CAJUNS
Lafayette, Baton Rouge,
Thibodaux, New Iberia, and parts south. Here ya’ll eat
Crawfish and Corn, Jambalaya, Gumbo, and stuff I honestly couldn’t identify.
It’s a real homogeneous culture. True Cajuns are small, dark, and have the
most extreme dialect I’ve heard since I lived with the cane workers on Maui a
lifetime ago. Here's an example: "Bonne taun roulette, fey dodo...sha!"
(I accept no responsibility for the spelling). In essence that means, "Let the
good times roll, Honey put the kids to bed, 'cause we're gonna go out and spend
the whole night dancin', and that's a precious thang". Go figure. "Key-ay taun
pa-pah!" (spelled phonetically) means, in effect, "Who's your daddy?" or,
"what in the hell are you thinking?". Mo-zjay ka-kah!
(butchered phonetically again) means literally,
"eat shit". (I have a pension for learning swear words in different dialects. It
seems to have started in junior high German class; that's the only German I can
remember.)
Someone told me that if you’re brave, you can call the locals “Coon
Asses ”, but I'd best be careful. I didn't have any desire to do so, but I was
curious, so I asked
a few of the people I met down there where the term came from. No one seemed to
really know for sure, but I got the distinct impression that it was a subject my
sorry northwest ass should not be worrying too much about.
Half the time I kept having to say “what?” when someone said something to me.
For some reason, I have trouble understanding dialects in that part of the
world--had the same problem in southeast Alabama when I used to hang out there. After awhile, they’d usually say, “Ya’ll ain’t from ‘roun heah, is ya, boy?”.
Like no joke. For fun, I'd usually ask, "Nope, not from here. Where do I sound
like I'm from?". They'd think for a minute and say, "Well, I'd say
ya'll from up Nawth." "Yep, but where north?" I'd continue. Another pause, then
something like "Oh, I don' know...maybe O-high-a?" For some reason that cracked
me up every time (I've never thought of Ohio as North). When I told them I was
from Washington state, they'd invariably look at me and try to
figure what in the hell someone from up there was doing in their town.
It's the little things that count...
As part of my journey, I was going to visit a friend of
mine--my quasi-little sister, really--who's spending some time locked up
courtesy of the Wisconsin Department of Corrections. We grew up together, but
haven't seen each other in over 15 years. Her parents are close to my mom
(they still live on the same cul-de-sac where I grew up), and asked if I would
stop by and visit their daughter while I was away. A one-month trip to solitary
confinement put the skids on her visitation privileges, so our intended visit
was off. The rules of inmate visitation are such that I had to be at a certain place at a certain time. This
was my only anchor with respect to having to be anywhere. It abruptly went away
courtesy of a "flash" e-mail on my cell phone. I got the message one night when
it magically came alive after days of silence.
With a big chunk of my trip chopped off, I
found myself with a whole lot of free schedule. I decided to tidy up while in
Lafayette; I had a full laundry bag, a Jeep with thousands of different species
of bugs liberally pasted to every surface, and I just didn't want to drive very
far that day.
As such, I limited my forays to local
journeys, and satisfied myself with a sample of the local world. Not
restaurants, museums, or cultural things, but the day-to-day haunts of someone
who lives there and might look me over at a stop sign. I went to the local "car
place" and got some soap, a sponge, and set out to make my vehicle presentable
for the residents of that part of the world. Perpetually curious, I stopped into
the smallest gas stations, tiny grocery stores out in the cane fields, the local feed-and-grain stores (not that I needed
feed and/or grain that day), and just jawed with the locals. I didn’t have any
particular reason, I just wanted to know what was in their minds and hearts.
That’s the fun stuff.
While I was running around, I saw all of
these little outlets with similar names; some said "Daiquiri Depot", some said "Daiquiri
Depo"...it seemed to differ depending on what part of town I was in. Apparently, it's legal
to drink alcoholic beverages while driving in Louisiana if said beverage is
contained in a Styrofoam container...dutifully served that way from the
aforementioned facilities. I never tested it (I didn't care to get popped for a
DUI out there...logistically, that'd be a real drag), but I was curious
as to whether or not that odd legal loophole was true. I never asked the
question, so I may never know. The places did exist however, and I'm inclined
to think that it's the truth. Either way, it makes a good story.
