Katrina’s Wrath: Ground Zero

Baton Rouge has been the state’s largest city for nearly two weeks now. Louisiana’s capital city was mostly unscathed by Hurricane Katrina in terms of wind and water damage but has suffered problems related to the deluge of evacuees from the New Orleans area. The immense traffic congestion aside, one would not think only 80 miles southeast was the site of the worst natural calamity in American history. It was my old college nest of Baton Rouge where I would begin my journey home.

After having spent a week and a half living in Arizona (the longest I have ever been outside my home state with the lone exception of my 2003 trip to Europe), I was anxious to return home and even more so to bring relief supplies with me to Chalmette, Louisiana’s hurricane “ground zero”.

The drive across the straight-shot that is I-12 was uneventful. The closer I came to Slidell, the more I began to notice wind damage from the hurricane through downed trees and billboards. After bearing south (east) on I-10 I would truly see in person what I had watched from afar via the Weather Channel. The lakeside residential development of Eden Isles would somewhat prepare me for St. Bernard. As I drove through streets covered with sand from the tidal surges, I saw wrecked houses and condominiums.

Rooftops were missing shingles and garage doors had been battered in. Damage televisions and furniture were piled high in the front yards of those who were able to return to their residences. The spray painted code identifying searched homes and whether bodies had been found in them adorned kicked in doors. A reported five-feet of water had rushed inside the houses but had receded rather quickly, not before having taken a toll on virtually all possessions not secured in an attic.

After crossing through Eden Isles, I began driving over the Highway 11 bridge, once known as one of the deadliest bridges in America because of their being no barrier between the opposing single lanes. Though an extremely old bridge, the Highway 11 crossover was drivable and almost empty of traffic going in either direction. The preferred manner of crossing the eastern side of Lake Pontchatrain was the I-10 twinspan, though its eastbound side had been washed away, though no missing segments were noticeable on the westbound bridge.

After crossing Lake Pontchatrain, the scariest part of the Tucson-St. Bernard run was to be made: Highway 90, known to locals as the Chef (Chef Menteur- a French memorial to an Indian chief native to that area known for his mendacity which in English means “Big Liar”.)

As the world saw only hours after the last winds of Katrina had departed New Orleans, Louisiana’s former largest city had become a tempest of wanton criminal activity. Random shootings, looting, carjackings, and rape were prevalent throughout a city that had descended into chaos. The stretch of road through the swamp and then past some of the roughest neighborhoods in New Orleans east would be nerve-racking and before pulling out, I had informed a trial-lawyer friend from Lake Charles driving the other truck of supplies to drive as quickly as possible and not to stop for any reason, including if my own vehicle had come under attack. Though I was in my own backyard, I felt like a contract driver in Baghdad.

The trucks zoomed across Highway 90 where the sand and mud residue near the center of the lanes indicated the previous extent of the waters on the road. Fortunately, there was nary a soul in sight as even the unruly East had cleared out. The eerie silence was preferable to the sounds of gunfire as the two vehicles raced until reaching the part of I-510 not under water that led to St. Bernard. My own anxiety did not ebb until I had crossed over the ICWW (known locally as the Green Bridge). Once I had passed the final checkpoint that intercepted traffic heading to St. Bernard (where one of the teen-age soldiers accidentally discharged his rifle), my eyes had gazed upon what was left of my hometown.

The first thing I saw upon crossing Bayou Bienvenue was my grandfather’s old boatyard. His humble office had been knocked over from its supports and it looked like a tornado had hit a place where I had spent many days from my childhood fruitlessly scooping the waters with large nets in an attempt to catch my first “big one.”

The buildings that once stood on Paris Road had suffered extensive damage and those still standing had been broken to a point where the structure would have to come down anyway. The parish’s lone motel, which sat near the gulf outlet, had been demolished by the storm. As I continued upon Paris Road I noticed the Hibernia bank had lost an entire wall though the nearby community college appeared to have made it out relatively ok, aside from a missing stone pelican that had adorned one of the entrance gates.

Ponstein’s Grocery, a corner market that was a local forerunner of the modern 7-11’s that had invaded every community, had also taken a hard hit. The adjoining apartments had been destroyed as its roof had caved in. I had once thought about renting a place there.

After unloading the goods at the temporary governmental center at the Mobil Oil Refinery, I rode around a little to survey the damage in the parish’s interior in addition to taking a ride with a police escort through Meraux.

A thick, oily muck covered the ground east of Paris Road as the truck unsteadily maneuvered around debris that littered the street and low-lying powerlines. The truck slipped a little but I was able to control it. The drainage canals were still filled to the brim almost two weeks after the hurricane hit. Ahead was my now former apartment along with the house that had floated across the drainage canal that had crashed into the row of complexes. Upon hoping out, the jet-black goop landed on my legs and splashed even more on my khakis as I trudged to my front door. I could see in the murk rainbow clouds one sees when looking at gasoline spilled in water. I restrained myself from yelling out a blasphemy only to exclaim a profanity not as offensive to Providence.

