Clandestine Insertion (well, sort of), Part II

I jumped back in my car, carefully did a U-turn through the debris, and headed South down the other side of the street. This time I made a few stops to closer inspect the area. My first was at the remains of a large brick building that had recently burned down. Smoke smoldered upwards and a few small fires still jumped here and there. I left my car to grab some shots. It was incredible looking, so I took quite a few pictures.



























My next stop was in front of “Lafayette School,” where what caught my eye was another boat and a wheelchair. I assume that they just threw their crippled colleague in the car or boat and high-tailed it out of town, not bothering to take the time with the chair.





Instead of following the directions of the soldiers at the last checkpoint, I wound my way West though cluttered side streets. I had to make several turns and often had to backtrack along the way to avoid deep water and obstacles in the road. My little sedan wasn't the right vehicle for the job, but at least I hadn't driven here on my motorcycle. I can't believe I even considered that!

After various twists and turns, I found myself only a few blocks down the street from the guarded gravel blockade I had circumvented earlier. Feeling cocky, as this time I was already within the Parish limits, I drove up to it and parked, wanting to have a look around. On my side of the barrier was a small group of tents, which housed a few refugees from the city. Numerous boats had been beached at the end of the canal on the North side of the street. Apparently this group of survivors had decided to camp on the first dry land they encountered during their flight.





I turned around and headed back East on Claiborne. Just after crossing Carrollton, an abandoned ambulance blocked part of the road in front of a looted bank. I would imagine that a bank would be one of the worst places to loot, because with any kind of warning, all the cash would have been secured in the safe. I somehow doubt that those citizens smashing through the windows with bricks and tearing up the interior were studied safe-crackers.





Driving on, I came to Broadway St. and saw a sign for the New Orleans Zoo pointing South. On a whim, I turned, figuring that it would be interesting to see in what condition the place had survived.

Broadway is a smaller street than Carrollton, but it is also a divided boulevard, and was mostly clear. The little cross-streets were pretty thoroughly blocked, but I began to see small crews of NG engineers, cutting swaths through the downed trees with chainsaws and clearing piles of brush and junk with Bobcat “skid-loaders.” They were working in the midst of downed utility poles and power lines, but they assured me that this whole area had its power shut off.





I saw a canoe grounded on the median a little further down the street. I would have ignored it as just another abandoned boat, but as I drove by I saw that its prow had a really cool, hand painted design. I stopped for a closer look and a picture.



While kneeling before the canoe to try to get a close shot, an SUV pulled up on the other side of the road. A man in an EMT uniform got out. He said that he recognized the canoe as belonging to his neighbor, so I helped him lift it to the roof of his truck. I offered a length of rope to secure the load, but he declined, saying he only lived a block or two away. As he carefully drove off, I wondered if he wasn't just stealing the damn thing. It was pretty cool looking.

At its Southern extreme, Broadway runs right up to the levee bordering the Mississippi river. Following the signs for the zoo, I turned East, ending up on Magazine street. I noticed hastily painted markings on some of the houses in the area. I had heard that the cops and soldiers were leaving these to mark which houses had been checked for survivors and which held dead. There were so many different agencies with different SOPs for making these marks that there was never any real consistency to them. I don't know how other units were supposed to decipher them.





Two blocks later, the terrain opens up; a golf course to the North and a grassy park that serves as the front lawn of the zoo (and aquarium, I think) to the South. Encamped in that park was 1st Battalion, 179th Infantry, Oklahoma National Guard.



I parked out of the way, but near their motor pool. I figured that my car was probably safer here than in my driveway in Los Angeles. I stuffed the camera and my notebook into a bag and walked toward the closest cluster of tents and camouflage netting. I didn't want to start wandering around taking pictures without getting permission.

