I dropped Pura off at the mechanic in Argentina is a clever way of saying she was getting a tune-up down south. I had a couple hours to kill.
I did not stab the clock in the dash of the car. Nothing against short cuts, I don't carry a knife. So, I found a footpath where I could kill time.
The first of however many turns on a walking trail I've never been on and, less than 20 yards in, a sign.
SLAVE CEMETERY
A farm of this size was probably maintained with the assistance of six to ten slaves. They lived and worked on this farm for approximately 60 years beginning around 1800. The slave graves are marked with small, rough limestone rocks. Two graves are oriented east-west and have both head and foot stones.
In other words; after living out their natural lifespans where from sun up to sun down they were treated like slaves without ever experiencing basic tangible treasures like romance or freedom or often times the ability to read and write because they're born to a slave owner. Bred to work land by hand without the right to think cuz if they did, they paid for it in whips and lashes or worse and when they died as in history, laid to rest forever.
A couple of rocks with nothing on them.
Atlas had that look like I don't know what you're gonna get us out of this time but I'm down like a shadow.
We continued in the direction we were going. Nature's got her green on in May.
There was a bridge. And another turn. I should take a picture of that bridge and put it on the cover I thought.
Then I thought about the cemetery with headstones you can't see unless they're circled in red and thought I'll probably put that one on the cover when off in the distance of this seemingly middle of nowhere footpath stood a middle of nowhere structure.
I hate SNAKES!
I hate snakes even more than fingers who think that because they point left they're better than the right or vice versa when in reality they're both just part of a hand and everyone pulling their strings is on top. There's only two sides—in / out.
I'm on the outside looking in. Snake territory separates me from that structure. They blend magically like cookies and cream. I know this. I practically got killed by one once.
Spotted, sand-like print is undetectable against a bed of rocks or in grass or wherever they lay and wait. I know what to look for and still can't see what I'm looking at.
Eureka!
Three images
Click click click
Rushing water
Birds chirping
Squirrels jumping
Tree to tree
My mind's set
No changing it
It's all a snake to me
No idea what that building thing is. The footpath continued so I left all of those sounds behind me as quickly as possible when around another turn, another sign.
Apparently that building thing is an 18th century refrigerator. It belonged to a guy named Jacob Lones, the original settler of this land back in 1790. It says that river he built it on top of is a natural spring. It was built there to store perishables. But, if that was his refrigerator and spring, then that cemetery was his, too, and so were those slaves. Jacob Lones didn't build shit, he had it built for him.
We didn't get much further in the same direction before being interrupted again.
Alright, well, it seems we're on a plantation. Can't say I've done that before now. And that house out there is where the Lones family lived. It says each brick was handmade and fired right here. A parking lot surrounds the handmade brick plantation house today, it's full of cars. That house is probably a museum now.
I don't know how we got here but we're there—middle of an old plantation. There's probably scheduled tours and I bet they begin, not end at that house. I'm so good at killing time I do it backwards and can't tell the difference.
