Driving south on Highway 65 from Little Rock, a sprawling metropolis of some 300,000 people the rolling hills of the northwest quadrant of the state begin to turn into delta flatlands in the Arkansas River basin. Although most of the geography north of the center line of the state is scenic, even beautiful, the southern flatlands and delta turn ever more mundane, monotonous, and depressing.

With every ten miles of travel south of Little Rock things seem to flow backwards as if the traveler has entered into some strange wormhole or time warp. All along Highway 54 the houses, shanties, shacks, buildings and domiciles of all description become ever more withered, worn, dirty unpainted and unkempt. Cars and trucks go unwashed, lawns consisting mostly of weeds remain unmown, houses are unpainted or huddle tiredly beneath peeling paint. Businesses and establishments of every kind boast signs teetering precariously over the heads of those bold enough to risk patronizing them. Beer cans and bottles, discarded food wrappers, old tires, the shells of rusted cars and trucks, a landfill volume of trash and refuse splatter the countryside in every direction. It's almost as if the local inhabitants are proud of their poor folks' party decorations and put them there because they can't afford to buy regular ornaments and who after their party, grew too lazy or uncaring to bother putting them away.

In the years since Arkansas became the home of a sitting President of the United States, some effort has been made to clean up this shameful embarrassment, but try as they might no one could hide the real spirit of the people who occupy this filthy and dilapidated land. It sits like a withered and worn out immoral woman whose hands, though her nails are painted red, look more like claws than graceful feminine appendages, and who, unwilling to face the truth that her youth and appeal to her customers have long since fled, continues to smear her face with eyeshadow and lipstick believing that she is still lush and beautiful.

A few of the houses have been fixed up and re-painted. Some of the worse eye-sores were cleaned up or torn down, but only along the highway itself. While driving slowly an observant eye notes that same lack of pride and the evident decay in the properties not within immediate view of the highway. Arkansas' clean up campaign looks like the one-dimensional facade of a cheap Hollywood set, appearing real on the surface but propped up in the back with a handful of 2 x 4s; Hometown, USA on its highway, but Tobacco Road on the next block. Riding through this monument to sloth causes one to shudder involuntarily.

Some 35 miles south of Little Rock, the landscape becomes even more repulsive and depressing. It's like a scene out of the popular "Mad Max" movies; dirty, dusty and riddled with broken down houses and shacks, more vehicle skeletons, neglected and abandoned properties and more mountains of trash. It feels as if it should be devoid of life, yet it is obvious that people live there, even though they seem to be ashamed to go outside. The four lane highway turns into two with once-filled potholes left to their own devices. The scraggly trees and plants droop their heads in shame that they are mere vestiges of what they should be. Liquor stores, beer taverns and x-rated enticements increase almost exponentially, mile after mile. If an observer pays close attention, they'll note that drivers familiar to the area subconsciously and instinctively roll up the windows of their vehicles as they pass through this eerie landscape.

About 40 miles south of Little Rock a community bursts into view. It is suddenly upon the traveler like some creature lying in wait, ready to pounce upon its prey. An upward curving bridge is crossed and trash and debris swirls in cyclone pillars around the cars and trucks roaring along. Over the crest of the curve lies the crown jewel of southern Arkansas - Pine Bluff, a "city" whose real character is best understood by the knowledge that it was voted to be the worst city in which to reside in the entire United States of America.

Think about that. Consider Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia, Tennessee, and New Mexico. Think about Arizona desert towns, about Chicago and New York. Reflect on the livability of in the industrial cities of Michigan and of south Texas towns lining the Mexico boarder. Of them all THIS, the FINEST city in southern Arkansas was deemed by the "Livable Cities Committee" the worst in the country. The only modern mall that straddles the byway does little to whitewash the truth. Try asking any merchant for change, or extra condiments. Try complaining about dirt and broken appliances in a motel room. You will be astounded by the vitriol with which your request is met. Especially if you have a "Damn Yankee" accent. Go ahead, try it. Then drop me a line...

