The Seamstress in the Mountains

It is either the novelty of it, or it the genuine nature of the environment, when I cross the border I feel a sense of relief. In doing so I put down my addictions. I put down my pills and I put down my beer and tequila and I am a part of a more obvious way of life and so when I crossed the border again in Tecate, I felt that same relief again. As much as I love the U.S., leaving it is a relief. This was also due to living completely by bicycle as a conveyance. It was also due to having no obligations but to ride between places and seek the most essential amenities for survival: food, sometimes shelter… not much else.

They were retired and lived on a ranch that didn’t produce anything. As I traveled, there were many of these plots of land that radiated out from the larger cities. Outside of Tecate, the mountains grew on low rolling slopes and the labyrinth of dirt roads throughout them made for a network of routes peppered by these various ranchitos. Most having some kind of cinder block and brickwork project going on. The brickwork was decidedly Norteno (my definition) and beautiful.

I coasted down into Manteca canyon from these outskirt ranchito neighborhoods, and the route pointed decidedly south, tending just west of an initial primary mountain range surrounding the National Park of 1857, the roadway twisted across an alluvial plain as it rose on a low slope that spanned southwesterly.

I don’t remember their names any longer. A married couple out there in the dust and mud of the ranchlands near Tecate. She had been a seamstress in her working years. Both, retired now. They had a “tienda” sign spray painted on a board strapped to the fence of their property. I rolled in for a look and to maybe buy a snack. I was just into the middle of nowhere at this point in my journey. If they were selling, I was probably buying.

I saw the sewing machine and I asked in my broken way if they could provide any sewing? My bag liner had been destroyed through the previous nights, a clean tear down the length of it. The nights at peak altitude of 5k were cold. Bottles froze. I was using everything I had to stay warm and this was serendipitous. It is uncanny how these enterprise transactions pop up in Mexico. I am more open to it. So is the society. Wayward opportunities.

And she said no problem and she charged me about 30 pesos for the fix. I bought a bag of chips and a coke, said thanks, and I pedaled on. I thought how superior it is to mend a bag in the desert by way of a seamstress on a ranch. Something I don’t look for, or I don’t see, in the U.S. Maybe it exists there, but what is it? Human network? Intersected Humanity? Fabric. Tapestry.

So with this began my conveyance into the deeper and deeper reaches of Baja. I was only in the first 200 miles of northland. I was in the Northern section of the route, just barely and I had 1500 more miles of the Baja peninsula to pedal. Onward to Ojos Negros and meeting Brian Miracle.