Gators and glitter

Yes, yes, I'm in New Orleans now - but, more importantly, the tantalisingly unfulfilled alligator theme that's run through the last few posts finally reached its climax today, thanks to Jerry. I was on a pre-conference familiarisation trip that you might think I had presciently chosen because it was a swamp trip that I suspected would deliver predictably elusive gators. Actually, it was the only one left by the time I was officially part of the delegation.

But happily so! Because we drove not far out of the city to the Jean Lafitte Swamp to go on a slo-mo flat-bottomed boat tour along waterways and bayous where there were more alligators than you could shake a stick at. Not that you would, of course. Officially, gator-human contact is limited to mere observation: so seeing them gliding towards the boat, you wondered how sinister that behaviour was, and were they, though modest in size (the biggest well below 3 metres), taking a greedy interest in us as a potential meal?

The answer is yes, but not because they were hoping for a bit of human flesh - really, because, despite the official line and the notices on the boat not to feed the wildlife, Jerry trains them to come by sneaking out now and then with no passengers, and chucking them marshmallows. It was rather foolish of him to admit that to a boatload of media people - he even made a joke of it: Why marshmallows? Because they live in a marsh. Ha ha. Actually, because they float and are easy to see.

So having flared my nostrils in disapproval, I then got stuck into appreciating having such a close view of the alligators, especially Snaggletooth, who has a tooth that sticks out of his mouth, and a missing front leg and is, in Jerry's words, "suffering from reptile dysfunction". Then, we got even closer, when Jerry produced out of a cupboard a young gator, less than a metre long, for us to hold and pose with. Which I did, sigh, driven more by the desire to complete the pair (I've done the same with a crocodile) than by a concern for animal welfare. Though he will be returned to the swamp when he gets a big bigger.

I've removed the photo I originally posted here, of me holding the alligator, because I've decided that I shouldn't have got sucked into that exploitative kind of behaviour, which is no different from riding an elephant in India or stroking a tiger cub in Malaysia, both of which I've also done and am now ashamed of. It's wrong, I should have known better, and I won't be doing it again.

It was a good trip, though. Jerry was funny, informative and interesting, and very much a local - "Huck Finn had nothing on us, as kids," he said, describing messing about in the bayous with his mates as a boy; and the gator thing is now officially sorted.

Then we headed back over the Mississippi on the Crescent City Connection into the Big Easy where I bumped into my daughter in Canal Street, won a Keith Urban-signed guitar in a lucky draw and chatted with a couple of unenthusiastic mounted cops in Bourbon Street. I soon understood their cynicism: observing rowdily drunk fat people staggering along the street clutching tall plastic 'grenades' of luridly-coloured cocktails, my view of humanity rapidly became jaundiced too.

But then the short-notice Gay Pride parade began. It was prompted by the shootings in Orlando that everyone is still very shocked by (if uninclined to do anything about the gun ownership issue), and cheerfulness swamped the street. Floats, marching bands, drag queens, all sorts of organisations and people represented, strings of sparkly beads flying through the air, dancers and cheerleaders doing their routines, singing, chanting... it was quite the spectacle, a lot of fun, and quintessentially Nola.

Hot, then warm

I'd like points for being brave today, please. With sweaty palms, breathing deeply, unaided by a satnav and with only a rudimentary map, I drove out of Lafayette along Highway 90 to Avery Island, my peace of mind not aided by signs reading 'Prison area. Do not pick up hitchhikers' and 'Hurricane Escape Route'; and billboards picturing grinning lawyers asking 'Car wreck? 18-wheeler wreck?' It was a tense 40 minutes of muttering "Keep right, keep right".

But I got there without incident and, crossing a bridge patrolled by turkey vultures, entered the neat grounds of the Tabasco factory. This is the only place in the world where Tabasco is made and bottled, so that (inevitably) long-lived bottle in your pantry came from this sprawling brick building. The Queen's a fan of the hot sauce - her By Appointment crest is beside the door, looking somewhat out of place. It's a self-guided tour from pepper plants in the greenhouse through the process to the end product, very informative, if a little repetitive. It's a simple recipe: chilli pulp, salt, three years in the barrel, add vinegar and there you have it: Tabasco sauce, "Defending the world against bland food". I was pleasantly surprised to discover in the inevitable gift shop - Tabasco dog collar, anyone? Umbrella? - that jalapeno-flavoured icecream is actually rather delicious. I had seconds of samples (not such a fan of the raspberry chipotle though).

