Day 40- Chicot State Park LA

 The day before yesterday at the end of the day Kelly and Adam had an epic fail in their rim. It cracked right in half, leaving the tandem unrideable. They spent yesterday scouring bike stores for a new wheel and came back with one that was a tenuous maybe. After installing it they went for a quick spin but didn’t even make it around the block before the back wheel just stop engaging. They’ve had the worst luck but have a new one that just arrived at our next destination so it looks like perhaps they’ll be back in business after tomorrow.

For the rest of us, it was a great day. We rolled out of camp around 920 and hit it pretty hard as it was very flat. There were a few cattle pastures and I did snag a photo of the sheep eared cows. 

Mostly there was a lot of this and this. 

I became curious about the earth walls that surrounded the flooded fields. We determined these were rice fields in various stages of growth. Some were full of water and plants. Others were totally dry. I left with many questions.

We came into the town of Mamou (pronounced Ma — moo which just might be my favorite place name ever) and stopped at the Krazy Cajun for lunch. The shrimp Poboy there was no competition for yesterday’s sandwich, but we did get to participate in Miss Serena‘s 85th birthday celebration, so I called it a win. She marched through the restaurant to songs and clapping- but no photos. A typical southern woman, she was perfectly done up to include a hat that matched her pedal pushers.

By the time we rode into Ville Platte it was just Ankur and I and I was determined to get the many questions I had about rice answered. I stopped in the parking lot of a welding shop where three young men in were standing around a car. One was holding his lunch so I figured they weren’t too too busy. I rode over to them, banking on the fact the people in the south are brought up to respect old people. (I might not try this in New Jersey.) I explained that I’ve been riding all day through rice fields,  that I wasn’t from around here (no shit once I open my mouth) and I had many questions. A young man named Chris fielded many of them and then pointed Ankur and I in the direction of the drying  mill across the street for better info. We thanked them and set off.

I ignored the no trespassing and video camera signs at the office and walked into the drying mill, calling hello in my friendliest voice. Out came a tall lanky man named Peter Miller with the most lovely lilting Cajun  accent. We explained ourselves again and asked if he had a few minutes. He was more than accommodating. Here’s what we learned:

• Rice is sometimes planted in dry ground but not always. Sometimes it gets planted in muddy flooded fields.
• Rice gets cut by a combine. Sometimes once a year, sometimes twice.
• Once it’s separated from the stalk it goes to a drying mill where it’s dried until it has about 11% moisture content. More than that and it sticks up the milling process. The drying Mill stores it until the processing mill is ready to process it. This drying facility had over 200 thousand barrels of rice in storage. And even with this, Louisiana is not a contender for highest rice producer in the US. California and Arkansas are ahead of Louisiana.
• At the mill, rice is hulled and sorted by machines that remove the broken grains, and decide what’s Long grain and what’s medium grain. Peter did a sample of two different types so we could see the difference — but he said it all taste the same. I agree. 
  

Peter was so generous with his time and answered every one of my million questions. It was fascinating and he couldn’t have been nicer.

Ankur and I weren’t far from the drawing Mill when we heard life Cajun accordion music and the stalking was on. We found our musician on his screen porch and listened at the end of his driveway, clapping when he finished. It made us all happy.

We’re now at Chico State Park. 

The landscape has changed dramatically from the rice fields. I think we are now in Bayou country — we’ve seen our first alligator. 

I think this may also be the home of the Rougarou, Louisiana’s answer to a werewolf, and the Feu Follet, lights that are seen in the swamps and are supposed to be the spirits of loved ones coming to say goodbye. Or, these orbs are malevolent and draw people into the swamps where they remain desperately lost. You pick, but I’m staying out of the swamp.

Things I learned today:

• Ask all the questions. Keep asking until someone answers them. Because someone always will.