Scarecrow-With-Straw-For-Brains On the Road in Mexico

Scarecrow-With-Straw-For-Brains On the Road in Mexico

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            Me and my big mouth, blathering away in public about creating a new life without constraints of old beliefs and cultures and language and familiar surroundings. Oh, didn’t I sound so rosey-posey. Pollyanna on Big Gulp Valium. Would you like fries with that?

            Did I ever get my come-uppance! Let me begin at the beginning. First, getting through customs at the border was a huge let-down. I had done my research diligently. I had heard all the stories about people who had had to empty their vehicle, open every container. They stood on the tarmac surrounded by all their belongings like laundry flapping in the wind while the line of cars behind piled up waiting to enter, passengers seething with hatred.

            I wasn’t about to be caught in the lurch. I had my van filled with personal and household items, all neatly boxed and labeled, with a packing list in English and Spanish. I had my Mexican car insurance, my vehicle registration and title, and my passport in hand. The guards opened the back door, yawned and waved me through without even looking at my passport. All my hard work for naught. At the least, I thought I deserved a gold star.

            After that minor disappointment, I located the bus station in Sonoyta, just blocks from the border crossing. My friend Lupe’s bus was late. I had expected that. There is never too much time for reading, so I settled in with a book.

            When the bus arrived, Lupe had two large duffels and a stuffed backpack. Since Mazatlan is an easy two day drive from Sonoyta, I asked, “Why all the luggage?”

            His exact words are lost to me, but they were something like “How would you like to go to Cabo and check out that area?”

            “No, I want to go to Mazatlan,” I said while wondering how long it would take me to skin his hide and make a wallet.

            Understand that our only communication in the last few weeks had been by text message. The wonderful thing about texting is that it is impossible to go into any depth. That is a good thing to know if you would like to keep communication shallow.

            That was not the case here, not what we wanted. Our constraints were more of a geographic distance and ten dollars a minute for voice phone matter. Lupe explained that he would like to work a few weeks in Cabo San Lucas and then return to Mazatlan. Maybe a month or two or three.

            Hey, my heart was set on Mazatlan. My plans laid far in advance. But the next words out of my mouth were, “Let me get to a quiet place and meditate on this.” The word “prayer” works here also.

            After a time of silence, I asked Lupe what he felt. “I can do what you want. We can go to Mazatlan. I brought extra clothes for if you wanted to go to Cabo. I understand. In the States you plan things out like a list (here he made hand motions of setting things one after the other in a line). We don’t do that so much here. We see that each day brings its own plans with it. But you tell me what you want. That’s what we will do.”

            Immediately I could see the image of the article I had written just the day before: adventure, create new life, leave behind old concepts, each day a new page. Ick. Yuck. Did I really say those things? Did I mean them? Did I lie to myself?

            I suggested a half measure. “We could drive to Mazatlan, find a place to stow the stuff in my van and then go to Cabos.” Truthfully, all I wanted to do was get settled, make a nest in my new home in Mazatlan.

            “If that is your decision, then that is what we will do.”

            Rats and drats and fighting cats. I could not get rid of the words about leaving behind familiar comforts and by now, Mazatlan itself was a familiar comfort.

            I sat in silence for another moment, knowing half measures avail me nothing. The next suggestion to put in an appearance was a rag-tag motley outfit that reminded me that there is no right or wrong, good or bad decision. For me, each decision comes with its  own package of consequences, not to be judged but to be experienced.

            I remembered that nothing is cast in concrete. If a few steps in this direction feels uncomfortable, I can turn in another direction. It all fit together in my mind. I imagined a huge “Detour” sign and turned the key in the ignition. “Okay, Cabo, here we come.”

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 14, 2013

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How My Frugality Broke the Bank

How My Frugality Broke the Bank ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A couple weeks ago I wrote about beating the system with Cheap-Flights-R-Us. Today I hang my head in defeat. I had bought a round-trip ticket on-line. Great Falls to Phoenix. My ultimate destination was Puerto Penasco in Mexico.

