Category: Baja Stories

 

 

A story of the 4 Juan’s plus 1

 

Off the coast of Southern Baja, about 50 miles north of Cabo San Lucas, the Espiritu de Jesus fished the waters of the Pacific for shrimp.  By day she moored out to sea about 1 mile, straight out from the little town of Pescadero. By night her crew ran Espiritu de Jesus up and down the coast several miles, dropping the big shrimp trawls into the sea to catch their livelihood.    She usually worked and moored near the shrimp boat La Rana (The Frog) named for its green paint. La Rana was owned and operated by Capitan Gonzales, a man of many years fishing.

She was called by her crew Espiritu.  The crew was made up of the 5 Juans.  Juan Barragon was El Capitan.  The other 4 Juans were identified by their positions: Primier Oficial ( Mate) , Apprendiz Oficial (2^nd mate), Cocinar (Cook) and Mecanico (Mechanic).  These designations were too much to utter for the crew under normal circumstances.  So they had adopted a numerical system.  The Mate was Dos, the 2^nd mate was Tres, the Cook was Cuatro, the Mechanic was Cinco. There was no Uno, as El Capitan wished to remain unnumbered.  Whether called by Juan, their official, ocean going titles, or their numerical designations of convenience, they were all Pescadoros (Fisheremen).  And they all called El Capitain Malvado (Evil).

El Capitan loved this name.  It was his ambition to earn it for his whole life.  He had wanted to legally change his last name from Barragon to Malvado but his mother, La Mala (Bad News), the only person in his life of whom he was afraid, forbid the change.  She would not have him dishonor the dead from whom the name Barragon had descended. La Mala also told him she would kill him if he changed his name. He thought this was a little strong, but he did not push the point. He had learned that La Mala would always get her way.  He also remembered that his father had disappeared many years ago without a trace. And the worst part for him was that Espiritu belonged to his mother.  So he settled for the nick name Malvado.  Evil.  He often thought to himself that if he lived in an English speaking country they would call him Johnny Evil.  That name alone could make him rich.  In Mexico it merely served define him in his own mind.

Malvado had admired evil wherever he saw it and sought to copy it.  As a child his mother read to him about pirates in children’s books.  He could never forget the pictures of El Capitan Pirate forcing an enemy to walk the plank.  He regretted that he could not do the same, or at least use a cat of 9 tails on occasion when Cuatro served a burned Mole.  Unfortunately he had to settle for verbal abuse.  He so enjoyed yelling at the crew, calling them names, reviling their ancestors, mothers, sisters, and pets.  But he felt a lack.  He was unfulfilled. Merely yelling and cussing was small time evil. Even when he added a violent waving of the arms it did not satisfy.  But it was all he had. So he tried to enjoy it as much as possible. Continue reading “Espiritu de Jesus” →

Juan Rogelio was born to the fields. His life was measured by planting, hoeing, harvesting. As he grew up he was happy in the fields. But he was much happier once he had his own small farm. It wasn’t much, but his uncle had left him enough land to live, to grow food, to tend animals, to sell some of what he raised to pay the taxes and raise his family. It was a life of hard work. But a good life.

One day Juan Rogelio went into his house after checking the fields in the pre-dawn light. He said to his wife, Renata, “We have a pig.”

“We do not have a pig,” replied Renata.

“ Well, yes, we do not own a pig, though I have dreamed of owning a pig many times. We have a visiting pig. It visited our watermelons last night and ate many.” Juan Rogelio was upset. He cherished his watermelons and they were a good cash crop.

Renata was also concerned, “What will you do about this pig?” she asked her husband.

Juan Rogelio stood up straight, looked Renata in the eyes, and said, “I will catch this pig. We will then have a pig and also save the watermelons.”

Continue reading “How to catch a pig” →

Frank’s father was a fallen away Seventh Day Adventist.  His mother a fallen away Baptist.  Instead of spending their lives in healthy pursuits and church functions, Franks parents loved to party.  His mother, who did not work except at fun, would have a martini at lunch and then golf.  His father, an insurance executive, would have 2 martinis at lunch and then golf with clients. Frank’s parents loved this life style so much that, when Frank was 8, they moved the family to Las Vegas.  Party time.

Somehow Frank fell far from the tree.  In fact, he seemed to inherit all the guilt his parents might have had if they were not so busy having a ball.  Frank wanted to do the right thing.  He  pressed his own pants for school, studied hard and got straight A’s, kept a neat room with no posters of Led Zeppelin or Frank Zappa on the walls, and generally lived the straight and level. He even joined the Boy Scouts in the mistaken idea that it would be a haven of good behavior.  His parents didn’t notice. They were too busy with the community theater production of Bye, Bye, Birdie.

