Yes, I have seen the movie, as you most likely have also. If not, it’s worth a view.
One of the aspects of travel I find intriguing is learning and experiencing different cultures internationally and within our own U.S. of A. And a cross county road trip on the back roads is one way to dig deep into the vast cultural diversity and terrain of our country.
Having missed the gas station at the last exit, my gasoline monitor keeps beeping (get gas now)
As I hummed south on I-57 in my VW Eurovan. K&K truck and auto plaza next exit – perfect – only to find a disheveled empty lot filled with rusted and decayed metal hulls of cars and trucks. No gas here. OK onto the next town – Cairo, Illinois. Beep, beep, beep (get gas now).
Charred scaffolds of a building, deserted storefronts with busted windows, graffiti walls, weeds canvassing the leftover sidewalks a few used stuff/antique store fronts. Hey, but the Dollar General store is open – the only shopping opportunity for many small, stagnant, rural towns. No gas station. I pull into the drive thru of the local liquor store and ask, “Where’s the nearest gas station?” In a voice that barely spoke English, the kind gentleman pointed down the road and replied, “one mile, go straight across the bridge”.
Reaching the bridge, I realized it was an old, narrow two-lane bridge across the Mississippi River with bumper-to-bumper semi-truck traffic in both directions. “Please don’t run out of gas on this bridge” became my mantra followed by “Please be a gas station on the other side”. Yes! That big Shell sign never looked so good. Thankfully I pumped 19.2 gallons into my 20-gallon tank.
Next to find a campground as there were only two hours of daylight remaining. MY DYRT app (my favorite camping app) showed a private riverfront camp in the small town of Doniphan, Arkansas, near the Missouri border. One hour. I head down the road, scattered with Trump WON signs and flags.
Pulled in and toured the possible sites. Two options – one between two ancient, worn trailers, both partially covered in tarps. The other next to a newer looking trailer with a big skull and crossbones flag draped in the front window and a couple making a fire.
OK – I’ll take option two. As soon as I pulled in my neighbors, John and Rosa, stopped by to welcome me and ask, “You staying long?” “No, just passing through”, I replied. We chatted for a spell and they meandered back to their camp fire, threw darts at a board hanging from a tree, and later John played some nice tunes on his guitar that lulled me to sleep.
Kyle, the camp manager stopped by to chat and collect $25 for the night. “Now, if you need anything”, he said in that Arkansas hill drawl, “you just let me know. I’m in #1”. “Thanks, Kyle, that’s mighty kind of you, I answered.” Friendly folk here.
As I walked the camp later that evening, I realized I was camped in normadland. It was obvious most people were living in their ramshackle trailers or tents, with all their worldly possessions scattered about – a family of four with two small children; three Hispanic men in their 20s; an elderly, disheveled-looking couple who waved as I passed by, among others. Rosa, my neighbor left for work at 5:30am the next morning and John was picked up by a dilapidated paint truck at 8:30.
I don’t know their stories or circumstances. Trying to get by from one day to the next, I suspect.
Real-life, profound cultural experiences in the US of A.
