'Tell Them What You Saw Here.'

My reason for coming to New Orleans was curiousity, plain and simple. I wanted to see how the reconstruction of the city fared. I was surprised, at both how normal things felt, and the obvious wounds of the city. Coming in, the most shocking thing to me was the billboard advertising the knocking down of homes for cash. Later, I would see one offering to remove the concrete foundations for free. However, the main drag of the city in the French Quarter seemed fairly functional if a bit devoid of people, although construction proved to be a hassle on the way to work. Bourbon Street, the center for tourism here, also seems to have recovered fully from whatever damage it has taken, and the nights I have been there have been full of people, watched over carefully by the NOPD.

Other areas of the city are near empty. Several of us visited the Lower Ninth Ward, the area hit most harshly by Katrina. Without exception, every residence bore the scar of a clean-up worker's mark, an x with information noting the bodies and the date of exploration between the lines. I was surprised that the houses survived with as little damage as I witnessed; however the presence of mold after the storm caused mass long-term evacuation and many houses have since been gutted to their metal girders. All appear to have had anything of value removed, though remants of the owners' former life lay in their front yards, strewn about. The only sign of life was in the FEMA trailers parked outside in the yards, some in groups. The more practical had spray-painted their houses with various messages. One requested that their home not be bulldozed; several more advertised the phone number of the owner who now wished to sell. There were many cardboard signs hung in the neighborhood, serving as markers for businesses that had returned. The street signs were not the metal ones I had come to recognize, but wooden boards painted white with black lettering.

At one point, we pulled over to a gas station to find out if there was anything else in the neighborhood that we should witness. Though I struggled as to how to express this without sounding like some tragedy voyeur, the clerk took my awkward questions with remarkable grace. She pointed to the photo of the store up to the roof's lettering in water, and told us of the troubles following the storm. The reconstruction of telephone lines in the ward has yet to happen (everybody uses cells now), and there is no organized system of sewage. Instead the trailers have their own individual tanks. She further invited us to come back when the town was dark, to see the complete absence of lights in the area, and charged us with the following: 'When you go back home, talk to your friends and tell them what you saw here.'

We drove to where the levee broke, and a bit further down the road we passed a sign, admonishing us:

TOURIST
Shame on You
Driving BY without Stopping
Paying to see MY PAIN
1600+ DIED HERE

There is a charge of profiteering off tragedy, as apparently some tours include a visit of the Lower Ninth Ward, which leaves some uncomfortable, justifiably so.

(I have criminally neglected to bring a reader for my camera, and so I can only direct you to some superior camera work, albeit a bit older at http://scoutneworleans.blogspot.com/. While the extant of the damage remains, more rubble has been cleared than the pictures here show.)

I noticed other profiteering when I walked down Bourbon tonight. Meaning to visit the T-shirt shops since Sunday, I stopped in to see the general attitude of the city regarding the storm. This included such insights as FEMA: Federal Employees Missing Again, and FEMA's Emergency Plan: Run B*tch, Run! This scathing contempt was not limited to the federal; one shirt had 'NOPD: [New Orleans Police Dep.] Not Our Problem, Dude.'

Many people here were college students on spring break. For them and others, the town had several tours available at night, including Voodoo, Vampires, Cemetaries, and Ghosts & Legends. It was the last of these I went on, along with 24 others. We were treated to a two-hour presentation on the history of New Orleans and some entertaining tales of the area. The site that would be New Orleans was determined to be a strategic point for control of shipping and, like many fine cities, was founded by French convicts and later prostitutes when it was determined that women would be necessary for the city's long term survival. This rich history resonates today, found on T-shirts sporting slogans such as 'French Quarter Hookers: rebuilding New Orleans one job at a time!' The tour guide told us several horror stories, and finally wove the story of New Orleans' victory against the English in 1814 outside a statue of Jesus shadowed against a very large building. The statue was either raising its hands in triumph or glorifying the latest touchdown.

I witnessed one final treat as I walked back to the hotel: an older white-bearded man was busily busking away, dressed in red plaid and overalls. He sang slow Eric Clapton love songs interspersed with rap lyrics threatening anyone who hit on his wife. My words here cannot do justice to this comic scene; if walking down Bourbon street you happen to see this man, stay and listen. He is a funny, funny man.