Louisiana is culturally so special. Historically Native American and then French, the genteel manners of the French are everywhere apparent with the French penchant for excellent cuisine and cooking everything. Admittedly, there is not too much that is vegetarian-Kosher (crawfish, catfish, crabs, frog legs, alligator tail, boudin). One has the same problem in France… The Native American cultural part comes in with the fishing and gaming. Although the people are generally not wealthy, like the French, they enjoy a licentious good time, and give them a boat, they are happy to be out all day catching their food and cooking it in their small homes. I listen to the slow creole banter on the radio, trying to find a place to pitch a tent. I ask the local fire station, and the fireman thinks there might be a place up the road. I move hopefully a few miles up the road, following his direction, only to find it to be a trailer park across from the fireman’s training station… I remember too late that he had said that “they might let me pitch a tent there.” His accent was thick with the local patois. I wondered if he had ever been much further than the trip from the fireman’s training station to the fire house. Still, it was kind of nice that he thought I might pitch my tent among the trailers however awkward that might be.
A nice bike ride with the pups through the swamp,
and then deep into Acadia. The overnight facilities are closed at the campground. 20 years after Katrina, they are still trying to rebuild after the floods. It is ancestral Native American. I visit the Chitimacha tribe and learn how they plant the cane that they use to double weave their baskets. Their language was archived many many years ago, and although all who spoke the language had passed, the tribe has gone through an extensive effort to “revive the language from its sleep”. It is now being taught in the schools in their tribe. Beautiful stories are woven by tribal members to describe their land and their culture. I watch one tribe member (a writer) describe how the boat he fishes from has to be wooden (otherwise it is not living), and listen to the granddaughter of one of the many tribal members who had been sent off to boarding schools in Pennsylvania as children. Her grandmother had run away. Back in the day, she had hopped trains to get back.
As I move through the Atchafalaya Basin and its aquatic culture, I am quite aware that this really is ground zero for global warming. The beaches along the coast, still not rebuilt after the hurricane, contain residue from the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. People lounge on the beach, swimming in the water, with the oil rigs in the background, as one half of the state stands on the edge of being submerged and/or releveled by the next natural disaster. The Chitimacha belong to the Mississippian mound culture and I had asked whether any of their mounds had survived all of the flattening of the land. They answered yes. But I truly wonder how many more disasters this land will survive, and whether it has passed into a chronic stage of illness where one no longer really hopes for recovery – just a good death at the end.