A bit of a change from Bulklip Farm!

Miami to Ducks Nest Tennessee

It’s our first American Road Trip, and having flogged our way through eight hours of extremely dull Florida Turnpike, we make it up to Tallahassee, leave the car parked under a large tree and head north in our rented RV (Camper Van for the unitiated). It is to be a triangular trip taking in western Georgia, central and south western Tennessee, a small chunk of Mississippi, a slice of Alabama and then back into Florida. We are in possession of a 25 ft vehicle containing two double beds, a fridge, stove, shower and toilet and the all important air-conditioner. Even when deprived of an electrical supply, we can flick a switch and an onboard generator whirrs into life and supplies us with cool air. We buy two polystyrene ice boxes and fill them with bottles of drinking water covered in ice cubes, and we are set to explore a region which until fairly recently was referred to as “The Wild Frontier” if my memories of Davy Crockett are correct.

“Turn or Burn” The words leap at me from yet another church message board. This one strikes me as a bit fierce, but then again, I am discovering as we drive up through south western Georgia, that here, God is not viewed as some gentle heavenly father, welcoming his flock with open arms. The road leading to the God of the Baptists and the Methodists in this neck of the woods is neither wide nor easy to follow. However, the signposts along the route to heaven are unmistakable and not to be ignored. Massive billboards and illuminated texts demand not only that mankind makes a choice to turn away from sin and wickedness, but in doing so, he must decide where he is going to take his business.

The religious industry in southern Georgia appears to be one of stiff competition. It is not enough to settle for being either Baptist or Methodist, or even kicking over the traces and going the Catholic route, despite the fact that they, like diesel pumps in this part of the world, are rather hard to find. There is the agony of choice between the Evangelicals, the Episcopalians, the High Church, Low Church, the strangely named Primitive Baptists and a whole host of other descriptions, but having decided on his route to heaven, our sinner finds that he has to make yet another choice. Churches seem to spring up in clusters, and having driven his large Ford truck into a roadside car park, he realizes that it is serving possibly five different churches.

It put me in mind of a wonderful lady who used to say “I don’t think God really minds which line you use on the switchboard, as long as you get your call through”. I could only think that The Almighty must have his hands full answering all those flashing lights in the great heavenly telephone exchange, and I daresay he has a designated call center of angelic operators who are charged with dealing solely with calls in from Georgia.

“Historic Marker 150 yards ahead”. These signs, unlike the ones that give advice on how to get to heaven, are far harder to read, and if, like us, you are driving along in a fairly large and heavy RV, (that’s recreational vehicle or camper for the un-initiated) putting on the brakes and seeking out a place to pull off the road so that you can discover what historic happening took place is well nigh impossible. I crane my neck to ascertain whether the marker gives information on a Civil War battle or denotes the birthplace of some famous rebel leader. The best that I can do is to write down the name that appears on the top and promise myself a long session with Google on my return home.

It is mid-August, and the unprecedented heat wave that is scorching Georgia means that there is seldom any sign of life seen around the neat houses that sit in areas of extensive mown lawns. We deduce that the inhabitants are either inside watching daytime TV or are at church making up for lost time, but wherever they are, they must be well air-conditioned, because nobody in his right mind would be outside.

“If you think this is hot, try Hell” announces yet another billboard, and we turn up the air conditioning in the vehicle and hope for the best. Georgia appears to be green and the rivers are running, but the few locals that we have spoken to bewail the excessive heat and the lack of rain, and when we have undertaken our evening walk around the forest areas surrounding the campsite, we realize that the undergrowth is tinder dry.

