Travel to Guilford!

  I know my audience, mostly.  You are probably either a fellow fledgling travel writer, or someone who knows me personally (hi dad).  So my sympathetic reader, here is my situation.  I am currently enrolled in an interesting, online, travel-writing course.  My first assignment is to write an article on my home town (this article).  I started it with a pretty good first line, “clouds seem to float closer to the ground in Guilford, Maine.”  That’s when the problems started.  I became distracted.  You see, I am in La Paz, Mexico on the southern tip of the Baja peninsula.  I have been traveling by motorcycle, on repose for a few days while I wait for a ferry to cross the Sea of Cortez.  The plan is to meet up with an old friend, a beautiful Mexican woman with the hopes of rekindling a love while taking a scenic train ride through the Copper Canyon  (if that wont do it, nothing will!).  It is hard to concentrate on anything but the present, and my hometown of Guilford is not part of my present.  Also Reggi, the old Moroccan guy down the hall, is always inviting me to go drink tequila with him and his local buddies.

  Guilford  (mi pueblito) is a small town in Piscataquis county, the most rural county of the most rural state in the union.  The innocent town was my cocoon, and when my wings developed I flew, like most of my peers.  Small towns in Maine have a problem with retention of their youth.  Most of my current observations, who I am, what I think, are at least partially based on where I spent those most impressionable young adolescent years, Guilford.

  Physically beautiful, central Maine can be as lush and green as a  tropical forest in Guatemala or as harsh and desolate as the high Sierra during the long winter.  The Guilford I know is through the eyes of a 13 year old boy with a bicycle, that is, I know Guilford very intimately.  The smell of mud season, (defrosting dog shit) the song of chickadees, “chicka dee dee dee,” and the boredom, the desire to leave.

  When someone asks me where I am from, without hesitation I say Maine, although now I have lived outside Maine for more time then I have lived there.  I often use Guilford as a conversation starter spitting out facts about my old home.  I say, “in my hometown, we produce 90% of the worlds golf tees,” (I’m not sure if that was ever true) or “where I come from the mosquitoes and black flies are so bad that there have been reports of moose being driven into suicidal rampages” (I have never seen such a report).  I have a plethora of Maine “facts” at the ready.

  If your car ever breaks down in Guilford, (why else would it be a destination?) you are in for a treat.  You are in the very footsteps of  Henry David Thoreau.  Thoreau came through Guilford on his way north to Moosehead lake and Mount Katahdin looking for wilderness and isolation.  And although the trip to the north is now much easier, (you don’t need an Abnaki Indian guide) much of that wilderness, and isolation desired by Thoreau is still there.  Too bad his mom wasn’t around to do his laundry, or maybe he would have chosen the banks of the Piscataquis river in Guilford, to write about solitude and self reliance instead of the comparably urban Walden pond in the “woods” of Massachusetts.

  So, like I was saying.  Clouds seem to float closer to the ground in Guilford, Maine.  The sky is smaller.  I am not sure what causes this effect.  It could be that the northern end of the worn down Appalachian mountains don’t stretch that high into the heavens and that the thick, mixed conifer hardwood forests don’t produce the towering trees one sees out west making the sky seem more accessible, closer.  Or maybe this is some sort of psychological effect only perceivable by one who regards Guilford as home.

  Well, you will have to excuse me as I am off with Reggi to go drink wine with his expat friends at a local, La Paz pizza joint.  Maybe they will want to know where the machine gun was invented  (really close to Guilford).

               
     

The Good Life---Le Bonhuer De Ce Monde

 
       I used to stare up at this old French poem that my father hung on our cabin wall.  A beautiful piece of paper, painted with time, once belonging to my grandmother who was a woman of great taste, especially when it came to buying souvenirs.  Phyllis (grandma)  had the opportunity of world travel during a time when there was a plethora of quality handmade goods, unlike today’s plastic junk, and hurried handicrafts.  With her good taste and the wonderful  selection at her disposal she ended up with some fantastic items.   Some of  them were passed on to my father who wisely displayed these anachronistic handicrafts around our warm cabin in the Maine woods.  He would tell my sisters and I, his wide-eyed children, the stories of their origins. 

