Though the first 2,000 miles of our trip encompassed twice as much space as the last 1,000 miles would, we were soon to find out that it was somehow less diverse. Because this land was otherworldly, I knew it from the second I read the words “Bienvenue en Louisiane.” I knew I had officially arrived at The Great Beyond.
And my god, it was great. Greater than Texas in many ways; heavier, harsher- or maybe it just felt that way because I was already so worn out. Either way Louisiana affected me like nowhere else could. I felt like a different person there, and yet there was something about that place that made me feel ok with that.
Though the atmosphere of Louisiana was similar to Texas, it certainly didn’t have the same feeling that I had become used to; there was something different about the earth. The afternoons felt more isolated, though we passed through small towns every couple of hours. Even though the sun was out it felt darker, maybe because of the bits of shadows cast onto the road by the invasive vines on either side of us. The air was thicker, tainted undoubtedly by the smell of bloated possums and armadillos, killed by cars whose tires were still moist with the blood of their last victims.
Maybe it was for that reason that I felt constantly surrounded by death. It was not only in the hot, tired bodies of the living but in the faint, high-pitched buzzing that accompanied the sight of anything dead by the side of the road. The swamp itself was alive only by the insects that fed on the spirits that had perished inside of it, and the scattered towns were alive only by the god-fearing people that fed on the spirits inside of the parishes. There were plenty of them- people, insects, churches, spirits. And if I stopped moving, as I often did, and stepped away from my bike to stretch my swollen legs, I could hold my breath and almost always hear the shrill ringing. Along with the low pitched buzzing of millions of flying bugs and the faint voices of those faithful worshipers, chanting the hymns that they believed would keep satan at bay. It swept through the air, reaching my ears despite having no breeze to be carried on. And it was hypnotic, like a toll; a constant reminder of death’s overwhelming presence.
Yet somehow those relentless mosquitos always found their way to the living, smelling out our warm bodies as they baked beneath the yellow sun, or rested under the shade of the overgrown marshes. There was not much traffic those days; in fact, there was not much activity to speak of whatsoever. The towns were always tranquil and quiet, save for the flourishing churches that almost seemed to outnumber the amount of residents in the towns that they occupied. They were everywhere, and they were always active. Especially on Sunday and Wednesday nights, when music could be heard making it’s way out of their open screen doors.
Behind the churches, or sometimes even behind elementary schools and grocery stores, the presence of death was displayed in vast cemeteries, where the deceased were kept in above-ground tombs. They were there because the towns flooded too often and they could wash away, so new bodies were just put on top of the old ones in concrete caskets. There they stayed for awhile, until they withered away and fell into a pit of bones, the great equalizer. I didn’t mind the idea of it, in fact, it made a lot of sense.
It was weird to go right through the residential areas, where little brick schools merged into those above ground graveyards and then into neighborhoods and back into schools and graveyards again. There were signs with pictures of teenage boys in baggie pants, stating that it was the law to keep your pants pulled up. Houses were close together, and everything seemed smaller than usual.
Outside of the towns the houses got bigger and farther apart. They were so far away from each other that they hardly even had neighbors, and they were built in the best patches of forested land that Louisiana had to offer. The giant, gnarly oak trees provided shade and a place to hang a tire swing in the front yard. The water in those neighborhoods was not stagnant; it was crystal clear, and it wove around them in all of it’s quaint, babbling glory, running under their decorative foot bridges with statues of fishing frogs sitting on them. They looked pretty normal for the most part, but here they seemed almost out of place. After riding through the neighborhoods inside the city, these ones seemed extravagant, even though they weren’t really. There were no signs that said to pull your pants up. The streets were free of roadkill, and there were kids playing basketball outside of almost every house.
As we got further and further east, Louisiana became less scattered and elusive and more like you would expect it to be. Baton Rouge was colorful and fast-paced, with gorgeous bike paths through winding, almost artistically shaped swamps. I loved it. I loved everything about it, from the stark contrast of the rural and urban cities to the harsh, unapologetic bayou. I had never seen anything like Louisiana, and I felt lucky to be able to have experienced the whole thing from west to east. It was thought provoking and dark, but unfailingly casual and that was oddly comforting.
Rove & Ponder 