The apartment complex had not been exempt from Katrina’s Wrath. Cars had floated or been thrown out of their previous parked positions. The brick side of the first unit had been torn up so much I could see inside as had the other two occupied by my neighbors.

I tried my front door just to see if it had been kicked in by looters or rescue personnel but the door had been locked as I had left it. However I noticed that the top part of my front window had been smashed open and my television antennae was poking out from the green Venetian blinds. Obviously the rising water (official estimates a peak of 6.6 feet, my own estimate from aerial pictures 10 feet or more) had punctured through or an acrobatic looter had been the culprit.

I inserted my key but the door would not open. Apparently the lock pins had corroded from the combination of salt water and sewerage and/or oil that officials had claimed that had not gone that far (though the X-Files-like black substance on my shoes and legs led me to beg to differ with their rosier projections no doubt made for liability reasons). St. Bernard Parish had experienced its very own version of the Exxon Valdes spill.

A thought had entered my mind for me to simply kick my door in just to see the damage for myself, though I knew it was total, but an army helicopter that had been circling the area that had suddenly stopped and held its position within my visual caused me to rethink this entry option, not wanting to be mistaken for a looter. Slushing through the mixture of toxic sludge, I got back behind the wheel of my truck and cautiously navigated my way back to Paris Road and crossed over to the western side of the Versailles subdivision.

The watermark on a white, intact garage door was somewhat reassuring as it was only about three-feet high, though when I reached my grandfather’s house I noticed what appeared to be “mud-laps” halfway up its white front door. My grandfather’s handicap ramp somehow exited the backyard and ended up on top of the neighbor’s garage on the front of the street. This time I could have entered through a concealed back way avoiding the helicopters but on this occasion I simply did not have the heart to enter the place where I grew up.

While driving down the mostly unobstructed west streets I saw neither standing water nor oil, though reminders from the wind and flooding damage were present. An amber-colored Cadillac was on its roof in a nearby yard though a PT Roadster only three houses down remained externally unharmed aside from a small tree branch on its top. Wooden fences were torn away and an Episcopal church had lost its roof though its giant crucifix was still in place and visible from the street. Forces of nature played no favorites with the various houses of God as my home parish of Our Lady of Prompt Succor had damage to its blue and white glass steeple and several holes around it were visible from the highway. First Baptist Church on St. Bernard Highway had its roof ripped off its Sunday school building.

A tour through the parish brought some relief to me in some areas but mostly sadness.

Perhaps the only highpoint was a visit to the parish library, which had several of its vertical panes of glass broken but otherwise many of the books were still on the shelves.

A drive east on Judge Perez saw more oil contamination as the slop was so thick in some parts that a plow that had preceded us had its track vanish before we were able to cross that part of the roadway. The old Delchamps that had been transformed into a Hollywood soundstage where Lindsay Lohan had filmed part of a movie looked as if a cyclone had visited it. A camper dealership had its wares dispersed hundreds of yards from its yard, with trailers and campers scattered into the backyards of upscale homes in the Jumonville subdivision. Borgnemouth Park where I played baseball was totally decimated with the only reminder of its field being the field lights. Another branch of the Hibernia bank, this one in Meraux, had been reduced to matchsticks with its brick exterior reduced to rubble. While exiting Meraux I saw something odd along the still standing trees lining the side of Judge Perez Drive when I saw a symmetrical line of garbage and trash on the branches marking at about 12 feet above the ground the highest point the water reached.

As I drove towards Camp Katrina, the name assigned to the Chalmette Port Slip where thousands of rescued refugees were taken across the Mississippi River, I saw soldiers in white biohazard outfits being hosed down. St. Bernard, once known as the site of one of America’s most important military victories, would now be known as the home of the nation’s greatest natural disaster and a superfund cleanup site from the excess of 350,000 gallons of oil that has spilled into the residential heart of Chalmette. If the thousands who lived there are lucky, they’ll have a chance to at least pay their residences one last visit to collect what little that might have survived the storm and the oil spill though they will likely never live on that now contaminated earth again.

My exit from St. Bernard was just as remarkable as the means of my arriving to Louisiana, as I would be departing via a double-rotor Army Chinook helicopter. The monster chopper could hold dozens of people though the lawyer and I waited for the others to board first just to make sure nobody was turned away. When the last passengers walked on to the Chinook, I took a seat near the back, the door of which was open during the entire flight, affording me a breath-taking view of the still underwater lower Ninth Ward, eastern Orleans Parish, and Lakeview that left me speechless.

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Mike Bayham is a former St. Bernard Parish Councilman and can be contacted at MikeBayham@yahoo.com.