Steering clear of main roads, we stopped and inspected the wares on display in an old antique shop, positioned at a country cross road and built from solid blocks of hand cut stone. Ralph the owner was happy to impart whatever knowledge that he had of the area, but did confess that he had moved up from Columbia several miles south which made him something of a foreigner in these parts. When we told him that we had driven up from Miami, he looked nonplussed for a moment. Why would we trade palm trees, high-rise luxury condos and the sparkling blue Florida sea for the burning heat of Georgia? It was pointless telling him that it was for all these reasons that we had set out on this adventure, and instead, I fingered the fine pure cotton and lace of the Victorian clothing that he had for sale. The very thought of living in these temperatures dressed in bodice, laces, whalebone stays and long skirts and without the comforts of air conditioning and deodorant was enough to send me hastily back to the comfort of the RV where I could fish out another bottle of ice cold water from the fridge.

Getting to grips with the accent occasionally proved difficult. We answered the query “Hot enough for you?” by asking if he thought the heat would break. We couldn’t understand the answer but somewhere in among the jumble of words was the all too familiar word “Hurricane”. We left Miami three days ago and apart from a brief mention of a weather system developing across the Atlantic off the west coast of Africa that might give rise to concern, we have heard nothing more by way of news. For all we know, people with access to a radio might be expecting a monster storm to strike, and for that matter, the war in Iraq might be over and Prince William may have absconded and married Kate Middleton in a quickie elopement.

All we can get on the vehicle radio are mournful country songs about broken hearts, faithless lovers, deceased dogs and loving unappreciated mothers. Nobody seems to have much of a good time in these parts if the words of the various songs that we hear are to be believed so it’s no surprise that the best form of entertainment appears to be turning up at one of the many churches and raising your hands in praise and celebration as an alternative to hurling yourself headlong into the fiery burning pit that awaits.

Speaking of fiery burning pits, there are other delights along the way, and one of the more popular ones appears to be “Barbeque”. Occasionally the weary traveler can smell what is up ahead before he sees the sign, often carved onto a rough plank of wood declaring “Dave’s Pit – 500 yards” and seeing those two simple words, the hungry driver decelerates in time to turn in and park in front of a small wooden structure, behind which issues billows of smoke. The board on the roadside claims the “best ribs, pork roast and finest chicken in the State”. He would do just as well if his claim was that his was the best for the next fifty miles.

Distances are long in Georgia, especially if you choose to stay off the main routes and take the side roads, and it’s as well to refuel and load up with water and ice if you are running short. This has its own rewards however, as gas stations in small towns are far more interesting than calling in at a big Citgo or BP station on a main route. Large unshaven men wearing baseball caps that are usually worn backwards, and huge vests which expose extensive tattoos and barely cover a girth which would have made King Henry V111 proud, park their vehicles on the forecourt and give it a friendly kick for good measure. Equally large ladies who have a similar attachment to the vest and baseball cap ensemble, but who shore up their generous frames with stout brassieres that could be used to carry coal, plus a tight pair of jeans which show excessive amounts of VPL, swing into the forecourt in huge SUV (Sports Utility Vehicles – as the massive four by four trucks are called), and while she wrestles with the pump and looks horrified at the price per gallon which would make an Englishman throw his cap in the air with glee, orders for chips, peanuts, cool drinks and sweets are yelled through a window by her offspring. Into the store she goes, and gas is paid for, a paper bag full of carbohydrate and sugar is passed across the counter, and while money changes hands, local gossip is relayed.

It pays to get off the beaten track as long as you are prepared to meet nature head-on. Having left the safety of the wide tarmac road and headed into the Cherokee National forest, we came to a moment of decision. Parking in the only spot where we would be able to turn around and retreat, we cast an eye over the notices on the Park Information Board.
“Welcome to Bear Country” it announced and we read on, gaining tips on how to avoid sharing our picnic lunch with a large angry furry beast. Of course we had heard all the jokes about 'Deliverance' and I was feeling more nervous of meeting up with banjo playing woodsmen than black bears, but as it turned out, we were confronted with neither. It was just as well that confrontations of any sort were avoided since, having decided to continue, there was no way that we could either move over to allow another vehicle to pass, or back up around a steep gravel bend in the road.
“Narrow Bridge weight limit 6 Tons”. We look at each other and try to hazard our weight combined with that of the vehicle. A plague on those Dunkin’ Donuts and the Georgia barbequed chicken and fries.
“Just drive and don’t stop” and we held our breath as we crossed a bridge, not only minus its’ sides, but barely the width of the wheel span. Apparently we hadn’t consumed excessive local delicacies and we made it safely to the other side, much to the relief of both ourselves, and Cruise America RV Rentals.

