Smack Dab in the Middle of North America's Largest Swamp

8 December 2009

Our introduction to the great and only slightly odd state of Louisiana begins with the Creole Nature Trail, or 'Louisiana's Outback.' Nature here means swamps and alligators and possums and other undesirable things, but also humidity and warmth and summery-loveliness. It's a reasonable tradeoff. I'm happy to risk my ankles with the gators in exchange for flip-flops and t-shirts. We've stuck to the lesser roads, which are nicely signed with 'America's Byways' pretty much everywhere, in a half-hearted attempt to get us off of motorways. It's so nice to have the time to take the back roads; we've driven through a bit of Louisiana before, but on the interstate and on a tight schedule. It's a completely different place when you can wander the bayous. We took some random little ferry over a bayou canal in the middle of nowhere, watched the sun set over those funny swamp boats they ride in on the opening credits to CSI: Miami, bought very sweet sodas from a little old Cajun lady.

Stopped off in Lafayette, in the middle of the sort of French Cajun country you see in movies, and ate some place called Prejean's, with a band consisting of three grandperes in John Deere hats and button-down shirts playing zydeco. Etoufee and blackened catfish and crawfish bisque. Louisiana is delicious. Have, of course, made a playlist for the iPod of themed music—we are listening to George Strait's Adalida, Creedence Clearwater Revival's Proud Mary and Born on the Bayou, Jace Everett's Bad Things, Mel McDaniel's Louisiana Saturday Night, and Hank Williams' Jambalaya, among several others. AND we parked next to Miss Louisiana herself's red dodge with a big magnetic sticker on the side proclaiming her dedication to fighting illiteracy or world peace or something.

Up Route 10 through the middle of Henderson Swamp, part of the Atchafalaya swamp area—the biggest river swamp area thing in the States, according to the very charming ladies at the tourist welcome center (who were greatly puzzled as to what to list us as on their guest book, and finally settled on listing David as from DC and me as from London, but mostly seemed to think that we must be unbelievably thrilled to be back in America after all that traveling in very strange places.)

Detour down to Plaquemine, and a walk along the levees (these may or may not be the same ones that failed somewhat spectacularly a few years ago...you might recall) on the Mississippi. This is sugar cane country, with loads of lorries carting cut cane around to massive plants for processing—reminiscent of the wheat road trains in Coonamble. Lunch in Thibodaux, which David wanted to see especially, as it gets a mention in Jimmy Buffett's I Will Play for Gumbo, also on the playlist. Had some very good Po Boys at Bubba's II in Thibodaux, seated next to one of those miniature porcelain Christmas villages that grandmas the world over are so fond of. PoBoys (or poor boys) are sandwiches you only get in Louisiana, French bread filled with lightly fried oysters, shrimp, or catfish, and dressed with lettuce and pickles (gherkins) and mayo and are good enough to trade your children for.

Plantation afternoon—the River Road running up the Mississippi from New Orleans was once full of dozens of sugar plantations (and cotton above a certain line), and several remain. The two I'm most interested in are Laura and Oak Alley, convenient to one another and to Thibodaux. Oak Alley is the one you've probably seen in movies or books, with a massive row of 300-year old live oaks marching out from the house to the river. The house itself is beautiful, but the best bit was the tour guides, no doubt. They are gracious and often stout middle aged Cajun ladies, complete with housewife hair and/or mama mullets, and every one of them was trapped in an enormous and bright red hoop skirt. I literally couldn't take my eyes off the sway of the skirts, except when our mullet lady announced that all people in the “eighteen-hundreds times” were much shorter, the men none above 5 feet 4 inches, and the women averaging 4 feet 10 inches. And thus the chairs in the dining room are lower than ours might be. I know I am a bit of a pedant when it comes to anachronisms and history in general, but oh my gosh, people speaking with a voice of authority and repeating heinous lies like that? Drives. Me. Insane.

But I did get to lounge about on the terrace feeling faint and being dramatic, even though David wouldn't buy me a mint julep to sip while I fainted. Dramatically. So there's that.

Laura was much more to my liking; it belonged to a Creole family, run unusually by four generations of women, and the last of the family left a detailed history of life on the place. The house was simple and elegant and barring the lack of bathrooms and a kitchen, you could move right in now. Loads of old brick and atmosphere.

There are intact slave cabins that were used by farm workers until 1977, which is just crazy, but kind of cool. It's less structured and no one was wearing angst-inducing costumes, and the guide had a Creole accent (ie. dis and dat) and we liked it so much better. I never wanted to be French before, but it all seemed so much more appealing.

Female owner number two prudently married a Bordeaux-born nobleman and set herself up as the wine empresaria for all of the Mississippi as well as growing cane, and ultimately was a miserable old woman whose family left her in the house when the Union started shelling during the war. Number Three was known for branding her slaves on the forehead with her initials if they got uppity, and made her children pay for a pension for 30 years when she decided to retire. Number four had had it, married a protestant and moved to St Louis.