The Mexican and the Frenchman: An American Trip

By Mike Sanch

My friend Katy and I had wanted to kick off the summer with a classic American road trip, so we decided to head to west Texas. We both had never been west, and I imagine Katy, who is from the city in Texas where everyone has some sort of claim to fame-Austin-, had come along for the ride looking for a break from the blinding city lights and perhaps to find a comforting solace among the starlit indigo canopy the desert sky offers.

I personally had wanted to go west after the countless evenings where I found myself leaning on the northern wall of my office with a sweaty can of LoneStar beer in hand watching the orange glow disappear over the horizon as I looked west as the sunset. I remember wondering, in between sips of the sweet brew, about what secrets America had in store for me out there where the sun came to rest every night. There was something over the hill that I gotta see- as Hank Williams would say.

After a brief planning session on facebook chat, we decided that the ultimate destination would be Marfa Texas, a small amiable town with an illustrious history of being a magnet for those with minds that are laced with an avant-garde approach to society. Marfa has become a haven for artists, writers, and other bohemian wannabes looking to escape the confines of society for a while. (I first heard about it when I was watching the music video for Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes which features Marfa)

For various reasons, mostly financial and the zeal for an unscripted adventure, we wanted to find a place where we could sleep for little or no cash. I have been a member of and a user of a site called couchsurfing.org, where you can set up a profile and are able to host and entertain travelers, and in return you can have the opportunity to be hosted yourself.  Monetary compensation is almost never talked about in the accommodations; it is simply humans being magnanimous to each other for the sake of conversations, experiences, and cultural exchanges through travels.

So, I quickly went to work looking for a person to host us, and what I found was a wild looking “hostel”. The concept of a hostel in the middle of the west Texas desert appealed to me, as well as the photos I managed to uncover via a quick search. (See photos here) So, we made plans to meet in Austin, and take off the next morning.

After racing the sun into the western sky all day, we found ourselves at the edge of the vast land of Texas in a little town located on desolate Highway 90 called Marathon. We arrived just as the sun’s golden rays were disappearing from view.

After wandering around the small town, which had a “ghost town” feel to it, we rolled up to the only gas station in town just as they were about to close. The tenant was of Mexican descent and spoke a dialect of Spanglish that I have never heard before.

I asked, “Where is the hostel?”.  He looked at me with a puzzled bewilderment, as if he has never heard of the word.

Finally, after describing to him in my own Spanglish about the place we were looking for, he finally got the idea of where we were headed, and as soon as he realized what I was talking about his eyes lit up, and his face gave off a smile with several teeth missing.

He then told me how to get there. “Take el first right y otro right at sixth street”, he said as if he was telling me about a bar where I was sure to have a good time at.

We arrived to the hostel, aptly name “La Loma de Chivo”, and at once we were greeted  by a wild band of people that would be described as “hippies” by most normal people.

We introduced ourselves as they introduced themselves. An entire cast of characters seemed to occupy  the bastion of true anarchic freedom  that is “La Loma”- ranging from an ex street musician, who I would later learn had to evacuate New Orleans during Katrina, to other characters such as the retired commercial jet pilot telling us of all his wild world traveling adventures over cold beers.

The Hostel itself consisted of about 10 acres with about 12 buildings. The architecture of the buildings seemed unique in the sense that all the buildings were made up of a material called “paper-crete”.

“Paper-crete is a material of recycled paper and denim combined with some sort of earthly plaster, and made into bricks.” said, “Mike the inventor”, one of the older inhabitants.

The foot thick bricks of paper crete allowed for a great insulator that kept the buildings cool in the hot desert sun, yet comfortable in the cool desert nights. As a result not a single air conditioner existed on the property, quite a feat out there in the Texas desert.

The buildings came in all shapes and sizes. To give you an idea, one of the buildings was called the “Space Ship”, as it looked like something from the planet Tatooine, Luke Skywalker’s home planet.  The space ship was the local favorite for communal smoking sessions.

Mike the inventor was said to have invented the material of “paper-crete” decades ago, and is a resident builder of the structures. Mike the inventor would later tell me he was owed royalties for his invention, as it is currently being used in the “green architecture” movement. I never questioned his wild eyed claims.

At the first night at the hostel, we were all treated to baked chicken and organic vegetables grown and picked fresh from the garden.  Plenty of beer was provided to wash it all down.

After dinner, we all started to drink, talk, and share our reasons for what led us to the little oasis in the desert.  A cyclist, who was just passing through for the night on her cross country journey from California to New York, described her feelings of serenity and peace amongst the stars and mountains.

“I cannot help but tell you all about how peaceful this place is, with its miles and miles of desert in every direction!” she said excitedly.