“Where y’all from?” is the frequent question of check-out ladies in the supermarkets and gas stations. There’s no point in mentioning England, France or South Africa. Anything south of Atlanta and north of Chattanooga is clearly too far away to be of interest, and admitting to living in Miami marks us as creatures who are clearly mentally deficient choosing the crowded expensive heat of Florida over the vast open spaces and clean mountain air of Tennessee.

I sincerely compliment people on the beauty of the area and on each occasion, I am gravely thanked as though I had pointed out the beauty and intelligence of a favored child. These people love their country and every house and small graveyard is bedecked with the Stars and Stripes and flags of Georgia or Tennessee.
“There are no young’uns around here” Ralph the antique seller had complained,
“They’re all off in Iraq”.
How many times have the young men of this region hoisted a gun onto their shoulders, kissed their mothers and sweethearts goodbye and marched off to a war that the rest of the world simply cannot understand? As we drove we read names on boards of battles that resonated with the names of Atlanta, Picketburg, Leesburg and Fayetteville.
Crinolines, Clarke Gable – “Frankly my dear I don’t give a damn”, sabers glinting in the early morning sun, a wounded rebel soldier desperately making it back home to Cold Mountain; a GI who left a town where everyone knew everybody else coming home to a changed world with only one leg and a damaged brain. Some made it back and some didn’t, and the weather-beaten mobile homes hidden among the trees and the mansions with the port cochère and the white fenced paddocks tell of the gap between America the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave and the land of the social security check and the son already serving time in the penitentiary.

It’s raining. We are sleeping at the David Crockett State Park in western Tennessee before driving to Memphis tomorrow. We have resisted purchasing coonskin caps but relented and bought postcards.
“Born on a mountain top in Tennessee”. The rest of the words are hazy but I can recall someone on television when I was ten, dressed in a raccoon skin hat complete with tail, and leather clothing, slogging up mountains and being terribly brave.
“King of the wild frontier”. Was this really the frontier? I always imagined he was doing lots of good somewhere out near Arizona or The Alamo, but probably was confused with Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger, Tonto and Rin Tin Tin and certainly didn’t place him here in Tennessee within reach of Chattanooga and the Choo Choo.
We need this rain. Sitting in the RV while it rains is a bit like being inside a Welsh Baptist Church on a wet Sunday. “When it rains, it don’t half rattle”. The air conditioner whirs overhead dulling most of the sound, but eventually Mother Nature wins over man-made sounds and the rain run down the windows and we are as snug as proverbial bugs.

We’re tired. We have spent the past three days in company with possibly some of the nicest people I have been fortunate enough to meet. Twenty two of us at a retreat in the western Appalachian mountains, learning, laughing, eating far too much, sharing stories and laughing some more. People here aren’t uptight or ashamed to show their feelings and hugs are currency rather than grudgingly handed over credit cards given in exchange for large expense accounts. Tears flow occasionally and laughter and affection are in abundance. My British reserve is shattered and John’s quiet gallic character is steadily broken down by a barrage of American affection. We’ll see them all again in October and already we are counting the days.

I spent a morning alone while we were there, sitting in comfort on the decking which had been built on the peak of their own personal mountain top. Nobody else – just me, a note pad and a pen, that lay untouched in my lap as I gazed out over the Smokey Mountains, restoring my spirit and feeding my soul. Silence apart from the chirrup of the cicadas that melted into the heat and the background rustle of leaves as a vagrant breeze stirred them. Although portions of my brain try to return to the blue hazy mountains of far-off Africa where I had lived for so long, I was content to fall in love with these new mountains, less forbidding and more rolling, softly dressed in endless foliage rather than the sparse rocky hillsides, devoid of greenery that I had known.
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help”. Once again the hillsides provided me with the peace and tranquility that mankind and modern life so often failed to give.

