Part 1
Once again I crossed the state line late in the day. Yet again the new state was initially made up of impenetrable swamps.
It was 20 miles to Popularville and the nearest legitimate campsite. At 16.00 with an hour and a half until sunset and 60 miles under my belt already, it looked unlikely I would get there.
I set off promising myself to nip into the woods ASAP.
However there was one small problem: no woods, or at least none on dry land. This was very residential part of the state, quite well to do, well fenced and patrolled by the obligatory barking guards, my canine nemeses.
"Keep the faith" I told myself. "somewhere always comes up in the end."
Sure enough at 17.30 I found some mixed pine and hardwood forest on solid ground. It was definitely private property though: in between two large houses and surely claimed one of them.
I was fairly confident it wasn't a good place to shoot things, so I started to pull my bike into the woods. It was more difficult than I expected to cross the little creek between the wood and the road. In the process I got stung by poison ivy on my bare legs.
Then the pesky security noticed me, once the yelping had started I knew it wouldn't stop.
I bailed out and carried on my search into the night. I had really blown it this time. It was properly dark and there was nowhere to go:, no ditches, no bushes, no pine woods, nothing but swamps and private homes.
Once again the dogs were everywhere, although better contained than in Louisiana, they seemed to notice me from half a mile away and not stop barking until I was a mile the other side.
Running on empty with cooling thighs and seizing calves, I didn't think I could keep going much longer. I began crossing a road bridge over a swamp when I remembered drinking beer under just such a bridge with Johnny and Sarah. Maybe I could camp underneath?
I tucked the bike out of view and went down to see. The ground was only flat right by the water's edge, and it was a pretty spooky place. There was thick misty swamp forest on either side of the river and the frogs were in full swing.
I felt unusually alone and vulnerable for some reason, I have developed a sense for these things, an instinct I know not to ignore. I wondered if there were alligators in the river, I had seen some in some pools in Louisiana.
I decided I would be safer 5 feet off the ground and 20 metres away from the river. There were some ideal trees up a rocky slope, on the edge of the forest. I could be seen from the road but would not be eaten by a prehistoric reptile!
Having I strung up the hammock, I cooked dinner under the bridge and I wrote some of my journal . I felt I could justify my camp if discovered but still turned off my head torch when cars drove by. I suppose I thought it easier not to bother anyone.
Suddenly I heard voices in the woods, they were quite close by but on the other side of the river.
It took me by surprise. “They must be hunting in the dark.” I thought.
I quickly turned off my computer and put myself to bed. It was best not to move around or make noises like a deer in the dark. I did not want to get shot by mistake.
Strange noises came from the forest: possums hissing, deer roaring and raccoons wailing, frogs making all manner of racket. It was exactly like the jungle, only colder.
Cars were driving around on the far side of the river. They drove backwards and forwards over the bridge and up and down the dirt tracks on the far side. Something was going on. This time I was certain of it.
They would see my hammock. It wasn't really hidden at all, just tied in the trees fifteen feet from the road.
“Here we go.” I thought. “They must have seen or heard me from the woods. They are going to think I'm on the run or up to no good. They'll probably confront me nervously at gun point. It will all be fine in the end, but before that it's going to be really stressful." What a pain!
However there is an expression 'The best place to hide (something) is in plain view'. I stayed deathly quiet and completely still. I was cold and uncomfortable, I wanted a pillow, but I didn't move a muscle.
After ¾ of an hour so the to-ing and fro-ing of vehicles and lights died down. I heard confused voices with a tones of resignation, cars leaving but not driving far to get back home. I continued to lay low long after they were gone.
***************************
Part 2
There is something about the state of Mississippi, a timeless mood of mystery and magic.
Maybe it 's in the water? There's a lot of it about, standing in the swamps and pools; rising into the morning air- so thick it could be smoke; condensing on the leaves, on the fences and on a passing stranger waking wet and cold, hanging in his bed.
As I rode off without breakfast, I passed fine, large houses with steaming ponds and mirror lakes. Horses grazed in the lush green fields behind well kept wooden fences. The sun shone through the mist and I knew I would warm up soon enough.
I rode down long straight roads passing tidy mobile homes and neat panel board houses. Everything was well presented. Folks took pride in whatever they had, be it humble or grand.
The locals were starting their days as I arrived in the sleepy town of Popularville and I got my first impressions of the people of Mississippi.
A skinny white farmer with a pointed nose and piercing eyes, wearing baseball cap and dungarees, drove past in an old, white pick up.
An elegant elderly black man, wearing a perfect suit from another time, climbed out of a car as antiquated as his style.
An overweight woman served up high fat fast-food with a Dolly Parton accent and a smile.
Two convicts from the 'county farm' swept the steps of the town hall: big, muscular men wearing green and white striped uniforms.
In the same grounds a memorial paid tribute to the Confederate soldiers who fought on to the bitter end during the American civil war.
It was quite a place, quite different from where I'd been before. There was a strong sense of the lazy rhythm of time, an undertone of continuity from Mississippi's past to its present.
Louisiana had given the impression of a would be phoenix, rising anew after the collapse of an old order. Southern Mississippi said - 'things are what they are here and they don't change anymore than necessary. '
It certainly was an interesting place to be.
Southern Mississippi is very hilly, though there are no hills as such. One can never point to a rounded dome and say “I'm going to climb to the top of that hill.” Yet wherever you travel go you are always going up or down.
That morning I climbed up and rolled down again and again, happy in the sunny evergreen woods. The sweet smell of pine filled my nostrils while crickets and songbirds sang out from hidden perches.
The state's native hardwood and long-leaved pine forests were thoroughly harvested by the end of the second world war . Nowadays the rolling slopes are covered with commercial fast growing pines, they still provide a home for a range of wild birds and animals.
In true American style, vast areas of the land here are given over to this lumber production.
The woods went on for ever as the hours and miles rolled by.
********************
Part 3
At lunchtime I briefly found myself on a busy dual carriageway, pedaling away in the shoulder as heavy traffic raced by. The shoulder disappeared all of a sudden just as a big pick up came flying past. I was forced off the tarmac and sent hurtling onto the bumpy verge.
Bitterly cursing the passing drivers, I awaited my chance to rejoin the flow. Back on the road it was hard to make progress: something on the bike was rubbing. After a few hundred yards I got off to inspect.
Two more spokes had snapped in the rear wheel making a total of four missing now, and all from the same side of the hub.
The wheel was so heavily buckled that the tyre was catching on the frame leaving behind a thicker layer of rubber with each rotation. In places a solitary spoke now took the strain on that side for an entire quarter wheel. I was worried these could blow at anytime with disatrous consequences.