Adolfo, who was a young local Chicano who seemed to enjoy the presence of the white upper middle class girls that filed through his hometown on their way to the hostel, summed up her words and simply said in response to the cyclist with a thick Chicano accent, “Welcome to Heaven.”

Everyone chuckled in agreement.

By this time, Katy and I had a pretty good buzz going, just enjoying our little adventure in the deep corner of our home state, when we heard some clatter amongst the patrons that called “La Loma” home.

“We have more travelers that have just arrived”, I heard someone yell out in excitement. I didn’t really know how to react to the news, and just watched as two road weary men got off from the back of an rusty old pickup truck in front of the entrance gate.

One light skinned man, who had a large expensive looking camping backpack, dressed in modern fashion, and looked clean and comfortable in his clothes as he hopped off. The other man was dark brown and carried a small plastic bag and was dressed as if he was ready to go to work in the fields.

They both were immediately given food and drink. Apparently one man was from France, traveling America for pleasure.  The other was from Mexico, coming to America for work.

After a while, I got a chance to talk to the guy from France. His name was Jacques from Paris, and was 25 years old. Jacques was a handsome young man with long brown hair, and fluent in three languages.  Jacques explained the situation that made his appearance at “La Loma” possible.

“In France, if you work for at least 6 months at a job, and then lose your job, the French government will pay you what you were making for at least six months.” Jacques said as a matter of fact.

Jacques continued, “So, I wanted to travel to the states, so I got a job for six months with a friend, and he laid me off, so I was able to have the money from the government deposited in my bank. So now, I can travel the states for six months”.

Jacques appeared as if he was not enjoying his stay in America. I asked him why.

“Because, when I got here I bought a motorcycle to travel the states. I made it from New York to Austin, and I got hit by a truck on my motorbike.”

“Where you hurt?” I asked curiously.

“Yes, cracked two ribs, and my bike had to stay in Austin. I continued my travels by hitchhiking.”

“Dude, that’s kind of dangerous man, out here in America,” I said with a subtle hint of concern.

“I know, there so many people who want to score me” he said with a frustrated tone.

“Score you?” I asked.  He didn’t pick up that he was using the slang term “score” incorrectly in English.

“Yes, everyone that picks me up tries to score me, you know fags with trucks”

“In Texas?” I asked surprised to learn they existed in Texas.

“Yes”, he then got up to get another beer.

As Jacques  took off, possibly because my reporter like questioning was starting to annoy him, I thought about his situation.

Here was this guy away from his home country, looking for an American adventure, financed by his own foreign government. Other than the people who will give him his rides all the way to California, he didn’t have a financial worry to speak of, courtesy of the socialist government of France. To Jacques credit, he knew how to milk the system.  In return, he was getting an adventure all aright- Texas style.

As for the guy from Mexico, his name was Juan from the central Mexican state of Guanajuato. Juan was not educated, only spoke Spanish and seemed very shy about giving any details about his situation. He didn’t want to share much other than the fact that he wanted a ride to Lubbock, where he said some cousins had a job working at a cattle feedlot.

Juan didn’t have the stream of revenue Jacques had. In fact, the only cash Juan had was enough to get someone to drive him to Lubbock. Juan’s government didn’t have any unemployment program for him to take advantage of.

All Juan had was his family of three waiting for him to send cash so they could buy food to eat, he explained. It was for this reason that Juan had decided to come to America, and was willing to lend his body to toil in the American factory farms- all in order to help his family survive back in Mexico.

I looked at Juan’s eyes and noticed he shared the flicker of despair Jacques had,  the look of not knowing what was around the corner in this wild land. I wondered what would happen to Jacques if he was here to work instead of play. I chuckled to myself, as I knew he wouldn’t last a minute in the field that Juan would undoubtedly end up in.

Juan was here to work, to contribute, and produce. It’s all he could do after all. After the free flow of American agricultural goods to Mexico that NAFTA allowed for destroyed his earning potential of his own little plot in Mexico.

Juan could not compete with the subsidized factory farms product, so  in an ironic twist, Juan was now  forced to come work the  land responsible for the demise of his traditional way of living.

“If the free flow across borders of capital and goods was allowed through NAFTA, then what was the problem with the flow of labor across borders?” I mused out loud to him in my broken Spanish. I doubt he understood or gave any thought to what I said.

Juan then asked me if I could give him a ride to Lubbock in the morning for two hundred dollars. I politely declined, and wished him luck on his journey.

After more beers with the Frechman, Mexicans, Chicanos, Texans, and the hippies, we all fell asleep in the paper-crete buildings and awaited the next day’s adventure.

We all find ourselves in various places on this Earth for different reasons. It’s amazing how America seems like the crossroads for people looking for a new start, an opportunity, or just an adventure.