By the time Frank was 15 he was a full blown obsessive compulsive.  He went to college and studied chemistry in a perfectly clean dorm room with thick insulation glued to the walls to keep the bad noises out and 3 locks on the door the keep the bad people out. Frank graduated with honors, went to work in the food hygiene business, and lived a life busy with keeping things tidy.  Eventually he started his own business, became very successful and lived in an antiseptic modern house with a lot of hard surfaces.

Eventually Frank married Samantha, a fallen away Catholic.  He had fallen in love with her because she was, “A handsome woman.” She loved him for his organizational skills and his courteous ways. They lived in a semblance of order and domestic success for many years.   But as time passed things changed for Frank.  His exceedingly temperate and hygienic life style began to irk Samantha.  As a former Catholic High School girl she loved to party, travel, spend time in the woods and the beach, and then party some more.  Frank liked to keep things clean and keep his top button buttoned.  He wore a tie every day including Sunday while Samantha ran around the house wearing only a smile.

One day Samantha said, “Frank, I am leaving you.  You are just no fun.”

Continue reading “The Journey of Franko Gringo” →

Suddenly Angelina is standing by her bed.  It is 2 am. Angelina is in her small bedroom in her small house in Phoenix.  She does not know if she is still asleep or if she is awake.

Angelina is standing in the warm blue sky looking down on what appears to be a well laid out pastel city. She wonders if she is dreaming.  Is this a dream of flying.

Angelina stands in that warm blue sky for what seems to be hours.  Or long minutes. Or days.

She is now standing on warm sand at the gate of the pastel city.  She recognizes it as a graveyard.  But unlike any graveyard in Phoenix.

She hears a voice.  Welcome.  No there are 2 voices, a man and a women.  They are speaking Spanish.

Who is there Angelina asks in Spanish.  She knows a little Spanish but here in the pastel graveyard she is fluent. She is thinking in Spanish.

We are here.  Over here.  Angelina sees faint outlines of a couple neither young nor old.  They seem far away but perhaps right in front of her.  She does not know.

Angelina asks Who are you.

Please come in they answer.

Where am I.

Mexico they answer. Baja California Sur.  Your family is here. You are here.

I am from Phoenix.  My family is from many places.

Yes they say.  Many places

.

Angelina walks through the graveyard.  It is beautiful.  She had always thought of graveyards, of death, as depressing.  A grey place.  But not this graveyard of color and light.  Statues, loving notes, piles of spent candles, striking painted shrines, humble block and unfinished grave houses line orderly dirt streets. Exquisite architectures of the dead.

She looks at the names on graves.  She sees headstones and shrines with names that she does not recognize but somehow knows.  Orozco, Galves Soto, Gutierres Manriquez, Guerrero.  She opens a candle niche, several candle niches.  They all have candles.  The living have been attentive to the rituals of the dead. The living and the dead meet here often.

Angelina walks through the graveyard. Angelina says out loud This is a living place of the dead.

She calls out to the couple Where are you.  Will you talk to me.  Why am I here.

There is only the silence of the sun above and a small breeze bumping and shimmering the artificial flowers that have been placed at the graves. She calls out again.

 

Angelina is standing by her bed.  It is 7 am. Angelina is in her small bedroom in her small house in Phoenix.  She does not know if she is still asleep or if she is awake. The silent sun is just breaking through her bedroom window.  She is awake.

Angelina walks into her kitchen to make coffee.  She sees something on the counter.  It is a word on a piece of lined paper torn from a notebook.

 

 

 

 

Allen sat on the couch in front of the TV eating his lunch and watching a Mexican Telenovella. The Televovellas were, to Allen, wonderful stories of Love and Heroism.   He had just gotten home from school.  He had one hour before he had to go to work selling donuts to Gringos in front of the water store in his village. His Mama made the donuts every day.  She made sugar donuts and custard filled with chocolate topping.
“Guadalupe,” Mama said, “10 minutes and the donuts will be ready.  5 sugar, 5 custard.  Just like every day.  Let us see if you can sell them.”
“ Mama, please call me Allen. It is my new name you know,” replied Allen.
His Mama always said the same thing when this issue came up, “You will always be Guadalupe to me.”
“Allen. Please Mama.”
“Guadalupe to me.”
“I like Allen.”
“Allen, I like Guadalupe.”
Then they both laughed.  Allen got up from the couch and washed his dishes from lunch.  He was good like that for an 11 year old boy.  He didn’t want his Mama to work too hard to raise him and his brother Alfonso. Continue reading “Fortune Donuts” →