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Day 8 - May 2 - The Dancing Forest

"They should cut Florida in half at Gainsville - between the South and the rest."

Hi, and welcome back to my bike blog.

The Dancing Forest

Trucks with large metal prongs pass and disappear behind rolling hills, only to later return, carrying centuries of growth, and leaving the smell of trees along the road. There's a second kind of truck that passes through - the trucks hauling garbage. They carry a week's worth of humanity, and leave behind an acidic smell of trash.

Beyond the ditches on the side of the roads, is a thin forest. Some trees are fallen, others snapped. The ones still standing, whether on ground or in water, have large sprawling branches that almost seem to be spelling words with their windings. It looks like a painting - not just any painting, but that one by Lawren Harris where the trees are dancing in colour. I know exactly which one. As you walk in to the second floor permanent gallery, you walk to the end, make a left, and wander through the rooms until you reach it, with a big bench in front to admire the paint. It's the same thing in Florida. Start in Miami, go up until the end, make a left, and wander through the hills until you see it.

Next time we're in Toronto, I'll show it to you.

As I continue to glide through the forest, the trees are dancing wilder and wilder. They are uprooted, they lean on each other like drunks. Some leave the forests and wander into lawns, roofs, ditches. One has even found itself inside a trailer home. I missed the party. I heard that the trees were on the roads before, but that we've cleared them away.

Like the trees in the ditches, there is garbage in the ditches. Pieces of sheet metal, piles of mud, sand, construction materials, a crushed hut, a piece of a roof. Everywhere, people are building. Some stores have reopened, some have been abandoned. The economy still as not recovered.

Tonight I'm staying in a campground, just west of Marianna, FL. It's a mess - the trees are gone, the ground is uneven, and all the missing signage is stacked up in piles in the main office, to be posted soon. It's $15 for the night. A fair price.

I pitch my tent, shower, grab my valuables, and head to the restaurant to eat fried tomatoes, drink sweet tea, and write. I sit alone, but as the evening goes on, a boy, in his late teens, starts his shift. Locals file in, sitting at the bar, watching the TV. Two girls come to eat dinner. People are drinking, having fun, and talking small town gossip. The boy is quitting this job to start a yard care business. A waitress at the bar is going on vacation with her husband next week. A man at the bar needs a job, and a wife.

The waitress comes to me every few minutes asking if things are good. She tops off my sweet tea, and smiles when I tell her that the only other time I've ever had sweet tea was in Tennessee. To her, Tennessee isn't really the South. But to her, this is the South.

It's been six months since hurricaine Michael came by and destroyed this area. Things are recovering. Slowly recovering, but everyone agrees that this is a community that is worth rebuilding.

The Prison

The US has the highest per capita incarceration rate in the world. One out of 150 people in the US are in prison. A highly disproportionate number of them are black. For such a system of oppression to work, many gears have to move smoothly. There's procedures, jobs, economies, and law that all work hand-in-hand to process humans in confinement.

Prisoners oftentimes have to work during their sentencing. They are not paid fair wages for their labour. Highways are built by them, maintained by them, and used by me. My tires ride on exploited labour.

The prisons, like other public institutions, are well-maintained. From the outside, at least. Inside is a world I don't ever see or know.

As I biked by the prison, I thought to myself that if I really want to see this part of the US, like, truly want to experience it, I must get a closer look. We can best judge a society by the way it treats its prisoners. I biked down the road towards the prison, and was intercepted by two guards who told me to turn around and leave.

I biked down the path, back to the highway, and thought of all of the people who, like me, turn their backs on that place. People who can now see their families, hug their children, drive a car to a parking lot, roll down the windows, and listen to birds chirping in the breeze. I am relieved to think that everyone who drives away from that place can vote.

Some Cute Things

Today was another short day. I was planning to bike 170km today, but ended up cutting it to 110km, when I found a sweet little campsite that was cheap and didn't smell like septic fluids.

Today I finally left Florida, though it was only for a minute, and just to take a picture. There was no sign, but I did get this

I also changed timezones! This is the first time I've ever crossed a timezone by bike, and I didn't even notice! There was no sign, no indication, and my GPS didn't change its clock. My phone noticed, but who looks at their phone while on the road? I got to the campsite, and noticed that their check-in times specified central time, and I made the connection then. The only indication I had that I was approaching a timezone change was this church sign

Oh well, maybe next timezone shift will be more interesting.

The Map

Thanks for reading! See you tomorrow!

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