Playing Cowboys and Indians in Florida

It was cold and I had forgotten to pack the blankets. OK I might have looked silly with a clean pair of my husbands cotton underpants on my head but at least I wasn’t freezing. The light of a half moon bathed the tent in a silvery glow and I knew it was the footsteps that had woken me. Five distinct steps passing by crunching the dry grass and leaves underfoot and then the sound disappeared. The next morning we crawled out to make hot coffee and I realised that there were no dry leaves and grass; everything was green and dew laden and there were no footprints. Perhaps it was the ghost of one of the hidden Seminole Indians doing sentry duty along the edge of the forest, ensuring that the soldiers hadn’t come to drive his people north. We had gone to visit the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki museum, to learn about the history and traditions of the Seminoles; the only tribe that remained unconquered in the dark days of the early 1800’s when so many thousands were driven from their hiding places and either killed or forced northwards in the white man’s hunger for land. Fighting a running battle and creating casualties hitherto unseen in the American army, eventually the Seminole tribe were left deep in the heart of the forests and swamps to eke out a subsistence living, and it is here in this same area of central southern Florida that the Big Cypress Reservation still exists. Driving west from Fort Lauderdale and then turning north from the heart of the sawgrass plains, we found ourselves in a part of Florida that is as far removed from the glass and concrete of Miami as it is possible to be. Fields of cattle and horses, stands of lush woodland, and acres of grassland were a joy to see. The houses dotted alongside the road indicated that the high monthly allowance paid to the Indians was being well spent in “white goods” as dish washers, fridges and general household effects are called. Every vehicle that passed us was a massive four-wheel drive truck, and for local running about, everyone seemed to own a four-wheeler motor bike, apart from the youngsters who roared around on moto-cross trail bikes. We passed a square block building that proudly announced “Suds R Us” and which seemed to be the local Laundromat, and lined up alongside the road were twenty to thirty post boxes, making the delivery of mail a far easier job for the postman, rather than having to make his way down endless dirt tracks into the woods to find his customers. The museum was fascinating, showing the history of this determined people. An insight into the Corn Dance, basket making, beadwork, the use of medicinal plants and the structures for shelter and daily living are all well displayed and explained. We sat and chatted with an Indian woman who told us that as a child, she had grown up in the community style of living where the thatched shelters called Chickees were the focal point. Raised about two feet from the ground in order to avoid the rising waters of the everglades, and presumably the unwanted attentions of alligators, she showed us how the sleeping arrangements worked, explained the pecking order of eating, and how the food was prepared. Dressed in the simple cloth decorated with patchwork and embroidered edging and wearing strings of beads, she could have been there for a hundred years, but she spoke of the new generation that had to be taught their history, their language and their skills before it all died out. Indians can live on the reservations or make their home outside. They can vote in an American election but have their own sovereign government. The casinos built on ancient tribal land that is now near to the vast cities bring in massive amounts of revenue and life appears to be fairly undemanding for those that choose to stay. We stayed at the Big Cypress RV and Tent campsite and were delighted to be shown to a wooded area where we were away from the gleaming massive “home from home” recreational vehicles that fill the camp sites of Florida during the winter months. Known as “Snow-birds”, retired couples from the frozen north make their way down here each year and will stay for up to five months, meeting old friends and making new one, playing games of crazy golf, shuffleboard, having social get-togethers and enjoying the gentle warmth. Peddling their bikes around the campsite, waving to their pals and calling in for a morning chat, their lives move at a delightfully slow pace, but thanks to the modern facilities of internet, there are those who bring along their laptops and continue their businesses, keep in touch with their families and order goods to enhance their lifestyle. There is no need to undertake the long haul back down to Weston in the South or up to Clewiston on the banks of Lake Okechobee in the north to seek for groceries and goods. Everything can be ordered and delivered removing the need to ever stir from this haven of peace and tranquillity. We had taken our bikes and were delighted to find tracks leading out into the forest and alongside the canals. The weather is cooler at this time of year and