Sky Harbor in Phoenix sprawls over miles of concourse. Imagine my surprise when my plane landed in this itty-bitty place, tossed me out onto the tarmac and I walked into Gateway Airport, smaller than Great Falls International, in Mesa, Arizona. I looked at my ticket. Phoenix/Mesa. Oh.

The nice lady at the information desk directed me to a good motel with free shuttle from the airport. She let me use her phone to secure a room.

The shuttle driver proved to be an encyclopedia of information. He told me that a cab from Mesa to Dos Portes Superior in Phoenix to catch the shuttle to Mexico, would be at least a hundred dollars. Nope, he didn’t know of an office in Mesa. He said my best way to get from Mesa to Phoenix would be by private driver.

The nice man volunteered to drive me for fifty dollars. "Deal," I said, shaking his hand. Was it a good deal? Well, he got me there and on time.

The Dos Portes Superior office in Phoenix, a tiny room with a few folding-chairs, quickly filled to capacity. The shuttle van was late getting started. While my command of Spanish is improving, it is mostly lacking. A white-haired gentleman took me under wing and helped me to know what was happening. Finally we boarded the van and headed south. No air conditioning. The driver gave us a choice to turn around or keep going. I voiced my vote with the other passengers—we kept going, through the southern Arizona desert, hot-spot of the nation. We passed through beautiful country including Organ-Pipe Cactus National Monument, a must-see.

At the border, just so you know when you plan your own trip, the van stops and all passengers exit with luggage, aptly named. We lugged our bags through customs into Mexico. Since I was not carrying guns they let me cross. We walked to another even tinier Dos Portes office to await the van from Penasco. It was a tiny bit late, just over an hour. There was no bathroom. But at 123 degrees, it didn’t matter.

When we got close to Puerto Penasco I texted my friend Lupe to meet me at the station. Unbeknownst to me, when I crossed the border, my cell phone no longer worked. I entered the final office, tired, hot, sweaty and scared, with no phone and no Lupe. Using Spanglish and waving arms I asked the man behind the desk to call my friend.

Now for the return trip: I had missed my flight by two days but that is a different story. At Dos Portes I bought a ticket to the Mesa office, there was one, for an extra twenty dollars. At the border, the first driver didn’t tell the second driver I was going to Mesa. So he took me to Phoenix. "Look," I said, holding my ticket in front of his face. "I paid for Mesa. I need to be at Gateway in Mesa in a half hour." After haggling, and for an extra forty dollars, the man took me to Gateway. I thanked him profusely and rushed into the airport.

There were ticket lines to Grand Forks, Billings, someplace in Idaho and Minneapolis. No Great Falls. A young woman, an angel, spotted the consternation on my face and asked if she could help. "They don’t fly to Great Falls every day." There must be a solution. "Billings?" She took me to a special counter. "Billings is boarding now. I’ll see if I can get you on," she said. I figured I could get a shuttle flight into Great Falls.

Previously I had purchased trip protection so asked if I could use that against my new ticket. "Not when you miss your flight," she said. "But look. You made a mistake that works for you. You booked your return for July, not June. (Red face.) Let’s make this work. Uh, the flight is full. Let me check cancellations." Minutes later my angel raced me through security. For another two hundred dollars, almost the entire cost of my round-trip ticket, I took the last and only seat available, due to a "no-show".

I landed in Billings, picked up my bag. There are no shuttle flights from Billings to anywhere in Montana. None.