Out of these objects this French sonnet really struck me.  I was interested in foreign language and poetry at a young age, and although not a dedicated student, I somehow managed to learn a little French in high school.  I would try to translate this poem from its archaic French and my father who speaks French would help me along.  This poem still fascinates me to this day, and to this day, unfortunately I still don’t speak French. 

The Sonnet is called, “Le Bonhuer De Ce Monde” by a French bookbinder, print maker,(and poet evidently) Christopher Plantin, who lived in the 16th century.  The title roughly means, ‘This World's Good Fortune” or more simply, "The Good Life" and the sonnet is basically suggestions on how to live the good life. 
As I have traveled through life I recently have noticed that I have not exactly lived by this wise poem's suggestions.  Before I talk about it more I will post the sonnet, and it's English translation.

Le Bonhuer De Ce Monde 

Avoir une maison commode, propre et belle,
Un jardin tapissé d'espaliers odorans,
Des fruits, d'excellent vin, peu de train, peu d'enfans,  
Posséder seul sans bruit une femme fidèle;
 
N'avoir dettes, amour, ni procès, ni querelle,
Ni de partage à faire avecque ses parens,
Se contenter de peu, n'espérer rien des grands,
Régler tous ses desseins sur un juste modèle ;
 
Vivre avecque franchise et sans ambition,
S'adonner sans scrupules à la dévotion,
Domter ses passions, les rendre obéissantes,
 
Conserver l'esprit libre et le jugement fort,
Dire son chapelet en cultivant ses entes,
C'est attendre chez soi bien doucement la mort.
  



THIS WORLD'S GOOD FORTUNE

To have a house convenient, clean and fair;
A wallèd garden lined with fragrant trees;
Fruit and fine wine, few servants and few children;
The only lover of a faithful wife;

No debts, no love-affairs, lawsuits nor feuds,
No wills to haggle out with relatives,
Simply content, dependent on no magnate,
And by a righteous rule to rule one's life;

To live in frankness, from ambition far;
With conscience clear devoted to devotion,
To tame one's passions until they obey,

To keep the spirit free and judgement strong,
Saying one's prayers while looking to one's pear-trees:
A kindly way at home to wait for Death.

 
(translated by Roger Kuin






So as I move from youth, this poem has become even more relevant.  As a teenager trapped in Maine this strange philosophy French philosophy seemed boring to me!   



 

 

 

Donde Vivo Yo

Vivo en Otay Mesa, 2 millas norte de Tijuana, en un ranchito de chivos.


I live in Otay Mesa, 2 miles north of Tijuana, at a small goat ranch.

Hay caballos donde vivo yo.


There are horses where I live.

Hay gallinas y gallos k cantan sin parar.


There are chikens and roosters that crow without stopping

Es bonito no?


It's pretty no?

Mi vecino tiene dobermans---la perra se llama Sadie
En la foto Sadie esta corriendo hacia al sur, hacia Tijuana.
La frontera es mas o menos 2 millas desde el ranchito de chivos, donde vivo yo.  Veo diario los que patrullan la frontera, la migra, con sus vehículos rápidos y nuevos.  Siempre están mirando, espiando. Pero a mi, me dejan en paz.


My neighbor has dobermans ---the bitch calls herself Sadie
In the photo Sadie is running towards the South, towards Tijuana.
the border is more or less 2 miles from the little goat ranch, where i live.  I see those who patrol the border, the migra, with their fast new vehicles.  Always they are watching, spying.  But they leave me alone.

Hay dos cárceles donde vivo yo.

They watch everything from the tower!

