Of all the places in America that bear a legendary status, surely New Orleans is at once the most exciting, and also the most mysterious. Long known as a party capital of the world, it is also the spiritual home of blues and jazz, and also has a rich history and heritage to explore. I've wanted to check this city out for a very long time, so faced with some time off work, decided that the time had come to do just that.

All the time the French and the Spanish were tossing New Orleans around like a hand grenade with the pin out, the British were kicking ass up North. In Nova Scotia in particular, where the resident Acadians were causing so much trouble that the British just shoved them all in boats and sent them all over the place. Many to Southern Louisiana. These became the 'Cajuns'. Now, you won't find too many Cajuns in New Orleans – they'd just been kicked out of their country, split from their communities and generally treated like s**t, so they pretty well wanted to be left alone – the swamps of the South were ideal, coz nobody else wanted to live there. The few Cajuns who wanted to live in a 'city' style setting preferred to choose Lafayette further to the West – today there's much more of Cajun society there than has ever been in New Orleans.

Louisiana is a swamp. It says a lot that they had to drain a whole bunch of marsh and build dams to make New Orleans inhabitable. In a terribly science-fiction sort of way, the highways out of New Orleans are on massive flyovers which weave in and out of one another like a futuristic race track. Frequent bus tours take you from the city, along said futuristic race tracks to the surrounding marshland, where you can tour the swamps on boats and see the local critters in their natural habitat. Most noticeably, the ALIGATORS...

The Nutria Problem

The tour I selected took us on a small boat, which looked like it could be adapted from tourist ferry to fishing boat fairly quickly, piloted by our very own actual authentic Cajun bloke. He started by showing us some of the aforementioned critters on dry land first. There was a very sad looking turtle in a tank, some weird fish, and even a snake (which I got to hold). Then, the piece de la resistance – the Nutria rat.

The nutria rat is about the size of a beaver. In fact, it looks remarkably like a beaver in most ways, except that instead of the beaver's trademark wide, flat tail, the Nutria has a more standard rat-type tail. The Nutria rat Will Work For Carrots.

Now a long time ago (in a galaxy far far away) they introduced a plant to the Louisiana swamps. I can't remember what it was called, or indeed why they introduced it, but apparently it became something of a problem. It was a weed, and it grew everywhere, clogging up waterways and generally doing the kind of stuff introduced wildlife does. Will we ever learn?

Well, apparently not, as our answer to 'oh b*gger, we introduced a bad thing' was 'let's bring in something to eat it'. That something was the Nutria rat. Unfortunately it doesn't particularly like our introduced plant. It does, however, like just about everything else. Including the trees that hold the banks of the bayous together. Eating them means major erosion, and without their natural predators, the Nutria rat multiplied at fruitfly-esque rates.

Since then, a number of things have been tried to control our rodent friends. They get the local Cajun people to go and kill them for bounty during a specific season, and most recently they are campaigning to make the American people eat them. Given their affection for McDonalds and KFC you'd have thought they'd be more open to the idea. Our captain has many recipes for Nutria. He has some creative ways of preparing squirrels for the table too. We saw loads of Nutria on the banks once we were underway. Our captain kept referring to them by their potential bounty ('over there on the left, there's a couple of $5 nutria, and oh! That's a ten buck rat right there!') It was like a cartoon - where we saw furry rats, he saw dollar signs, and simmering pots of stew. I now understand the sign at the dock, which read: 'What's the difference between a normal zoo and a Cajun zoo? A normal zoo has the name of the animal and its Latin name. A Cajun zoo has the name of the animal and a recipe.'

Miss Honeybuns

When we did see gators, they were pretty small. They looked like little baby cuddly things, and tended to be far away on the banks. Eventually though we came to a halt, and our captain announced that we were in the presence one of 'his regulars' - Miss Honeybuns.

Miss Honeybuns was a nose and two eyes, barely visible above the surface of the water. When she moved slightly you could make out a ridge of scales that ran down her back, and to the end of her tail. Only that betrayed her size. Captain Cajun tried to tempt her with some marshmallows. Apparently gators like marshmallows. Who am I to argue?