Right now the noise is incredible; we’re having a light hail storm and it’s like being inside a tin of dried peas that has been shaken. But like everything else in this vast continent, it will gradually ease off and move on to another thirsty area that so desperately needs to be dampened down.

Tomorrow we head for Memphis. Unlike the 170,000 people who gathered there recently in order to pay their respects to the late great Elvis who passed away thirty years ago, (my how time flies), we are on a different mission and we plan to keep clear of Gracelands, with its wildly inflated prices, the Chapel Of Love and “Kiss Me Quick” hats. I would like to see the Mississippi just to see if she “keeps on rolling along”, but maybe we will weaken. After all, we are driving right past the front gates on our way south towards Alabama and eventually Florida. Perhaps it will prove too hard to resist and we will find ourselves mingling with the faithful and gazing in awe at the silver spangled suits, photographs of the slim handsome hip-shaking young man who wowed the generation into which we were born, and singing along to the words of “Love me tender love me true”. After all, that’s what Tennessee is all about.

We resisted Elvis, and having completed our business on the eastern side of Memphis, we took the south bound freeway and headed back to the country just as fast as we could. Not for us the concrete, the Fried Chicken restaurants, the catfish specials and promises of “the best Elvis impersonator in town”. We drove south through little towns that looked exactly like the set of “Back To The Future” with the old court house complete with bell tower in the center of the square and the soda fountain and drug store situated within a stones throw. Sadly, on many occasions, stones have been thrown in this part of Alabama and the pawn shops and reclaimed businesses boom along the loans and advance cash payment offices. Signs that read “Business For Sale”, “Car for Sale”, “House for Sale” are prevalent although there are a flurry of new estates being built where the most peculiar buildings, created from what looks like brown papier maché, are being erected, all enclosed by high walls. That in itself is strange and a sad sign of the times. Driving through Tennessee, we realize that none of the houses that line the road have a fence around them. Quite what happens to young children and dogs who might stray too near the traffic, I have no idea, but houses stand completely open with wide swathes of grass all around them. “Yard Sale” signs abound, but then again, many of the houses appear to have more of their contents spread around on the front lawn than could possibly ever fit inside, and it is hard to decide what is overflow and what is for sale, and it would seem that most of the children of Tennessee grow up bouncing about on large trampolines if the number of derelict broken circles of springs and rubber are anything to go by.

We’re glad that we stole a march on the day and instead of doing battle with the Memphis traffic jams, we are free and clear and into the Taladega Forest before the sun has climbed clear of the early morning cloud bank. Apart from the occasional timber truck, we have the road to ourselves although there are occasional pauses while a big yellow school bus stops to collect another troupe of children who have just returned to their studies. Half a dozen neatly dressed black students stand patiently by the side of the road in front of a rag-tag, down at heel house with the usual collection of active and in-active vehicles surrounding it. A mile or so further along and there is a similar group of white children, but they stand at the end of a driveway lined with a precise white railing fence which encloses a few neat ponies and a stunningly gorgeous plantation-style house complete with massive white pillars and a front door that is bedecked with a huge floral wreath. Not so long ago, the very thought of these two groups climbing aboard the same bus would have been impossible, and as we drive through the farmland and the forest, the evidence of those who could no longer make it is clearly to be seen in the endless “For Sale” signs. Sadly, the evidence of several dogs who failed to survive the “no fence” policy was also left for the wary driver to circumnavigate.