Before I even reached the tents, an alert Staff Sergeant was already on his way out to question me. I told him my story. Once he knew that I wasn't just there monkeywrenching, he relaxed and we chatted a little. Gesturing at my pants and boots, he asked if I was ex-military. When I replied in the affirmative, he said, “You need to go see the First Sergeant. He'll probably be able to set you up to go out and take some pictures. Tell him you're a veteran.” He then grabbed a nearby Specialist and ordered him to escort me to the 1SG and then take me around their area for photos. He pointed out another cluster of tents to the East and said, “Stay out of that area. That's Battalion HQ. They might get a little weird with you being here.”

No problem. The Specialist and I walked over to the area where the First Sergeant was supposed to be. He saw us coming and came over himself to see who this outsider was. I have to admit. I've talked shit about the “Nasty Guard” in the past, but these guys were on top of things, and most of them were real veterans, not peacetime army slugs like myself. Experience in Iraq and Afghanistan has dramatically sharpened the morale, quality, and readiness of our Guard and Reserve troops (in both my opinion, and that of all of the troops that I spoke with about it).

I introduced myself, explaining my hope that I could link up with a patrolling unit. The 1SG decided to take advantage of my camera and attentiveness, so he laid into me. Apparently he was fairly exasperated at the lack of a strong, central leadership in control of the current situation (I think he may have called it a “goatfuck”), as well as disgusted at some of the coverage the media was providing.

“You want to take some pictures? I've got some goddamn pictures for you. You see that big fucking stack of water over there? You take a fucking picture of that! There are rumors running around that we don't have proper supplies of water and food, and that's bullshit!”

“Roger, First Sergeant,” I blurted. This guys had me practically standing at parade rest. I'm really just paraphrasing his language here. I was getting carpal tunnel from writing “fuck” over and over in my notebook.

“Listen, the Governor and the Mayor had no fucking food, water, or other supplies pre-stationed at all. HHC of the New Orleans National Guard was underwater within the first three days and had no communication. We were wheels up in under 72 hours. We left our jobs and families before a lot of federal and non-profit agencies were even mobilizing, so don't fucking tell me our response time was slow. We were mobilizing before we had gotten permission to enter Louisiana, because we knew we'd be asked, but the fucking people who are giving us shit about not arriving fast enough are dead wrong! It is technically an act of war for one State's Guard to enter another State under arms and without permission. Those people need to take another look at the Constitution!”

“Roger, First Sergeant.”

He was about to continue, but another two photographers wandered into the area. Looking at them, he gave me the cross-streets where I could find the Bravo Company command post and evacuation point. He told me to say that he had sent me and it was ok for me to be there. With that he stormed over to question and enlighten the new arrivals. The specialist and I left to dutifully take pictures of the stacks of food and water. Here's visual evidence (as per the orders of the 1SG) of the abundance of food, water, and other supplies available to 1/179.







That mission accomplished, we walked around the AO. There wasn't much going on. This was a headquarters and support operation. I took a couple of shots while my escort gave me tips on the local gang situation.





“There are two main gangs around here. One gang drives white Ford Escorts and the other drives red 'dually' trucks. If you see a line of either driving toward you, turn around and get away as fast as you can.”

He said that they'd pretty much disappear during the day, but could still be sometimes seen at night. The troops were having an effect on their free reign, however.

Valuable advice, because I probably would have assumed a convoy of similar vehicles to be an official one. Luckily, I saw none of this. I thanked him and headed back to my car, ready to finally be making some progress.

I missed the turn and ended up accidentally passing through a checkpoint and back into Jefferson Parish. When I realized my mistake, I turned around, but the cops at the checkpoint wouldn't let me back in. No problem. I headed North, found the 90 West, and drove right back through the hole at the gravel barrier, waving at the NGs who remembered me from earlier. I headed back to what I knew was the general area of the B Co. command post, watching the signs for the proper street names.