The situation did not look good. I was still 130 miles from the nearest bike shop (in Alabama), it seemed a long way to try and ride in this condition.
I wondered if I could hitch a ride but judging by the demeanour of those passing by it would not be easy. The traffic was mostly SUVs and people carriers taking commuters and families to their homes. Their suspicious glances did not fill me with the confidence that outside help could be relied on.
Getting off the main highway and onto a back road, I took a moment to consider my options.
In the spirit of self reliance I fiddled with the tension of my remaining spokes with my large pair of pliers. To a limited extent it worked, I had managed to stop the tyre rubbing at least, however the problem of the vulnerable spokes remained.
I kept going, thinking I should try and get out of the residential area and into a wooded area where I could stop without infringing on anybody's patch.
The bike was riding like an absolute joke, a caricature of a worn out bike. With the back wheel visibly wobbling from side to side, it all felt pretty unstable. How on earth could I ride 130 miles like this? It would be heavy going that much was certain sure.
After a few miles I came up with an idea: I could take some spokes from the front wheel and use them to back up the survivors in the rear. However I would need a large adjustable spanner to do this and I didn't have one.
As luck would have it within minutes I came across an auto workshop. It was oddly situated on a semi-rural back road a few miles from the nearest small town.
With 2 hours to go before sunset I had no time to waste. I explained my situation to the man working there and asked if I could borrow a “wrench” and take my bike to pieces in the car park.
A little taken aback, he naturally agreed and I got straight to work - taking off the wheels and letting down the tyres, the removing the rear cassette and the broken spokes.
Initially the garage guy stood there taking photos of the spectacle with his phone. I shouldn't imagine it's everyday that an Englishman stops off to rapidly demolish his bike on the forecourt.
Soon he was joined by an other older man and it wasn't long before they wanted to get involved. In my experience the mechanically minded man cannot help but come to the aid of an incompetent fool who is trying to muddle his way through. This is one area in which I have extensive experience, being just such a fool, in fact it is largely thanks to this phenomenon that my bike, my van and my canoe are in full working order.
The spokes had broken off at the hub and the garage guys came up with a plan to bend hooks in broken ends and then to reinstall them. I concurred and by the time I had removed one spoke from the front wheel, all four broken spokes returned with newly hooked ends.
It soon became apparent that they could now longer reach their original attachment points on the wheel rim. However they would go directly out foregoing the usual criss-cross pattern one finds in spoked wheels.
With nothing to lose 3 of the improvised spokes were put in place, leaving the fourth with an impossibly large distance to span.Instead it was retired to the spares kit.
I tensioned the reclaimed spokes as best I could, but without a spoke key fine adjustment impossible. With daylight fading and 10 miles to go to a US forestry service campground, I quickly rebuilt my bike, thanked my hosts and set off on the double.
The wheel was still buckled but at least there were a few more spokes in place. The chances of the wheel surviving were surely increased. I planned try to adjust the tensions further in the morning when I had more time.
5 miles down the road I got a puncture in the back tyre. It was obviously just not my day. My fight or flight response kicked in as I changed the tyre in record time. Nonetheless it was dark by the time I got back on the road.
It was the last day of the hunting season and being a Friday night the national forest in which I planned to camp would probably be teeming with hunters. The mechanics had told me how, in recent years, 2 girls riding horses on a public trail were accidentally shot dead at the very same camp I planned to use.
As a cyclist moving quietly through the woods I risked the same fate. As it is very unusual for people to be traveling any distance without a motor vehicle, any quiet movement could be taken for a deer.
Turning onto the mile long dirt track that led down to the old POW camp, I sang out into the cold, starry night hoping to alert any lurking gunmen to my humanity.
“ Oh give me a home where the Buffalo Roam
“ and the deer and the Antelope play,
“Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
“and the skies are not cloudy or grey,
“ Home ,home on the range
sometime I would sing out
“Oh Please do not shoot me.
"I'm a person you know,
"and you do not want to go to jail.” And so on to the same tune.
I was relived to get to the campsite unscathed and upon discovering the sign 'Alligator in Lake', I opted for another night in the trees away from the water's edge. Besides the 'gators, the hammock is always a good choice in areas with wild pigs anyway.
Tonight at least I could wear enough clothes to keep warm and use a pillow for my weary head. I was mentally and emotionally exhausted, there hadn't been a dull moment since I crossed the state line the day before.
With another big rainstorm due to arrive tomorrow, I would need a good night's sleep to tackle the challenges I would face extracting myself from the heart of the Mississippi woods in the morning.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
High speed vocal locals, St Helena Parish, Louisiana. 24/1/2010
It would appear that somewhere along the way I have entered the realms of a new demographic. This first came to my attention at the oddly named Hyde Park campground whilst I waited for the Tornado to come or not as the case may be.
A group of young men were gathered under cover by the bathrooms. I got talking to them and discovered an altogether different style of speech from the other southerners I have met up to this point
They talked quickly, really quickly. Fast and high pitched. Maybe twice the speed of the sweet soft accents of the 'southern belles' I had met in Feliciana, or the super deep tones of the big black men I'd met that day.
These guys were really going for it and with strong southern accents. Their voices were lilted and melodic, somehow they still managed to stretch out and emphasise certain vowel sounds even as they raced their way enthusiastically through complicated sentences.
They were very hard to understand and they certainly struggled to understand me. I wondered what kind of people spoke like this. It reminded me of Brad Pit's parody of Irish Gypsies in the movie scratch.
Then it hit me, these guys were the American version of Liverpool's Scousers. Strong accents, high pitched voices, big personalities, sharp active minds and impossible to understand.
They were my first encounter with the infamous 'Rednecks' of the Deep South, a diverse group of poorly educated white folks who call the south their home.
Some may think the term Rednecks has a derogatory overtone, maybe it does. It wasn't their behavior that induced me to label them so, drinking beer, eating chicken and smoking cigarettes is pretty standard out here.
Nor was it the prison tattoo's and the conversations about when their friends and family would make parole. Nor the battered old caravans they were staying in, which looked like they had seen one hurricane too many. Nor their angry mongrel dogs on string.
For me the clincher was the fact they proudly described themselves as such when they offered me some chicken " Y'all want some Redneck Bar-B-Que chicken?".
I shared some chicken and a chat but didn't stick around too long. They were freindly and welcoming enough. However I got the impression that as the evening wore on, and the beers went down, all that energy was going to get a bit out of control. Somewhere along the line it was all going it end in tears and I did not want to be there when it happened.
Today has been full of interactions with the people of the very same ilk, fast talking high energy, could get aggro'hey calm down!' types.