A continuación----

to be continued----

OSCAR THE GOAT

      There was this goat named Oscar who was born on the Gonzales strawberry farm in Irapuato, Mexico.  When Oscar was just a young kid, too young to remember, his mother and father died.  So instead of being raised by a goat, like a normal goat should, Oscar was raised by a very loving and motherly dog named Gloria.  
     Gloria was a good parent and treated Oscar as if he were one of her own pups.  She taught him all she knew about life, the basics: barking, growling, begging, and above all, her favorite past-time of chasing cars, motorcycles and bikes.
     Gloria was well respected in the dog community and was very strict with all the other dogs, making sure that Oscar never felt out of place.  So Oscar, the goat, grew up believing he was a dog.
     Now as you can imagine a goat running with a pack of dogs, chasing cars, barking and growling is a pretty unusual sight and all the Mexican town folk in Irapuato got a big kick out of it.  They would hoot, holler, point and laugh at Oscar.  They would throw sticks and Oscar would fetch them back.  It was great fun!
     But all fun must come to an end, because the truth of the matter is a goat has a very different ending then a dog, especially in Mexico on Sunday afternoons.  So on an early Sunday morning in Irapuato, Oscar the goat was sacrificed to the birria gods (birria is a delicious, spicy, goat stew).
     
     Señora Gonzalez, who happened to be known as incredibly gifted in the kitchen, put up a sign on her front yard advertising her delicious birria made from fresh goat meat (Oscar) and soon enough people came to eat the steamy, spicy, oily, red stew for 35 pesos a serving along with hot, homemade, corn tortillas with a small but delicious dessert of strawberries covered in cream.  That's when a black Toyota pickup truck with California plates pulled up in front of the Gonzalez house with loud mariachi music blaring.
     A Gringo popped out of the pickup truck.  He was as Gringo as they get---blond hair, blue eyes and tall.  But there was something funny about this Gringo---he dressed just like a Mexican farm worker.  He had on huaraches (homemade Mexican sandals) and donned an old beat up straw hat.  He spoke fluent Spanish with lots of slang mixed in----"no mameys" he said, "chido," he said.  Everyone was impressed with his Spanish and a little confused.  He slurped down his order of the birria, stuffed his face with the strawberries, stood up, then politely said, "provecho" (bon appetite) to the others still eating and asked how much he owed for the meal. 
     "50 pesos" replied señora Gonzalez keeping a straight face.
     The Gringo gave a big smile and handed over the fifty pesos and then drove off. 
     Everyone hooted and hollered with laughter at the irony.  The gringo that thought he was a Mexican who ate the goat that thought he was a dog.


----Por Pablo Estali----    

Ten Years of Mexico!

      As I was walking along the hotel-lined sea wall (the malecón) in Mazatlán, Mexico, watching the sun crash magnificently into the Pacific Ocean something occurred to me.  Ten years ago, when I was a wided-eyed twenty year old youngster on my first trip through Mexico, I witnessed the very same scene in the exact same spot.  I remember it clearly--one of those moments when you say to yourself, "I am going to remember this forever."  I  snapped a picture of the sunset with my disposable camera right before hopping on an overnight bus to head deeper into unknown Mexico.  Little did I know what an effect Mexico would have on my life.

(not the photo I took, but similar!)

         My Mexican friends I work with now jokingly call me a Mexican and most people that know me well, know that if I am in charge of the I-pod they are going to be listening to a Cumbia.  Truthfully, I don´t know why I have such a fascination with the Mexican culture.  It doesn´t make sense. But It isn´t going to change or go away.  I will never be completely fluent at Mexican Spanish nor know everything about Mexican culture, nor do I strive for that imposability.  All I know is that somehow my blood was mixed with limones and sal and in some way my life´s works involves our wonderful Southern neighbor.  Viva Mexico and thanks!

         

          

La Fantasma Contenta, The Happy Ghost

La Fantasma Contenta 

La fantasma vino en una mañana en marzo.