Clandestine Insertion (well, sort of), Part I

About 7:30 AM, after giving my thanks and saying my goodbyes to the St. Charles Parish volunteers, I was back on the 90 and heading toward New Orleans. The word then being broadcast was that Jefferson Parish (part of greater NOLA, it wraps around Western and Southern Orleans Parish) was allowing people back into the areas that weren't still under water. My plan was to follow the Western branch of the 90 from Bridge City, travel over the Huey P. Long Bridge, and find a way into New Orleans from the West.

I was wearing BDU pants and jungle boots, but I didn't try to look too official. I wasn't intending to mislead anyone about who I was (and I didn't), but I wanted to look as unobtrusive as possible - at least at a distance. Plus, those are about the best work clothes ever, and I didn't have to worry about trudging around in the filth and ruining them.

The key to the whole plan was whether the H. P. Long bridge was actually open to civilian traffic. Once across the Mississippi, there were numerous routes into Orleans Parish, but unless I could get over the river, I was at an impasse.

This part of the 90 had been packed with traffic before (due to police checkpoints that were there when I last attempted to get into the city), but it was smooth sailing for me that morning. The ridiculously narrow-laned bridge was mostly unoccupied, and I was quickly over the river and back on surface streets. This was a pretty major road, but it was nearly deserted and power lines still lay across the blacktop in certain areas. I began to wonder if my stupid map had directed me to the wrong place (or if I had stupidly misread the map). To add to the confusion, this Western branch of Hwy 90 (at this point called the Jefferson Highway) turns East as it heads toward New Orleans (where it becomes S. Claiborne Ave.), eventually intersecting with the Eastern branch of Hwy 90, which is at that point, actually pointing West.

With no obvious alternatives available, I continued on until I saw a gravel barrier that had been dumped across the road a few blocks down. It appeared to serve as both blockade and temporary dike, as it extended past the intersection, meeting a low levee bordering a canal to the North, and stretching a couple hundred feet (more or less?) to the South. One lane of travel had been cut through the gravel, as the water had receded. A sign (seen at the top of this post, but the shot was taken later) confirmed that this was the Jefferson / Orleans border. Some of the downtown NOLA pumps were back on line and operating with dramatic results. I could see several MPs guarding the narrow, newly-cut passageway.

I took a right a block or two shy of the barricade, drove 3 or 4 blocks, and then took a left on a smaller street - back toward Orleans Parish. As I figured, the troops and city police were only manning the major arteries into the City, and this intersection was unguarded. It is simply not possible to block every avenue of approach to a given area, unless there are physical choke points, such as the "Crescent City Connection" bridge I had failed gain permission to cross on the other side of the city. It was also not necessary. There were enough armed troops in Orleans Parish to provide an effective show of force, keeping opportunistic criminals from being too confident that their crimes would go unnoticed.

I wasn't on a major street, but it was just clear enough that I could get around downed trees without running over too much detritus. The side streets weren't cleared at all, and many of them, particularly to the North of me, were at least partly filled with water. I've never been in a flood zone before. It was hot and, aside from distant noises of helicopters and military vehicles, quiet and still. I could also see evidence that the water level had recently been higher. Cars and buildings showed water lines, and small boats were scattered about with surprising regularity, obviously abandoned when their occupants reached the high points of the terrain and could evacuate on dry land.









The first big cross-street I came upon was Carrollton Ave. (which was really a boulevard divided by a wide, grassy median), and I headed North to work my way further in. It was better cleared than the road I had just been on; better traveled, too, as I could see a few military and civilian vehicles heading here and there.



The further I went, the deeper the water in the side streets appeared to be. Carrollton appeared to be the high ground of the area - it was dirty, but dry. My sense of smell is fairly weak, but the scent of the water was starting to become pretty potent. I have spent my share of time humping a ruck through the swamps of the South-Eastern United States, and I know the stagnant, decaying smell that penetrates the air around them. The aroma I was experiencing was sort of like a thick version of that, but with several other heady additions (some more distinct than others): shit, gas/oil, chemicals, dead things.



