us back several pieces of cardboard for JD to lay on beneath the trailer, to protect his skin and clothing from the rough, rocky, dirt road.

While JD retreated back beneath the trailer to secure both semi-functional jacks, the man continued inspecting our situation, and asked me if we had a shovel. We did – no experienced traveler of roads in Baja travels far without one – and I went to retrieve it from our trailer. When I returned, our Good Samaritan explained that we needed to dig out the ground beneath the flat tire, given the state of our jacks. At least in this instance, an earthen road was working to our advantage! I started to dig, but our Samaritan friend would not have it, and gently (but insistently) took the shovel from my hands and began to chip away at the well-compacted, well-traveled, dirt road beneath our feet. JD, upon securing the jacks as best he could, emerged from beneath the trailer and finished the digging. Upon getting a scant inch of clearance, JD was able to remove the flat tire, before digging out a few more inches of the earthen road surface to gain more clearance to install the replacement tire. Finally, after many minutes of effort, success! Old tire gone, new one in place, we were back in business. We celebrated with high-fives, and shouts of joy, thanking our Good Samaritan profusely for his help.

As JD and I began cleaning up our worksite, our Good Samaritan again retreated into his yard and house. When he retuned, I offered him some pesos for his time and labor, thanking him repeatedly. After some initial, humble yet gracious resistance, he accepted the money, while producing a large bag of fresh oranges, from his fruit trees, for us! I smiled and shook my head incredulously, attempting to say, in my broken Spanish, that it was we who should be giving him gifts, not the other way around! After a few moments spent clarifying that I was not rejecting his gift, only humbled by his generosity and kindness, he understood, while insisting, with a smile, that we take his offering, which of course we did. I asked him his name: Jose, he replied.

Tools and flat tire returned to their places, Jose seemed satisfied, readily accepting our handshakes and my hug, calling us “amigos”. As we prepared to leave, we asked him if we could give his dogs some treats from our dog Pelli’s stash. He agreed; as we reached over the fence to present them to his dogs, it seemed as if they had not encountered dog biscuits before. Nonetheless, with a little encouragement from Jose, the dogs quickly recognized our offering as food, and devoured them. Jose seemed pleased, and thanked us.

As we retuned to our truck and got underway, arms extended out our windows waving goodbye to Jose, JD and I were reminded of a song that frequently served as our guidepost these past few years, as I slowly arrived at the decision to leave work, and focus on living a slower, simpler life. I found the song on our iPhone, and played it as we continued on down the road.