At one of the locks, we branch off to the right from the Mississippi towards the Atcha’, as they say here. This one’s extremely noisy, it almost sounds like whales or some other animal. This concert marks our farewell to the river. Although we’ll meet it again for a few moments when we cross it west to east from the bayou to the central canal in New Orleans.

Within the first few feet the environment changes radically, there’s more life and more wild animals. There’s almost no current and we have the impression of moving even slower than before, accustomed to the strong current which has been pushing us relentlessly towards the Gulf of Mexico for several weeks.

The river gets smaller, we cross incredible landscapes, the Cajun swamps as they’re described in the books, reaching places where it’s impossible to get about other than by the water. We cross a kind of suburban village whose house gardens stretch to the water. Here and there we see people sitting on their porches, drinking tea or whatever. We thus decide to try our luck by asking if we can stay there and park our boat for the night, just to meet the locals. But no, despite our best smile, no one lets us stop there, they tell us it’s private property. "Go down a little lower, you’ll come across a large swamp where there’s a rest area for the truckers, there you’ll find a shower, maybe it even works." I send a message to a group of "river angels", who provide kayakers who go down the river with board and lodging. A certain "XXX" ends up answering that he can help us. He’s in Butte La Rose, not far from the rest area. We decide to go there and meet him.

It’s in the pouring rain that we arrive in Butte La Rose, and we first try to approach a launching ramp where fishermen one by one take their boats in or out at full speed. Behind the ramp we see a sort of pontoon hidden from view and we moor there. To return along the bank you have to climb a steel ladder with broken steps, then jump on sort of a bridge just as damaged. The rain is torrential, we’re soaked, and I slip on every step. However, I reach the top and head for a hut a little further away which sells everything – coffee, bait, bread.

My phone doesn’t pick up a network and I can’t reach our host to notify him of our arrival. I go inside and ask the saleswoman if I can use a telephone. She says no and that there’s no public one. She adds that if I don't want to buy anything from her, I have to wait outside in the rain. I go back to see Mark to explain the situation, then return to the saleswoman to ask her if I can use her cell phone. After several attempts she agrees, and after she enters the number I give her it turns out it’s already in her phonebook, a friend of hers.

"XXX" is finally on his way, and in the meantime the shop has closed. I'm still waiting in the rain when a big gray pick-up comes towards me. I need to tell Mark that our host has arrived, so I return to the bridge when a threatening voice yells at me to turn around, that it's private property. I try to explain that my boat is below, that I can’t phone my friend because my phone doesn’t work, but that doesn’t matter, he doesn’t want to hear anything and keeps his threatening tone. This continues until my host walks up and explains the situation. They know each other well and the man’s tone changes. He even offers to move my boat to his private dock to make sure it’s safe.

I explain the situation to Mark, and we move the boat up a few meters into a branch of the river where a small wooden pontoon floats next to the shore. After securing the boat we thank the owner, who’s almost deaf and busy cutting up the results of his hunt: dozens of squirrels. "I'm going to make pie tomorrow." I ask him if I can help. He tells me yes, I’ll just have to knock on the window to let him know I’ve arrived.

Mark and I then both get into our host's vehicle. We discover this village in the bayou, two churches, a few mobile homes. We finally arrive in front of one of them, and it’s here where he lives. He warns us that his wife smokes weed, adds she has a prescription for that.

After he parks the pick-up, we slalom through the puddles to the door of the mobile home. It’s barely opened when a powerful smell of cat urine than even the thick cloud of marijuana smoke cannot hide overwhelms us. Inside a woman with a joint between her lips is sitting behind a computer, beside her big cats on a sofa covered with a plaid facing a flatscreen television shouting advertisements jingles. She won't move from behind her screen, so we take a quick shower so as not to bother her, then ask our host if there’s a bar nearby where we could have a bite to eat. No, not really, the only bar is the Willow, but it's 20 or 30 minutes by car. He can drop us there but not pick us up later. Not great, but we decide to try our luck and choose to go. On the way, he explains us that his wife isn’t doing very well, that in a few days his poly-drug addict nephew will come and spend some time with them, on the cat sofa, to try to recover from his mother's suicide which happened when he was in rehab himself.

We arrive in front of a bar like you find everywhere in the United States: a parking lot, a porch, a few steps, and a door with a neon beer logo, you push the door and come across a pool table, then a bar. The room is almost empty except for a man sitting alone at the counter in front of his beer.

The waitress has short, white hair, she wears a white tank top, her eyes are black, her face is round. What can I get you?

- Two beers please. And do you serve food?

- No. The only thing I have to eat are the pickles that I make myself and that I put on Bloody Marys.

- OK, so two Bloody Marys please.

- Plus the beers?

- Yes.

Her name is Tammy, and she has a drink for every one she serves, sometimes more. The rain has stopped, but we don’t know it. Eventually the man at the counter comes closer and shows interest in us, our conversations revolve around alligators, hunting, fishing, the bayou. He shows pictures of his catch, of alligators, and Tammy tells us that she prefers to run them over with her pick-up when they cross the road, it's easier to kill them that way. She then cuts off their tails to make a roast.

I explain to her that our boat is parked next to a house where a man is getting ready to make squirrel pie, and she tells me that the man we met is a trapper who lives exclusively on what he hunts. According to her, that’s increasingly rare but there are still some like him in the bayou. Anyway, if you live in the bayou, you’re either a trapper or wanted by the police.

The Bloody Marys follow one another, then the margaritas, each of her cocktails is prodigiously delicious. Mark discovers that the jukebox contains an impressive collection of Tom Waits records. Unbelievable, and no one is aware of it. Mark dances alone in front of the machine as I chat with Tammy, who keeps dancing and singing.

We’re exhausted and decide to leave on foot, but we’re more than 10 kilometers from the boat. Tammy offers to drive us back and leaves the bar open, empty, without even closing the door.

On the way she asks us if we are going to the Angola prison for the annual rodeo of the prisoners on death row. According to her it's worth the detour, a good show. Without thinking twice, I buy tickets.