Already in town, I wasn't too apprehensive about passing through a National Guard checkpoint I could see a couple blocks ahead of me.



I stopped my car when directed. The soldiers asked for picture ID and my destination. After that, they waved me on my way. As I said above, one of their main jobs in NOLA was to act as a show of force. Just by being there they were making the statement that all the previous looting and other nonsense was a thing of the past.

I continued North, amazed at the amount of water, downed trees, and filth in the streets of what obviously used to be a decent neighborhood. I didn't stop to check it out up close, wanting instead to try and travel deeper into the city. Ok, I stopped once, but that was to try and feed a couple of hungry dogs who, while initially interested, eventually scorned my offering of a couple of granola bars. I left the food on the side of the road, should they choose to reconsider, and kept driving.



Continuing roughly North, the street changed from middle-class residential to fast-food and gas station commercial, the houses on the side streets were becoming smaller and cheaper. Ahead was another NG checkpoint, a few hundred feet in front of a freeway overpass. I slowed to be ID'd again, and saw that the road dipped down to cross under the freeway (I-10) and was completely flooded. I parked and got out to talk to the guardsmen.

They struck me as sort of an odd group. Two were enlisted Joes, which seemed normal, but there also was an Infantry captain and a chaplain – a major. While they checked my ID, I asked them if they minded if I got a few pictures. The captain told me I'd have to make it quick because they were leaving the area. He said he didn't want me messing with the body; taking pictures of it. “The body?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Right there.” He pointed down to a spot about 5 feet from us. I followed his gesture to a grubby sheet, which tented up in the unmistakable form of a face-up, spread-eagled body, and covered all but one hand. I was surprised by the fact that I hadn't seen it already. It stood out: a big blue and white square on the median. I had noticed a rarely-experienced, tangy smell in the area, but I guess I didn't put two and two together. The chaplain laughed and said, “That's exactly what happened to me!” At least it now made more sense that a captain and a major were visiting this checkpoint.

I told them I'd only be a minute and snapped a few shots of the area. One block up, the receding water had left scattered junk, among which was a large number of shoes. It's interesting that scattered shoes are often among the common remnants of disasters.



The canal, flooded underpass, and the surrounding area:









I asked the soldiers if there were any way to get further North. They said that most of the cross streets were flooded or blocked, but I could try and swing South and East.

Manning The Supply Depot, Part II

I woke up at about 6:30 AM as the volunteers started arriving. After packing up what little stuff I had brought into the trailer, I started helping set up the assembly line for the day. While I did this, I went through a mental tally of my financial status. It wasn't costing me much to actually be there (gas, mostly), but I had bills that were due before I left and I certainly wasn't making any money while I was away from home. I was determined to have another crack at getting into the city, but I could only afford another couple of days before I had to get back to Los Angeles. I made up my mind to spend the rest of the day distributing food, but the next morning I'd be off.

The National Guard guys arrived shortly thereafter, and we opened the gates. Cars began flowing through the assembly line and the day dragged on. I have to admit it. This work sucked.

A few new volunteers made the day a little more interesting. One in particular was an older man who showed up to lend a hand. Actually, I think he showed up just to get out of the house. He seemed friendly enough, but man, could he talk! I spent close to half and hour not getting any work done (or a word in edgewise) while he went on about his ex-Air Force Intelligence son's cloak-and-dagger activities (toeing the line of telling me too much, if any of it were true), the local chemical plant he used to work for, and just about anything else he could think of. I kept inching away, looking for an out, but he'd close the distance right back up and continue the conversation. Someone else made the mistake of joining us, and when the old man's attention was diverted to the new arrival, I made my escape. I spent much of the rest of the day playing cat and mouse with him, trying not to get caught back up in conversation. It was funny watching others get trapped, though, and I amused myself by seeing how long they lasted, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another, before making their own getaways.

