The Homesteads

I realize that I have not written much about the rural community and their homes--The Homesteads--that dot the island. Soybean Island is, after all, a grower and exporter of soybeans (as the name implies) as well as corn and rutabagas. There is livestock also--cows, sheep, horses, pigs, goats. (There used to be a plethora of goats on the island, from what I understand, but that history, that story, is for some future post.) Anyway, The Homesteads--

--are where the people who toil and till and trudge the rural landscapes live. I have been told that, for the most part, they do not own the land. The farms themselves are owned by The Elite (or perhaps by the elite of The Elite) and these people are but, essentially, renters, hired hands, sharecroppers, indentured servants. Take your pick.

It has been such a cold and desolate winter, that I had no mind to make it out to the despondently grim landscapes of the island. Add in the fact that I have no car or cycle or roller skates or ice skates or snowshoes (though the snow outside of town has evidently blown out to sea--the island is inconsolably windy--or somewhere) and it makes it doubly difficult to get out beyond the cities. Except for the connections between towns, I know of no Transport Vehicle routes into the rural kingdom . . . But, the weather finally cleared somewhat--almost above freezing--and so I took a Transport Vehicle to the outskirts of the city and began to walk. Then a car came along.

Its sole driver--a man--stopped and asked if I needed a ride. Very strange behavior from a Soybean Islander--not that they are not nice people, in fact they are overly polite and cautious, but they have a tendency to keep to themselves. Nonetheless, I accepted. So he drove and I took photos of The Homesteads in situ.

Some of it is rather attractive, in a bleak and stark and depressing way:

The driver--who was pleasant but not generally chatty--said he worked a rutabaga farm east of Cornana. He did not appear to be in a hurry to get there. He did not ask where I was going or why I took photos. I was glad that he did not, though, in retrospect, it should have made me uneasy. A bold red flag. Anyway, he said that Soybean Island, though shaped somewhat like an actual soybean, was named after the crop, not the configuration. And of course it--soybeans--is it's main product and source of income, along with the corn and rutabagas.

I, of course, know this. I also know that though agriculture is the economic lifeblood of the island as far as official records go--on paper, that is--the island deals in a different kind of blood to make its richest income; i.e., the housing of international pariahs, prisoners, and my ilk: The Disappeared.

Look! Two views of the Rutabaga River:

                                                             Visit Soybean Island

A ridiculous and slimy little river, but much beloved by the local islanders.

My suspicion was aroused after I saw that the man had taken me in a circle and silently deposited me back where I had begun, at the outermost Transport Vehicle Stop.

Hmm.

And I noticed that, even out among the fields, there was evidence of The Apparatus' reach:

I am not too proud to admit that I fear The Apparatus . . .

And I suspect--no, I'm quite certain--that the man who gave me a ride (be he truly a rutabaga farmer or not) was a spy for The Apparatus.

It is a frightening world on Soybean Island. I am here. I am being watched. I must be careful. Therefore, until next time, if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

                                                        #1957