But our Lady of the Sweet Buttocks was not interested. She stayed perfectly still, and continued to eyeball the boat, from a comfortable 20 feet away or so. Time for the not-so-subtle approach. Captain Cajun produced a fishing rod, on the end of which was a large fish. He dangled it precariously over the side, and within seconds, Miss Honeybuns was over at the boat, out of the water and had yanked the fish off the line. It was gone in one gulp, and she returned placidly to her basking spot. Not before picking off the marshmallows from earlier though. They ain't stupid, gators. They know fine that if they ignore the marshmallows, the fish is coming next, and the marshmallows ain't going nowhere in a hurry.

Miss Honeybuns was probably about 8 feet long. Apparently there exists a MRS Honeybuns, who is much bigger...

Crescent City Brewhouse and The Mighty Rad Gumbo

Conveniently on the way back from the coach point is New Orleans' main microbrewery - The Crescent City Brewhouse. I'd worked up quite a thirst on my alligator experience and decided a beer was most definitely in order. I wandered in, sat at the bar and ordered a 'sampler', being about a third of a pint of each of the 5 beers brewed on site. Instant favourite was the Weiss, which was certainly the best I'd ever tasted in America, and very possibly the best outside of Germany. I ordered a full size Weissbeer and a bowl of gumbo, then sat and considered my options for the evening.

On the bar in front of me were two brass plaques. One read 'BILL' and the other read 'KEN'. I asked if I had unwittingly taken someone's spot at the bar. 'Don't worry' said the barman. 'Ken was our first ever customer, and as reward, he got this place at the bar. Haven't seen him in a while. Bill is...' - he considered his words carefully - 'independently wealthy'. He gets up, checks his shares, goes for a jog, then comes here and drinks beer.' I'd guess Bill invested some of his independent wealth in this establishment, and why not? A fine place to spend money and time it was.

Option 1: O'Flaherty's Irish bar (I'm not making this up) was advertising live music, courtesy of some pretty young thing on the Bouzouki. Apparently, it was 'Celtic tradition, blended with Cajun energy' which sounded intriguing. Plus it was just around the corner.

Option 2: The Apple Barrel - St Louis Slim's recommendation for Cajun music. It's on Frenchmen Street which is a bit of a trek through some not-so-salubrious areas, but I somehow trusted Slim's judgement by now.

Option 3: Snug Harbor - also on Frenchmen Street, and apparently emerging as the top jazz venue in town. A sure bet for something a little out of the ordinary.

And if all that goes pear-shaped. It's in a cab, and back to Donna's for the night.

I decided that a process of elimination was the way to go; first, I try dodgy oirish place, if that sucks, then I go to the Apple Barrel, and final straw (since it seemed the most reliable), across the street to Snug Harbor. Another one of these Weissbeers first, though methinks. That Gumbo was HOT SH*T.

O'Flaherty's Oirish Bar

O'Flaherty's is a typical ex-pat hangout. On a short trip it's difficult to imagine people seeking out their own culture in a foreign land, but speaking as someone who spends a lot of time abroad, I can sympathise. In Singapore I spent a large amount of time in ex-pat establishments, because, well it's nice to be with people you can talk at full speed to; people who know what you're talking about when you discuss things and places back home. Somewhere that just feels like you've nipped home for a bit. Sometimes you need that.

I didn't need that just yet. O'Flaherty's was nice though, a typical Oirish basement bar, with a little shop attached selling British (the irony!) imported goodies, such as Marmite and Cadbury's Flakes. The staff and clientele seemed to be exclusively Irish, and the one guy I got talking to seemed to have spent the whole time since he got into town there. One must ask, why did he bother coming? The music, when it arrived, was a very celtic-looking waif of a girl, who did play the Bouzouki very well, and sang beautifully. Not sure about 'Celtic tradition blended with Cajun energy' though - this was Celtic tradition blended with Guinness. I can get this at home, possibly better.

