A truly haunted city
New Orleans drew visitors with its reputation for the supernatural. Then it became a true ghost town.
By STEPHEN J. CODDINGTON
Published September 12, 2005
NEW ORLEANS - New Orleans has long been known for its ghosts. A city of vampires and voodoo, the ghosts of New Orleans have lured tourists and novelists for years.
I too was lured to New Orleans, but not in the way I had once expected. Instead of sleeping in a haunted bed and breakfast in the French Quarter or visiting the grave of famed voodoo-queen Marie Laveau, I found myself last week driving through its lifeless streets in the midst of what may be the gravest disaster in U.S. history.
After covering the destruction Hurricane Katrina inflicted on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi, I received a call on Sept. 3 that I was to drive to New Orleans. Entering the city from the south, I drove through the Garden District along St. Charles Avenue past the tracks of the city's famed streetcars. There was significant tree damage, but for the most part the destruction I saw in Gulfport and Biloxi wasn't in evidence here. Nor was the flooding which I knew was surely nearby. In fact, the flooding was only a few blocks away. My route followed a narrow strip of high ground that parallels the banks of the Mississippi River all the way to French Quarter. It was the only dry land left in all of New Orleans.
My first night in New Orleans was spent in my car behind a warehouse on Tchoupitoulas Street where several Times staffers had made headquarters. Two blocks away, a National Guard staging area provided for our relative security. As the sun set that first night, thick columns of smoke rose from burning buildings on the horizon. Helicopters droned incessantly between the occasional pops of gunfire. As Mayor Ray Nagin characterized it, "This is hell."
Once the darkness of night had arrived, it felt as if death had settled upon the city itself. As passing vehicles darted through the deserted streets, their headlights fleetingly pierced the eerie blackness. Shadows of soldiers at checkpoints danced as if on a ghoulish stage. Random flickers of red and blue from distant police cars bounced off nearby buildings.
With the morning came more evidence of the city's fate. The streets were empty, devoid of life except for a passing platoon of soldiers.
At the downtown convention center, which was the scene of chaos a few days earlier as thousands were evacuated from the city, only debris remained. Among countless water bottles and MREs, the most precious of possessions could be found: family photo albums, stuffed animals and prescription medications. Just think of what you would grab if you only had a few minutes before your house was to be destroyed. Now imagine being told as you're about to board a helicopter that you can't bring any of those things with you. It was a scene of utter desperation.
To the east, in the French Quarter, only a few holdouts remained. Bourbon Street was completely deserted. It was a surreal scene - almost like a museum of its former self - comparable perhaps, to the remains of the great Roman city of Pompeii. That the citizens of Pompeii chose to build their city beneath an active volcano seems a brazen gamble against nature that was sure to result in disaster.
Just to the north of the French Quarter, it was not volcanic ash, but the floodwaters of Lake Pontchartrain that reveal a similar gamble with nature. One that has now been repaid at a terrible cost.
Atop Interstate 10, a body lay wrapped in a garbage bag, abandoned just yards away from an improvised helicopter landing zone being used in the continuing rescue operation. Below, in the flooded streets of the city's Ninth Ward, officials whispered that they've seen hundreds of bodies floating in the waters. I've only seen a few from my overpass vantage, but they are a few too many.
Everyone knew this disaster would likely happen someday. The levee system that surrounds New Orleans like a fortress was built to withstand only a Category 3 hurricane. In a city where life was lived in the moment and death was celebrated with trumpet and trombone to the tune of When the Saints Come Marching In , the risks of nearby Lake Pontchartrain were calculated and accepted.
For now, New Orleans is quite literally a ghost town. And the lessons we are confronted with in the wake of its death will surely haunt this country for years.
Even before Hurricane Katrina slammed into the Gulf Coast states, the St. Petersburg Times had news staff members in the area. As the extent of the disaster became evident, more were committed to bringing our readers the story. Among those sent was staff photojournalist Stephen J. Coddington.
Coddington, who lives in Beverly Hills with his family, has been covering Citrus County since 2001. Today he writes about his personal experiences during the past 10 days photographing and reporting from the battered coast of Mississippi and Alabama to the flooded streets of New Orleans.