The paved highway south of Tijuana ended at Santo Tomas. Bob
Henry steered out 1948 station wagon to an old gas stop with the
overhead glass tank into which fuel was pumped by hand and gravity
fed it to the automobile. An old man with a toothless smile obliged
us.
The paved highway south of Tijuana ended at Santo Tomas. Bob Henry steered out 1948 station wagon to an old gas stop with the overhead glass tank into which fuel was pumped by hand and gravity fed it to the automobile. An old man with a toothless smile obliged us.
As we headed out, we found the highway had become a treacherous trail: soft sand, tire ruts, rocks with teeth, potholes and steep, narrow climbs that made our brows sweat.
Civilization dwindled until we reached El Rosario. There it vanished. Midafternoon of our third day in Baja, we turned onto a side road marked El Marmol.
The wheel tracks slopped gently upward through a serene landscape ending after 9 miles at a small mining town. There were two short streets, three rows of wooden buildings and a magnificent church of stone call Onyx adorned the entrance.
Inquisitive we were, so with our Stetsons pushed back, we walked at a friendly pace. Most was living quarters with shops in between. Taking a quick look in the rear of buildings, we saw outhouses, a number of cars and a pile of seashells.
In front of the last house on the other street were two gringos and three Mexicans milling around a smoking 50-gallon drum. Cooking chicken halves, they were, with tortillas and beans.
They gave us a friendly salute, so walked over. The larger, older-looking gringo said, “Where ya heading?”
“Nowhere,” I said. “Just moving around. You connected with the mine?”
“Not here. This village is concerned with a large onyx deposit owned by the Mexican government. Whittier and I are engineers working for the U.S. and Mexican governments in a joint effort to appraise a mountain thought to be rich in Galena-lead ore.”
“How is it going?”
“This is unforgiving land,” he said, waving at the horizon. “But we are putting a notch in it. My name is Ganns from Monterey, Mexico. He is from Idaho.”
He looked west and said, “Hey, it’s getting dark. You guys better find a place to hole up. Get a good half-mile from town. Join us for breakfast. We eat at sunup.”
“Anything we can contribute?” Bob Henry asked. “How about coffee?” Ganns beamed, “Bring coffee.”
We laid our blankets under an inverted bowl of stars. The earth was restless beneath us, making sleep difficult. But fatigue overcame. Hours later, we both awoke at the same instant, small earthquake. Maybe the start of something big.
Then Bob Henry shouted, “Look at the northern sky.”
There displayed far away and above the horizon was the Aurora Borealis. At the sound of a deep rumble behind us, we turned to see lightning shorting out on the mountain crests.
Next morning, I took the wheel and told Bob Henry that we were set up for a seismic jolt.
“If it happens,” I said, “play it cool. We’re from Hollister, the Earthquake Capitol of the World.”
The barrel was smoking. A big skillet sat on the grate. A glob of lard went in first; then the Mexican miners dumped in a quantity of potatoes, onions and chopped Spam. Then came a bowl of sliced red peppers.
“Caliente?” I asked. “Si mucho,” he replied. “Oh, bueno,” I lied.
The engineers finished tying down two World War II weapons carriers and approached us smiling.
“Have a pleasant night?” Ganns asked.
“Perfect,” Bob said handing over the coffee. Whittier gave us two samples of Galena and said, “You saw the Northern Lights, no doubt. Starkly visible at times. Our air is unpolluted. All we ask is no curtain at the Pole.”
Breakfast was served. No table or chairs. We just stood around the barrel and ate an excellent repast. Ganns looking wise, asked if we had enjoyed our seismic massage last night.
“We did,” I said, “along with the Northern Lights and the lightning show in the mountains.”
“Natural phenomenas of the area,” Ganns said. “The rumbling earth is a precursor of a bigger event.”
As if on cue, there was a deafening boom. The whole earth shuddered and rocked. Gales of dusty wind spun around us. The village vibrated but somehow held together. We seemed to be on the edge of doom. Then, as if on cue again, the furor ceased.
Ganns said, “Well, that’s enough of that. Come on, men. Let’s get out of here. Nice meeting you guys.”
Whittier shook hands. “It has been a pleasure,” he said. “Only have 20 miles to go, but they are rough and will take the heart out of the day. Be nice to see you again, but …” He shrugged.
With binoculars, we watched them slowly climb toward the lightning.
Before leaving this peaceful village, we decided to walk the other street and soon saw a shop displaying onyx figurines in the window. A voice from inside said, “Good morning, senors. Welcome to El Marmol.”
A handsome Mexican appeared, smiling.
“Your English is excellent,” I said.
“I went to school in San Diego where I learned many marvelous things; one of which was that though lacking luxury, this is where I want to live.
As record keeper for the mine, I see tons of onyx prepared in 4-by-4 blocks and loaded on trucks which take it to ships at the dock. The quality of onyx is beauty as is the edge of lightning on the mountains and the trembling of the earth.”
We shook his hand and walked quietly to our car.
