Digging In, Getting Out, Surviving
Even now, no one knows how many residents drowned in attics or died waiting for rescue boats that came too late. So far, hundreds of bodies have been recovered. On a boat near the Garden District last week, soldiers with the California National Guard retrieved at least 28 bodies. It will take weeks, perhaps months, to collect all the victims.
The anger at the muddled response to Katrina, even weeks after the storm hit, is almost palpable. "It's going to end up not just being the worst natural disaster," McEnery said, "but it will also be the worst man-made relief disaster ever." The anger was especially bitter because everyone knew the killer storm was coming. "No one knew that planes would fly into the World Trade Center," says Roy Glapion, a local businessman who stayed behind to weather the storm. "People knew this storm was coming for days."
There are a few bright spots here, however. Neighborhoods like the French Quarter and the Garden District are surprisingly dry and largely intact. Power and water were even restored in a few places last week. One dive in the French Quarter managed to stay open the entire time. Johnny White's Sports Bar--renowned for having no locks on the doors--became not just a watering hole but a community center and even a hospital. Volunteer bartender Joseph Bellomy, a former special forces battlefield trauma specialist, stitched up a customer's ear after he was mugged.
Mucky Bayou. Almost forgotten, however, was the plight of New Orleans's working-class eastern suburbs, which took the brunt of the hurricane's eye wall. At the Econo Lodge in neighboring St. Bernard Parish, the storm surge came in so fast that in only 30 minutes a two-story building filled with water up to three steps below the second floor. "I left a goodbye message to my daughter," says Ralph Simmons, who manages the gas station next door and helps out at the hotel. When the water receded, it left behind 4 inches of black muck in the lobby and casino, called Lucky Bayou. "I can hook you up with a room if you want," says Simmons, "but the maid hasn't been by in a few days." Simmons has been unable to find even the remains of his house behind the gas station.
On a rescue boat cruising through the town of Chalmette in the parish, the crew passes a boat suspended between two neighboring rooftops. Down the street, a camper is perched on a roof, and an ornate rocking chair is speared on a high branch. Says Chris Schlechta, a volunteer firefighter from Milwaukee: "They might have to change the city name to Atlantis."
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