I’ve
got a friend living in St. Martinville who graciously volunteered to ride shotgun and keep
me out of harms way out there in the boonies. That was a lot of fun, and gave me
a glimpse into authentic cajun culture not often seen. I
experienced things that I wouldn’t have known about if I’d just been leafing
through the AAA tour guide.
Now
(and this assumed great importance to me for some reason) there’s a difference
between a Crawfish and a mud bug. A Crawfish is edible (it’s a nice, big,
healthy sucker). A mud bug on the other hand, is just a sickly, scrawny variant
that’s only good for bait. So…if someone tries to feed you a mud bug when what
you really wanted was a Crawfish, well…now ya’ll know. Well, that's what some
gal told me in a Laundromat in Broussard one steamy morning. Maybe she was funnin'
me, but it’s unlikely I’ll ever know. I liked the tale regardless, and accept it
as an absolute truth.
I hung out in bayou land for a couple of days, just because it was
fun. I drove around all sorts of way, way, way back roads
in and around the swamps. In this part of the world, some inexorable truths are
evident; our troops are blessed, George “Dub-ya” Bush is a demigod, and Jesus
loves us. (Guns are recommended, but not specifically required). I know these
things, because every corner in every town had a church with a weathered,
windblown marquis proclaiming these dicta in a clear, albeit “stick-on” letter
fashion. The conviction of the creators of these signs convinced me that these
things were true; if not in the “big picture” world, at least in the hearts and
minds of the residents of those little Bayou hamlets.
I tried to sort this out and come to grips with the contrast as I
passed the countless “Adult Emporium” adult movie warehouses along the way. They
were the size of “WalMart”. Do the marquis-wielding warriors—and the penance they
dole out—absolve one from parking at the “naughty” places and shopping for a
spell? Do the churches argue with the adult movie warehouses about who mows the lawn when they’re next to each other
and the grass grows long around the adjacent signposts? I wonder about stuff
like that sometimes. “Dichotomy…that’s a big word, boys and girls.
Can you say that? Sure…I knew ya could…”
On one of my bayou jaunts, I
accidentally ran over an alligator sunning itself in the middle of the road…I
rounded a corner and out of nowhere was that big lizard thing. He/she
was like a living speed bump. I stopped and backed up, but it skampered off into
the swamp. I didn't get out and follow it, because I didn’t know if it’d
charge if it was wounded. I felt terrible about hitting it, and worried about getting some bad mojo
from the alligator world after that. Nothing happened, but I kept one eye
looking over my shoulder whenever I'd journey out into the swamp on foot;
waiting for "the big one" to jump me and even the score.
The whole time I was down
there, that Jerry Reed song “Amos Moses” kept popping in my head. I’d wander
around alone on foot trails just soaking in the swampland; the flora and fauna,
smells and sounds of the watery environment. No joke, I could hear that song in
my head; almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless. Tinnitus with a Jerry Reed
theme. It didn't take long to realize that I was truly in the world of that
song.
Now there's a bizarre truth
to that:
If you listen to
the chorus, Jerry Reed sings, "about 45 minutes southeast of Thibodaux,
Louisiana" (It's pronounced Tib'-e-doe...until I went there and got it right, I
thought he was saying "Tippytoe". Damn Yankee). Well, at an average
driving speed of 40 mph (rough roads n' all), thats about 33 or 34 miles
southeast of Thibodaux. That puts one (well, me) in Pointe Aux Chenes. On one of
my bayou jaunts, I'd headed down some road (it's called a highway, but it's not
really) southeast. The bigger towns were Plaquemine, Thibodaux, and Houma. I
felt the need for a cool, frothy soda when I got to Pointe Aux Chenes. Passing through I stopped
and got a drink there. I remember, because I couldn't figure out how to
pronounce the name of the town.
Now, here's the weird part...