It is this very kind of fertile soil that first gave birth to the good ol' boys, and the establishment of their feudal fiefdoms which continue to thrive in Arkansas to this very day. The good ol' boys obviously knew what the people needed; someone to take care of them...

Turning southwest on Highway 65 what meets the eyes, nose, ears and other senses remains much the same as north of the city. Here, however, Nature, in her apparent shame, has contrived a magic trick to hide what could otherwise be seen. Because much of the land is delta "river bottom" the humidity tends to be higher year around and hangs like a stifling cloud within the "bowl" of the geography of this part of the state. Due to the elevated moisture content of the air, cars rust faster, houses decay more quickly and untold teeming mosquitos and other insects splatter and mat the windshields of vehicles passing through for most of the year, creating the illusion that the depressing gloom and feeling of unhealthiness smothering the landscape is made so only by one's own dirty windshield. Only the carcasses of non-biodegradable things remain visible for any length of time in any quantity.

Some 16 miles from the Cummins Unit, (aka "The Farm") appears the small community of Grady, Arkansas. Oddly, or with implication, the town immediately preceding the Farm is called Moscow.

Most of the town of Grady proper sits off the main thoroughfare. A few liquor stores, gas stations and junk food shacks and Grady is past. There are but two points of brightness which catch the eye because of their clean, well-kept appearances. One is the Post Office building, which is about as large as a one-room A-frame house. The other is the John Deere Tractor sales lot. The polished emerald green tractors and combines appear more vibrant and alive with their color and hue standing out from the surrounding gray-green and molded countryside all around. It seems odd that these two buildings exist there because many of the people the Post Office exists to serve cannot read or write, while even fewer of them could ever do more than dream of buying a John Deere.

A few miles further still a sign suddenly appears which is the traveler's first hint that a prison is located there. It reads "Penitentiary Area - Beware of Hitchhikers," as though any traveler would be willing to stop and pick up a pedestrian in these parts, even without the warning.

Finally, thirty miles south of Pine Bluff a bricked and framed sign announces that this is the land of the Varner Unit and the Cummins Unit prison farms. Welcome. Arbeit Macht Frei.

Turning left on the access road and on the right, a glorious white house abides nested amidst a grove of what appear to be pecan trees. There is no doubt that this was once a traditional southern cotton plantation mansion, an immortal reminder that slavery is very much alive and well here, even if transformed. This is a most appropriate salutation for entry into Arkansas state prison grounds.

A few hundred yards down the road and just behind the mansion now resides the Varner Unit. It's a faceless two-story red brick complex with occasional splashes of what purport to be windows along its side. It has the strange quality of a cosmic black hole that one knows despite it's apparent stillness simply must be teeming with energy and motion within, but which doesn't permit even a pulse of that content to escape into the outer world. Some persons think themselves able to hear voices and sense the beat of life inside, but that's only an illusion created by the wishful thought of the families and friends whose loved ones are confined there. It houses well over 1,000 prisoners, mostly in their 20s. It is a gulag of a place, characterized by the looming and evil looking armory tower on it's western quarter.

Following the curve of the road, the countryside looks momentarily peaceful, sometimes almost pastoral. That momentary anomaly may be explained by the fact that a sliver of the land that cuts into the 22,000 acres of the Cummins Unit Prison Farm on the north is privately owned by people who have somehow been able to separate themselves from the ulcerous landscape all around, and whose property bespeaks a more healthy and human quality.

Still some fair distance away in the east, the first images of the Cummins Unit crash onto the eye. At this distance, there are only two jutting prominences visible on either side, one fat and one slender and needle like. A dark green gash with pumps connects them. The fields are flat and unbroken by other than a few clumps of growth here and there.

Within about half a mile some of the details of The Farm can be discerned. On the right edge of The Farm is a water tower, rising well over 100 feet into the heavy air. On the left edge is a church steeple, more closely resembling a phallic spear impaling the sky than the religious symbol it is supposed to be. Perhaps that why it has twice been destroyed by lightening bolts. This abomination sits in front of a designer Chapel building area, which itself sits inside a double cyclone fence topped with razor wire and which is soon to boast a third, 20,000 volt electrified fence which will doubtless wipe out what little avian life still remains in this God-forsaken place.

