The morning I was to set off for my next pitstop on my way to New Orleans, I packed my gear furiously as if I were going to war. My rarely vibrating phone managed to wake me up to relay a message from my lady that her second attempt at travel had been thwarted despite presenting the demanded documents: proof of residency, pay stubs, report cards, the works. I just about lost it.
My anger wasn't what it was days ago but rather the eye of a storm - just a hair shy of going completely over the edge against the first person or thing to rub me the wrong way. This tense serenity was maintained well enough to pack Manifest Destiny at the bottom of my saddlebags, separated from the ammunition as always. Before storing what I had intended as an instrument of self defense, I calmly promised myself to leave it in the care of my friends in Minnesota before attempting the border. The vow was not so much to avoid the extra beaurocracy involved with transporting a firearm across nations but rather to spare the border patrol anything more than a broken nose and myself a prison sentence that I couldn't afford. 2,000 miles better be enough time for me to come to my senses for everyone's sake.
The Cajun in Lafayette who I had been in contact with for over a week was disappointed that e-mails would be as far as our acquaintanceship would go but very understanding. No one was more disappointed than, I, however, that my trip, in essence, had come to an end and so close too. A northbound route via interstates was plotted on my map and the straight line that stared right back at me seemed so foreign now but so necessary. I was never exactly relationship material and it had been rocky for some time now but my sense of duty always kept me responsible enough to draw a line for my selfishness and adhere to the responsibilities of being someone's significant other. I did not know what I was going to do at the border but I knew that I ought to be at my loved one's side until the mess could be sorted out.
Just as I warmed Chance up, as if God, Himself, acknowledged my willing sacrifice, an unusual vibration was felt I between the rhythm of the rotating cylinders which I had become in tune with - it was my phone again! The text message was confusing and seemed out of context so I dug around the history in case I missed any others and boy, did I. Did I not confess to not being a phone person?
Apparently Renuka put up a respectable fight, got a different officer, and though they warned of banning her from the United States for ten years she was given two weeks as opposed to the summer. Still uncalled for and the most expensive trip she has ever taken considering the amount of change fees and new tickets but I was grateful she could still go see my family nonetheless. It was a relief on many fronts! I resolved to visit her back in Toronto at some point and carry on with the spirit of my original journey. For now, I still had the rest of Louisiana to experience!
I stopped for lunch at a Chinese restaurant. It was an interesting amalgamation of local and Eastern foods but the owners were truly from the so-called "middle country." They were surprised I managed to order my drink in Chinese and quickly treated this outsider like family.
The description of my Zodiac on the placemat made me laugh.
"Ox: Bright, patient and inspiring to others. You can be happy by yourself, yet make an outstanding parent. Marry a Snake or Cock. The Sheep will bring troubles."
My girlfriend is a sheep. The slip of paper in my fortune cookie was just as amusing.
"Your fondest dream will come true within this year."
That's 3.39 per gallon of premium petrol! As is the Mardi Gras slogan down here, "laissez les bons temps rouler," or let the good times roll!
The country roads on the way down Lafayette were very enjoyable even if I had to dodge a lost crawfish cage or two.
As soon as I initially cancelled my stay with my Cajun host he salvaged his afternoon by joining the Big Brothers and Big Sisters organization and taking out a little guy for the day. That alone told me he had a big heart but humbled me all the more when he insisted I still had a place to stay later that night. I'd pass most of my time writing in a coffee shop in town until the sun set. While getting ready to go, some admirers of the bike called to me from the porch.
I may have forgotten their names but I just as well would call them the welcome party to southern Louisiana, regardless. They weren't only curious about my charming ride but my story as well, going so far as to ask about where it could be read. I rarely encounter such curiosity on the road so I was excited to converse with them. The gentlemen were avid motorcyclists, hence the draw to Chance. They all stepped over one another to recommend all sorts of places to see that seemed just right up my alley! Apparently my host now had their weight on his shoulders to make sure I get a true slice of life experience down here.
Navigating Lafayette wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. My host, Jared, had an obscure apartment behind some restaurants but we found it all right.
"Bonjour," the Cajun greeted me.
I took it as a surprise for a moment, thinking French was the last thing I would hear in the Deep South. Of course I recalled where I was but then the young man, three years my junior, astonished me more at his unique fascination with the Olympic trials that he was watching on the television. Our introductions were only long enough to pass a commercial then I wasted no time making myself right at home on the couch. Between cheers and comments of pure wonder, he told me how the furniture I was sitting on worked as it was a vintage massaging couch! My mind was blown but not as much as Jared was at the display of peak human potential gracing his screen. I confessed a pet peeve of mine was watching other people play sports but the manner in which he marveled at this ancient Greek tradition encouraged me to give it a second look.