American Scousers- who'd have thought it, they are everywhere in this little pocket of South Western Louisiana and they brightened up my day today.
A group of young men were gathered under cover by the bathrooms. I got talking to them and discovered an altogether different style of speech from the other southerners I have met up to this point
They talked quickly, really quickly. Fast and high pitched. Maybe twice the speed of the sweet soft accents of the 'southern belles' I had met in Feliciana, or the super deep tones of the big black men I'd met that day.
These guys were really going for it and with strong southern accents. Their voices were lilted and melodic, somehow they still managed to stretch out and emphasise certain vowel sounds even as they raced their way enthusiastically through complicated sentences.
They were very hard to understand and they certainly struggled to understand me. I wondered what kind of people spoke like this. It reminded me of Brad Pit's parody of Irish Gypsies in the movie scratch.
Then it hit me, these guys were the American version of Liverpool's Scousers. Strong accents, high pitched voices, big personalities, sharp active minds and impossible to understand.
They were my first encounter with the infamous 'Rednecks' of the Deep South, a diverse group of poorly educated white folks who call the south their home.
Some may think the term Rednecks has a derogatory overtone, maybe it does. It wasn't their behavior that induced me to label them so, drinking beer, eating chicken and smoking cigarettes is pretty standard out here.
Nor was it the prison tattoo's and the conversations about when their friends and family would make parole. Nor the battered old caravans they were staying in, which looked like they had seen one hurricane too many. Nor their angry mongrel dogs on string.
For me the clincher was the fact they proudly described themselves as such when they offered me some chicken " Y'all want some Redneck Bar-B-Que chicken?".
I shared some chicken and a chat but didn't stick around too long. They were freindly and welcoming enough. However I got the impression that as the evening wore on, and the beers went down, all that energy was going to get a bit out of control. Somewhere along the line it was all going it end in tears and I did not want to be there when it happened.
Today has been full of interactions with the people of the very same ilk, fast talking high energy, could get aggro'hey calm down!' types.
American Scousers- who'd have thought it, they are everywhere in this little pocket of South Western Louisiana and they brightened up my day today.
Missing post,
this one will follow in due course. Suffice it to say, I didn't stop riding nor did I get the bike fixed. It was a gamble but I wanted to see what the road had on offer next.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The french connection, pt 2
In Cajun country the state roads are in terrible condition, worse than some dirt tracks I've ridden on. Rough surfaces create rolling resistance slowing a bike down in the same way a head wind or a flat tyre does. Meanwhile the fissures and pot holes jar the joints and rattle the bones.
With worn out shocks and half a continent behind me, my hands tingled and my wrists ached as I sought to keep the bike on the thin strips worn smoother by the wheels of passing cars.
Ironically towards the end of my time in Texas I had longed for the flat roads and tropical weather of Lousiana, only to find heavy rain and terrible riding conditions. It did detract from the pleasure of riding somewhat.
The Cajun farmers and hunters all have a certain look about them: short hair, broad shoulders, stocky builds and often with neat goatee beards. Cowboy hats are out and baseball hats are in.
I saw French names on roadsigns and I realised that these men actually did look a bit Gallic. A little fatter and less stylish than a true Frenchman perhaps, they had a certain 'je ne sais quoi' all the same.
I stopped in the historic town of Washington, Lousiana to treat myself to a quality meal. I spent 2 days food budget on one lunch in a famous Cajun restaurant- it was the best food I have eaten in the USA by far.
Families of locals were eating together with 3 or 4 generations together around the table, including young children. They were casually but stylishly dressed, freindly but relaxed and somehow rather cooler than the average country restaurant crowd. Take away the jazzy brass band music,the English language and the spicy food and one could very well have been in France.
It was becoming clear to me that it was impossible to camp out. The farms, swamps and large numbers of hunters left no safe space for a visiting vagabond. I would have to ride to Sportsville, a town 80 miles from Mamou.
Night arrived with 20 miles still to go. I was exhausted and annoyed: at the expense of hotels, the discomfort of the distance, the cold, but most of all the bloody dogs.
The perception of homeowners that they are liable to be attacked some unseen enemy , has prompted most to fill their gardens with dogs, angry barking dogs. Many dogs are not tied up, nor are they fenced in, either they learn to get out of the way of the vehicles or they die. I have seen many by the roadside who have met this fate.
The dogs came rushing out of the night at me, baying and growling, encircling my bike and giving me the fright of my life. All sorts of dogs came charging towards me: dobermans, pit bulls, lurchers, kelpies and jack russels. Often their owners were out hunting so there was no one there to call them back.
Some I out ran, others I screamed at, others I simply ignored and hoped for the best. I took to carrying my emergency whistle in my mouth and blasting it at the last minute to surprise and confuse them, a tactic I read about in a fellow cyclist's book.
It amazed me that not once was I bitten. Having run the gauntlet of a least a hundred hounds I escaped with only a hole in my panniers.
I finally arrived at Sportsville to find an impoverised town mostly populated by African Americans. There was something of an air of desperation about the place that night. Drunk and lost idividuals seemed to be wandering the poorly lit streets, sometimes slurring incomprhensibly as I passed. I imagine most sensible people were tucked up in their houses.
I did not feel imediately in danger for it was not a malevolent place, more of a hopeless one perhaps. I certainly did not feel like I belonged being sober, with enough money to travel and white, I stucj out like a sore thumb. I got off the streets pronto.
In the morning sun the town was a different place. Young and old alike waved or called out greetings as I passed by on my bike. I felt as if I could sense their African heritage somehow, their open freindliness reminded me of similarly honest welcomes I have experienced there. Their smiling faces lifted my spirits after a tough couple of days.
I stopped on the edge of town for food and chatted to the store owners for a while. A big black man, in an expensive looking pick up, with a deep, deep voice came over to hear about my journey.
"Well,welcome to the Deep South!" he laughed as he readied himslef to leave.
Then out of the blue :"You know it aint like they say........ that's my sister!" he pointed to the white shopkeeper "We all brothers and sisters down here and we all get along. You be sure to tell them that back home."
Whether it was completely true or not didn't matter to me. I was delighted to come across this kind of thinking. The way you see the world shapes the way it becomes, a kind of self fulfilling prophecy. Attitudes like these are exactly what is needed to create a more harmonious future. I was so pleased to see that they existed.
Bouyed by this encounter I was keen to get going and see who I would meet next. I clipped my bag onto the back of my bike and set off. 5 minutes down the road I had to stop because my chain had fallen off.
I'd left a loose bungeee on the back of my bike. It had fallen into the wheel, dislodged the chain and broken 2 spokes in my oh so hard working back wheel.
I had to carry on so I did.
As I ploughed through another dull day of fields, levees and dogs. I didn't meet a soul.
With a broken bike and no bike shop for 300 miles, no spare spokes or spoke key, nowhere to camp and having run out of money the trip was in trouble.
It was possible to escape to New Orleans and from there to go home.
As I crossed the Mississippi River at sunset and pedalled into St. Francisville, I decided to have a rest day and choose what to do. I really hadn't enjoyed my time in Louisiana so far. Flat land, fields, rain, hotels bills, dogs attacks and mutual mistrust don't really float my boat.
However this morning I had had a glimpse of a more forward looking aspect of the Deep South.
After all I've been through I would prefer to finish it on a high if I can.
With worn out shocks and half a continent behind me, my hands tingled and my wrists ached as I sought to keep the bike on the thin strips worn smoother by the wheels of passing cars.
Ironically towards the end of my time in Texas I had longed for the flat roads and tropical weather of Lousiana, only to find heavy rain and terrible riding conditions. It did detract from the pleasure of riding somewhat.
The Cajun farmers and hunters all have a certain look about them: short hair, broad shoulders, stocky builds and often with neat goatee beards. Cowboy hats are out and baseball hats are in.
I saw French names on roadsigns and I realised that these men actually did look a bit Gallic. A little fatter and less stylish than a true Frenchman perhaps, they had a certain 'je ne sais quoi' all the same.
I stopped in the historic town of Washington, Lousiana to treat myself to a quality meal. I spent 2 days food budget on one lunch in a famous Cajun restaurant- it was the best food I have eaten in the USA by far.
Families of locals were eating together with 3 or 4 generations together around the table, including young children. They were casually but stylishly dressed, freindly but relaxed and somehow rather cooler than the average country restaurant crowd. Take away the jazzy brass band music,the English language and the spicy food and one could very well have been in France.
It was becoming clear to me that it was impossible to camp out. The farms, swamps and large numbers of hunters left no safe space for a visiting vagabond. I would have to ride to Sportsville, a town 80 miles from Mamou.
Night arrived with 20 miles still to go. I was exhausted and annoyed: at the expense of hotels, the discomfort of the distance, the cold, but most of all the bloody dogs.
The perception of homeowners that they are liable to be attacked some unseen enemy , has prompted most to fill their gardens with dogs, angry barking dogs. Many dogs are not tied up, nor are they fenced in, either they learn to get out of the way of the vehicles or they die. I have seen many by the roadside who have met this fate.
The dogs came rushing out of the night at me, baying and growling, encircling my bike and giving me the fright of my life. All sorts of dogs came charging towards me: dobermans, pit bulls, lurchers, kelpies and jack russels. Often their owners were out hunting so there was no one there to call them back.
Some I out ran, others I screamed at, others I simply ignored and hoped for the best. I took to carrying my emergency whistle in my mouth and blasting it at the last minute to surprise and confuse them, a tactic I read about in a fellow cyclist's book.
It amazed me that not once was I bitten. Having run the gauntlet of a least a hundred hounds I escaped with only a hole in my panniers.
I finally arrived at Sportsville to find an impoverised town mostly populated by African Americans. There was something of an air of desperation about the place that night. Drunk and lost idividuals seemed to be wandering the poorly lit streets, sometimes slurring incomprhensibly as I passed. I imagine most sensible people were tucked up in their houses.
I did not feel imediately in danger for it was not a malevolent place, more of a hopeless one perhaps. I certainly did not feel like I belonged being sober, with enough money to travel and white, I stucj out like a sore thumb. I got off the streets pronto.
In the morning sun the town was a different place. Young and old alike waved or called out greetings as I passed by on my bike. I felt as if I could sense their African heritage somehow, their open freindliness reminded me of similarly honest welcomes I have experienced there. Their smiling faces lifted my spirits after a tough couple of days.
I stopped on the edge of town for food and chatted to the store owners for a while. A big black man, in an expensive looking pick up, with a deep, deep voice came over to hear about my journey.
"Well,welcome to the Deep South!" he laughed as he readied himslef to leave.
Then out of the blue :"You know it aint like they say........ that's my sister!" he pointed to the white shopkeeper "We all brothers and sisters down here and we all get along. You be sure to tell them that back home."
Whether it was completely true or not didn't matter to me. I was delighted to come across this kind of thinking. The way you see the world shapes the way it becomes, a kind of self fulfilling prophecy. Attitudes like these are exactly what is needed to create a more harmonious future. I was so pleased to see that they existed.
Bouyed by this encounter I was keen to get going and see who I would meet next. I clipped my bag onto the back of my bike and set off. 5 minutes down the road I had to stop because my chain had fallen off.
I'd left a loose bungeee on the back of my bike. It had fallen into the wheel, dislodged the chain and broken 2 spokes in my oh so hard working back wheel.
I had to carry on so I did.
As I ploughed through another dull day of fields, levees and dogs. I didn't meet a soul.
With a broken bike and no bike shop for 300 miles, no spare spokes or spoke key, nowhere to camp and having run out of money the trip was in trouble.
It was possible to escape to New Orleans and from there to go home.
As I crossed the Mississippi River at sunset and pedalled into St. Francisville, I decided to have a rest day and choose what to do. I really hadn't enjoyed my time in Louisiana so far. Flat land, fields, rain, hotels bills, dogs attacks and mutual mistrust don't really float my boat.
However this morning I had had a glimpse of a more forward looking aspect of the Deep South.
After all I've been through I would prefer to finish it on a high if I can.
The french connection, pt 1
Heading west from Oberlin, I entered Evangeline Parish. In Louisianna the state is divided into Parishes instead of counties, they amount to the same thing.
Evangeline Parish is part of a region known as Accadiana. This area was originally settled by people of French origin known as Accadians or Cajuns. The Accadians first settlled in Newfoundland, Canada but were later ejected by the British who wanted to ensure control of the region by setttling it with only their own people.
This ejection began a journey of Odysseyan proportions for the Accadians, taking them to France, French Guiana, French Polynesia, even the Falkland Islands in a search of a place to call thier own. Ultimately they settled in the swamps of what is now Western Louisiana.
The Accadians have maitained many aspects of their old culture such as festivals, customs, music, dance and cuisine. However their version of the French language is finally dying out, being spoken only by the older generation.
In the three days I spent in Cajun country, I was dissapointed not to hear a single word of their French dialect. Being a keen French speaker I would have been interested to see if I could understand, or indeed be understood .
Accadiana is very flat indeed. In fact I think it is the flattest place I've ever been.
Most of the land lies on a flood plain, and is actually below the level of the major rivers that surround and divide it.
