From Bourbon Street to the Lower Ninth Ward to stories of survival...

The last 24 hours have been a roller coaster of emtions. We have seen two completely different sides of New Orleans- sides which seem unbelivably discordant with each other.

First, Bourbon Street. I have come to the conclusion that every city needs a street like Bourbon Street. While the street is largely bars, souvenir stories, and strip clubs, there is such a sense of soul here. I love the open air bars, jazz music waftting through the windows and into the street. There is a sense of togetherness, which we experienced by dancing with strangers in shops, posing with locals for photos, and catching Mardi Gras beads from the balconies above.

We had a great time there, and weren't quite ready to come back to camp. But that's the side of town that was cleaned up in prepartion for the tourists...

After work this afternoon, we took a detour through the lower Ninth Ward, the area right beside the levee. It's hard to imagine these two areas existing in the same city. Little to no work has been done in the lower ninth- foundations are sometimes the only hint that a house was once in that spot. This isn't because they've been demoed, but because they've floated away.

There are houses on other houses, hours on fences, and houses on top of cards. Hydro poles stand at odd angles, wires strewn in trees and on the ground. People's possessions are still strewn everywhere- plates, mugs, cds, the things we leave behind. The most moving of this human detrius is that left behind by children- dolls, books, jewellery; lying on the ground with no one nearby. This is what remind me that people were once here, what shakes me up inside and reminds me that this is all real, and not a crazy movie.



But it has been one and a half years. Not a few weeks, not a few months, but nearly two years. We had a few tornadoes in my hometowen this summer- while the devastation was not nearly comparable, clean-up seemed to happen so quickly. Should plates, dolls, and wires still be everywhere here? I was never a fan of the current US administration before, but our walk in the lower ninth infuriated me at the same time as it deeply saddened me. The FEMA trailers in which peole are forced to live are ridiculously tiny, and have only one window- in hopes that residents will be encouraged to move out of them faster. Even those may be taken away on March 1 if the residents don't have a building permit. The stories of those who live here and even the corrupt local government are filtered through layers of government propaganda before we see it on the news. I can't help but think that if this had happened in an election year or even in Bush's first term, things would have unfolded in a drastically different way. Instead, billions of dollars are being pumped into a war in Iraq, while the people here still struggle to survive.

While the accomodations here at Camp Hope are somehwat spartan, we are really fortunate that the dining hall shares food with the residents of St. Bernard Parish. While wahsing dishes this evening, Beth and I had an unbelievable conversationw ith John Boon. (Well, Beth had the conversation. Though I thought I would be full of questions upon meeting those who had lived through Katrina, in reality I find myself overwhelmed and speechless). He has seven books of pictures out in his van, and I really hope we get a chance to see some of them. We all think about the casualties the hurricane and ensuing floods casued directing, but hear few stories of what happened later. I hadn't stopped to consider how many suicides have occured as a result of the overwhelming stress and sheer disbelief at what happened. John told the story of seven of them, as well as his own attempt. However, he also told amazing tales of survival, and had such a strong spirit. Currently living in a FEMA trailer on his property, he has been known to catch alligators in order to cook and eat them, is the only person who sells grilled oysters at local festivals, and once he heard I was a vegetarian, proved he also knows a great sounding recipe for red beans and rice. You can't help but be inspired by someone like that, who can still smile and be such an amazing storyteller in the face of all of this.

He came into the dishwashing area to give us all a hug and a kiss when he learned we were Cnaaidna, as he was so grateful that the Canadians were the first to arrive after Katrina. I could've cried right there.

I want to stay longer, for moments like these. I want to see more of the city than just the camp and the worksite, to hear stories and learn as much as possible. One week isn't nearly enough.

Me at the levee...sometimes it's all a lot to take in.