5 December 2005
The streets are dirty, with a thin layer of dust settling on
everything. Men in uniforms with shotguns patrol in
trucks; people look away when they approach.
There is a miasma of fetid decay that shrouds the city. Garbage is piled on every corner; children
play in between the piles, and scavengers
pick through them for something salvageable.
The bureaucracy is impenetrable.
Getting help over the phone? Fuhgeddaboudit. Driving is a challenge, as intersections are
not well marked, and the rules of the road are mere suggestions.
Coming home to New Orleans has certainly minimized culture
shock for me.
Restaurants. That is
where I am hit the worst.
A huge amount of the conversations that take place in
restaurants are totally scripted and rehearsed.
"Do you want fries with that?"
"Refill that coffee fer ya?"
"You wanna supersize that?" The phrases, out of context, are
almost meaningless. In context, the
same things are so part of the phatic communication
that they take on the importance of background noise, and are accorded almost
as much attention.
Change the culture, change the communication. And it is jarring. It is not so much the food, the lights, or
the pace that is different between Antigua and here.
It is more the insignificant interactions that leave me
stranded.
In Latin America, when you go into a restaurant, regardless
of whether you know a soul, you greet the other patrons. "¡Buen provecho!" "¡Que
tal!" etc. No obvious difference to
the restaurants I encountered in SC during the two days there. But the words that try to force their way out
of my mouth are not in English. With all
the finesse of a worn-out ignition on a jalopy, I open my mouth to say
something, and nothing comes out.
It isn't even as though I have been immersed in
Spanish. But my restaurant communications
have been exclusively in Spanish. It is
a hard habit to break.
But basically, other than an overweening desire to hide, I
haven't been hit too hard with any culture shock since returning. It helps that Antigua is very European. It also helps that Easley (three-day stay)
and Wiggins (overnight stop) are very parochial. And that New Orleans is very Latin, and
quickly becoming more so.
I expected to be shocked by the destruction here. Instead, I am shocked by how little I am
shocked.
The streets are mostly clean,
and, with the exception of a number of refrigerators and construction debris,
even the curbs are cleared. A lot of
restaurants are open with limited menus, and many businesses have cordoned off
any under-construction areas in their buildings and are doing business out of the
others. We dropped by the appliance
store and ordered a new refrigerator that will be delivered Thursday – they had
moved to a large warehouse in a non-flooded area, and are selling fridges by
the dozen (check your Electrolux and Whirlpool stock – they have climbed about
20% each in the last quarter since the hurricane).
And the most obvious difference is the light – enough trees
and branches and leaves have been
removed from the area to where the light is much brighter.
It is infrastructure we lack. The work is frenetic. Levees are being shored up. But not completely rebuilt. The University is laying off people and
looking to lay off more, while making their maintenance people work 98 hour
weeks with no additional pay. The
garbage is being picked up regularly, but is more regularly being
replaced. No mail service. Mail pickup requires standing in long
lines. As a matter of fact, everything requires
standing in long lines. Phones are not
manned – if you cannot do it by internet, be prepared to go to the office and
stand in line. The French Quarter is
open for business; much of the Lower Ninth Ward is still off-limits to people
who lived there.
The problem with New Orleans is, just like always, the issue
of what is going on under the surface.
The metaphors are easy to come up with.
Beautiful edifices, rotted to the
core by termites. The diseased
courtesan. Anything that destroys from within, leaving
the façade untouched. So what we are doing
is fixing the façade; putting on makeup, and going out on the town. Mardi Gras, or at least a scaled-down version
of it, will take place.
Some of the saddest parts are the people who are working to
clear their houses in the hardest-hit areas.
Insurance does not cover them, and if it does, they are being forced to
wait while the city fights over guidelines for rebuilding. New flood maps, new building codes. Do we allow these people to build again,
where it is likely to flood? Do we
require them to build only after raising the home above the flood line? So while the government vacillates, these
people are gutting and rebuilding, *just to be doing something positive*. To stave off the frustration with the process
– it has now been over three months since Katrina, and we still don't have a building
code – people are avoiding it altogether and working.
As I see more and more, I am hit with more survivor's
guilt. Our house survived. No flooding.
One destroyed refrigerator, now sitting duct-taped on the curb with a
sign hung on it – FREE TO A GOOD HOME.
Porch screen slashed from roof slates flying from a neighbor's destroyed
roof. A cedar tree in the backyard that
had the good sense to tip over toward the back – and ended up leaning against
the shed of our neighbor.
Inconvenienced, is what I am. Frustrated that I can't get someone from the cable
company on the phone. Upset that the
grocery store lines are long.
And then I remember why the lines are long – the normal
employees evacuated and haven't returned, probably because there is nothing to
return to. Those who usually answer the
phones are likely building their lives where hurricanes are unlikely to destroy
their lives ever again. I am ashamed at
my own frustration. Who am I to get
upset? What right do I have to be
grumpy?
How can I even say 'why me' when people who are really
struggling live next door?
My problems and issues are real. But like the things that happened in Guatemala,
from the woman whose boy died, to the incident with Matt, perspective
encroaches on my life. It is simply hard
to stay grumpy about how tough it is for me when my life is put in perspective
of lives that really are difficult. Just
today, a guy from physical plant at Tulane came in, and was philosophical about
the complete destruction of his house.
He lived in the Ninth Ward, where the worst of the flooding was. The frame of his house is intact, but all the
belongings are gone. And he has a couple
of friends who are helping him rebuild.
His family is safely housed in Maryland, and FEMA is helping a little.
So my hard-edged sarcasm has to go out the window. My belligerent attitude has to go, too. And I have to go to work to solve some of the
problems facing me – the statistics that I have to deal with, the sampling strategies
I have to develop for the work I am faced with in Guatemala, and the reports I
owe to various agencies.
And I have to work to help other people. There are plenty of people needing help.
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