May 2006 Archives

Lawrence Cumbo - Producer, Director, Cinematographer Making films for National Geographic has brought me to refugee camps, prisons, and war zones, but nothing could have prepared me for what we witnessed in New Orleans a few months ago, in the city where I grew up. It was August 28, an early Sunday morning, when America woke up to a shocking surprise. Katrina, a moderate “category one” hurricane that recently skirted Florida, had blown up overnight into a massive hurricane. Now it was a "category five" and it was headed straight for New Orleans. After three sleepless days watching live news coverage, I was given the assignment to "go home" with a camera and to film. At this point, the situation in New Orleans had turned critical and desperate. People were dying, toxic water was still rising, and thousands were still stranded. Widespread violence had delayed rescuers, and there was no food, no water, no gas and no utilities. We rigged out a 4x4 SUV self-contained with everything we needed—gas, electric power, satellite communications. We also brought food, water and medical kits for ourselves, and ultimately for the survivors of Katrina. Finally, we drove from our headquarters in Washington D.C. to my parents' home in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. At New Orleans, we arrived to see a dying city. Personally, this is a place where I’ve celebrated births, weddings and even funerals—and standing at dusk near Claiborne and Tulane Avenue—it all seemed unreal, so massive, it was overwhelming. Our first time in the water, we dodged natural gas fires bubbling from the putrefied liquid laden with oil, raw sewage, and corpses. Block after block, the water was up to the rooftops of homes and businesses, punctuated by a quiet, eerie sound of dogs barking and wailing from every direction, helicopters shuddering in the background. The great, colorful neighborhoods where people lived and worked were inundated with putrefied water. Our 4x4 hopped medians, traversed sidewalks, bobbed and wove as we made our way down St. Charles Street. Our first stop was at the New Orleans Coast Guard Air Station to meet with Commanding Officer Lt. Bruce Jones, who shuffled us into one of their iconic orange rescue choppers. They were so desperate to show us what they had been dealing with over the past few days. Everyone was tired, and the rescue swimmer covered in bandages looked like young soldiers just returning from battle. These men and women are responsible for saving over five thousand lives; they were the first heroes we met. As soon as our chopper crossed over the Mississippi River from the west bank I saw the scale of this disaster—New Orleans was completely covered with water. Not just low-lying neighborhoods and flooded drainage canals, the entire city was a lake—the city park, the fairgrounds, the giant shopping mall, cemeteries, universities, fire and police stations, even lakes were underwater. The islands of hope—parts of downtown and the French Quarter—seemed as if they sat on the banks of a polluted lake. Did we see any bodies? Yes, too many. Months later these scenes have re-emerged and haunted my dreams. The first man I saw was lying at the foot of the Art Museum at City Park, covered in part by an American flag. He was someone’s son, possibly someone’s father or brother—and why was he still lying in the hot summer sun? I said a prayer while filming in silence. Then our phone rang. It was a dear friend calling, saying she’d fled the night before Katrina and had no idea if anything she’d owned had been spared. This became the pattern for us; we would go regularly on reconnaissance missions for all the friends, family and strangers who asked. It was a way to balance the dreadful and hopeless situation we faced. We ended up delivering food, diesel, water, inhalers, pets, and checked on many homes and businesses. On about the third day, I was filming from the roof of our SUV as we slowly rolled through hell. I saw a man alone, digging in a vacant lot. We’d read about folks burying their dead family members so they could find them later. We turned around and cautiously approached. I asked him what he was doing. He gave me a foolish look and responded, "I’m burying my trash." I was stunned and asked, "Why are you still here? And why are you burying your trash? Look around you!" He was surrounded by overturned cars, dead dogs, floating garbage, and downed trees and branches. He responded in his thick New Orleans accent, "This is my city, baby, and this is my trash, you wouldn’t throw your trash in your front yard would you? This city is coming back and I’m helping keep in clean."