Sweat dripped from the gleaming, brown forehead of the young Baja Californiano man towering over us in the baking desert sun. I peered apprehensively into the disheveled interior of our van which had come to an abrupt stop on the roadside. The back seats were removed, the carpeting torn up and tossed aside, our belongings littered the dry, sun-cracked ground. I exchanged a quick glance with one of my travel mates as the man climbed into the van. As always, before leaving for Mexico I had rebuffed others’ concerns about the safety of travel to this country that had hooked me at first visit. Time and again I’ve reassured friends and family that most areas of Mexico are extremely safe, and the stereotype of crooked cops and narcos shaking down gringos is offensive. In fact, Mexico’s culture of warm generosity and sense of community is what brings me back. Also, tacos. So here I was, on the side of a remote, cactus-lined highway, kilometers from the nearest pueblo, with a stranger rifling around inside of our van. After spending time with my husband and friends snorkeling coral reef, fishing, devouring fresh ceviche, and enjoying the remoteness of Cabo Pulmo National Park, we had been cruising across the interior of the Baja peninsula from the Sea of Cortez to the Pacific Coast. Fractured asphalt lay in front of us, and rugged mountains whizzed by in the distance, when suddenly we heard the unmistakable burst of a flat tire. We pulled over and the five of us piled out of the rented minivan, poking around for the spare tire. Soon, a rusty, sun-faded blue pick-up truck lumbered over to the side of the road. A tall, stocky, young man eased out of the truck and sauntered toward us. As he approached, the passenger door opened and two more figures slid out. A fourth passenger remained in the truck peering at us through the dusty windshield. “Necesitan ayuda?” He looked expectantly as us, brushing messy dark curls from his eyes. I noticed that he was young, no more than fifteen or sixteen. In my inadequate Spanish I tried to explain that we had a flat tire and had found the spare under the van but could not access it. The teenager nodded and kneeled to peer at the tire suspended from the van’s undercarriage. Together we tried desperately to release that immovable tire. The tire changing instructions were useless, and our language barrier didn’t help. It was clear that some type of mechanism would release the tire, but we couldn’t locate it. Frustrated, we emptied the van of luggage, removed the back seats, and pulled up the floor mats. The young man had resorted to attempting brute force to yank the tire from its cradle. Meanwhile, the teen’s mother and grandmother had set up plastic chairs in the slim shade of a single blooming ocotillo. When we offered them something to drink, Abuela gladly accepted two beers. The ladies settled into their chairs, sipping Pacificos, in for the long haul. We were wearied, sweat-soaked, and coated in the pale dust of the Baja when I felt the slightest, almost imperceptible perforation in the carpet behind the front passenger seat. We broke through the perforation with eager fingers to reveal the most beautiful sight in the desert that day, a tire release lever. Once the tire was lowered from its fortification, it was changed in minutes. Mom and grandma leapt from their chairs, and we all cheered in the universal language of victory. Even the mysterious figure from inside the truck came bounding out with a bashful grin on his face. The child had surely been hiding from the manual labor his older brother had been subjected to. We laughed, shook the older brother’s hand, and hugged the matriarchs, thanking them profusely. At this point the family had spent almost two hours helping us with our car troubles when they could have easily thrown up their hands and driven away. When we offered them money for their time, they fiercely shook their heads and refused. “No era por dinero. Era de la corazón.” This was not for money. It was from the heart.