Tuve vergüenza por mi cuarto sucio,

pero a ella no importaba.

Fuimos a caminar juntos, mano en mano, el aire fresco.

Caminábamos lentamente, cruzando la sombra de los árboles.

Me miro con sus ojos curiosos, contenta y calma. 

Monto mis hombros, yo era el caballo.

En la noche, acaricie su cabello negro, suave, 

y dormimos juntos, seguros, el espíritu y yo.

Así había por una semana,

y antes que se fue, sin el dolor de una despedida, 

yo sabia que la muerte no existe,

porque ella vino contenta y así se fue.

The Happy Ghost

The ghost came on a morning in March.

I was embarrassed by my messy room,

but she didn’t mind.

We went walking together, hand in hand, the air cool.

We walked slowly, crossing the shade of the trees.

She looked at me with her curious eyes, happy and calm.

She rode on my shoulders, I was the horse.

At night, I caressed her soft, black hair

and we slept together, safe, the spirit and I.

It was that way for a week,

and before she went, without the pain of a parting,

I knew that death does not exist,

because she came content and that’s the way she left. 

   
Paul Staley

Drive-by Meet and Greet

The rogue WiFi signal coming from the Day’s Inn was booming that night.  I was laying on the bed of my camper taking advantage of the normally fickle signal.  Relaxed by a half a bottle of cheap pinot noir and a wad of Grizzly straight chewing tobacco that delivered warm nicotine from my gums directly to my heart then back to my brain.  That’s when I heard, “bang, bang-bang bang, bang, bang-bang!  Anyone else would have been surprised, would have known, not me.  I thought the shots were fire crackers.  You see, I was new to Chula Vista.  In Oaxaca, Mexico, where I came from, where I had been living for the past year and a half, rude explosions throughout the night were the norm.  In Mexico there is no such thing as a city ordinance against noise, or fire crackers-and let me tell you, Mexicans take advantage of that fact.  It wasn’t until I saw the blue lights bouncing off the walls of my camper and heard the sirens that I realized those crisp explosions were gun shots.
 
    I jumped into my dirty jeans and slipped on my fake crocs to go outside and investigate.  I walked through the trailer park, Fogerty Brothers trailer park on Broadway and E street towards the blue lights.  My neighbors were already gathered together on Broadway gossiping and pointing, a motley crew.  As I found out that night, nothing brings a trailer park together like a drive by shooting.  There were about seven cop cars lined up across Broadway, in front of a Mexican restaurant, their lights were flashing like blinding blue lightening.
“What happened?” I asked Bruce, the boyfriend of the Park’s manager, Michelle.
“Just a drive by,” Bruce said with his normal grin.
“Anyone hit?” I asked trying to be as nonchalant as him, a longtime veteran of Chula Vista and the trailer park.
“Nope, I think they tagged that Explorer though, I think I see some holes in the side panel there.”
Embolden by the pinot noir, I left my pack of neighbors and headed closer to see if I could get substantiated information.  I stopped about ten feet from the supposedly wounded Ford Explorer.  I couldn’t see any holes in it at all but a man was lying in the back seat and a cop was scribbling on his clip-boards.  I asked one of the cops what happened.  He ignored me.
“Can’t tell me anything, huh, ongoing investigation?” I asked.
He nodded, and walked away from me.
I walked back to my group of neighbors and they all wanted to know what information the cop gave me.  I was an anomaly, nobody had even considered walking up to the cops to ask what happened, a lot of the people in the park have good reason to stay far away from the police, but I have nothing to worry about, I have never been caught.
We all stood gathered together and I shook hands and introduced myself to some of the neighbors that I still hadn’t met.  The drive-by was like a meet and greet.  Stories were recounted of past drive-by shootings and the party lasted about half an hour, the blue strobe lights were still gleaming when I said goodnight and headed back to the camper, the rouge WiFi, my pinot noir and Grizzly straight.