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.