Another angel suggested a rental car. In tears and one-hundred thirty-two dollars later not including gas, I drove a little black sports car from Billings to Great Falls International, in the dark with no map. It took two hours to get gas, turn in the rental, locate my van, gas up again. When I finally got home, eyes like pinwheels, I had exactly ten dollars to my name. The cheapest flight I ever booked had become the most expensive trip I ever took.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July 4, 2013_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Crossing the Border

Crossing the Border
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When I was twelve my family and I drove to Canada for a picnic. I was excited. Crossing a true international border! Going all the way to Canada ! Oh, man, I couldn’t wait! I had never been further from home than Chinook. I had devoured my cousin Jim’s issues of “National Geographic”. I read my copy of “Around the World in 1,000 Pictures” a thousand times. I memorized the pictures. And now, a trip to a foreign country! I was almost afraid to breathe for fear my Dad would change his mind.

I had boundless expectations. I would hear a different language. I would see onion-domed palaces and golden minarets. I dreamed of jeweled exotic costumes, lush terrain, jungle animals and palm trees.

We crossed the border at Turner and drove to Climax, where I faced one of the huge disappointments of my twelve-year-old life. Because nothing changed. Canada had the same rolling terrain as Montana . Same prairie. Same wheat fields. Same cattle. The same Levis and Stetson hats. We slowly drove up and down the street in Climax. We could have been in Hogeland, Harlem or Dodson. We chose our picnic spot beneath the shade of a cottonwood tree. Same mosquitoes. Same unrelenting wind blowing grit into our food. An afternoon in a foreign country. We might as well have stayed home.

Since that trip, when my youthful expectations were crushed, I have had the opportunity to cross many borders, cultural and geo-political, north, south, and across the big waters. I have been to China . I’ve been to India . I’ve been to Japan . And I am fortunate to count numerous trips to visit friends and see the sights in the countries of our nearest neighbors, Canada and Mexico . I’ve experienced exotic architecture, dress, food, customs, and most of all, beautiful people. My travels have changed me.

Today, I frequently choose to satisfy my passion for international travel with a short jaunt into Saskatchewan . I drive through lush Montana prairie, where the deer and the antelope play, where meadowlarks warble on fence-posts, where red-tailed hawks and eagles criss-cross the sky, where a coyote slinks along the highway, unafraid.

I cross the border at Turner/Climax. At customs I declare nothing more dangerous than imagination. I continue a few kilometers north and pull my car off the road onto the edge of a bluff. Far below, the Frenchman River threads a glacier-gouged gorge through the lush Canadian prairie.

I look around me. Nothing has changed. It is still the same landscape, same wheat fields, same wind, same mosquitoes, same small towns with wind-scoured buildings pinned to the map by lofty grain elevators. Same geography. Different me.

So if you want to see what I see today, you have to stop. Here on the bluff is a good place. You must get out of your car. Put on a hat with a big wide brim so you don’t get sun-burned. Walk away from the car. Find a nice big rock and sit down. Plan to stay at least an hour. Breathe deeply. Let your eyes scan the vista. Pick an area. Notice the colors. Isolate the details. Imagine the sound of the water far below. Listen to birdsong. Feel the wind on your skin. I guarantee you will change your perspective. It is like getting a new pair of glasses.

Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why not join me? We’ll pack a picnic lunch, load up paints and canvases, c-clamps to secure the canvas onto the easels, sandbags to keep the easels to the ground and a case of “Death to Mosquitoes!” And let’s make this is a two day trip. So grab a book or two for the night in a motel in Shaunavon.

When we cross the border back into Montana we’ll have a lot to declare. We’ll have captured all the subtle shades of the Frenchman Coulee, identified birds, painted tiny prairie wildflowers that people whizzing by on the highway never see. We’ll have made friends with a gopher or two. And yes, we’ll take back mosquito bites, despite our best efforts with sprays and ointments.

And, if the light is just right, we will feel compelled to unload our canvases and set up the easels again, to paint Woody Island Coulee. Then, instead of a picnic, let’s grab a bite to eat at the Border Bar in Turner.

We’ll be full of our adventures. Maybe one of the Turner residents will saunter over to our booth and say, “Mind if I join you? Where you been?”

