We have made it out of the Lone Star State alive -- just barely. Fred and I had decided last night that we'd stray from the prescribed route in order to shave off some miles and get our butts to Louisiana as quickly as possible. It meant riding on some busier roads, but at least those had shoulders. The worst part of the day by far was on the quietest road, where the traffic was deadly. The numerous logging trucks were bad, but the pickups were worse. Every backwoods redneck cracker hillbilly rube seemed intent on running us off of the shoulderless road between Kirbyville and Bon Wier.
In spite of this constant human menace, our real adversary was the wind again, however. We've been fighting it all the way from Blanco, before Austin, but today it was blowing particularly stiffly. I fantasized about a bike trip where my daily destination would be a function of which way the wind was blowing --definitely something to be tried some day. The notable events of the day were these: I endured yet another flat tire between Evadale and Buna; In Bon Wier we stopped long enough to eavesdrop on a conversation between a group of adolescents in which the only word I understood was \"possum\"; This evening in DeRidder we went in search of Cajun cuisine and stumbled upon a charming establishment called \"Taco Bell.
Seated near us was a big group of dudes in coveralls speaking...French! Were they Cajuns? No, they said, they were from Quebec and worked in the paper mill; Brother Marty knocked on the door of our hotel only minutes after I left a message on his answering machine. He drove all the way from Minneapolis in less than two days to join us, and he seems to have a lot more energy than we do. We've already informed him that tomorrow will be a low-mileage day... Guest Rider/Writer - Marty Broan-Andy's brother** \"Goin' down the road, feelin' bad,\ Goin' where the climate suits my clothes,\ Goin' where the water tastes like wine,\ Don't wanna be treated this away\"
- *Elizabeth Cotten* My car stereo cranked this road-trip anthem while crossing into Louisiana from the Ozarks, home of the Whitewater scandal and, it quickly became apparent, more than a few Deliverance-esque inbred roadside gawkers. The scenery slowly morphed from snow-stained bleakscape in Iowa to full-fledged summer in Louisiana. After an abnormally long winter in Minnesota, that song felt pretty true to me---every part except for the water tasting like wine, of course. Andy and Fred called me two days ago and said I should meet them in De Ridder, their first town in Louisiana. As soon as I crossed into De Ridder, I checked my voice mail for A+F and found that they had just arrived to the Best Western directly across the street from the pay phone.
Fortuitous! They appeared nearly comatose and Taco-Bell stupefied, having experienced yet another longer-than-expected day, only to be greeted by the character-less town of De Ridder. What they needed was an injection of energy, fresh legs and enthusiasm---neither of which I was able to muster after 17+ hours of driving. I was definitely feeling not-so-fresh. The festivities began, nonetheless, and I was humored that I won the bike naming contest. The names that I picked for them were Siegfried and Roy, the scary Vegas tiger-taming couple that A+F appear to emulate. I suppose I had an unfair advantage in the contest, knowing their special affinity for the over-tanned Deutsch robots.
The promised Texas treats were a Tex-ass flag bandana and some odd roadside booty---a home made beauty parlor sign that uses bad clip art as samples of their work. We then drained the last of Fred's scotch stash (De Ridder is in the middle of Louisiana's only dry parish) and quickly passed out in front of the comforting glow of late-night TV. The next morning, we mistakenly wandered into the world's largest Wal-Mart to find some supplies---q-tips, bear mace for aggressive dogs, an air horn and A+F's new favorite candy, Reese's cookie cups. We narrowly escaped before succumbing to anxiety attacks.
On our way out of De Ridder, everyone was distantly nice - like they really think you're satanic freaks from the North (which we may be) but still treat you like God's children because they will go to hell if they say anything bad about you. Under each smile are some firmly clenched teeth. Nice is still better than mean \-- cars here stop politely for you to cut across three lanes of traffic, give you a remarkably wide berth, and honk only to be friendly (Andy's still not convinced it is friendly and sneers with every passing horn. He now gleefully responds to honkers with his new Wal-Mart air horn, which is more anemic than we had hoped).
First stop - Hilltop Groceries, a half-full store with a 101 Dalmations snow-globe collection in the window, courtesy of several McDonald's happy meals. I bought a coke in one of those little 8 oz. bottles and the lady at the register somehow chose the topic of how Coke made in Mexico often has \"fingers-'n-shit\" in it. She said a friend of hers found a thumb in a V-8 and was paid off by their PR execs in a couple bucks worth of coupons. I think she actually WANTS to be one of the lucky ones some day, like Charlie and the golden ticket in Willy Wonka.
