Crossing the Border

Finally, we got ahead, as opposed to behind, schedule. Crossed the state line into Georgia last night and slept in a new state. I'm not sure if it's a trick of the mind or not, but it feels completely different. The accent is strong, people are loud and slow at the same time, and the sounds coming from the deep, thick swampland is a little creepy. It sounds like there's a lot of hungry critters out there. Still, it was a relief to arrive, we were given a rec room of sorts to sleep in at a Baptist church, hooked up by pastor Allen down in mid Florida somewhere, still helping us out days after we visited his church. The constant church talk and scripture quoting gets to me at times. It's not what I signed up for, and definitely not how I view my own spirituality, but I've decided to be as patient as I can with it, and speak rationally. Now, in the South, I think I'll just hold my toungue. Everything around here seems to center around the church. Not god, necessarily, just the church, and what it's doing, politically. I prefer to find God elsewhere, like on the open road as we ride. It's only a matter of time before I say something that's going to rile somebody up.

As far as the riding? Yesterday was a wet one, raining heavily on and off throughout the day and leaving us full of grit and grease from the road. No shower, just a sink wash at night, but sometimes that feels just as good, and last night it was wonderful. The ride was a different one. We turned inland mid-day, and within a few miles from the coast, the city changed. We'd been following the water, which means money, and now that we're inland we can see the real populace, the people that really live here, all the time. It's not so pretty. Saw a discarded pitbull thrown on the side of the road, a leftover from someone's cruel pastime. Lots of people just sitting, finding a little spot of shade to waste time in and wait. Buzzards greeted us just inside the Georgia state line, about a half dozen pulling at some bloody carcass. As we rode by they lifted their wings a little, pretended to care that we were near, but really it was just a formality, they could care less. We stopped for a minute and Jeff was attacked by gigantic ants, swarming over his legs and biting furiously. The swamp gurgles and never stops making it's wet music as we coast along, amazed by it's beauty but fully aware that it wants to eat us.

We're about to ride, heading through Okefenoke(?) swamp, home of Pogo and others. If I get the chance I'll report back later and post some pics...