Over the years huge dykes have been built up on either side of the big rivers in an attempt to contain them. The Mississipi River is particularly prone to finding a new path to the Gulf of Mexico every few years.
This is a natural phenomenon which has no doubt gone on for centuires. However it does not suit the modern towns and cities which have grown up alongside it, for the river to choose to be somewhere else instead.
Hence an ongoing struggle between man and river has ensued for over 2 centuries. Levees have grown higher and higher only for the river to burst through or over them just the same. Now the grassy levees rise 30ft above the flood plains, completely obscuring the river from view as you ride along.
Some of the flat fields are wetter than others. I passed by rice, sugar, cotton, grazing and hay. In the rice fields little lobster pots are placed in rows to catch freshwater crustaceans.Field sized ponds break up the 'dry' land. These are used to grow catfish, another key ingredient of Cajun food.
Water birds are plentiful I've seen egrets, herons, ibis, ducks, plovers and pelicans, all a keen to plunder the wetland's riches.
No doubt these parishes were all a swampy jungle 300 years ago. Most of the land has now been cleared but small wooded areas have been kept across the region. They give cover to the birds and to deer, possums and raccons which skulk in the shadows hoping not to be noticed.
Louisiana dubs itself a 'Sportsman's Paradise', a picture of a pelican accompanying the slogan on the car number plates. Hunting is more popular in Accadiana than anywhere else I've been.
Nearly every little clump of woods has a pick up parked nearby it at dusk, its occupants off in the trees hoping for a kill. The sport seems to cross more social and economic boundaries here than it did in Texas. With few fences there is a lot of public access to the land, legally or otherwise.
Unfortunately this results in hunters of all sorts in all sorts of places, Elmer Fudd may well be lurking somewhere in the Louisiana woods. The chances of geting shot by accident in the woods seems to me to be a lot higher here in the Deep South.
Soaked to the skin and surrounded by rice fields I decided to spend the night in a hotel in the town of Mamou. With the campsite closed for the winter and the tiny woods awash with gunmen, I didn't really have any choice.
The next morning as I left town, I started to doubt the accuracy of Johnny's version of Louisiana. Mamou was definately populated by both blacks and whites and they seemed to be getting along just fine, sharing a joke and working together.
However it was a Sunday morning and I did notice that the congregations leaving the churches were either one colour or the other. As an outsider it struck me as a little odd for Christians not to be united before The Lord.
Still, I reckoned Johnny and Edward's ideas of life in their state may have been a localised impression based on their own area. Possibly they were also little out of date, having grown up in a very different times.
Sometimes the world around us changes faster than our state of mind, leaving us with the idea that things are still how they used to be.
As I rode on I occasionally met people and one thing certainly wasconfirmed – a mindset of mutual mistrust is alive and well in rural Western Louisiana. Well meaning strangers of all sorts would allude to the danger posed by other people within their community.
This was the first time in nearly 2 months of camping and cycling in the USA that I had come across such a level of fear one another, I wondered how it came to be so.
Was this the legacy of slavery and the legally sanctioned social divisions that continued until the civil rights reforms in the sixties? Or was it the result of mass poverty due to mother nature's frequent violent outbursts across the state? Would this attitude prevail throughout the Deep South?
Time would tell...
Evangeline Parish is part of a region known as Accadiana. This area was originally settled by people of French origin known as Accadians or Cajuns. The Accadians first settlled in Newfoundland, Canada but were later ejected by the British who wanted to ensure control of the region by setttling it with only their own people.
This ejection began a journey of Odysseyan proportions for the Accadians, taking them to France, French Guiana, French Polynesia, even the Falkland Islands in a search of a place to call thier own. Ultimately they settled in the swamps of what is now Western Louisiana.
The Accadians have maitained many aspects of their old culture such as festivals, customs, music, dance and cuisine. However their version of the French language is finally dying out, being spoken only by the older generation.
In the three days I spent in Cajun country, I was dissapointed not to hear a single word of their French dialect. Being a keen French speaker I would have been interested to see if I could understand, or indeed be understood .
Accadiana is very flat indeed. In fact I think it is the flattest place I've ever been.
Most of the land lies on a flood plain, and is actually below the level of the major rivers that surround and divide it.
Over the years huge dykes have been built up on either side of the big rivers in an attempt to contain them. The Mississipi River is particularly prone to finding a new path to the Gulf of Mexico every few years.
This is a natural phenomenon which has no doubt gone on for centuires. However it does not suit the modern towns and cities which have grown up alongside it, for the river to choose to be somewhere else instead.
Hence an ongoing struggle between man and river has ensued for over 2 centuries. Levees have grown higher and higher only for the river to burst through or over them just the same. Now the grassy levees rise 30ft above the flood plains, completely obscuring the river from view as you ride along.
Some of the flat fields are wetter than others. I passed by rice, sugar, cotton, grazing and hay. In the rice fields little lobster pots are placed in rows to catch freshwater crustaceans.Field sized ponds break up the 'dry' land. These are used to grow catfish, another key ingredient of Cajun food.
Water birds are plentiful I've seen egrets, herons, ibis, ducks, plovers and pelicans, all a keen to plunder the wetland's riches.
No doubt these parishes were all a swampy jungle 300 years ago. Most of the land has now been cleared but small wooded areas have been kept across the region. They give cover to the birds and to deer, possums and raccons which skulk in the shadows hoping not to be noticed.
Louisiana dubs itself a 'Sportsman's Paradise', a picture of a pelican accompanying the slogan on the car number plates. Hunting is more popular in Accadiana than anywhere else I've been.
Nearly every little clump of woods has a pick up parked nearby it at dusk, its occupants off in the trees hoping for a kill. The sport seems to cross more social and economic boundaries here than it did in Texas. With few fences there is a lot of public access to the land, legally or otherwise.
Unfortunately this results in hunters of all sorts in all sorts of places, Elmer Fudd may well be lurking somewhere in the Louisiana woods. The chances of geting shot by accident in the woods seems to me to be a lot higher here in the Deep South.
Soaked to the skin and surrounded by rice fields I decided to spend the night in a hotel in the town of Mamou. With the campsite closed for the winter and the tiny woods awash with gunmen, I didn't really have any choice.
The next morning as I left town, I started to doubt the accuracy of Johnny's version of Louisiana. Mamou was definately populated by both blacks and whites and they seemed to be getting along just fine, sharing a joke and working together.
However it was a Sunday morning and I did notice that the congregations leaving the churches were either one colour or the other. As an outsider it struck me as a little odd for Christians not to be united before The Lord.