The old man's crowning achievement of the day occurred as we were getting to the bottom of one pallet of MREs and needed to strip another of its plastic strap packaging. Our hardest-working trustee asked if anyone had a knife to cut the boxes free. The old man looked up and said, "What? A brother without a blade?" Geez, man! Even the crickets must have been shocked, because for the next few seconds silence reigned.

"It was a joke," he said quietly, realizing his faux pas.

I was a little conflicted. It was sort of a funny comment; even funnier coming out of the mouth of an old man, but the trustee was right there! He's a prisoner and had his race and his internment rubbed in his face. I've got to give it to him for taking it well. He ignored the remark and continued working as hard as ever.

We finally closed the gates at 6 PM. I was dirty and soaked with sweat, so when one of the local volunteers offered the use of his shower, I gratefully accepted. After washing off, I felt like a new man. I sat in the kitchen with my host and his wife, drinking beer and discussing the situation while their three kids ran around the house, fighting and playing.

They had a copy of the New Orleans Times-Picayune from a couple of days before Katrina hit the area. As has been currently focused on by the MSM, the paper had been highlighting the worst-case disaster model for NOLA for years. This particular issue revisited that possibility, with full-color graphics of the downtown areas that they believed would be inundated. Besides the fact that the hurricane really only grazed New Orleans, and also that (I am pretty sure) the article spoke of Lake Pontchartrain overflowing the levees rather than breaking them, it was a remarkably accurate prediction.

Although the "nobody could have predicted this" argument is scoffed at (rightly so) in this sort-of post disaster environment of finger-pointing, it has been pretty obvious that many people had not taken the warnings seriously. Even NOLA locals who had been at the heart of these discussions had done virtually nothing to prepare for the possible deluge besides storing a couple of day's worth of food and water, if that. My hosts had done little more than that even though other models (they told me) had predicted that if a hurricane had struck the Western areas of New Orleans, massive flooding was expected in their very neighborhood!

An aside: I am mildly amused by pundits from points across the spectrum (full disclosure: myself included, unfortunately) reciting all manner of NOLA and State disaster plans, noting catastrophic computer models, and discussing the constitutionality of federal aid under natural disaster conditions, all nodding sagely to each other as if they had been dutifully studying these sources for the last thirty years and had been fighting the system, trying to make things right. I'd argue that the majority of these brave soldiers (again, myself included), fighting so diligently for their current unshakable beliefs, had previous opinions of New Orleans that ventured no further than the French Quarter, its great atmosphere, and drunken, co-ed tits.

I wanted to get back to the Parks and Recreation trailer so I could continue to organize my thoughts and pictures, as well as to get all my gear repacked for my next attempt at infiltrating New Orleans, so I wrapped up our conversation, thanked my hosts for their hospitality (especially the shower!), and made my way back. I wanted to pick up some beer (to focus the mind and calm the soul, of course) at a gas station on the way back, but found that the Parish had restricted alcohol sales after 7 PM due to the hurricane.

Due to the hurricane? At what point in life could I possibly enjoy a cold beer more than in the stressful aftermath of a hurricane? Hasn't there been enough damage done already? Oh, the humanity!

Manning The Supply Depot, Part I

I couldn't believe that I'd slept until almost 10 AM. Feeling groggy, I grabbed a soda from the truck stop and started heading back up the 90 toward New Orleans. I tried to concentrate and figure out what exactly I was going to do. A friend had called me the previous day while I was standing on the levee, taking pictures of the beached barges. After giving her a brief rundown on what I had been doing, she half-jokingly told me I was just "sightseeing." I took a little offense to that. I had been trying to get to an area where I could take a greater part in the effort, but I had so far been unable. I did have to admit to myself, though, that what I was currently doing did feel a little like sightseeing. I decided to break from my plan of getting into NOLA and see if I could hook up with any established relief groups outside the city, at least for a couple of days.

Enid and Madonna, the employees of the roadhouse where I ate the day before, had told me about a food distribution point not too far up the road. I decided to head over there and see what was happening. A couple of wrong turns and a stop for directions later, I pulled up to a local Parks and Recreation center. It was basically a double-wide trailer surrounded by soccer, baseball, and football fields. The parking lot was filled with boxed supplies and a long line of cars wound through the assembly line they had created to hand out food and water. MPs were working the gates, making sure that no one got out of hand, and a mixture of civilian volunteers and trustees (from the St. Charles Correctional Center) were passing out boxes of MREs, cases of water, and bags of ice. Although not party to the level of disaster seen in New Orleans, St. Charles Parish had lost most of its power during the hurricane and, like much of the area, had supply problems in stores because not only were residents and evacuees stocking up, but deliveries were delayed, having to be diverted from elsewhere to make up for the shortages .

I drove up to the MP working the entrance to the area and asked who I could speak to about volunteering. The MP told me to find the "older, fat, bald guy named Billy." I parked in an unused corner of the lot and went to find him. A civilian volunteer pointed me the way and soon I was standing before a man who I swear is a dead ringer for COL Kurtz, Marlon Brando's character in Apocalypse Now. He's 50-something, skin-bald, and was sporting shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He was obviously an old Southern boy, and his manner suggested he was absolutely in charge of the operation. He was a pretty nice guy, but I never once heard him say "please." I am kicking myself for not getting a picture of him. I kept thinking, "I'll grab a photo of him later on," but when it came to the end of my time there, he had disappeared, and I had missed my opportunity.

Billy told me to jump right in and help pass out supplies. I cracked my knuckles and prepared to break a sweat. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's picking up and throwing around heavy stuff. Unfortunately, as soon as I walked up to the MRE station, they called a lunch break for the volunteers and put the whole operation on hold.

I had practically just woken up, so I wasn't hungry yet. I grabbed my camera and took a few shots of the area while everyone else ate and the line of cars grew.









As volunteers and trustees filtered back to their stations, they opened the gates back up and started letting cars in. Although there were 8 trustees and several civilian volunteers, I could tell we were a little short-handed. No sooner had we gotten back to work, though, then a couple of National Guard 5-tons rolled up and about 25 soldiers spilled out, ready to assist in the relief effort.





As quick as that, we were overstaffed. I spent much of the rest of the day picking up trash and stripping down shipping pallets of supplies while the National Guard handed out the goods.

A little bit of local info I learned along the way: St. Charles Parish is sort of interesting, because although it's one of the smallest counties in Louisiana, it's also one of the richest. It contains a nuclear plant as well as several chemical plants that all have the potential to cause an environmental disaster. As a result, this little Parish is the recipient of quite a bit of federal homeland security funding, and was an early beneficiary of FEMA aid.



I do need to point out, though, that part of the reason they had gotten FEMA aid so early was due to easy access to the area (the distribution center was just off major highways that were not damaged by the hurricane or flooding), as well as the fact that the community was very well organized. They not only handled their own citizens' problems, but extended their support to those from outlying areas. The Parks and Recreation center had been delivering supplies for 6 days at this point. When they ran low on one thing or another, the FEMA rep would make a phone call and, sooner more often than later, a big rig would show up with the requested supplies. I have no idea where they were staging the trucks, but this operation was pretty finely tuned, as far as I could see.

The trucks would drive right into our area and unload. I heard the drivers were being paid ridiculous amounts for their effort, but how else would the government mobilize this much transportation power on such short notice? Aid like this always costs a fortune, but there are few other options available. Imagine the costs that would be involved to staff, equip, and hold in the highest readiness, quick-reaction government resources to deal with this sort of situation. Those costs would be even further multiplied by the fact that a rapid reaction force cannot maintain the highest readiness levels at all times. They absolutely must be relieved by other units 2/3 -3/4 of the time, or else they reach a state of "combat ineffectiveness." Each of these additional units would be equally expensive. At least by paying these drivers a king's ransom now, the government spares itself the cost of sponsoring them during "peacetime."