“Oh, man, wait till you hear. We just returned from a foreign country. It was great, really beautiful. You ought to go there sometime.”
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Please Send Bail

Please send bail money in care of the Havre Daily News. There. I like to make arrangements for every contingency. Last week I didn’t have a plan in place and, whew, it was crazy.

Here is what happened. My friends David and Vidya were visiting from Washington . They always help me with projects around the house. We readied the yard and garden for winter, pruning and raking and wheeling loads of plant debris into a mountainous pile to haul away. The guys from Public Works, driving by in their truck, accused me of cracking the whip over my slave labor, but that is not so. We had fun working together. We had fun going places. Our fun nearly landed us in—but I’ll get to that later.

I want to tell you some things we did. First we headed to the “What the Hay” festival. We had breakfast in Lewistown, and then drove the route from Hobson to Windham , stopping to eat our way through the Utica fair. Vidya jumped out of the car at every display of hay-bale art to take pictures with her new camera. We moseyed on up the road to Square Butte, which consists of about four houses, a bar, and an historic jail. (No, that is not why I might need bail, but we got a great photo.) We quickly toured Ft. Benton , promised to return. We wrapped a full day into a full circle on the map, ate dinner in Havre and returned home. Another night we went to Chinook to see a macabre play about Edgar Allen Poe, brilliantly performed by the young actors of the Montana Repertory Theatre. We shoe-horned the Havre Festival into our itinerary, a full feast of a day, with the parade, farmer’s market, quilt show, crafts, and book sale. Who says there is nothing to do around here?

To top off our adventures, like pouring hot fudge over ice cream, we spent three days in Canada . Next time you are in Watson , Saskatchewan , stop at the Quick Stop Diner and say hello to my friends, Ron and Sharon. Tell them I sent you. We carved another circle on the map, exploring the short-grass plains through Regina on the way to Watson and then on the way home traveled the lake country through Saskatoon . We headed to the border crossing at Monchy, promising ourselves a juicy steak dinner at the GN in Malta .

We pulled in to the port of entry. I handed the guard my passport. David reached for his jacket for their passports. They weren’t there. Vidya searched her bag for the documents and they were not there either. A terse conversation ensued. “What did you . . ., Why did you . . . , Why didn’t you . . ., I remember that . . .” We had documents in hand when we entered Canada at Turner/Climax. As we drove off David handed them to me and I handed them to Vidya “to put in a safe place”. More conversation about “safe place”. The search continued with a strained earnestness. I looked through the glove box and found nothing. I got out of the car, stepped back and watched.

The next few minutes were not pretty. David dumped his wallet. Vidya dumped her knitting bag which had accompanied her everywhere. David looked under the seat. They both started rifling through the luggage. From my vantage point the car looked like a front-load washing machine with a port window. I watched the contents of the car cycle through agitate to spin. A second-time search began with renewed vigor. The trunk was open. All four doors were open. The luggage, clothing, yarn, books, papers, maps, gifts and blankets continued to spin. David and Vidya agitated. I watched David move from Auto-soak into the Heavy-duty cycle. I wisely refrained from giving sage advice, such as “Calm down”. They dumped every container in the car except the camera case. They knew the documents were not there. The camera had been in continuous use each day. I contemplated having to wave good-by to my friends, trapped on foreign soil, while I trudged on down the highway to Malta .

The customs officer joined the fray, I mean, the search. He methodically lifted, peered and sorted. Eventually he picked up the camera case and opened it. Bingo. Passports found. He gave their papers a cursory glance and motioned us on our way, down the road to freedom.

In a few weeks I will fly to Mexico . I always stow my passport in the same pocket of the same bag which I take with me everywhere. However, one cannot be too careful. You never know. A momentary distraction and my passport could end up inside a shoe. I could end up in the Stoney Lonesome. So if I call for help, please send me bail money in care of the Havre Daily News.



Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
October 8, 2009