It was months past that I’d been contacted by Mike Gonzales in the interest of a company called “Everything Is Stories”. These guys do audio documentaries and were interested in meeting up for an interview. It seemed an exciting opportunity for a technically homeless guy with an old motorcycle and sleeping bag. Problem was that Mike needed to nail down a date and place to fly his people into and therefore I’d have to make a commitment. Eventually we’d decided on New Orleans in the fall. This had seemed a good call, for I’d already committed to re-roofing B.B. St. Roman’s house in the French Quarter (with 22 years in that business I’m a journeyman roofer), hoped to finish the fiberglass repairs to my wrecked motorcycle at a friend’s place in Metairie (Near N.O.), then would move into Mexico for the hardest months of winter. But the unexpected engine problem back in Texas had taken too much time and I was running late. Mike had already purchased plane tickets and booked hotel rooms in New Orleans. He had money out and could no longer get a refund. As the motor problem had dragged on, both he and I had begun to sweat. But now the bike was fine and the date could easily be met—provided I did not delay.
The all but deserted highway 82 runs the western length of Louisianan coastline and, having left Dales Bike Shop in east Texas then crossed the state line only late yesterday, I’d made last night’s camp in an obscure spot alongside the road. Far ahead lay my destination of the Mardi Gras City.
Today the sky was clear and sun bright as I meandered along this desolate stretch of highway. Where the road crept close to the sea, its shimmering water could be seen at right, while tangled swampland forests often lined the flat terrain at left. Years ago a hurricane had devastated this stretch of coastline and occasionally I came across a water tower with a few bare slabs of concrete scattered nearby. It was all that remained of a once populated town. Then there was the handful of old houses abandoned after the storm; their contents a shamble of couches, TVs, and other personal possessions that now appeared as though they’d been resurrected from a sunken ship. But man is a relentless creature and of course he’d rebuilt—at least to some degree. For those towns and houses that were occupied, almost all had obviously been recently reconstructed. To me this desolate land felt almost as a refugee from some post holocaustal Mel Gibson movie. Still, it was breathtaking.
Although the bike’s tour pack and right saddlebag were still a mess of broken fiberglass, duct tape and rope from the recent accident in Colorado, the new/used engine I’d installed at Dale’s Bike Shop back in Texas only days earlier ran beautifully and this was a truly enjoyable ride.
Ahead the road ended at a short stretch of water and from there it would be necessary to take a little car ferry across the gap. For the years this bike and I had been together I could not remember all the small ships and huge freighters we’d boarded. Still, I always get a kick from riding one of these things.
In the town of Creole I stopped for gas and was soon talking with a man who drove a blue pickup. His Cajun accent was thick and friendly. Mark told me that he, friends, and mostly family, had come from Houma to do some shrimping along a nearby river. He invited me to stop by, hang out, have lunch, and maybe do a little shrimping. And although a time schedule hung over my head this day, it seemed impossible to ignore such an offer. For to me, one of the greatest attributes of drifter life has always been the copious amounts of time and freedom almost always allotted to simply follow whatever adventure presents itself from its beginning…till the eventual conclusion.
Mark gave directions and I promised to stop by.
It was not long before a little dirt road led the old Harley to the shore of what seemed a very lonely backwoods Louisiana river. After dropping the kickstand onto the dirt parking lot (no pavement in sight) I eyed the strange world to which I’d just entered. In the lot sat two big late model travel trailers and beside them was Mark’s truck. A wooden walkway led out to the river where it intersected another that sat in the water just offshore and ran parallel to the river. With no need to lock one’s ignition out here, I left the bike and started down the board walk. Ahead, a handful of folks milled about while two sat fishing from the dock’s (if that’s what you’d call it) left end. My feelings while stepping onto the board walk were those of intrigue at the strange world, and slight apprehension because I knew no one here but a man I’d only talked with at a gas station.
Mark’s smile was reassuring as he greeted me on the dock then introduced the others; most of whom were cousins, uncles, nephews, etc. With the single exception of one woman, all were men. It seemed a big family with every one seemed almost overly friendly. All spoke with such thick Cajun accents that comprehension required work on my part.
It was Sully and Mark who showed me to the large dock-mounted contraption (forgot its official name) that was used to pull shrimp from the river. Sully explained that for mating reasons the shrimp migrate up then down the river twice daily at this time of year. The big net would be dropped to the river bottom at times when they marched downstream and the current would simply help sweep them into the cone shaped net. But that event would not be for a while yet so we moseyed inside the dock-house (if that’s what you’d call it) to sit and bullshit while Mark worked over that lunch he’d promised. Surprisingly, this single rectangular room that was suspended above the river by stilts offered electricity, running water, sink, hot plate, microwave, and even full sized frig.
Beers and soda were tipped while conversation made its rounds and everyone, especially Mark, made me feel welcome. Although it seemed logical to expect a shrimp lunch, Mark served sausage jambalaya instead. He said something about the shrimp not being ready yet.
In time folks began to filter out to whatever tasks interested them until eventually I was sitting alone with Leon. So I asked about this place and as he talked it became apparent that these Cajun people had uncommonly strong family ties. Of course conversation soon turned to shrimp, and although I forget the exact number, the poundage taken from this place was impressive. When I asked Leon what they did with it he replied, “Whether the catch is big or small it’s divided evenly among all family members—including those back home.”
I asked more questions and Leon told me he had no financial investment here. It was three cousins (all present) who’d purchased and built the place. However, any family or friends were always welcome to come shrimp along this river. And although Leon was only a visitor here, he is the sole owner of a similar setup located farther north and along the Sabine River. But that place, again enjoyed by all family members, was used to catch a particularly tasty fish, of which I forget the name.
In time we left the dock-house and I sat in the sunshine to drink Coke and relax for a while. This was only a small adventure after all. But a drifter’s life, at least as I know it, is so often made up of little more than visits into the sometimes astonishing worlds of others. And although this obscure scene may be normal to them, for me it was a very intriguing, and obviously uncommon, place in the universe.
Eventually time came to pull the net from river-bottom. I watched the men work and was impressed with the size of their catch. It struck me then that there must be a colossal army of shrimp marching downstream along this river bottom. The take was then dumped into a wooden box near the dock’s edge and I watched as Sully began to sort the catch. First he pulled the few stray crabs (accidentally snagged in the net) and threw them in a bucket. Since it was just he and I now, I offered to help. From the pile of shrimp and small fish that had also been accidentally caught, Sully told me to take only the big shrimp and throw them in the bag—like he was doing. Sully was a talkative cat and as we worked I learned even more of this place and the lives of these people. When finished, he pushed the remaining fish and small shrimp back into the river.
Again I relaxed in a chair on the dock. But the afternoon was growing late. And although I wanted to take Mark’s invitation and stay a night or two, at this time circumstances would not allow it.
It was time to go.
As the Cajun shrimp factory fell behind, the lonely country road again stretched on ahead. But my reality was about to change abruptly and I wondered what lay ahead in the famous city of New Orleans.
Please follow and like us:
