We drove from Nashville towards East Tennessee. Towards Knoxville, Sevierville (pronounced severe-ville), Gattenburg, Pigeon Forge and Cosby. Before the trip, I had been told about a place called Buc-ee’s, where we would stop on the way. Thinking of the soulless, rundown highway stops I had encountered the world over, I found it curious that the mid-trip food break would be such a source of enthusiasm. Now I look back, I think that Gambo mentioned Buc-ee’s with the reverence a 10-year-old might refer to Disneyland.
As I sit typing now, my cherished souvenir, a Buc-ee’s takeaway coffee cup, sits by my right hand, the fond memories it elicits sufficient to help me overcome my aversion to a certain ubiquitous, unmentionable coffee chain.
In mere years Buc-ee’s, expanding from its home in Texas, has become an institution on certain blessed highways in Tennessee, devouring its competitors, forming its own universe in the middle of nowhere and providing an inexhaustible source of conversation. Like most everything in Tennessee, it is massive. Mindblowingly gigantic. At least 100 petrol pumps for the great gas-guzzlers. 20-plus Tesla chargers. The store is ginormous. Set aside images of a tired roadstop and its day-old food, its treacherous bathrooms. Buc-ee’s gleams. Far from a food stop, it sells a ridiculous variety of things. Like at the great consumer experiments, one might walk in to buy a 3-meat roll, a hot biscuit and some candied almonds, and emerge with a a t-shirt, a tent, a bag of ice, a portable fire pit, a piece of m & m fudge, some Christmas tree baubles and a daggy sweater. And a rite-of-passage picture with Buc-ee himself. Oh, and a tank full of gas of course.
Buc-ee’s billboards flood the highway. As the miles count down, the anticipation increases. One billboard made a clumsy reference to Game of Thrones and the thrones at Buc-ee’s. Confused, and with some clarification from my carmates, I realised I had for the first time seen an ad for a store with clean toilets. Such is the dread drivers have for the typical truck stop loo, Buc-ee’s spacious, clean and available thrones are a major selling point. Trucks, and by association, truckers, and their toilet habits, are not welcome. This is explicit.
I was in Tennessee visiting our friend Gambo. Another good friend from the Beijing years. Long ago, he walked into the smallest bar in Beijing, became mates with the owner and unwittingly joined the Beijing Bombers Australian football team. A few years of hard college drinking experience and general physical coordination might have helped him fit in. Now he’s stationed in Nashville, apparently a growing, slightly liberal enclave smack bang in Trump country. Visiting the home of country music was never a bucket list item for me, the nasal twang, teenage lyrics and conservative overtones being something of a turnoff. But the best way to absorb some local culture is to embed oneself in a local home, so that’s what I did for the week. Huge thanks to his welcoming wife Katie and amazing-judge-of-character and household star daughter Emmy for the generous hosting.
After a long drive, we spent Friday night at Katie’s parents’ farm out in the Tennessee countryside. They live in a sort of compound with a few different good friends or brothers and their wives in houses just across the way. It’s a great idea for the older folks, just a few steps away from lifelong friends.They were good, friendly people, kind hosts. They might be the southern conservatives we hear so much about, even though a quick look at a map shows East Tennessee isn’t that far south. Political differences and a possible mention of an unnameable human plague-like figure are far from the surface, and they were easy to chat to. I probe about the USA and they expand and explain. It works in most places. Mike, Katie’s dad, was full of info about the state of Tennessee and different parts of the country in general, having lived here and there.
It’s a common theme in my experience, that of movement. The country has always been defined by its restlessness, and every person I talked to seemed to have lived in a minimum of three states. There is certainly a restlessness in the air at the moment, whether caused by Covid or other factors. Always much conversation about different towns, cities and states, references to places I’ve never heard of, even with our vast American cultural influence at home. How could I possibly have any knowledge of Chattanooga? It seems that people have moved around a lot recently, in search of wealth, for love or work. The sun in Florida. And this internal migration is continuing apace as people move for a cheaper house, higher wage or, apparently, to be closer to their political brethren. A dark portent indeed, if the country separates geographically along political lines, but in the current climate, maybe it is easy to see why a more liberal person would move towards more left-wing Nashville or a liberal (blue) state, or vice-versa.
