The Hurricane Trail
On Sept. 20 I headed south from California towards New Orleans, straight into the path of Hurricane Rita and the wreckage of Katrina. Families fleeing Rita as she barreled toward the Gulf Coast of Texas, and those who had escaped Katrina, lined the hurricane trail from Dallas to the tip of Louisiana. They were everywhere, as if strewn carelessly about by the powerful, ungracious ladies.
Hurricane Rita petered out from an anticipated Category 5 monster to a Category 3 or less storm. It was bad enough but not as horrific as expected. But Katrina had taught everyone a lesson. Texans don’t scare easy, but the evacuees I met from South Texas – many who had sheltered or otherwise aided people hit by Katrina – bowed down to Rita and got the hell out of her way.
Katrina had hit New Orleans and the surrounding towns on August 29, unleashing a devastating storm surge and flood that turned the Big Easy into the Big Quagmire.
Katrina also mowed down just about everything in her way along the Gulf Coast of Mississippi (including Sen. Trent Lott’s seaside villa, which has been reduced to a spiral staircase leading to nothing but air). The entire area is broken and coated with dried mud, as though a child rolled a doll house in dust then stomped all over it.
That’s the way everything seared by Katrina looks. Trees that were not snapped in half are the color of ochre and covered in ghostly foliage of white garbage bags. The storm surge that reached up to 20 feet high burnt them with the sea’s salt, which also covered the power lines, knocking out electricity for days. Giant metal signs were scrambled and crumpled like aluminum foil. The French Quarter was mercifully spared total destruction and one night a local hero/Voodoo blues singer, Coco Robicheaux, wailed all night long at Mollie’s bar on Decatur Street, raising money along the way for anyone who couldn’t afford a drink.
The hurricane specter surrounded the enclave, though. Whole houses were simply removed from their cement foundations; others are hollow caves with wood and wires dangling like stalagmites. Shattered boats lie in the strangest places - yards, roadsides, front porches, and along freeways. Abandoned city buses line the streets. And the eeriest of all graffiti ever invented is the orange or black spray paint sprayed on abandoned houses and impromptu shelters to show they had been searched for the living and the dead.
I could go on but it’s almost useless to try to do justice to the destruction. It defies the senses because just when it seems nothing could be worse, another more defiled scene is just around the corner. The most eloquent description came from 10-year-old Angela, who arrived at a renegade relief organization, Common Grounds, looking for baby bottles and water for her little brothers. “Katrina was bein’ MEAN,” she said, with a Louisiana twang.
For those who have been in war zones it may not seem so brutal. Then again, seeing it at home lands the punch straight to the gut. The tangled web of bureaucracy trapping New Orleans and the many people Katrina orphaned is like a right hook.
Hurricane Rita petered out from an anticipated Category 5 monster to a Category 3 or less storm. It was bad enough but not as horrific as expected. But Katrina had taught everyone a lesson. Texans don’t scare easy, but the evacuees I met from South Texas – many who had sheltered or otherwise aided people hit by Katrina – bowed down to Rita and got the hell out of her way.
Katrina had hit New Orleans and the surrounding towns on August 29, unleashing a devastating storm surge and flood that turned the Big Easy into the Big Quagmire.
Katrina also mowed down just about everything in her way along the Gulf Coast of Mississippi (including Sen. Trent Lott’s seaside villa, which has been reduced to a spiral staircase leading to nothing but air). The entire area is broken and coated with dried mud, as though a child rolled a doll house in dust then stomped all over it.
That’s the way everything seared by Katrina looks. Trees that were not snapped in half are the color of ochre and covered in ghostly foliage of white garbage bags. The storm surge that reached up to 20 feet high burnt them with the sea’s salt, which also covered the power lines, knocking out electricity for days. Giant metal signs were scrambled and crumpled like aluminum foil. The French Quarter was mercifully spared total destruction and one night a local hero/Voodoo blues singer, Coco Robicheaux, wailed all night long at Mollie’s bar on Decatur Street, raising money along the way for anyone who couldn’t afford a drink.
The hurricane specter surrounded the enclave, though. Whole houses were simply removed from their cement foundations; others are hollow caves with wood and wires dangling like stalagmites. Shattered boats lie in the strangest places - yards, roadsides, front porches, and along freeways. Abandoned city buses line the streets. And the eeriest of all graffiti ever invented is the orange or black spray paint sprayed on abandoned houses and impromptu shelters to show they had been searched for the living and the dead.
I could go on but it’s almost useless to try to do justice to the destruction. It defies the senses because just when it seems nothing could be worse, another more defiled scene is just around the corner. The most eloquent description came from 10-year-old Angela, who arrived at a renegade relief organization, Common Grounds, looking for baby bottles and water for her little brothers. “Katrina was bein’ MEAN,” she said, with a Louisiana twang.
For those who have been in war zones it may not seem so brutal. Then again, seeing it at home lands the punch straight to the gut. The tangled web of bureaucracy trapping New Orleans and the many people Katrina orphaned is like a right hook.
posted by A.W. Woodall at 5:43 PM
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