I was paying for my beverage, and there
was this old guy standing there looking out the window of the little store. I
looked at him while the cashier was doling out my change, and absent-mindedly
wondered how he'd lost his left arm. It was gone at the elbow. (Listen to the
song...it'll all make sense then).
Sid' down on 'em Amos...make it count,
son...
If you ever have occasion
to travel down to that part of the world, there’s a chain of restaurants called
“Waffle House”. Don’t ask for pancakes. I found this out by mistake. I was
ordering breakfast out in the middle of some swamp one muggy morning, and did
the “I’ll have two eggs scrambled, toast, and a short stack of pancakes” thing.
My friendly cajun server (Amy; 23 years old, born and raised in Broussard, has
never left the area) gave me this blank stare, and in a typically thick bayou
accent said “Ain’ got no pancake. Dis a waffle house.” So I said, “Oh, OK…um,
how big are the waffles?” Amy maintained the blank stare and said, “Well, dey’
‘bout da size of waffles.” I was baffled. “Um, uh, OK. I’ll have a waffle then.”
I stammered. When in Rome…
All this time, the locals
are looking at me like I’m the King of Neptune or something. There I was with my
shaved head, sandals, military-issue “Randolph” aviator sunglasses, and a
clearly foreign accent in their ears. Yikes! I must have looked like a freak in
their eyes. I kept wondering what they were thinking; I’d look up from my meal,
and they’d just be staring at me. I couldn’t figure out if they were curious as
to my origins, or if they were trying to figure out how they were going to
skewer me and get me over the coals “fo suppah”. I didn’t end up on a barbeque
spit, so it must have been the former.
Curiosity got the best of me, so I wandered down to a place called
Port Fourchon. It’s way down on the tip of one of the bayou polyps south of New
Orleans; the alluvial dumping ground for the Bayou Lafourche. Once again, more swamps, small towns, rivers, and Cajuns with their
ever-present stares and tentative waves. I wondered about the passing waves a
lot. It's funny; I'd be on some dirt road and pass a local driving along a cane
patch on his or her ATV (everyone has off-road quads down there). They'd look at
me--eyeballing the out-of-towner--raise their hand in a tentative wave, and
disappear as I passed.
"Why are they waving at me?" I wondered. Everyone did
it, but they all looked at me kind of suspiciously as they did so. I pondered
this for some time, and finally asked my Louisiana pal about it. "Well," she
said, "Ya'll got to understand that these are very small towns, and it's a fair
bet that everyone knows each other. So, when they wave and there's the proverbial question-mark
over their heads like a cartoon bubble, it's not because they're suspicious of
you, it's because they're trying to figure out who in that little town knows
someone from Washington state, and how come they weren't invited over fo' suppah
ta meet ya."
I felt considerably better after that, smiling
and waving vigorously like I was a visiting dignitary in town to see a relative. I’ve decided that—because I’m so much
bigger than they are--I’m going to move down there and declare myself their
King. Captain Dan, King of the Cajuns. I like the sound of that.
Anyway…
Port
Fourchon was the end of the world. Outside of the offshore oil rigs dotting the
horizon, the next stop south is Antarctica, I think. Actually, a trip due South
would put one on the Yucatan Peninsula, but standing there on the shore, it was
hard to imagine anything else out there. The main occupation down there besides oil drilling is shrimping. I
kept looking for Forrest Gump, but he must have been out that day.
All in all, it was an interesting sojourn and a hearty time.
I enjoyed the experience,
and the people down there immensely.
They were very friendly, kind of simple, and I think most of them smoke. The
bayou world is a watery one. Not like the cold, harsh marine environment of the
frigid Pacific Northwest--a breeding ground for perpetually depressed, dysfunctional
types--but one of warm rivers, fireflies, and a sense of "we'll get it done
another day" if the wind is right, the catfish are biting, and the smell of
newly cut grass is in the air. It's a land removed from the rest of the “You-Ess-of-Ay”.
I understand now why it’s said that going to Southern Louisiana is the closest
thing to being in a foreign land without leaving the country. It's a nice place,
and will hold a spot in my heart.
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