Australians generally gravitate to major capitals and it has led to a certain homogeneity between cities, which makes the great diversity of other countries novel and intriguing. Australia is one of the few countries where most people speak with a near-identical accent, remarkable given the distances between cities.
Unfortunately we denied ourselves the opportunity to have a good old drink with Mike, stopping responsibly at two wines, as we were to be up early Saturday morning for a weekend hiking trip. A younger version of myself thought about tomorrow, tomorrow, and drank all night in a strange country. Before bed, Mike did share the story of the Tennessee Volunteers fans celebrating a home victory against a hated rival (Alabama Crimson Tide – no joke) by extracting the goal posts from the turf and throwing them in the river. In the barrage of indecipherable football-speak, I had no chance to ask why they were called the Volunteers/Crimson Tide, why they would celebrate by robbing from their own field, and why grown men idolise university football players. Or why they insist on calling it football.
We were in the car by 7:30 am, heading towards Cosby, to meet up with Katie’s cousin Matt. We had a 20 km walk up and down the mountain ahead, about a quarter of it on the Appalachian Trail. I was ignorant of the significance of the trail and the Smoky Mountains National Park where we were. The park is the most visited in the USA apparently, and the Appalachian trail, 2200 miles long, crossing 14 states, is a sacred pilgrimage/physical challenge for a hardened hiker or a midlife crisis. The zealots do it all in one go and sleep in tents, and are anointed with a trail name. Others do it in bits and pieces over years. Apparently Bill Bryson wrote a book about it, but didn’t get to the end.
Matt was a great bloke, very easy to talk to. He had a cold beer waiting for us for the 9am start up the mountain. From then on the conversation flowed. Much talk about sport, an absolutely essential topic for a man looking for an easy, apolitical chat in the USA. From football (the men from Tennessee, volunteer fighters, were the most valiant in the civil war) to baseball (the games were lasting too long, but have been sped up recently) to a passionate explanation of long-form cricket (confusion and apathy from the guys) and back to football rivalries and mention of tailgate parties – heavy drinking sessions on the back of pick-ups in the carpark before a college football game. A definite new bucket list item – a tailgate party in Knoxville, Tennessee.
By midday we reached the highest point, and in late October the leaves had recently changed. We sat on some rocks up the top and looked out into the distance. Here is how it looked.
Gambo had packed me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, unaware that I’d never actually had one and as a kid had always been vaguely confused/repulsed by it, though I’d seen it eaten on thousands of tv shows and movies. I was hungry enough to genuinely enjoy it.
We headed down the mountain after lunch, at full speed, more silent now, focused on a few afternoon cold beers ahead, and some of the Vols grudge match on tv maybe. We weren’t too sure about the sleeping situation, but had a vague concept of camping for the night. Matt had mentioned that his mum had recently bought a type of campground, but there wasn’t much detail, so I was ready to sleep in the car before heading back to Nashville the next day.
Just a good little reminder that if you go out and do things, great things can happen. If you’re sitting at home you’ll never know. About 20 minutes drive from the foot of the mountain was Grits Camp. An inspired recent purchase at age 72 by Genie, Matt’s mum. Grits are a vague sort of porridge made from cornmeal or something, according to my hosts. Grits camp, however, is a property, described often by the new owner as ‘eclectic’ and ‘cobbled together’. Euphemisms for falling apart, perhaps. And things were a bit overgrown and rugged, true, but underneath it all, obviously Camp Grits was a gem, a rare place of silence and calm in a shamelessly homogenised and corporatised country. It was unique, and modest if a place can be modest. We got the story. It was owned by a British lady, an artist, who lived there with her son, Kestrel. Scattered around the place, up trees, in bushes, were various pieces of art. Hidden in unkempt corners, about 50 metres from the main house, were two very old caravans, a double story tiny house, and a teepee on the edge of the nearby stream. Oh, how the modern RV-driving ‘camper’ would scoff at the size and modesty and simplicity of the lodgings, the age of the antique caravans, lack of running water and distance from the nearest Starbucks. But for us it was all perfect. Apparently each morning guests would wake up to freshly cooked bread and recently laid eggs on the doorsteps of their wifi-less accommodation. A quick Airbnb search shows that many previous guests revered Grits the same way we did.
