I Hear Banjos

I Hear Banjos

I don’t mean to whine but some of the campsites we have stayed in leave a lot to be desired.

On Monday, at the end if a very long day that included being lost with “Wrong Way Broderick” on a slithering mass of gravel which snaked its way through acres and acres of cotton and bean (local pronunciation: bain) fields, I walked into a camp office to register and was offered greetings and salutations by a big, blue striped bum!

Closer inspection revealed that it was not some dissembled ass that was speaking in tongues; the rest of the man eventually emerged from under the reception desk waiving a handful of wires -- his “internet connection – which, if I heard him right, became a useless snarl after a wind storm last Sunday. Now I’m not sure what one thing had to do with the other but one look at his red and sweating face told me not to question his reasoning. For one thing I couldn’t quite understand him (have you ever seen that Kia commercial?) and for another there was something about his expression and the strangle hold he had on those Medusa’s locks that suggested he was about at the end of his rope. I didn’t dare ask but I was pretty sure that the snarl of wires translated into another night without the benefit of e-mail!

After registering, the man climbed into a golf cart with a huge sign that read: “FOLLOW ME” and led us to a barren patch of half grass half gravel about thirty feet from the office. It had a spigot sticking out of the ground beside a post with an electrical connection. For thirty five dollars we had ourselves a little piece of hell in the middle of nowhere where the sun beat down with unrelenting intensity, the tree frogs croaked a dusty song and the mosquitoes were as big as birds.

I stood looking out across the adjacent cotton field and shuddered. Here we were in hell without a single neighbor, no telephone and at the mercy of a man with hands the size of hams. Suddenly I could hear “dueling banjos” and for just a moment I was tempted to run but as I stood there the banjo music in my head was replaced with the real life sound of tires on gravel approaching and when the plume of dust had settled there stood the man in the blue striped overalls with a half of fresh watermelon. Once again I am reminded that you cannot judge a book by its cover.

After a very restful night we left as soon as the fog lifted.