The nearby Jungle Gardens are lush and neat - a bit too neat, since it was probably the grass-mowing team that scared away the resident alligators I was hoping to see. There were plenty of birds, though - herons and egrets - enjoying the nesting facilities provided for them by one of the McIlhenney family.

Not too far away in New Iberia is what Coerte on my swamp tour was adamant is the most authentic ante-bellum plantation house in the country: Shadows-on-the-Teche. Four generations of the Weeks family lived here, the remaining member dying the day after the estate was accepted by the Historic Buildings Trust. I say estate: it was once 138 acres, part of a much larger plantation; but now it's just the house and garden beside the sliding brown waters of the bayou, the land sold off, the town having grown around it.

Inside (no photos allowed, sadly) it's really attractive and full of beautiful antiques: I would love to have Mary's elegant bedroom and sunny study; maybe not the mahogany commode imported from France, though. These mansions were built so that you have to go outside to move between rooms and to use the stairs, giving each room doors to stand open for ventilation. The pillared porch is wide, the big live oak trees nearby are hung with Spanish moss, and it's easy to get a sense of the comfortably cultured life that was lived here. It was a salutary reminder, though, to find on Mary's tombstone in the garden (she was widowed early and ran the plantation efficiently for years before re-marrying) that she was described as the 'relict' of her first husband. Apparently it's the usual legal term of the day - doesn't excuse it, in my view.

Getting lost - a frequent occurrence during my self-navigated stay in the area - I found myself driving along an avenue in the town lined by what I overheard someone later describe, dismissively, as "big ol' mansions with wraparound porches". They were so lovely and stately, neat and colourful and well-maintained, that I was very taken with them. Then I crossed the railway tracks and everything instantly changed: on the other side, ratty little shacks, the paint peeling, small gardens overgrown by rampant weeds, battered cars parked outside, residents sprawled on the steps. It was the cliché come to life.

I was looking for the Conrad Rice Mill - simply because it was there, and I had the time - which, it turned out, was similarly tatty-looking. That's because it's a Historic Place too and exists in a 1912 time-warp. The corrugated iron factory, which five of us were shown over by a painfully slow-moving woman, is still in operation, the oldest in the US: dark and wooden with clunky-looking belt-driven machinery (the rice bags are sewn closed by hand) and in residence the ugliest and most hostile cat I've ever seen. Curiously, this antique place has been given a huge boost by the recent demand for gluten-free products, and in the Konrico shop next door you can buy rice-based pancake mix and other oddities. I wasn't a fan of the raspingly dry sample cracker I was given.

Back in Lafayette, the car to my huge relief returned intact to the hire place (was I right to be flattered that the petrol station cashier trusted me to fill the tank before paying, because my card wouldn't work in the pump zapper?) I had a late lunch at the Filling Station. This is a converted 1950s actual filling station, now filling stomachs, ha ha. It's really quite cute and novel, and I enjoyed my chicken-stuffed avocado. It was only when I emerged that I realised I recognised it from my night rambles around the town, confused by the dark and the curving streets and invariably getting lost.

That's what I liked about my stay in Lafayette. Yes, it's a pretty little place, with lots of interesting places to poke into, and people greet you on the street, which is nice. There's a lively music culture there and I ate very well - but just as pleasing was having the leisure simply to get familiar with it, so that it was reassuring to find myself on Pinhook Street again, or cruising along University Avenue with its magnificent oaks, or using the Cathedral as a reference point.

And then it was back to Amtrak's Sunset Limited, after waiting in the bus station (it was emptier) facing a bronze statue of Rosa Parks (someone leaves flowers on her lap every day, I was told). The train was late, of course, but it felt familiar now too, and the journey ended on a stroke of brilliance as we pulled into New Orleans with my phone playing Bob Dylan rasping 'Duquesne Whistle' as our own engine wailed long and mournfully in the warm darkness.

Food for thought. Plus the other sort.

Today I learned things, and ate rather a lot. So, a good day, then. I started by going to the Acadian Cultural Centre to watch a film about the history of Acadia, and make some connections with my cruise past Nova Scotia a couple of years ago. There, it was just the name of an area, which I equated with a national park or something similar; but today I learned all about the shocking history of les Acadiens (Brits beware: you’re not the goodies).

