It’s difficult to imagine anything quite as tragic as the destruction of New Orleans, a town with so much history and soul that it has inspired a thousand songs and stories. It’s the kind of city where every night feels like it might be the last night on earth, where anything can and does happen.
It was once a rich trading centre, and ownership was swapped back and forth by the French and Spanish before the French ceded it to the United States through the Louisiana Purchase.
It had its wealthy founders, but once upon a time pirates and slave traders walked the cobblestone streets, and after the U.S. Civil War it became a place of refuge of blacks fleeing the poverty and starvation of the Caribbean for another kind of poverty. It’s a city of Catholic churches, a remnant of the French Creole settlers, but Voodoo and Santoria is still widely practised in its back alleys.
Recently New Orleans has emerged as a cultural destination, and has earned a reputation as a party town where almost anything goes. It’s "Fat Tuesday" Mardi Gras festival is the second biggest in the world, next to Rio de Janeiro, with dozens of parades celebrating all the sins that people would be giving up for Lent.
And for the past three weeks about 80 per cent of that city has been underwater. The French Quarter survived because it was one of the few parts of the city that was above sea level before all the levees were built, but the financial district and dozens of neighbourhoods found themselves up to seven metres underwater when Hurricane Katrina swept through the city and the levees failed.
Thousands are likely dead, mostly the poor, elderly and infirm that did not have the means to evacuate the city. All levels of government failed spectacularly to respond to the potential crisis, before and after the levees broke, and all will have to answer for the death and destruction when the sum of the tragedy is tallied.
My heart goes out to that city.
I went to Mardi Gras in New Orleans during my first year of university with three friends, opting to spend our "reading week" boozing and exchanging bead necklaces for glimpses of breasts – I’m not proud of it, but I was 19 years old.
It was a crazy trip – 42 hours straight driving from Halifax with a car we rented under false pretenses (a parent’s credit card that we didn’t have permission to use and the signature of an older friend who was old enough to rent a car but wasn’t coming with us) and we pulled into The Big Easy. We found a motel just blocks away from the French Quarter, got a few beers from a street vendor, and went for some jambalaya and gumbo at a local roadside restaurant.
We passed out early that night (except for Torin who probably slept more than 30 hours on the way to N’Awlins), and started our reveries early the next day. Some Marines staying in our motel gave us "Go" pills that soldiers take in battle situations, which didn’t seem to wear off until about 4 a.m. on Fat Tuesday, five days later when the police finally pushed the mob off the streets and into the bars – making space for the chain gangs that cleaned up the garbage and hosed down the walkways.
During our visit we tried the local food, took in some of the sights, and hung out in places where the house musicians could have headlined in our own homestowns. We caught most of the big parades, including one with floats featuring Harry Connick Jr. and the Neville Brothers.
But of all the spectacles my favourite was the annual Zulu Parade. Described as a colourful celebration of Africana and Caribbean cultures and music, we decided to get there early to get a good spot.
After walking a few blocks towards the parade with an uneasy feeling we at last put our finger on what was wrong with the whole picture – white people. Where were the other white people?
Everywhere we went we were met by a sea of smiling black faces of all ages, the younger guys showing off their gold-plated teeth that were in fashion at the time. But instead of feeling threatened, I’ve never felt more welcome. People gave us barbecue chicken and ribs off their grills and mixed us stiff drinks from the bars they set up out of the trunks of their cars. They didn’t normally see white people at the parade they told us, and we were going to love it.
We did. In a city known for corrupt police, hustlers and thieves, it was the safest I felt all week and the parade was unbelievable. The only minor incident happened when Torin attempted to dance his way into one parade and got beaned by a decorated coconut that was thrown from a float – probably on purpose. However, the coconuts are collectors items and it’s considered an honour to catch one, even if it is on the backside of your head.
It occurs to me now, watching the flooding and chaos on television, that some of the people we met that day are probably dead. Others probably got out with their lives but lost everything they had.
Next to Detroit, New Orleans boasts the most people in poverty in all of the U.S. And like most environmental tragedies, it’s typically the poor that suffer the most.
Democratic governments exist to represent the people against the powerful and privileged, providing equal service, justice and opportunity, and a level playing field for every new generation. It doesn’t feel like that is happening anymore, in Canada or the U.S.
The flood raises questions of population, of poverty, of global warming, of the way governments rate their priorities. On behalf of all the great people I met in New Orleans, I think some real answers are in order.