thankfully the alligators which populate the canals never stir. Lying dormant they wait for the sun to heat up the solar panels on their backs, without which they are unable to so much as open an eye, let alone stir themselves to take a snap at a passing cyclist. A variety of fishing birds line the banks awaiting their chance and overhead, the vultures and eagles hang on the air watching for a rabbit or a mouse who should venture out into the open. We only stayed one night but before we settled in for the evening, we drove the three miles north to Billie Swamp Safari camp which in an Everglades eco- tourism resort. Here it is possible to go on an airboat trip or ride on the massive high swamp vehicles and listen to the ranger explaining all that you see about you. With the sun lowering into the western sky, we looked at the panther and the bear in their enclosures, while they in turn looked somewhat longingly at the goats in the next pen. Thatched chickees line the waters edge and from here one could sit and enjoy the sunsets, light a barbeque and settle back to listen to the sounds of the night. But we had our own campsite to return to, and our own chicken kebabs to cook over an open fire. There is a social gathering place at the campsite and we wandered over to see if anyone had appeared. There was just one woman there, similar in age to my mid fifties, doing her nightly exercise on the treadmill. Over the course of the next hour, we heard a history that seemed to paint a picture of the lives of many “middle American” families. Born of a mixture of Cherokee, Italian and Irish forebears, she had wanted to teach dancing, but had joined the police force. Her son had been born but due to a lack of medical treatment at the hospital he now suffered from cerebral palsy. At the age of thirty four, he has the mind and body of a ten year old and requires constant care and attention. She had been attacked by a group of prisoners who were being held at her police station and had been so badly injured that she had to be pensioned off. And here she was, uncomplaining, hard working, living in her RV along with her husband and her son, moving from one end of Florida to the other as the temperature rose and fell. She made the most of what she had and I had the feeling as we sat quietly and listened to her story, that she didn’t feel as though she had drawn the short straw of life. They had seen most of America in their mobile home and as long as they stayed together and cared for each other, they could take their son wherever a wheelchair could go, and cope with the hand of cards that life had dealt them. The following day, we saw the effect of some of the other cards that had been dealt when we drove northwards and reached Pahokee on the shores of Lake Okechobee. Here the hurricanes have wreaked havoc and everywhere there are piles of rubble, boats blown up onto the shoreline, factories smashed and homes ripped apart. Almost every business down the length of the main street has been closed and only the constant rumble of the sugar cane trucks hauling their endless loads to the processing plants out in the farmlands seems to keep the thin lines of commerce open. This wasn’t the America that we have seen so far. This was a struggle to make ends meet, to cope with what nature in all its cruelty has dealt out to them and somehow find the wherewithal to start up again. Entire mobile home parks have been flattened, and each pile of rubble represents a family that has lost everything. Occasionally we passed signs that read “Thanks Jeanne - thanks a lot” or “To hell with you Frances”. On a beautiful old wooden boat, endearingly called Lily the Pink out of Gibralter, now lying on her side up on the rocky shoreline of the lake, the owner had hung a sign that read “Mr Postmaster, have you noted my change of address?” This seemed to sum up the determination of the people to soldier on, to use humour rather than anger and to try and rebuild their lives before the season strikes again next year. They might get hit, they might get away with it; who knows. If it’s not them, it’s going to be one of the communities that live in the cross hairs of the hurricanes here in South Florida, and now it seems that even the insurance companies have turned their backs on them. We drove home towards our seventeeth storey condominium with its view of the sea, its hot and cold running water and its space, light and luxury, and thought about the Indians who had survived one of the cruellest period of history, and who had made a home in that lovely part of the country. We thought about the hurricane victims who battled on, rebuilding their lives from the scraps that lay about them, and the woman who carried her son and placed him lovingly in a wheelchair day after day, and we realised that we have never had it so good. We are going back after Thanksgiving, and we are going to spend time in our hammocks under the palm trees, catch up with our reading, look up the names of the different birds that we see and maybe this time, we will see, by the light of the full moon, the Indian warrior who patrols our neck of the woods.