Not far from there is Vermilionville, a historic village of relocated and reproduced buildings from 1765 to the 1890s, furnished authentically, beautifully landscaped, and populated by artisans in period costume. Luckily, there was a summer camp programme running, so I was able to eavesdrop on their little lectures, which is where I learned about, for example, sleep tight (make sure the ropes that support your mattress are taut) and don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater (baby got bathed last in the family tub, by which time the water was brown – though they did employ the nicety of lining the tub with a sheet, to sieve out the worst between bathers).

The afternoon was taken up with a Cajun Food Tour, with the enthusiastic Marie in her bus strung with Tabasco bottle lights and her rallying cry of “Allons manger!” We made six stops around Lafayette – not a progressive dinner (though we did end with dessert), it was no place for vegetarians. There were crab and corn bisque, a shrimp po’boy, pork crackling (meat and fat as well as skin), boudin which though it looks just like one is emphatically not a sausage, and a mysterious saucy nibble that we were challenged to identify. Well, it looked like chicken, it tasted just like chicken, and when it was all eaten the bones looked like chicken – but apparently it was farmed alligator, so that’s another first.*

As she drove us around the town, Marie chattered away, and in fact (a former history teacher) made a better job of recounting Acadian history than the arty movie had that morning – but also random snippets like the biggest branch of the live-oak tree outside the cathedral weighs the same as 14 African elephants; the Old Tyme Grocery produces 2000 po’boys every Friday in Lent; an alligator in the little University swamp has escaped twice in the last couple of months to roam the campus. It was fun, and interesting, and tasty, and the company was good, too: “Zach,” asked Julia of the sole young man on the bus, “I have a daughter. Are you married?”

And the day wasn’t over: that evening it was back to the Blue Moon Saloon for my first zydeco music. Terry and the Zydeco Bad Boys were playing and Terry’s girlfriend, sitting next to me, said, “You’re going to love it. It’s happy music!” And it was, lively and jiggy and impossible not to tap along to. The small but adoring - and very friendly - crowd didn’t leave it at that: there were all sorts of dancing, as individual as the dancers, and some of them were really good, the girls swept along and around by fluidly strutting young men. It was a pleasure to watch them, on a warm night on the back porch of the Saloon with a dog wandering through and a cat asleep at the entrance.

* Actually, I discovered later, the dish is called 'Swamp Legs' and comprises both duck and alligator, so clearly I got the bird and so can't tick gator off on my list of odd foods.

Loving Lafayette

It was all about the twanging today: accents, nerves, music, frogs. The Southern accent is real and charming, and never more so than when delivered by a courtly gentleman with a white goatee and twirled moustache who would be politely scornful of my reference to Colonel Sanders, though it’s irresistible.

Coerte set up the Atchafalaya Experience which is now run by his son Kim, but he came along today as we spent over three hours alternately skimming and pootling around part of the immense Atchafalaya Basin, the largest swamp in the US. Tannin-stained waters reflected cypress trees hung with Spanish moss, purple hyacinth flowers were blooming, ospreys whistling back at Kim from twiggy nests at the top of trees, colonies of wood storks lurched into flight as we approached, flamingo-pink roseate spoonbills crossed against a blue sky. Of course all this beauty was incidental to our hunt for alligators, which were elusive thanks to the high water level flooding their muddy banks – but I did see the snaggly swirl as a big mother (you could supply the hyphenated bit if you want – it would be accurate) disappeared under the water, her babies scattering. It was a good trip – fun, informative and entertaining, and I recommend it.

It was so hot and sunny that I got sunburnt, and the little kids back in town were making good use of the fountain at Sans Souci Park. The streets there were quiet at 5pm and I thought it was early for things to have shut up – but of course it was just the doors that were closed, to keep in the air-conditioning. Lafayette is a pretty place, small enough for people to say hello to a passing stranger, big enough to supply any tourist’s need, whether for character buildings, impressive cathedral, well-presented museums, tempting shops, good food, music.

