Fuck walls, Mexico rules.
Coco at Coco's Corner, Baja.
Coco lives hours from the closest services of any kind, on a treacherous trail that is part of the infamous Baja 1000 course. Once a week, a friend brings him supplies. When we showed up at sunset, unannounced, road-worn and hungry, Coco served us warm beers and quesadillas made of the very last of his cheese and tortillas, insisting that his friend would show within a few days and he'd be okay.
Coco lost his legs to diabetes years ago and is surviving off the grid in one of the harshest environments imaginable. Despite his poverty and conditions, he insisted on serving us, a couple privileged gringos, the last of his food before putting us up for the night in his make-shift housing units.
I want to be more like Coco.