My first taste of the area's cuisine was fried alligator. He asked me what it taste like and my reply was that chicken sounded too cliche. Apparently that's what it's supposed to taste like and in my opinion, so much better! The conversation veered away from food for but a moment when I asked about the weather. I learned shortly thereafter that Lousiana has four seasons: crab, crawfish, oyster, and shrimp!
We then headed off to see a band he was curious about. We parked in front of a house and I asked if we were walking to the venue only to be smartly told that we had arrived. It was a venue unlike any I had been to before! The house was moved at the turn of the century with logs and mules to its location now where it first served as a family home, a flower shop, and now as a guest house and honky tonk that welcomes all sorts of travelers, artists, business people and politicians to enjoy a good drink and roots music.
Jared bought me the first round of beers along with proudly informing me of the other native brews. This guy was a walking encyclopedia! As we all know, I'm no fan of beer but if I know any culture that revolves around its food and or drink, you don't decline a free round! I have got to say, this wasn't too bad! Not to mention the music!
As much as I enjoyed the first band best, the second was what got the house rocking - quite literally! It was a gospel little-bit-country and a little-bit-rock-and-roll group that put everyone on their feet. Jared laughed at the sight knowing that the majority of them, especially the younger folks, were probably agnostic at best yet they couldn't help but get their body in tune with the soulful music!
It would be about half past midnight before I had my fill of great melodies that perfectly represented the region. We returned home only to listen to more music off Jared's collection but it sure as hell got me over the hill especially with his "En Francais" album with scores of history's best rock covered in French! It would actually be Jared who would retire first that night as he had an eventful day planned for us in less than five hours.
I thought I was a morning person. This Cajun works as a land surveyor as well as a college student so he's normally up at five in the morning. Today seven was considered sleeping in but at least he had a breakfast in mind that kickstarts an engine better than coffee: cracklin and boudin. Before heading out, he showed me this brilliant yet short documentary on Cajun cuisine called "To Live and Die in Avoyelles Parish" which truly captured the local spirit!
I could feel my arteries clog with every bite of cracklin and boudin but the flavor was amazingly intense and it filled you up for the day! This one consisted of some touring around the heart of Cajun country, a visit to a history museum of Jared's people, a famous salt dome island known for Tabasco sauce, and many other entertaining events that weren't on the agenda. But not before finishing our balanced breakfast on the roof of a car at the museum parking lot!
It was refreshing to learn about a culture I never knew about and dare I say, even existed. The museum, I'm sure only grazed the surface to give visitors like myself a general idea about the Cajun, or should I say Acadian, culture.
Essentially, Jared's is a direct descendant of French colonists (Acadians) originally settled in what is now the Nova Scotia region. As the current name of the area implies, the British - at least in the historical video with an obviously dramatic agenda - brutally exiled them either back to France or to French territories like Louisiana. One gripe my host vocalized to the museum guide was the twenty year old film they've been showing has an unfounded nostalgia for the "motherland" whereareas every Cajun he knows prefers to celebrate their heritage here in America. The museum itself seemed to display that pride just by the artifacts and photographs that demonstrate not only an acclamation to a new land but an immense influence over an entire region now known as Acadiana.
To beat the heat but still get a tour of his culture, we climbed back in his car and drove all over. The ride seemed similar to how I went about my journey earlier on because whenever we reached a fork in the road he'd ask me, "Left or right?" The towns around the area were small with the tallest building generally being a church which was indicative of a highly Roman Catholic people.
I wonder what living on a plantation-style mansion would be like. I hear Brad Pitt moved into one in New Orleans instead of the usual Bevery Hills crib which must say something about the allure of southern living. Then again, a humble Cajun style home with a Duke's of Hazzard muscle car parked out back seems just as charming.
As someone with a passion for architecture and art, Jared peppered the history and cultural lesson with commentaries on some of the local structures. He was fond of porches because he wisely explained how they provided a welcoming atmosphere to a property that wasn't intimidating like simply having a door. Raised foundations were inhospitable to him, as well, since he felt visitors shouldn't be looked down upon. His opinions seemed to be a testimonial to southern mindsets.
On another note, Jared found Victorian style homes to make sense while office buildings made to look like an offshore oil rig gaudy.
As we came upon a town from which he received his Jesuit education (which explained why I could relate to his unique morals) we drove into the church and cemetery grounds which were inspiring. Apparently the reason why Louisiana is known for its above-ground graves was due to a flood earlier in the 20th century that saw many of the region's past residences floating about in coffins. My highschool friend - a fellow Lord of the Rings fan - and I always wanted one for egocentric reasons with an embossed relief of myself on the top, preferably styled in kingly motifs... But I ever digress. Jared's comment about the peacefulness he found here while attending school was met with my own poorly articulated awe.
