We've moved to another camping spot on the beach, because that seems to be the thing to do in Baja. We're hidden between two hills and from the road behind us.

On our 2nd night here we drive 5 miles up the windy East Cape dirt road to watch “The Martian” being shown on a big screen on the beach. 

This has been the only time in the last nine days we've socialized with other people. We hoped for this kind of solitude, but at this point we're both going a little crazy.

I've started talking to the dozens of hermit crabs that magically appear when the sun begins sinking into the ocean. As I stalk them with my telephoto lens I ask them what they're in search of. Is it better housing accommodation or just dinner? All my questions go unanswered.


Occasionally some locals will come to fish, and every morning a man walks his five dogs past our camp. There's always a hello or a wave, but that's it. Malta's quite chatty, sounding similar to a high pitched Chewbacca, but she seems bored with us as well.

Our savior has been a scrawny black puppy we've named Bug after an orphaned street kid; a character in one of our favorite books. He passes through camp almost ever day with a flock of sheep. We're not sure if he's being trained to herd them or he thinks he is one. We feed and water him, play with him, snuggle him and then at dusk he leaves. When he doesn't come we miss him. During his first visit we thought he might need saving, but soon reconsidered. He seems content, and life on the road away from his sheep and the wildness of this vast desert might not suit him.

Eventually our need for interaction, of the bipedal kind, outweighs our need for solitude and we head further south. Bug doesn't show for our departure. We weren't surprised. He didn't seem the sort for sappy goodbyes.