In the spring of 1970, my roommate and I decided to take a quarter off from school and take the Grand Tour. We went on the cheap, no frills, camping out in my VW beetle for a month, trying to visit as many national parks and monuments as possible in the Southwest and on the Pacific coast. While heating up a few cans of beans and some Chef Boy-Are-You-Kidding over a campfire at Carlsbad, a little kid came by and offered us some “leftovers” from his family’s evening meal in the camper next to us. Unwrapping the tinfoil packets, we found steak, fries, corn on the cob, Texas Toast and other delicacies, including pie for dessert. It was downright neighborly of them!
We went over and thanked the family, the Stouts, farmers from the Texas panhandle vacationing at the Caverns and on their way home. They invited us to stop by and visit them on their ranch on our way back from the West Coast. And we did.
A few weeks later,on our way back to Florida, we stopped by and spent a few days with the Stouts, a wonderful family that perfectly filled all the stereotypes. They were wonderful people. The Stouts grew wheat, corn and soybeans, and had a big hog and cattle operation. It was a big farm, and highly mechanized. The two hippy dudes earned their keep by helping out with chores, as best we could. We had a blast. The food was outstanding, which was a life saver for us, we were out of money and living off peanut butter sandwiches.
The day before we left, I noticed Mr Stout was having a meeting with his farm hands, and having some trouble communicating with them. I offered to translate (he had no idea I spoke Spanish) and he briefed me on what it was all about.
The hands were a couple of weeks short of finishing the work they had been contracted to do, and they wanted to get paid what was owed to them so they could leave. It would have been a disaster for Mr Stout, who was in the middle of planting, or harvesting, or some such highly labor-intensive operation. Apparently, one of his neighbors had finished his season’s work, and then allegedly tipped off the migras to round up and deport his hands (they were illegal immigrants) the day before payday. The word had gotten out in the farm worker community, and the Stout’s workers were determined they were not going to let it happen to them.
They were not asking for their full pay, just what was owed to them up to that day, but for Mr Stout, the next few days were critical, if the hands left early he could lose a substantial portion of his crop. He was furious that his neighbor had cheated his workers that way, and that most of the other farmers in the area were, like him, men of their word who would fulfill their deal. The farmer who stiffed his hands not only cheated them, he was making things very difficult for the honest ranchers in the area.
At first, the Mexicans were very suspicious of me, I was obviously not one of them, they had never heard a Cuban accent before, and they were baffled by it. They knew I wasn’t a gringo, though. After some tense negotiation, we managed to convince the workers to stay until the job was finished, and that they would receive their pay as promised when it was complete. There were only a handful of them, but I don’t recall if they were the entire work force, or just a small group of spokesmen for a larger gang.
I have no doubt Mr Stout held up his end of the bargain. I was convinced of his integrity. I also don’t doubt most of his fellow farmers were also men of their word; if this kind of swindle became too common, no one would be able to get farm workers, and the word would quickly get around who the cheat was and he would be out of business, and probably shunned by his peers as well.
No, I don’t think this sort of scam is frequent, but I’m sure it happens just often enough. When you’re illegal, you’re depending on the the kindness, and honesty, of strangers.