I pray my Coke is American and find additional comfort in my clear glass bottle. During our next stop, a bus-load of high school girl athletes drives into the gas station and throw some racy remarks like \"wooooo! Bend over!\" It confirms my suspicion that we're out of the hard-core Christian parish... The amount of roadkill along these rolling roads is startling. I can't help but think of a hot new enterprise down here---roadkill welcome mats. They would be very simple to make since they already are quite flat, and the armor on the armadillos is especially well-suited for scraping mud off of shoes.
Supply certainly wouldn't be a problem since these surprisingly thick pine forests toss copious amounts of dillos, possums, skunks, nutria and coons into the asphalt altar to pick-up trucks. We make it to Oberlin for lunch, already an infinitely more interesting town than DeRidder. After riding down the main strip (which is truly a rockin' two block showcase for the high school students to zip down in their pick-em-up trucks), we find our only two choices for dining are a pizza joint and a crawfish/catfish place. Every town has to have at least two restaurants---one for the blacks and one for the whites.
\"We don't mean nuthin' of it,\" the 'non-racist' whites say. The catfish is tasty, if not way greasy and the only adornment in the place is a photo of Shaquille O'Neal with the owner. The last 20 miles on to Mamou are flat in the extreme. Along the road are sculpted pools of dirty water\--breeding grounds for jillions of crawfish. They look like rice patties, but this is definitely not Bali. We are entering the heart of Cajun country. Even in the flats, welcome mats abound. There was a particularly nasty dog gauntlet in the last few miles. People down here love their dogs mean and nasty (like those scary Rottweilers in the \"The Omen\"), but usually caged.
Several houses in row seemed to agree to set their dogs free on us simultaneously. We had a slight collision while frantically readjusting to battle formation. Fear not, though. I travel with two well-armed cyclists who expertly crippled two dogs with pepper spray. Immensely satisfying. The ride down main street tells us accommodations will be scarce and primitive. We ultimately end up at a \"tragic pit\" called the Bamboo Inn -- a double-sized trailer next to a mosquito breeding pond. After some authentic cajun food (shrimp etoufee on catfish and gumbo), we went to a couple of Mamou's many bars. The Cazan Bar and Hotel is decrepit but filled with turn-of-the-century character.
Our first encounter is with Sue---an overzealous, horny forty-something with no front teeth and a skimpy cowgirl outfit, packing more than its share of cottage cheese. In Andy and Fred code, she offers us TMI (too much information). Her first husband is a lieutenant for the prison nearby and proudly cornered 3 escaped convicts and shot them to death. She says she's single now but the folks around her say otherwise. In fact, they roll their eyes in her presence, saying she's always out for fresh meat. It's not hard to tell that she's trouble. Gayle, the bartender, is clad in a skimpy leather vest and tells us which places to avoid (basically the one black bar).
The Casanova Bar across the street is truly the heart of Cajun culture. We quickly meet Tante Sue - wife of Fred, as in the famous Fred's Lounge. The rowdy French-speaking octogenarian sat us down and instantly made us feel at ease. She is a total hoot. If you are within 100 miles, make that 1000, you must seek her out. Scary Sue from across the street followed us in to the Casanova to talk to me (I guess she smelled my hetero blood) and her intentions are clear. I try not to reveal my nausea when she places a Playboy bunny sticker between her boobs and coyly looks at me.
Meanwhile, A+F share some chuckles with a couple of older lesbian Cajuns. A brutally honest harmless redneck kept asking Andy and Fred, \"So why the hell are you DOING this trip?\" I encourage him, since I, too, would like to know their motivation. I'm just not as persistent. A dozen or so older Cajuns are in the back room playing poker and the French card game of La Boule. This place should be preserved for the ages, as it embodies such sincere hospitality and a culture fighting the black hole of Wal-Marts and MTV. Somehow they preserve it here, with weekly performances of true Cajun music and free use of their odd patois.
One bitter pill to swallow with the culture is an undercurrent of racism. For instance---I told Tante Sue how much I enjoy Cajun music and Zydeco, and she frowned and quickly retorted, \"but that Zydeco isn't ours, it's the black people's. It's much different.\" I suppose the addition of a washboard makes all the difference in the world between blacks and whites down here. During our long walk back to our trailer, we see three cops pull over a young wasted driver, who unwisely gets out of the car and staggers toward the cop car. The cops see us stop to watch and emphatically tell us to keep walking.
If there's one thing I know NOT to do in Louisiana, it's not to challenge an angry cop. The drunken idiot's fate appears certain---get the shit kicked out of him by some rabid troopers and sleep face-down on the floor of the local jail. Our \"hotel\" room is adjacent to some obliterated nedrecks who seem to be only capable of saying \"fuckin'\" and \"fix my truck.\" They friskily bounce off the walls (ours) until we attain some unsettled state of sleep.