We settled in, watched some football, toured the space, and opened a few hard-earned beers. As the afternoon passed the fire was lit and much talk ensued. Genie was happy for some like-minded company and slowly grew more expansive. A cold winter was approaching, and in the cobbled together main house, she needed to be prepared. She mentioned her neighbours, on one side a nice enough bloke who has an amateur shooting range and a couple of women who own the nearby prepping store, Tennessee Readiness. We covered the gamut, sitting around that great conduit for conversation, the open fire:
- Buc-ee’s – ad nauseum
- Trump – consensual loathing in the group
- Budweiser and Modelo – something we talked about in New York, and Jean-Marie made an interesting point. Budweiser, the so-called king of beers, has long been the most popular beer in the states. They lost the number one position recently after they partnered with a transgender activist, leading to a boycott by conservative drinkers of Bud Lite. Modelo is a Mexican beer and it stands to reason that many boycotters changed directly from Bud to Modelo. These same boycotters are generally the hearty right-wingers who want to build a border wall, and obviously are against migration from the south, even though they now drink Mexican beer.
- Firewood and building a good fire
- Baseball
- College Football
- Mass shootings
- NBA
- Pickleball – the new sport on everyone’s lips
- Orlando, Florida – a soulless gated retirement community shithole
- Baby Boomers – Genie hates them, and blames them for the world’s ills
- The Appalachian trail
- Roosters, and organising their ethical death.
- Gattenburg – redneck hell.
Let the world in, don’t keep it out, was the gist. A few beers in, Genie said ‘I just wanna cuss’ and with our approval, away she went. Many laughs as the language got looser.
Matt and Genie revealed left wing leanings, progressive views and atheism. I can only assume that growing up in Tennessee means regular exposure to religious indoctrination and churchgoing. It is a church heavy region. It must take a fair bit of independent thought to reject Christianity in such a conservative area. Religion and political/social issues are mainly off the table for conversation unless amongst a group of confirmed sympathisers, like we were. It must also be difficult to resist the other religion; rampant, unadulterated consumerism dominates. It is the default lifestyle, and overt wealth the implied goal of life. One can only admire people who go against the grain and strive for a minimalist, private, experience-based existence.
Gambo brought out the camping stove and cooked us a brilliant meal by firelight. After the walk, the beers, the good chat and the late meal, I wandered through the dark to my spot. As the honoured guest, I had the teepee by the river. In almost complete darkness, with the hum of the stream outside, I had the best, most dreamless sleep I’d had for weeks. I woke the next morning after nine, as the others came down for a morning fire by the water. Always a great pleasure to wake up and stroll a few steps to the bushman’s television. Took Gambo a bit of effort to get it going, but before long it was roaring. A great breakfast from Gambo, and beautiful coffee by the fire, hand-grinded (ground?) at that. Amazing camping prep from my ever-thoughtful host. Bush toilet always satisfying. I even had a very cold plunge in the stream as a tribute to the night at Grits Camp, prevailing last minute in the unspoken competition for most rugged outdoor man. Apparently the old owner and her son would come down 3-4 times in summer to lie in the stream and cool off. Wins out over air-conditioned comfort any day. A very idyllic place with the morning sun streaming through the leaves.
The teepee house is called Sami’s hut, and on the table inside was a guest book. Brilliant reading. People, when the moment requires, are great writers. They just rarely have a chance to put something genuine down, with a pen in hand. On those handwritten pages were sincere messages, not written for public appraisal or admiration, but just as a simple thankyou and a good feeling in a moment. And much more genuine for that. Many returning guests. The girl who visited once and later brought her husband. The couple who visited once and then brought their new-born. Those that unwittingly stumbled across a haven while ‘blindly chasing the American dream’, then made it an annual trip. An oasis just outside of ‘decadent and depraved’ Gattenburg, the widely condemned hellhole town nearby and ‘the human jackals and corporate interests’ within it. (Dollywood and the world’s largest knife store are nearby so it can’t be all bad). I read the comments out by the fire and it must have dawned on Genie that she was taking over a place that was significant to quite a few people.