Frenchmen Street

Frenchmen Street resembles a set from a 1950's sci-fi movie. The wooden houses are dark and anachronistic, the telegraph wires sag worryingly, and the whole place is dimly lit by old sodium lamps. Occasionally a huge American car rumbles along, followed by several painfully slow taxis. The Apple Barrel and Snug Harbor are basically opposite one another. Both, like the street, are dead.

Snug Harbor looks decidedly upmarket. Nice young couples huddle around candlelit tables, and well dressed groups chatter and laugh at the bar. There was no music yet, but it had just enough people in to give it a vibe, whilst not being busy, and I must admit, it did look quite inviting, but I decided to check out The Apple Barrel across the road first.

In stark contrast The Apple Barrel was a rough looking joint. The guy behind the bar was painfully pale and thin, and had several visible piercings; the entire clientele was one old bloke, drunk, slumped across the bar. It was about as inviting as a bar-brawl, but there was a sign up which read 'TONIGHT - The Lost Bayou Ramblers - 9:30pm'. I glanced at my watch - it was 8:45. A couple of doors down was a coffee shop. I could go there, kill some time, and consider my next move. A coffee and a blueberry muffin wouldn't do any harm to my ailing energy levels either.

I emerged from the coffee house, having enjoyed the best blueberry muffin EVER, and decided against all sense that Snug Harbor wasn't what I wanted tonight. I poked my head around the door of The Apple Barrel once again.

The Lost Bayou Ramblers in The Apple Barrel

9:15pm. It was still pretty deserted. I sat at the bar, and ordered a beer. The barman turned out to be pretty friendly, and was just getting ready to turf out the drunk slumped across from me. I inquired about the band.

'Sure, they'll be here. Don't know when, though...' He paused. 'They're acoustic, man. It's not like they need to set up or anything.'

It seemed pointless to have trekked across bandit country to get here and not at least hear the band, so I sat it out. Besides, the beer was about half Bourbon Street prices. At around 10pm, a bunch of rag-tag musicians wandered into the bar. Shook the barman's hand, accepted bottles of Rolling Rock, and within 10 minutes were playing music. Soon the bar was half full of people, all of whom were greeted on arrival with French greetings and warm hugs.

The band had a drummer (with one side drum), a fiddle player, and two people on guitars of sorts - one looked like it had been manufactured based on a Salvador Dali painting - it was huge, and the back was bulged out of all proportions. Vocal duties were shared, apparently on the basis of who knew the song best. The sound was great though, and I sat at the bar and tapped along to the music all night. It was difficult to believe that they'd apparently just wandered in, plonked themselves in a corner and started to play. No PA, no amps, no sound check, nothing. It was a shrewd move on the part of the bar owner to place them in front of the door though, as soon the place was full to bursting with people who were just passing by on the way into town. Some of the hardcore Cajun crowd were up dancing - a strange form of Celtic jig really - but fun was being had by all and the whoops and screams were probably annoying the cr*p out of the nice well dressed couples in Snug Harbor across the street. Who cares?

At midnight tiredness was catching up and I got up to leave. I stooped to put money in the band's tip jar on the way out. The band were inbetween rambles.

'You're leaving us?' asked the fiddle player. There seemed to be genuine concern in her voice. As far as I was concerned they probably hadn't even noticed me tapping away at the bar. 'Afraid so' I said. 'Plane to catch in the morning' I lied. They thanked me for joining them tonight, and hoped I'd had a good time. I certainly had, and was genuinely touched by the gesture. It occurs to me now that they generally played to a crowd they know, and the occasional tourist passers by. Someone unknown and interested, who spends the whole evening listening to them play and obviously enjoying every minute of it, was an unusual thing. The joyous chatter and laughter continued unabated behind me, as I suspect it would for at least a couple more hours. I, however, was starting to feel the effects of 4 consecutive nights out in New Orleans, and a heck of a lot of walking in between times. It hurt, and I slumped back to the hotel and crashed out.

The Psycho Chicken

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