Perhaps the peace I was enjoying was actually nostalgia for I only now recall distant memories of similar cemeteries back in the Philippines. Even then, they didn't strike me as frightening places. Next stop, Avery Island!
Currently in the middle of a surveying project for the island, Jared explained that it's no regular island. It's actually a dome of rock salt that rose from beneath the Mississippi delta floor. It's one of five other notable rock salt domes. The other, I'm only aware of because of an anecdote shared by my Cajun friend about a oil company that drilled in the wrong spot, consequently draining the entire lake into the huge mining caverns that had been in place for extracting salt. A fisherman actually paddled his way as fast as he could against the whirlpool, jumping out onto shore before his boat got sucked under. Wild.
This island paradise is owned by the local aristocratic family by the very same name. You don't speak ill of the Avery family in these parts, son. They also own the Tabasco factory on the island which put them on the map. The secret garden-like grounds were amazing to tour, albeit an expensive tourist trap.
The iconic moss that hangs from the trees in these parts were soft to the touch. While playing it like a harp between my fingers, Jared disturbed me by saying to be careful not to let it touch my hair because of lice. Then he shattered my world saying that the Spanish moss is actually a fungus which instantly made me die inside a little. Apparently there were alligators just freely roaming the jungle garden and it made sense for just a moment to surrender my infected hand to one of them in order to save the rest of me. Rest assured, no alligators were encountered nor is that quintessential southern drapery a fungus of any sort. As for the lice, I've yet to confirm...
The Averys, though devoutly Catholic, had a fascination for Asian religious motifs like this Japanese shinto gate and a thousand year old Buddha statue with an interesting history of acquisition.
I love this gate. Might have been my most favorite thing on all the island. I wonder what it's story was. Just beyond the fence was a massive bird sanctuary. If you couldn't see that far one could simply take a deep breath and take in the foul aroma of fowl. Still, the place had a Land Before Time look to it. I'd lean towards Jurrasic Park had any of the supposed alligators revealed themselves.
On our way out we stopped by the Tabasco plant but I passed on the bottling tour. Instead, we went into the gift shop which was entertainingly unique!
Everything there was Tabasco-based from chocolate bars to even ice cream. Yes, that is ice cream.
Honestly, not bad. The Tabasco soda was slightly more appealing but much more worth the amusement of watching my Cajun friend nearly choke on it. A few swigs of water and back on the road we went.
Though the Tabasco business was always booming, many towns surrounding Lafayette were becoming ghost towns. The populations were getting too old while the youth move into the big cities - the typical yet ever tragic story. It's a shame but the "for sale" signs in front of many gorgeous mansions did tickle my imagination.
We spoke at length about the racial dissonance and cultural dissintigration, especially that of the Cajuns who had been forced to stop using French in schools leaving Jared's generation purely English speakers. Definitely an ambassador to his people, he once called out one of his elders who were damning the need for extending the Catholic mass in order to perform half of it in Spanish. He scolded his elder, saying that it was the very same attitude that beat the French out of him decades ago.
The conversation lightened up to mention one of the favorite events to attend was not so much Mardi Gras but the biannual rodeo that takes place at one of the most secure prisons in the nation that lacks walls. He said that apparently it was the closest thing one could get to witnessing something like a Roman gladiatorial event. Also the prisoners sold things there in a unique fashion. As a genuine fan of abstract art, Jared has purchase some which actually decorate his walls now.
On a remote stretch of country road we encountered a random 35MPH speed limit sign. It both had us stumped. Perhaps it was to be the beginning of a new town? If you build it, they will come.
Back at Jared's pad he put together a couple of bloody mary's out of the Tabasco cocktail mixes he had purchased earlier. I had always wondered why these were so popular to serve on flights and now was the first time I'd get to try them.
Definitely tasted as bad as I imagined. Hah!
Lethargic from the lack of sleep and pretty eventful morning, the host was kind enough to let me nap while he went out for some personal business. His spirits were high when he left but hours later, he returned very toubled with a jug of beer in his hand and calmly poured me a glass.
What transpired thereafter, although intriguing and just the kind of material that would be the highlight to sell a story, out of respect for him, will not be discussed here. What I will reveal is that I was touched to have a stranger-turned-brother confide his life story to me. The things he would tell me would make me come to admire him tenfold. I can't remember the last time I had seen a grown man come to tears but I'll never forget his eyes.
I also found out we had a lot in common. For now I'll just leave it at that.