The trustees would assist the truck drivers and forklift operators in the unloading process. Most of these guys were pretty laid back. I think they were happy to be out on work-release, but it also seemed like they were glad to be able to assist in the relief effort as well. One trustee in particular (shown below) was amazing. He worked his ass off all day, finding things to do when his fellow orange-suiters were on break, and lending a hand wherever he could. I told him he was doing a great job and working really hard. "That's how I do it," he replied matter-of-factly, wiping sweat off his face. I don't know what he did to land in the county clink, but bring this guy to Los Angeles and I'll hire him for every show I work on.



We continued handing out food, water, and ice throughout the day. I spoke to the National Guardsmen, and it turns out they were all from South Carolina - transportation and maintenance, mostly. Most of their group had returned from a 1-year tour in Iraq in February, and while they'd obviously rather be at home, they felt that they were finally getting to do the kind of thing they'd signed into the Guard to do. It's an arguable point that they weren't also doing that in Iraq, but I didn't bother.

They had all gotten into the area just a day or two before, and hadn't been given any real mission as of yet. Commanders need to keep soldiers working, though, so they sent them to the distribution center to keep them occupied. The men worked cheerfully, and would joke with each other and the people in the cars. Any passing girls that were even remotely cute got their egos boosted by these salty Guards, who hit on every single one of them.









As I was sort of the odd man out in this group of workers, over the course of the day the local volunteers asked me where I was from, what I was doing here, where I was staying, etc. I don't know how it started, but somehow several of them got the idea that I was a private detective. "So you're the private detective from California," they'd say.

"What?"

I'm sure the first to ask me this saw the blankest, most uncomprehending expression on my face. After that, I just explained to each that they were mistaken. I had told those who had asked that I worked in freelance television production, but I was here doing a stint as an independent photographer and wanted to help out along the way. Who knows how that ever translated into "private detective?"

They generously offered to let me sleep on a cot in the Parks and Recreation trailer. I'd be alone during the night and they had a cot, air-conditioning, running water in the bathrooms, and even cable TV. Power had just been restored to this section of town the day before I got there. At first I declined. I have never been much for asking for the charity of others. Sleeping in the car sucked, but I was getting more used to it. In the end, however, it was the air-conditioning that did it.

Well, the air-conditioning, the fridge for the beer that was sitting hot in my trunk, and a quiet place with electricity where I could break out my computer, download the photos from the camera, and write. I went back in the office and excepted their offer.





After we finished up for the day and I was left alone in the trailer, I took a sink bath, drank a few beers, and relaxed in the A/C. From time to time I went out and chatted with the MPs who were left with the mind-numbing job of guarding stacks of food and water overnight. At one point, a local sheriff on night patrol came by to use the facilities. He was accompanied by an ex-New York cop. This guy had been on the force during 9-11 and was as disgusted as I had been by what he had seen on the news since Katrina hit. Now he was was working as a bodyguard, but he called his employers and told them he'd be absent for a while, gathered up his ballistic vest and pistol, and headed down to NOLA with four other ex-cop buddies.

He told me that, when 9-11 happened, there had been 40,000 NY cops to deal with the situation. The local radio reports I had been hearing said that New Orleans had only 1,500 city police - roughly 500 of whom had failed to report after the disaster. To put this into perspective, the population of NY City is about 8.1 million people, while New Orleans has only about 1.33 million in greater NOLA (their city cops are required to live within city limits, a rule which has long been a matter of local contention, but they work throughout the greater metropolitan area). It can be seen, then that New Orleans is about 16% the size of NYC, but fields a police force that's only 3.75% of New York's. That number drops to 2.5% when the 500 AWOL cops are dropped from the equation.

Another way to say this is that NYC has more than four times as many cops per person as NOLA has on its best day. And one wonders why there was chaos in the streets during this disaster's opening days?