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On the road again:
Greetings from St. Bernard State Park in the Mississippi River Delta, New Orleans
Today's Story
The responses from readers of that blog have been interesting and varied.
One reader wrote that she “was moved to tears” because she had been to New Orleans and seen photos of the devastation there and also that her daughter had gone on a mission trip to New Orleans with her church and helped rebuild bathrooms and showers for homeless people.
Another reader said that, in his opinion, “there are no two sides” to the decision of whether to evacuate or not. “Better safe than sorry,” he wrote.
A third, who is the president of a ham radio club in Virginia, said that she was pleased to hear the vital role that ham radio operators played in the storm’s aftermath.
And a fourth asked if I attained a sense “of mass healing and hope for the future.”
This last question deserves a response. Linda Aiavolasiti, who is the executive director of the “Ground Zero” Museum in Waveland, told us that her home had not been destroyed by Katrina while most of her neighbors’ homes were. While she had to clean water and debris from the interior, she was not faced with the task of rebuilding. For this, she went through a period of “survivor’s guilt.”
She assuaged her feelings by aiding her neighbors and by working with photos and artifacts to recapture the sense of place that is Waveland, an effort through which she was rewarded the directorship of the museum. “Now I know what God had planned for me,” she said.
So, after camping in Waveland for a few days, Cyndy and I moved to the St. Bernard State Park just south of New Orleans. We’ve been here 12 days, going on tours and learning from locals about this city.
I’ll recap some of those highlights in a future blog, but, today, I want to communicate about Katrina’s impact on New Orleans.
I’ll star with this comparative detail.
Waveland sits directly on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico; its obliterated downtown is within a quarter mile of the beach; there were/are no levees there.
New Orleans is 60 miles inland from the Gulf, somewhat “protected” by the Mississippi River Delta, a complex waterway of bayous and marshland.
Yet, as you will read, the damage and impact there were no less profound.
While on a boat tour of bayous south of New Orleans, George, a local guide and truly authentic muscled and tattooed delta good ol’ boy, took us to one of the places where waters from the Gulf, driven by Katrina, breached the levee.
He said that one of his buddies was there on a flat bottom boat, watching waves crest and come over the protective seawall. Then, he saw that the vegetation that was supposed to stabilize the levee was floating past him.
When he looked up again, he saw water literally pouring over where the levee had been moments before. He put his boat in gear and got out of there fast with the wall of water chasing him.
Today, that earlier 17-foot-high levee has been replaced by a wall that is 25 feet high.
George showed us where houses and docks in the delta, called “fishing camps,” were wiped away. One building, elevated on massive wooden pylons and constructed with steel wall studs, instead of wood, was still standing. “The water came to half way up the door on the second level,” George said.
George also told us that he and his father and brother and three dogs stayed in their father’s home during Katrina. The floodwater forced them to ascend to the attic where the water rose to waist high. They punched a hole in the roof with an axe and prayed that the house wouldn’t crumble beneath them.
When the storm passed, they had been without food and water for more than two days.
George swam from rooftop to rooftop, looking for a boat. When he found one, the keys were in the ignition. “That wasn’t the miracle,” George said, indicating that people often leave their boat keys aboard. “The miracle was that it started on the first try.”
He came back for his father and brother and the dogs, and they went in search of food, which they found at Wal-Mart. They smashed through a window and drove the boat inside, finding floating cans of beef stew and gumbo. “That was the best gumbo I’ve ever eaten,” said George.
On another day, Teddy, a guide on a bicycle tour, showed us New Orleans’ “high ground” (the wealthier neighborhoods that were spared) and “low ground” (the poorer neighborhoods that were not spared).
But the most dramatic information came from a guide on the Hop On Hop Off open-air bus as we passed by the city’s Morial Convention Center, built for the 1984 Louisiana World Exposition.
This massive structure sits along the Mississippi River waterfront. It is five-eights of a mile long and encompasses more than three million square feet on two levels.
The day before, Cyndy and I had visited the Mardi Gras World Museum, which is next door to the Convention Center. On our way out of the former, a threat of rain hung in the air.
As we walked past one end of the Center, a security guard asked where we were going. When we told him that our destination was beyond the opposite end of the building, he bade us to enter through the exhibitor’s door that he was guarding.
He directed us to cross a huge arena, Hall J, and “just keep walking.” After 15 minutes of fast-paced walking, Cyndy and I passed Hall A and exited on the opposite side.
So when the Hop On Hop Off guide related her story, we had an idea of just how huge the Convention Center is.
The guide said that when the order to evacuate came down from the governmental authorities, many people were not able to get out of town either because they lacked transportation or highways were blocked with slow-moving or not-moving vehicles.
The Louisiana Superdome was designated as the place for these unfortunates to go. It filled with 25,000 people almost immediately.
So the Convention Center was opened as an unofficial evacuation center. More than 20,000 pedestrian evacuees were directed there by police and word of mouth.
At first, this seemed like a God-send, especially with expectations and unfulfilled promises of provisions, medical aid, and bus transportation out of the city.
Then the storm hit. The electricity went out. No lights. No air conditioning—in hot, humid August.
Then the food and water ran out. Toilets would not flush. Diapers were not available. The stench became unbearable.
People began to die from violence, dehydration, and lack of medication. And there was no way to remove the bodies.
“It was horrible,” the guide said. Her voice was emphatic, yet her words sounded like an understatement.
While the population density and storm impact in Waveland and New Orleans are different, there is a common thread spoken by several people:
“We had not had a big storm since Hurricane Camille in August 1969 and Hurricane Betsy in August/September 1965. People had become complacent. Hopefully, people will remember Katrina and be better prepared next time.”
Thanks for reading my stories.
God blesses everyone ... no exceptions.
Robert (Bob) Weir