Further to the left a small wedge of corrugated tin building is blurred into a smudge behind the fence looming over it. This is the Substance Abuse Treatment Program building. This dilapidated building formerly housed the infamous Blood Bank through whose operation more than 80,000 Canadians and untold numbers of citizens of other countries became infected with HIV, hepatitis B and C and other deadly or life-threatening diseases. Many of those who were treated with the contaminated blood harvested there are dead and more of them are dying; all of them will be ill for the remainder of their lives. To the right of this landmark is the Cummins Unit's gymnasium and still further on the right is the School.

Perhaps the most outstanding feature to greet a visitor is the foreboding way in which the windows of Barracks 1 and 2, known as "The Pods" reflect the sunlight in their rectangular and recessed shapes. It looks much like the head of a giant tarantula with multiple eyes flashing and glaring down the road as if daring anyone to approach any closer.

At the corner of the northwest fence, across the road, left is a private residence completely out of place here. It sports fancy cars in the driveway, satellite dishes and occasionally children playing in the yard. It's occupants enjoy growing rice all along the west perimeter fence, which many prisoners feel is really a hatchery business for growing the millions upon millions of mosquitos that blanket the compound a few months of the year, and which have their own way to make life a measure yet more miserable and dangerous here.

There are 1,800 prisoners assigned to the Cummins Unit Prison Farm. Mostly are more seasoned, harder-core prisoners.

After passing the STOP sign at the edge of the compound there is a lane of oak and other trees which, except for the winter months is actually a beautiful sight. To the immediate left is a stilted bathroom facility finally built not long ago after endless years of complaints from inmate visitors about being required to go into nearby fields and bushes to squat and relieve themselves. For years, although the unit sat less than 200 yards away from the entrance where long lines of visitors are forced to wait their turn to have their vehicles searched prior to being permitted entry, the closest restroom facility was several miles away, and unavailable. The owner of this private residence could understandably not permit so many people to use the facilities inside their home. For most of the prison's history the solution to this problem, which plagued most who made the long drive to the prison was a line of bushes which had been conveniently placed along the right side of the road, perhaps only for that very purpose.

Facing east from the unit parking lot there is a little building which resembles a border patrol office, complete with weighted railroad crossing-like slats on either side. These are raised permitting one vehicle at a time to pass. It looks more like it belongs in the DMZ into North Korea or at the edges of Russia than in any place called America. Since it is obviously not designed for, nor capable of keeping prisoners in, it must be there to keep out unwelcome people.

Looking past the checkpoint in the distance, left is the "Free Line", a motley collection of houses and a rundown trailer park where some of the administrative staff and correctional officers live. Most of the others live in Pine Bluff. In the middle of the Free Line is a bright aqua blue sparkle of the swimming pool built "for the welfare of inmates," that is, which was built in large part with proceeds from the Inmate Welfare Fund created from inmates' own sweat and blood - literally. Look, but don't touch. Know, but don't tell.

Facing South into the Cummins Unit proper from its parking lot does not necessarily convey the image that this is a prison. There is an armory tower with a nearby mast flying the flag of the United States, of the Great State of Arkansas, and of the Arkansas Department of Corrections, but the tower is not stereotypical. It deceptively does not look ominous or foreboding.

Inside the perimeter fence to the right is the Administrative Building, and further right the Chapel with its sloping roofs, corrugated iron trim, and barbed wire tipped perimeter. To the left is the Visitation Center. Flowers and all-season shrubs and rose bushes line the walkways all around. Except for a few glimpses here and there, the actual prison barracks are not visible in the line of sight.

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GO BEHIND THE WALLS



WENDY CROW IS RUNNING FOR ARKANSAS STATE REPRESENTATIVE! Click here to learn more about this remarkable woman