A Road to Somewhere

Katrina's aftermath continues to cast a pall over New Orleans' storied neighborhoods. Photo: Roger Burks/Mercy Corps Photo: Roger Burks

We left for New Orleans early this morning completely uncertain; unsure of which way was open, what we would find once there and, most of all, if we could get in at all.

Mercy Corps Director of Program Operations Diane Johnson, whose home is in the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood near the French Quarter, is guiding our journey from her pickup truck ahead. I ride in a minivan with Mercy Corps Katrina Response Director Richard Jacquot, communications officer Eric Block and a photographer from The Oregonian newspaper. There is a palpable, shared uneasiness as we turn off the I-12 exit into the city of Slidell, which sits on Lake Pontchartrain's north shore.

Diane expertly guides us through Slidell's fallen tree and power line-clogged streets toward the fastest route into New Orleans: across the Highway 11 bridge over Lake Pontchartrain's eastern edge. As we get closer to the bridge, the traffic unexpectedly dissipates. We conjecture out loud about whether this is a good sign or not.

Suddenly, we get the answer.

"Oh, la vache," Richard declaims as we round a corner into a landscape of unimaginable devastation. Houses, apartment buildings, vehicles and personal belongings lay heaped in splintered, soaked piles. A hellish torrent of wind and storm surge has taken away any reason for people to be here for now. Only a few folks are picking through the shambles of lives, whether theirs or not.

Beyond what seems like miles of carnage, we reach the Highway 11 bridge. It's open; no checkpoints or hurricane damage prevent us from beginning to cross it. Lake Pontchartrain ripples softly below us, but I wonder what its waters conceal.

A National Guard convoy on the other side of the sprawling bridge directs us on to I-10, which leads to New Orleans. The northbound lanes are still flooded with water. Exit ramps descend into black primordial muck. As we make our way south to the city, we see birds from the adjacent wetlands wading where vehicles once sped. Nature was reclaiming this place as long as she could. There are absolutely no other people around to dispute her.

After what seems like an unsettling hour traveling south on this once-highway, we finally see buildings: the city of Chalmette, in St. Bernard Parish on New Orleans' northern edge. I ask myself if an abandoned, ruined place like this can really still be called a city. Sludge and floodwaters still bury the place. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see a man roaming the streets but quickly doubt myself.

It's estimated that more than 90 percent of Chalmette's houses, businesses and other buildings will have to be demolished. I believe in the restorative powers of will, ingenuity and hard work but can't imagine a starting point here.

Miles and miles more fetid road slowly reveals our uneasy goal: New Orleans. The skyline looks untouched, if punctuated with a multitude of helicopters buzzing like Deep South gnats.

Diane finally finds a passable exit and we plunge from I-10 into New Orleans itself. I'm vaguely scared. I look around the van to see if others share my sentiment.

We make it uneventfully to Diane's home near the corner of Dauphine and Esplanade and see that it's still in good shape. The Circle K convenience store on her corner, however, has had its door broken down and is completely looted. Scenes I witnessed on television news play through my head.

After she checks on something in her house, Diane gets behind the wheel of the van and takes us for a assessment tour of her city.

While much of the water has drained, houses and cars are stained brown with the high-water mark. Most of these places and things are unsalvageable, having fallen prey to rot, mold and structural damage. Entire neighborhoods will be razed. Katrina's murky waters are destroying history as easily as water washes ink from a page.

The only people we see on our comprehensive tour of Orleans Parish are scattered groups of the red-bereted 82nd Airborne, here to protect the city and begin cleanup. They wave to us as we pass, probably as happy to see us as we are to see them.

Block after block of collapsing houses, broken windows and strewn household items numb the mind while breaking the heart. We roll into downtown, catching glimpses of the infamous Louisiana Superdome and Convention Center before moving into the world-famous French Quarter.

Here, finally, I realize that at least some New Orleans' unique spirit will be preserved: the centuries-old buildings, wrought iron filigree and colorful seediness are largely intact. The Quarter, where the city had its beginnings, might be the starting point I've failed to see in other parts of this region.

Suddenly, Diane exclaims something and pulls the van over on Bourbon Street. "They're still swinging!" she declares.

Sure enough, the mechanical legs above an infamous Bourbon Street burlesque show are still swinging, as they have for decades. Diane pulls out her camera and snaps a picture.

"Good to know that some things never change," she says, laughing just a bit. Her city will endure.

On the long, bleak drive back to Baton Rouge, we discuss what Mercy Corps can do to help the people of New Orleans begin their long journey home. Many ideas bounce around the van. One thing is sure, though: the starting point will come from listening to families and finding out what they need.

Often, we begin with hope and go on from there.