Fresh tilled soil, wet wool and woodsmoke

Martin hates the way i drive

Oventic is shrouded
in thick grey cloud
near zero visibility
wet and rainy

As i climb behind the wheel of the truck
for a trip to the city
Martin cautions me about the treacherous conditions
tells me to slow down
drive safely

yeah right

every so often
while engaged in some episode of my life
i rediscover myself
who i really am
that core characteristic that remains
through all the transitions and years
a maniac

driving in the United States
is a very rule bound exercise
south of the border much less so
for me it is an anarchy

i roar out of the community
on to the wet road
laughing at Martin in the rear view
and punch the accelerator
pushing the truck to the limits
of Newtonian constrained physics
crossing the boundary of its
operating envelope around every corner
tap the brakes (ugh.. not too much!)
and slide into the turn
hit the gas
the rear end of the truck brakes loose
the tires smoke

for someone used to driving a motorcycle
on mountain roads at more than one hundred miles an hour
pushing a pickup down the road at about half that speed
has slow motion quality

for the local pedestrians
(the vast majority own no vehicle)
in must seem abusive

there is almost no traffic enforcement here
so the communities in acts of resistance
to slow high-speed car culture
create their own
asphalt or concrete speed bumps
which frequently and more of less
randomly cross the road
before each community or collection of
houses along the road

these speed bumps usually
an effective brake
are for me today
simply exercise for the suspension
perhaps if i hit them fast enough...

i come barreling around a turn
tires slipping and squealing on the wet road
as i maintain just a little too much throttle

...and there in front of me
looming out of the grey mist
is a family walking down the road
father
two daughters
mom with a baby
wrapped in her shawl

wet and muddy returning from their corn field
they are carrying hoes and machetes
this is the season of the siembra (planting) here

the father looks at me suggestively
i pull over to offer a ride
open the camper shell
the family and their tools
pile in
I invite the mother and her baby
up front where it is warm

when she slides into the seat next to me
the cab fills with the smell
of rain soaked earth
mud
wet wool
and wood smoke
and a plethora of ancient agrarian memory
a single whiff contains within it
more information than all the literature
that I have ever read about the indigenous relationship to
the land
10,000 years of history since people
took up agriculture

As I pull away
i do so slowly
gently
out of respect for the precious
human cargo that i am carrying
i attempt to converse
with this woman
a mom holding her baby
farmer
keeper of wisdom of the land
but we do not share
enough of her language or mine for conversation

The irony of the situation strikes me
that here i am
mad 21st century maniac
addicted to speed
coming face-to-face
with the culture of the people of corn
bare foot
soft spoken
hoe wielding
slow and deliberate
rooted to this place
every tree and hill
one world intersecting with another
one way of life facing extinction
through the behavior of another

The family is happy for the ride
a small comfort on a rainy day
and i for the company
and the lesson