The Adventures of Darlene and Friends

I met Darlene through a Craig’s List ad. Her owners, Mark and Maria, had advertised a ride from Nashville to New Orleans in their camper, Darlene the Dream Machine. Harry (a fellow Aussie) and I responded to the call.

She was made in 1981 and still had a lot of the original trimmings; ugly brown carpet, pink and brown crocheted throws and upholstery that would’ve made the Golden Girls proud.

Mark and Maria had brought her for their roadtrip from Massachusetts to Denver, where they were moving. They’d tried to be as gentle with her as they could, limiting daily distances and resting often. This leg of the trip was the longest and would be her greatest challenge yet.

Sadly, it proved a little too much for old Darlene. Somewhere in Mississippi, a tyre went kaboom.

Mark couldn’t find the jack, Maria called the dodgy RV version of triple A. It didn’t sound good. 30 minutes later two men in a sedan pulled up to change the tyre. The jack they bought wasn’t big enough for Darlene, they drove back to get a bigger one. Then they didn’t bring enough air so we had to drive to the nearest gas station at 20mi/hr. That gas station didn’t have air so we drove to the next one. Mark was no longer OK.

Hours later we were back on the road. Harry and I fell asleep in the back to the sound of Mark’s muffled curses.

Maria and Mark had offered Harry and I couches of their friend’s house, however due to our delay, said friend would be asleep and they did not want to disturb. We would stay with another of Mark’s friends.

That friend was Trent. I tried to act natural when I first laid eyes on him.

He was t6all, skinny white man with a long blonde mullet. He wore denim short shorts and and army boots. He had one feather earring, a necklace of beads and painted patterns all over his bare chest, arms and face.

He invited us into his house, showing us around.

“This is the kitchen” he said, “shelves” he continued gesturing at a lone wooden shelf holding a dozen cans of diced carrots.

“I’ve got a couch in a fort with lots of blankets and fairy lights you can sleep in” he said to me and Harry. Mark and Maria would be sleeping in Darlene in an empty lot across the road.

Jammin' - Mark (harmonica), Trent (guitar)

Before bed we all needed food and liquor. Trent showed us around the French Quarter, giving snippets of history along the way.

Trent is what you might call a ‘freegan’. While we walked, he checked every payphone for change, every bin for anything and was constantly pointing out things he could take.

“Man, look at that good lumber just lying there”.

By the time we’d returned to his house, Trent had a stack of clothes, a pole and half a bottle of wine he’d found on a stoop.

Hours later after a kip in the fort, a beer breakfast and a jam in the park, Harry and I said goodbye to our new friends who we would never see again.

Mama Sue

What I wanted from my Couchsurfing host in Savannah was some Southern hospitality; I got Mama Sue which was close enough.

Mama Sue picked me up from the centre of town at 10am. I´d arrived at 5am by bus and was eager for a shower and a nap.

“We’re going to the beach” she informed me when I got in the car.

I looked out the window at the dark clouds but said nothing.

“Arup here wants to go to the beach and it’s his last day so that’s what we’re doing.”

Arup was a Nepalese student who was studying in New Hampshire for the year. He was in Savannah for a conference staying with Mama Sue as an Airbnb guest. He wanted to see the ocean. I could see how it would be difficult to say no to the sweetest boy ever.

“I’ve had over 280 Airbnb guests this year,” she said, “my neighbours think I’m harbouring terrorists and pedophiles”

“Oh, ummm that’s no good” I said weakly but my input was not required.

“They’re saying that I’m running a business out of my home which is apparently illegal, but really they’re just worried I’m bringing terrorist into my house.” She spoke 100 miles an hour, “So I thought I’d try Couchsurfing because they can’t say anything about me having people in my house if I’m not earning any money from it”.

Ah the old ‘invite a Couchsurfer over to piss off the neighbours’ trick.

“We’re going to pick David up on the way” Mama Sue told me, “he wants to come to the beach too”

15 minutes later, a man in his mid 30’s got in the car; David I presumed.

David, it turned out, had Airbnb-ed with Mama Sue for a few weeks a year earlier. Now a super spy interrogator for the US army*, David grew up in Afghanistan where he was taught to be a super son.

*Potentially untrue

He told me how Mama Sue had cared for him like a son when he first arrived in Savannah and now it was his obligation to treat her like a mother for the rest of eternity. But not like I’d treat my Mother – bi-weekly messages that include such gems as ‘Safe in Savannah’ or ‘Still alive. Pls take photo of diving license and email ASAP’. No, David called Sue twice a day, and once, when she didn’t respond because her phone had run out of battery, he went over to her house to check on her.

It was cold and rainy when we got to the beach. Undeterred, our motley crew grabbed beach chairs and towels and headed for the sand.

Mama Sue and I watched as David and Arup frolicked in what I imagined to be very cold ocean. I struggled to hide my frustration. I’d just arrived in Savannah and I’d somehow ended up sitting on the beach in the rain.

Back in the car, I was informed of the afternoon’s plan. Once home, we’d all help Sue make 2 kinds of bread (banana and orange cranberry), then we’d do a spot of gardening – she needed some logs moved, then we’d make board games, then she’d cook us all a dinner of devilled whitefish and grits and then we’d hit the town because it was Saturday night after all.

I like to think of myself as a pretty good houseguest – long time Couchsurfer, frequent crasher on friend’s couches, floors and blowups; I’ve been often praised as an easy-going, helpful houseguest.

Not at Mama Sue’s. My attempts to fetch ingredients for her was not going well. “It’s right in front of you” she screeched at me for the 5^th time. She tutted as she came round to the pantry “you must drive your mother mad”. It was true; the sight of me standing staring blankly at kitchen cupboards is a scene all too familiar to my mum. But Sue wasn’t my mum, was she?

Meanwhile, Arup was washing up, chatting gaily about Mama Sue’s incredible cooking skills as he went. She beamed at him. This was a battle I would not win.

Fixing garden beds went slightly better. I successfully accompanied Sue to Home Depot while the men did manly things in the garden.

Mama Sue was a maker. She made cushion covers, upholstered couches, knitted and crocheted, pickled and preserved and carved board games of wood (that didn’t look fun at all).

It was decided over cake and weak sugary tea that we would not have time to make board games this afternoon. Arup expressed his disappointment; I was barely able to contain my relief.

Was now the time for a nap? Mama Sue had also claimed 4 hours of sleep the night before but seemed nowhere near fading. She’d declined my offer to help with dinner. Maybe I could just….. “excuse me Maya” said Arup smiling broadly, “I was wondering if it would be possible for you to play something on the trombone. I would really like to hear you”.

“Oh yeah, that would be great” chimed in Mama Sue, “you can play while we’re waiting for the fish”.

I played ‘What a Wonderful World’ for my captive audience of 3. Mama Sue did not seem impressed. “Do you know ‘Moon River’? You need to play ‘Moon River’, it’s about Savannah.”

I did not know ‘Moon River’ and I still did not know it 3 songs later.

After a delicious Southern style dinner, Mama Sue decided that she was not in fact up to going out that night. I was relieved I could totally go out for an hour or 2. I officially had more energy than a 64 year old woman. Until tomorrow.