The famous Mexican pace is starting to sink in.  We're moving a little slower, thinking a little clearer, and we're a little more in the moment.  Everyone and everything is calm here:   the desert doesn't move for anything, not even the wind, and the people are very much a part of the stillness.  I have yet to see anyone move quickly or raise their voice, and usually people don't move much at all.  Driving through the little towns, which all have the hand painted signs, dirt sidewalks and teeming stray dogs (none of which move much either), the locals are mostly all sitting down, looking around with a mellow gaze.  When we wave they hardly even wave back, probably equally to conserve motion as because it's just a silly gringo custom.  If Pascal was right in saying that all evil in the world stems from man's inability to sit still in a room alone, then these are some very nice people.

On top of The Buss, behind Roby and his new friend, Ryk and I are taking down the tent.  Last night we went to sleep under the amazing lightshow of stars, with the surf churning away 100 feet below.  And then, delight of delights, we woke in the pitch black night under an angry rain, and somehow we didn't come to consciousness until our sleeping bags were already soaked.  Pitching a tent in the dark cold windy rain is a real joy.   We climbed in the tent (all the sleep spots in the buss were already taken, and besides that's for sissies), we shivered for a while, and engaged in a little sleep simulation.  We mostly lay there in our soaking bags waiting for the roosters to crow.

And crow they did, thank god, from every direction, and we broke camp and got back on the "road".  We went back through the little town, with it's sporadically paved main thoroughfare,

and had absolutely no difficulty staying under the posted speed limit.   Something about a 10 ton buss packed to the rafters with traveler miscellany, swinging wildly over potholes and around curves just lends itself to that.