We drive into Selma and I am wracking my brains for why it should be important. I know something happened here that changed the face of Alabama and America. Was it the African-American lady who bravely sat at the front of the bus? Is this where the students braved the National Guard and walked into the college? We drive through the pretty suburbs and the business section of the town and admire all the late Victorian architecture and see signs of what must have been a fairly affluent life-style for at least some part of the population. Then we cross the Alabama river and I remember the march led by Martin Luther King, which was meant to go to the State Capital of Montgomery to demand the right for African-Americans to vote. I remember reading about the tear-gas, the batons and the blood as they tried to cross the bridge, and five years after this occurred, I was living in South Africa, reading the same reports in our own newspapers. “Segregationist” or “Apartheid” – the marches, the beatings and the blood flowed on both sides of the Atlantic, and it has taken a long time for wounds to start to heal.

We drive down the hill into Fayetville and it looks like a movie set.
“It’s Peyton Place” says John who grew up in Liberia where the TV series was about the only thing that they ever saw. The show had molded his image of America and here it was with imposing colonnaded two storey homes, pretty little houses with roses growing around the doorways, rocking chairs set out on the porch, neat lawns and trim tree lined streets. But the moment we passed through the center of town and crossed the railway line, it was easy to see what was meant by “the wrong side of the tracks”. Catfish cafes, Barbeque shacks, cheap hair dressing salons and endless pawn shops were interspersed with dozens of different gas stations, each surmounted with a massive billboard advertising the price of fuel. The lowest that we found was outside Selma at $2.47 a gallon. We are currently paying around $3.00 a gallon down in Miami and this will be up by the time we get home.

We pass a huge plastics factory just outside the town of Luverne, and I am glad to see that at least there is a decent source of income for so many of the down-at-heel households. But as we get closer, I realize that there is no glass left in any of the windows and the ground floor is boarded up. I quickly move across to the right-hand lane in order to avoid a massive truck that is lumbering towards the nearest Wal-Mart. Why would these people need to be employed to make plastic products? It all comes straight from China nowadays. What a pity we can’t import jobs along with Barbie Dolls.

Someone is making money from the endless tracts of forest that we drive through, judging by the number of timber trucks that we see. Perhaps they are pulped and turned into the strange cardboard houses that we pass. If I had a dollar for every tree that we have seen since we started out on this trip, I would be wealthy indeed, and we seem to have driven through hundreds of miles of forested country with relatively few acres of arable land. The crops that we have seen are parched and wilted and the farmers are deeply worried. According to the man who sells antique petrol pumps and strange vehicular memorabilia from a garish garage on the side of the road, they are already feeding the winter hay to the cattle and it is only August. I doubt there will be much by way of financial support for them – after all, we’ve got to prop up Iraq haven’t we?

Death seems to be a relatively cheerful thing in these parts and judging by the acres of neatly mown graveyards bedecked with colorful flowers, someone is taking time, or making money, by tending these well populated groups of headstones. We pass a tiny Baptist church which is completely surrounded on all sides with rows and rows of headstones. I have the feeling that God is looked upon in a much more kindly fashion in these parts, and from the “Turn or Burn” brigade, we have changed to “The Hallelujah Gospel Tabernacle Choir Singers” who raise their voices every weekend in joyous celebration, and who practice on Tuesdays at 6pm. There is something a little more easy going about “Free Will Baptists” when compared with “Primitive Baptists”, and we have gone from the diminutive country church of “Little Hope” to something the size of a small cathedral on the outskirts of Tuscaloosa.

Tonight is our last night in the RV and we walk across the boardwalk in the park and watch the sunset drench the lake with orange and golden hues. The cicadas set up their evening chorus and the fish try to snap at the dragon-flies that flick across the surface. Cold Pizza, a glass of chilled wine and a cooling shower and the day has ended with the temperatures now a slightly more comfortable 98 degrees. It was 104 in Selma so we know of which we speak!

Tomorrow we will leave the vehicle back at Monticello in north Florida and collect our car and head home, taking in Homosassa en route, but missing out on swimming with the manatees since they are all out in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. It will be nice to sleep in my own bed again, but I will miss the cicadas, the sunsets and the open road. We haven’t come home empty handed though. Ralph the antique dealer gave us a blue plastic canary who sings when he detects any motion. We christened him Ralph and he has sung his way through Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. He’s asleep now, and I think I’ll join him.