Having jangled my nerves by driving myself around on the wrong side of the road, it was a relief to tuck into some tasty crab cakes at Randol’s and watch a bunch of oldies show off their fancy footwork dancing to the Cajun band that was playing. Some of them are apparently so keen that they come every night to twirl and trot. They were bolder than the younger crowd at the Blue Moon Saloon back in town, who stood around tapping their toes at the Cajun jam session in progress – evenly divided between guitars and violins, and led by the man with the squeezebox – but were a bit too shy to do more. Shame – I’d’ve liked to see some action from the girl in the strappy dress and red cowboy boots.

And finally, there was twanging from the frogs in the little swamp beside the hotel, an invisible chorus in the hot and steamy night.

Trained to expect the worst

Anyone who’s travelled with Amtrak knows that the schedule, while not quite a work of fiction, is more of a suggestion than a real timetable. So it was that I sat for over an hour in the railway station at Houston waiting for the Sunset service that runs from Los Angeles to New Orleans. It was, as old hands like me pretty much expected, delayed by having to cede precedence to freight trains (whose companies actually own the tracks, unlike Amtrak which just has access); an even older hand than me was just glad it wasn’t three hours late, like the last time she travelled.

Never mind. My first trip was only Houston to Lafayette, a journey of about 5 hours, leaving at around lunchtime. At first it’s a bit disappointing that there’s no wifi, but it doesn’t take long to get into the vibe: mining the depths of your music collection, gazing at the scenery, eavesdropping and people-watching – like the two old black men yarning away, one of them explaining in friendly tones that the other has “misconstrued” what he said; the lady sitting down in the lounge car and praying for a solid three minutes before starting on her lunch; the National Park service guys with their travelling exhibition of coyote, otter and beaver pelts, turtle shells and alligator skulls (Norbert was particularly chatty).

Time passed, as did the scenery: lots of trees, some farmland, much rice (who knew?), a huge and horrible refinery, rivers and swamps all muddy brown from recent rains and harbouring ‘gators – not that I saw any, though one man did. We stopped and waited, for freight trains, for the new crew to turn up at Beaumont, for more time to pass. The train hooted, classically and frequently. And eventually, and only an hour late, we got to Lafayette, a pretty little town of around 200,000 souls all told, which I will explore over the next couple of days. So y’all come back now, hear?

Hello Houston

According to my Ethiopian taxi driver, who claimed to know where NZ is though he provided no proof, Houston is the fourth-largest city in the US and about to overtake Chicago as #3. It wears its size lightly, by which I mean it’s deceptively small, by which I mean it certainly doesn’t feel that big.

It’s flat, there’s a cluster of admittedly impressive skyscrapers in the centre, but most of it presumably is spread-out suburbs. It certainly took a while to get into the centre from George Bush Intercontinental (where the arrival procedures are typically unwelcoming and tedious but mercifully a bit quicker than the hell of LAX). I’d read that getting around on foot isn’t a Houston thing – no doubt the oppressive (33 today) heat has something to do with that - and yes, the streets seemed quiet; but those who were out there seemed pleasant and friendly, from the polite panhandlers soliciting change to the cheerful young men wishing me good day to the chatty girl in tight Lycra rolling up her yoga mat at Discovery Green.

Dana, my server at the otherwise unremarkable Guadalajara restaurant (I followed a group of locals in there but as a recommendation technique it wasn’t a huge success) was particularly nice. She put me onto Saint Arnold Amber beer, made just down the road, which was excellent, and then sent me afterwards to both Discovery Green and Phoenicia.

Phoenicia, in Auckland terms, is Farro on steroids: a deli-cum-grocery story that sells all the food. It’s amazing, and beautifully presented, and fascinating, and full of temptations. Green almonds in the artistic fruit and veg section, that’s a first for me. Also, upstairs, cigars and magic teas in a glass cupboard. They were resistible, but not the cakes and pastries, which could have come from any French patisserie. They also stock NZ wine (I checked, of course).

Discovery Green was full of children playing, big fish in the pond, bowling-green perfect lawns, a stage, neat plantings, trees, birds and dog walkers – really nice, surrounded by tall glass buildings, and it felt safe for wandering. A friendly mounted policeman helped with that – always good to see – but mainly it was the general laid-back feeling of the place. No crowds, no hurry, no big-city vibe. That’s the considered verdict, based on a whole twenty-four hours’ experience: how wrong could it be?