Still, I reckoned Johnny and Edward's ideas of life in their state may have been a localised impression based on their own area. Possibly they were also little out of date, having grown up in a very different times.
Sometimes the world around us changes faster than our state of mind, leaving us with the idea that things are still how they used to be.
As I rode on I occasionally met people and one thing certainly wasconfirmed – a mindset of mutual mistrust is alive and well in rural Western Louisiana. Well meaning strangers of all sorts would allude to the danger posed by other people within their community.
This was the first time in nearly 2 months of camping and cycling in the USA that I had come across such a level of fear one another, I wondered how it came to be so.
Was this the legacy of slavery and the legally sanctioned social divisions that continued until the civil rights reforms in the sixties? Or was it the result of mass poverty due to mother nature's frequent violent outbursts across the state? Would this attitude prevail throughout the Deep South?
Time would tell...
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Encounters with Louisianans,pt 2. Jonny.16/1/2010
I decided to get back on the bike, it was still too early to eat and the coffee was still coursing through my veins. According to the map there was another cafe 10 miles down the road. However when I got there, an hour later, it turned out to be a canoe rental business only open in the summer.
There was no end to the deluge in sight. Hungry and wet, I pedalled on to keep warm. The next possible refreshment/shelter stop was in the town of Oberlin 15 miles away, it would take at least an hour to get there.
Another pick up had pulled over ahead. I tried not to wonder if it's occupants were going to offer me a lift, twice in one day would be too much to hope for. It also crossed my mind they might be waiting there to rob me.
As I approached it became clear that they had a flat tyre. I stopped to see if they needed any help.
"Do unto others as you would be done" I thought.
The man under the battered old pick-up had it all in hand.
"Tell him we'll give him a ride once I've fixed this up", he hollered to the woman who was waiting, shivering in the rain.
"I thought I should stop and pick you up," he said as he climbed from underneath the vehicle, "but we already passed you so I didn't.
"Then this happens straight away. Must be God punishing me" he smiled.
He was short and slightly built white guy in his fifties. He had the tanned leathery skin of one who has spent his life outside; scruffy clothes; shoulder length hair and a foot-long pointy grey beard. He had a big open smile and gentle look in his eyes.
I liked him straight away.
He spoke with a strong southern accent but in an alert, animated manner which is unusual in this part of the world. Many everyday southerners speak slowly and sometimes with a slight slur to their words.
It gives the impression, rightly or wrongly, that things are taking a while to be processed. Some come across as being relaxed and easy going, others as not really all there maybe.
However appearances can be very deceptive and at this stage I believe this trait is as much a reflection of the pace of life as anything else.
I climbed into the pick up and we got on our way.
"Don't mind the guns, we ain't robbers." he explained " If we see a deer at the side of the road we'll shoot it and eat it."
Looking around I saw a rifle on the floor across the cab, now held in place by my calves, and unspent shotgun cartridges on the dashboard. I assured them I was getting used to weapons now after 6 weeks in the country.
Jonny and his wife Sarah lived just up the road. They were on their way into town to buy beer and cigarettes.
They offered me a cigarette and when I declined they asked me if they could smoke. It has been my experience so far that smokers in the US consider the feelings of non-smokers even when in their own domain. Maybe it's just the kind of people I am lucky enough to meet. Personally I don't mind if people smoke around me but many would appreciate this courtesy I'm sure.
Jonny told me he was a world traveller, who had put his roaming life on hold to take care of his elderly father. He had hitch-hiked from Louisiana to Alaska twice in his life, although he might not be let into Canada anymore thanks to a marijuana conviction.
He had also served in the military during the Vietnam war but had been stationed in Thailand. He had never been shot at nor had he shot anyone. However he did not escape South East Asia unscathed: like plenty of his peers he came back home a shadow of his former self.
Being young men looking to enjoy themselves in an exotic land they had started out on the weed, top quality Thai Stick at that. Soon enough they moved onto opium. After a while they pretty much gave up eating, living instead on the freely available Dexedrine energy pills.
Eventually the opium was replaced by heroin and before they knew what had happened a number of America's finest were addicted to the hardest of hard drugs.
Jonny said he was 160 lbs when he arrived in Thailand and left weighing less than 90. Luckily he came back to the rural Deep South where these substances just didn't exist, it probably saved his life.
Nowadays Jon gets work operating heavy machinery when he can, it has taken him all over the US. He has also developed a fascination with history, religion and amateur archeology- searching in the mud for artifacts of bygone times.
He was a complicated fellow who had already lived a crazy life, that much was clear to see.
We stopped outside town to pick up the case of beer. Then went to park under a nearby bridge, they wanted to have a drink and a chat. Open alcohol containers are banned within many city limits.
The muddy Calsecieu River meanders between curving sand banks as it winds it's way towards the Gulf of Mexico. Though unimpressive here, a few miles downstream it is wide enough to take ocean going craft.
When Jonny was a boy there were no sand banks on the river. Forty years later they are 20ft wide in places. Deforestation is to blame apparently, clearing the land upstream has led to soil erosion. Without the trees the sand and silt is washed away during floods and deposited in the river where the flow slows as the valley widens.
The forests in western Louisiana are diverse hardwood, wetland forests. Striking flowering trees like Southern Magnolia and Bay stand alongside Holly, Oak, Beech, Cypresses and too many others to list. It is home to hundreds of specialised birds and animals.
According to Jon, logging is still big business and more hardwood forest is being lost everyday. Some goes for quality hardwood products but most just goes as chippings to the state's paper mills.
It was exactly the same story as I'd seen, with my own eyes, in the unique temperate rain forests of Southern Tasmania. Surely we can make enough paper from recycling and renewable forests to avoid destroying these natural treasures.
How can we expect the struggling economies of the developing world to slow their harvesting of primary forest while the wealthiest nations continue the folly?
I ran through my planned route with my hosts. They wanted to warn me I would be passing through some black areas, I explained I very much welcome encounters with all the American people.
Jonny said I needed to understand that society is still very divided in Louisiana, he said black and white people may work together in the day but they live separately at night and won't be found mixing in the little country bars for example.
I told him what Edward had said about being scared to be in a white area after dark.
He said it wasn't necessary to be that worried anymore. Louisiana had certainly been a stronghold for 'The Clan' but now they operated only in great secrecy because the FBI was after them.
They threw their beer cans on the floor and told me to do the same. They come and collect the beer cans regularly to exchange for money. Although I was reluctant to do so, I did believe them, there weren't many old cans there at all. Plus I got the impression they didn't have 2 pennies to rub together.
Jon and Sarah left me at a fried chicken restaurant in Oberlin, Louisiana with a can of beer in my rucksack and plenty to mull over in my mind.