A classmate of his would phone in and mention swinging by. It was an unspoken understanding that we'd put the discussion behind us when he arrived. His fellow surveying friend, Mike, showed up in no time at all with plenty of Coca Cola and rum cradled in his arms. At this sight Jared realized the day was still young!
"Mike, I [so] declare, our Yankee friend has never been to our beloved drive-through daiquiris before!"
And with that we piled into Mike's truck with Jared - an already plastered backseat driver! I indulged his intoxicated humor and joined in the raucous symphony of playing with Mike's duck call whistles. That soon came to a hilarious end when one of the boys mentioned the largest one resembled a black dildo.
It was a wonder that they didn't card us giggling juveniles. I couldn't believe it. The jovial quartet outside the coffee shop were not pulling my leg that Louisiana was the only place in the world where you could get alcohol at a drive through window like at a fast food joint! The menu was intimidating so a random choice went to a White Russian pour moi.
Of course there are a bunch of quirky legal rules regarding having it in the vehicle, special seals and opened straws but we didn't bother as the ride back to Jared's place took all but thirty seconds. My first daiquiri was delicious and I wanted more but the beer, rum and coke, and whisky would suffice. The evening would see us all fairly hammered, although I paced myself for documenting purposes. We would watch the George W. film while Jared boisterously expressed his political criticisms and Mike would every so often do Bush impressions.
The whole jamboree wasn't a far cry from the Guy's Nights I'd have back home! But like real Cajuns, we took the festivities to the porch. I humored the offer for cigarettes and ended up going through half a pack. It wasn't so much the nicotine more than the ego trip simply holding one gave. If only there was a tabacco company that would invest in making cigarettes that did absolutely nothing beyond the theatrics of self image, I'd buy stock. After all, surely most smokers today can confess they only got into it because the cool kids were doing it. Give the people a cig without the cancer, I say!
If I wasn't pulling off a Keroacian beatnik then at least I was playing the part of a red neck. The Ragin Cajun had us all beat though, yelling at the restaurant employees down the way to come up and join us for a beer. When they did, the two kids fetched what they could from Mike's cooler and disappeared back into the restaurant. To Mike and my amusement, Jared felt crossed and marched downstairs and into the front doors of restaurant in nothing more than his boxers.
I couldn't remember the last time I had laughed so hard! At some point up at the burrito bar he realized what he was doing, hilariously retreated with us back to his property and eventually early to bed. Mike and I would stay up quite a while shooting King of the Hill and other Texan impressions back and forth until the cows came home.
I knew when I first saw him with his "Taste the Meat Not the Heat" shirt that I would like this guy. The night would simmer down to a friendly chat about ourselves as proper introductions had been skipped for daiquiris earlier. Somehow the conversation became one sided once more as I intently listened to this stranger, soon to be friend, confide in me his own story. His vulnerability and sincerity were moving and I earnestly wished the best for this good guy. Unfortunately Mike would not stay the night and join Jared and I for what I was hoping would still be the attendance of Sunday morning mass.
The next morning I was up early and pretty well rested. After a shower I took the time to browse his book shelf to find a very intriguing individual was housing me - as if the past couple of days weren't proof enough. From pre-Declaration of Indepdence literature to the Quran, itself, he was the epitome of well-roundedness. The paintings on is walls were as indicative but an allegorical four paneled set by Thomas Cole entitled "The Voyage of Life" spoke to me most. He had pointed it out earlier as being one of the most poignant pieces he'd ever stand before. Besides being of my favorite turn of the century Romanticism style, it told a profound story about the four distinct stages in man's life.
The man of the hour had slept in by my standards but was up just in time to dress for church. He was fairly quiet - we both were, but it suited me just fine as I wanted to get in the mindset for participating in Catholic mass. His parish was just a stroll down the street and a magnificent sight to behold once inside. Having been away for a year or so, it required a bit of conscious thought to perform the rituals and responses on beat. At its conclusion the send-off hymn was America the Beautiful.
On the way back we grabbed some hearty burgers to go and wolfed them down to The Patriot on television. As much as I wanted to stay and pick up where our heavy conversation left off from the other evening, I had a date with New Orleans just in time for Independence Day.
In the process of helping me saddle up, Jared mentioned that the last guy he hosted was walking across America just before he would accept his citizenship. The journey had been tough from New York so he had resolved to hitchhiking every so often. He sounded like a fascinating individual to be on such a similar yet different quest. Had he been going the same way I would have tracked him down to give him a lift but who knew where he was now?
It's been fun, mate! A couple of hearty au revoirs passed between us and a firm hand shake. It was time to finish this pilgrimage east.
Come rain or shine, N'awlins, here I come!
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