We wanted to sit by the stream for the day, doing nothing, free from technology or worry, letting the fire fade and stoking it up later in the afternoon. But it was Sunday, and we headed back towards Nashville. We left with a nice memory of Grits. These places, usually corporatised and gentrified and overpriced, are hard to find in the world. The modern campground is often condemned by monstrous, formidable RVs and endless luxury corporate camping paraphernalia. Back to nature indeed.
The Americans do things set on extra large at all times. Good luck weaning them off their petrol-guzzling trucks. Exhaustion of world petroleum supplies would cause mass upheaval. Drivers track price increases keenly, blissfully ignorant of the concept of fuel efficiency. A man without a pickup is no man in these parts, for sure. A helpless pedestrian may stand in the shadow of a great modern dinosaur and consider whether to walk around or under it. What would these burly blokes think of my minimalist, vegetarian, bike-riding lifestyle? Not much at all, one figures. They don’t ask, and I don’t tell. Hippies are great people, but generally loathed in East Tennessee.
It’s funny how a trip can be a bit slow, can meander a bit, and then one weekend can be really eye-opening.
We have this idea in Australia that Trump voters are poor white people. Downtrodden and underemployed and left behind. In these Republican-heavy areas in East Tennessee, people are rich. Laden with products in massive, expensive trucks, towing RVs bigger than most people’s apartments, they are devoted to consumerism and acquisition of goods, like all good Americans. Hard to see why these people take such issue with the USA and their own government. They have all the advantages and, superficially at least, a very wealthy lifestyle. Why all the rage and fear? And spite? I see much friendliness in small, short interactions and then glimpses of the terror and nihilism (border walls, rampant crime, woke takeover) on Fox News and its imitators.
We drove back, passed the prepping store (also on the bucket list) and stopped at a store selling many different apple-related products. No, not the computers. Here Matt asked me in his Tennessee accent if I had ever tried bobbing. I hadn’t, and had no idea what he meant, but laughed at how the word was pronounced. The huge difference between a Tennessee accent and an Australian one was a common source of humour, at least for me, and the word ‘bobbin’ was pretty funny. Apparently, one puts one’s head in water and tries to bite a floating apple. With hands tied, and at risk of humiliatingly drowning, it sounds pretty challenging.
We kept moving, picked up the girls from the farm, and had the long Sunday afternoon drive on the packed highways ahead of us. Only a quick stop at Buc-ee’s as respite. But the highways of the country are an insight into the culture as much as anything else. Relentless billboard exposure. Adult superstores. Gun shops and gun shows. Obligatory and ubiquitous injury lawyers (ambulance chasers). Is an accident and a massive payout the new American dream? And a vast, vast array of fast-food chain options. Poor McDonalds, the pioneer, has been dominated, rendered poor by the bevy, no, tidal wave of options on the interstate. So many: Wendy’s, DQ, BK, Krystals, Cottage Garden, Chipotle, Taco Bell, In n out, Arby’s, White Castle, Dunkin Donuts, Subway etc etc. That’s off the top of my head.
If an intrepid traveller sampled a chain a day they would need two months minimum and a thorough physical checkup afterwards. A remarkable devotion to chains for a lot of food and coffee consumption. Millions of vehicles on the freeways. And as always, I reflected on the lack of train travel. Like in Aus, almost no one takes them from city to city or state to state.
We passed a huge mall just outside of Nashville. Amazingly packed car park, huge, supersized chain stores. Shops must be packed with people doing their Sunday afternoon shopping, after church of course. On Sunday one must worship one’s two religions.
A common feeling is that everyday here I am just scratching the surface of the country. Not enough time to get to know it. I can’t even sing a full country hit from start to finish. The only way is to be friends with Americans and infiltrate. Ask questions and listen. They’ll talk. Gambo, with years spent abroad, is a great explainer. Many things, like Buc-ee’s or a prepper store or a 12-metre-long RV, are outlandish. The massive trucks and massive people. Huge shops. Great swell of humanity moving down their highways, pumping gas to the skies and the skies be damned.
That was a weekend in East Tennessee.
Dark Dirt 