Logging, segregation, The Clan...it didn't sound like my kind of place at all and I still had 30 miles to ride on my first full day in the state.
There was no end to the deluge in sight. Hungry and wet, I pedalled on to keep warm. The next possible refreshment/shelter stop was in the town of Oberlin 15 miles away, it would take at least an hour to get there.
Another pick up had pulled over ahead. I tried not to wonder if it's occupants were going to offer me a lift, twice in one day would be too much to hope for. It also crossed my mind they might be waiting there to rob me.
As I approached it became clear that they had a flat tyre. I stopped to see if they needed any help.
"Do unto others as you would be done" I thought.
The man under the battered old pick-up had it all in hand.
"Tell him we'll give him a ride once I've fixed this up", he hollered to the woman who was waiting, shivering in the rain.
"I thought I should stop and pick you up," he said as he climbed from underneath the vehicle, "but we already passed you so I didn't.
"Then this happens straight away. Must be God punishing me" he smiled.
He was short and slightly built white guy in his fifties. He had the tanned leathery skin of one who has spent his life outside; scruffy clothes; shoulder length hair and a foot-long pointy grey beard. He had a big open smile and gentle look in his eyes.
I liked him straight away.
He spoke with a strong southern accent but in an alert, animated manner which is unusual in this part of the world. Many everyday southerners speak slowly and sometimes with a slight slur to their words.
It gives the impression, rightly or wrongly, that things are taking a while to be processed. Some come across as being relaxed and easy going, others as not really all there maybe.
However appearances can be very deceptive and at this stage I believe this trait is as much a reflection of the pace of life as anything else.
I climbed into the pick up and we got on our way.
"Don't mind the guns, we ain't robbers." he explained " If we see a deer at the side of the road we'll shoot it and eat it."
Looking around I saw a rifle on the floor across the cab, now held in place by my calves, and unspent shotgun cartridges on the dashboard. I assured them I was getting used to weapons now after 6 weeks in the country.
Jonny and his wife Sarah lived just up the road. They were on their way into town to buy beer and cigarettes.
They offered me a cigarette and when I declined they asked me if they could smoke. It has been my experience so far that smokers in the US consider the feelings of non-smokers even when in their own domain. Maybe it's just the kind of people I am lucky enough to meet. Personally I don't mind if people smoke around me but many would appreciate this courtesy I'm sure.
Jonny told me he was a world traveller, who had put his roaming life on hold to take care of his elderly father. He had hitch-hiked from Louisiana to Alaska twice in his life, although he might not be let into Canada anymore thanks to a marijuana conviction.
He had also served in the military during the Vietnam war but had been stationed in Thailand. He had never been shot at nor had he shot anyone. However he did not escape South East Asia unscathed: like plenty of his peers he came back home a shadow of his former self.
Being young men looking to enjoy themselves in an exotic land they had started out on the weed, top quality Thai Stick at that. Soon enough they moved onto opium. After a while they pretty much gave up eating, living instead on the freely available Dexedrine energy pills.
Eventually the opium was replaced by heroin and before they knew what had happened a number of America's finest were addicted to the hardest of hard drugs.
Jonny said he was 160 lbs when he arrived in Thailand and left weighing less than 90. Luckily he came back to the rural Deep South where these substances just didn't exist, it probably saved his life.
Nowadays Jon gets work operating heavy machinery when he can, it has taken him all over the US. He has also developed a fascination with history, religion and amateur archeology- searching in the mud for artifacts of bygone times.
He was a complicated fellow who had already lived a crazy life, that much was clear to see.
We stopped outside town to pick up the case of beer. Then went to park under a nearby bridge, they wanted to have a drink and a chat. Open alcohol containers are banned within many city limits.
The muddy Calsecieu River meanders between curving sand banks as it winds it's way towards the Gulf of Mexico. Though unimpressive here, a few miles downstream it is wide enough to take ocean going craft.
When Jonny was a boy there were no sand banks on the river. Forty years later they are 20ft wide in places. Deforestation is to blame apparently, clearing the land upstream has led to soil erosion. Without the trees the sand and silt is washed away during floods and deposited in the river where the flow slows as the valley widens.
The forests in western Louisiana are diverse hardwood, wetland forests. Striking flowering trees like Southern Magnolia and Bay stand alongside Holly, Oak, Beech, Cypresses and too many others to list. It is home to hundreds of specialised birds and animals.
According to Jon, logging is still big business and more hardwood forest is being lost everyday. Some goes for quality hardwood products but most just goes as chippings to the state's paper mills.
It was exactly the same story as I'd seen, with my own eyes, in the unique temperate rain forests of Southern Tasmania. Surely we can make enough paper from recycling and renewable forests to avoid destroying these natural treasures.
How can we expect the struggling economies of the developing world to slow their harvesting of primary forest while the wealthiest nations continue the folly?
I ran through my planned route with my hosts. They wanted to warn me I would be passing through some black areas, I explained I very much welcome encounters with all the American people.
Jonny said I needed to understand that society is still very divided in Louisiana, he said black and white people may work together in the day but they live separately at night and won't be found mixing in the little country bars for example.
I told him what Edward had said about being scared to be in a white area after dark.
He said it wasn't necessary to be that worried anymore. Louisiana had certainly been a stronghold for 'The Clan' but now they operated only in great secrecy because the FBI was after them.
They threw their beer cans on the floor and told me to do the same. They come and collect the beer cans regularly to exchange for money. Although I was reluctant to do so, I did believe them, there weren't many old cans there at all. Plus I got the impression they didn't have 2 pennies to rub together.
Jon and Sarah left me at a fried chicken restaurant in Oberlin, Louisiana with a can of beer in my rucksack and plenty to mull over in my mind.
Logging, segregation, The Clan...it didn't sound like my kind of place at all and I still had 30 miles to ride on my first full day in the state.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Encounters with Louisianans, pt 1. Edward. 16/1/2010
It rained all night and I slept well.
It was still raining when I woke up, I guess all the water in those swamps has to come from somewhere. I didn't want to get out of the bivvy bag to ride in the rain.
I couldn't stay in the woods all day, I didn't have much food or water plus I wouldn't find out anything new about Louisiana from my hammock. I forced myself to get up and get on with it.
An hour and a half later I was kind of getting into it. Even though I was soaked to the skin, I wasn't uncomfortable riding. There was no wind, I guessed it was about 15 degrees C and I was making good time.
I stopped in the town of Deridder to pick up a coffee and have a little break form the torrential onslaught. The Indian clerk said he was just visiting for 6 months. He told me he was enjoying living in the small town. He said it was populated with good, honest people and has the highest number of churches of any town in the USA.
