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.