Back on the road I was keen to get moving. I was trying to warm up having got a bit cold when I stopped. There was no shoulder in town and the traffic was fairly heavy. The rain was coming down really hard now, it was almost monsoon like in nature. The fun element of riding in the rain was wearing off fast.
Time for the 'carry on regardless' attitude without which there would be few British outdoor enthusiasts. I set myself a target destination, 20 miles down the road, to make by lunchtime.
However I hadn't even made it out of town before a man had pulled in to offer me a lift.
The old but well kept pick-up had the words, "God loves us all equally" written on the back windscreen in large stick-on letters . The driver said he would take me the 20 miles to my lunch stop, he had wanted an opportunity to help someone that day.
Edward was a quietly spoken, middle aged black man. He was simply but neatly dressed, with a deep voice and an old fashioned accent. His eyes were wide and kind and he had an open, dignified poise.
"I've learnt to always take care what I say to people." he explained, "You never know when you might be speaking to an angel."
He was obviously very inspired by his faith. He had been born again he told me, renounced his old ways and found a new purpose in life. He viewed giving me lift as a chance to help me on my way spiritually as well as physically.
Looking me deep in the eyes he spoke to me benevolently, as if he already knew who I was. Occasionally touching his bible, he calmly shared his perspective with me in a remarkably amenable way. This really was his calling, spreading The Good News, a true grass roots evangelist.
Much of what he said struck a chord with me. He talked about how mankind has lost it's way in the world, lost touch with the creative forces that gave us all life. How people need to take a look at what was happening around them and focus on what really matters.
He spoke about how powerful people around the world use all sorts of means to control mankind's direction to suit their own intentions. For a poor man living in a small rural town in the Deep South he was certainly very aware of what goes on elsewhere, more so than many.
Despite his charismatic persona and the appeal of his ideas, I just couldn't make the connection that what he was proposing as the solution to all these problems.
I do have a great respect for religious people though. In my travels around the world I have found those of faith to be good people. They are usually trustworthy and reliable, especially in places where many others may not be so. They live by a strong code of right and wrong, I try to do the same.
However either you have faith of you don't and whether I like it or not, I remain a man who does not.
As we raced along the wet country roads, I realised I was a bit scared we might skid and crash. It just like the last time I got a lift in the rain on the interstate, except this time the conditions really weren't that bad.
After nearly 2 months on a bike, perhaps I have become unaccustomed to motorised transport. To me it seems unnatural and a little unsettling to exceed 25 miles an hour now.
Aside from the plight of my soul, Edward also shared another telling tale. Once he gave man a lift to the very same spot only for the car to break down leaving him stranded. It is a white area, he said and as it was nearly sunset, he was scared to be there. He was all set to call a friend to rescue him but his vehicle came to life in the nick of time.
As we parted company I was left a little stunned, both the strength of his convictions and the implications of his story had had quite an effect on me.
I had found out a little more about the mentality of the Deep South but I really didn't know what to make of it.
It was still raining when I woke up, I guess all the water in those swamps has to come from somewhere. I didn't want to get out of the bivvy bag to ride in the rain.
I couldn't stay in the woods all day, I didn't have much food or water plus I wouldn't find out anything new about Louisiana from my hammock. I forced myself to get up and get on with it.
An hour and a half later I was kind of getting into it. Even though I was soaked to the skin, I wasn't uncomfortable riding. There was no wind, I guessed it was about 15 degrees C and I was making good time.
I stopped in the town of Deridder to pick up a coffee and have a little break form the torrential onslaught. The Indian clerk said he was just visiting for 6 months. He told me he was enjoying living in the small town. He said it was populated with good, honest people and has the highest number of churches of any town in the USA.
Back on the road I was keen to get moving. I was trying to warm up having got a bit cold when I stopped. There was no shoulder in town and the traffic was fairly heavy. The rain was coming down really hard now, it was almost monsoon like in nature. The fun element of riding in the rain was wearing off fast.
Time for the 'carry on regardless' attitude without which there would be few British outdoor enthusiasts. I set myself a target destination, 20 miles down the road, to make by lunchtime.
However I hadn't even made it out of town before a man had pulled in to offer me a lift.
The old but well kept pick-up had the words, "God loves us all equally" written on the back windscreen in large stick-on letters . The driver said he would take me the 20 miles to my lunch stop, he had wanted an opportunity to help someone that day.
Edward was a quietly spoken, middle aged black man. He was simply but neatly dressed, with a deep voice and an old fashioned accent. His eyes were wide and kind and he had an open, dignified poise.
"I've learnt to always take care what I say to people." he explained, "You never know when you might be speaking to an angel."
He was obviously very inspired by his faith. He had been born again he told me, renounced his old ways and found a new purpose in life. He viewed giving me lift as a chance to help me on my way spiritually as well as physically.
Looking me deep in the eyes he spoke to me benevolently, as if he already knew who I was. Occasionally touching his bible, he calmly shared his perspective with me in a remarkably amenable way. This really was his calling, spreading The Good News, a true grass roots evangelist.
Much of what he said struck a chord with me. He talked about how mankind has lost it's way in the world, lost touch with the creative forces that gave us all life. How people need to take a look at what was happening around them and focus on what really matters.
He spoke about how powerful people around the world use all sorts of means to control mankind's direction to suit their own intentions. For a poor man living in a small rural town in the Deep South he was certainly very aware of what goes on elsewhere, more so than many.
Despite his charismatic persona and the appeal of his ideas, I just couldn't make the connection that what he was proposing as the solution to all these problems.
I do have a great respect for religious people though. In my travels around the world I have found those of faith to be good people. They are usually trustworthy and reliable, especially in places where many others may not be so. They live by a strong code of right and wrong, I try to do the same.
However either you have faith of you don't and whether I like it or not, I remain a man who does not.
As we raced along the wet country roads, I realised I was a bit scared we might skid and crash. It just like the last time I got a lift in the rain on the interstate, except this time the conditions really weren't that bad.
After nearly 2 months on a bike, perhaps I have become unaccustomed to motorised transport. To me it seems unnatural and a little unsettling to exceed 25 miles an hour now.
Aside from the plight of my soul, Edward also shared another telling tale. Once he gave man a lift to the very same spot only for the car to break down leaving him stranded. It is a white area, he said and as it was nearly sunset, he was scared to be there. He was all set to call a friend to rescue him but his vehicle came to life in the nick of time.
As we parted company I was left a little stunned, both the strength of his convictions and the implications of his story had had quite an effect on me.
I had found out a little more about the mentality of the Deep South but I really didn't know what to make of it.
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