Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Drop me off in New Orleans . . .

We are just now rolling off our week in New Orleans, and making our way north and west through Baton Rouge and rural Louisiana. It will be difficult to say enough about our experience in New Orleans, but impossible to keep quiet!

We came into the city at a blistering pace, averaging better than 22 MPH and cycling like we could outpace the heat and humidity. We couldn't, of course, but after 70 odd miles we found in the French Quarter some great seafood and hospitality, and an opportunity to get a good rest and watch the USA's first World Cup Match. After personally putting down a big bowl of seafood gumbo and two shrimp po'boys, I and our small group wound our way through the French Quarter. Decked out in our Bike and Build kits and accelerating with every break the traffic, we drew more than a few shouts and quizzical looks; with a few war whoops it came to me that this was the closest I might ever get to what American GIs felt as they marched into Paris. On Sunday we had a day off to soak up the city, take in its wooden street cars and brass bands, and ask each other whether we had crossed some invisible border into country unmarked on any map or globe. [The best answer to that, of course, is that, singular as it is, a city like New Orleans belongs only in the good ol' US of A]

From that experience of the city's unique character and jazz-driven energy, our first build day in the Ninth Ward was something of a shock. Driving over the bridge into the city, it's easy to see where the levees broke and floated homes for blocks and blocks. What had been a bustling part of the city remains a checkerboard wasteland of abandoned homes and bulldozed lots overgrown with thick grass. Even those that are being slowly renovated and reinhabitated still bear the spray paint marking of the National Guard sweeps after Katrina, with the date, TFW for toxic flood water, and the number of bodies found there.

The 9th ward, impoverished though it was, acutally had a 95% home ownership rate before Katrina. From an affordable housing standpoint, this would be a major success story for any low-income community. Though the media may have focused on the more destitute families affected by the storm, the neighborhood contained in reality a high number of working people earning enough to own their own home, and realizing that opportunity. After the storm, these people not only lost their single major investment but often had to find and pay for new housing while budgeting mortgage payments and taxes on a home that was underwater for three months. Road Home, a federal program designed to give $150k grants to hurricane victims to held them rebuild and return home, saw most of the funds designated for New Orleans residents ferreted away by corrupt contractors. Less than 25% of 9th Ward residents have returned to their homes, and among all of the storm survivors there is an unnaturally high death rate, as the stress and trauma of evacuation and the ongoing dislocation in their lives and among their families continues to take a toll. This was related to us by Mac, a 9th Ward resident who returned and poured his resources and his time into created the 9th Ward Village, a community center designed to give residents a unified voice, and bring people home. Mac was one of the more inspiring we spoke with. He spoke of losing the home he had worked to purchase, and over a dozen antique cars which he worked to refurbish and kept. These things were his pride and joy, and he described for us the crisis of identity and feelings of worthlessness he fought after they were literally all washed away. Still, he, like others we spoke to, called Katrina the best thing that ever happened to him, the kind of eye-opening experience which, though destructive, is also powerful enough to radically re-orient one's life. He described his work at the community center as fulfilling the purpose he had not yet found, and his words will stick with me: "The higher power don't make no mistakes, and you do have a purpose. It's like a light that you've seen your whole life, but that has only just then come on for the first time."

We spent just two days building in the 9th ward before being shifted to another site in East New Orleans, helping a guy we knew as Jeff rebuild the interior of a home he had purchased just 12 days before Katrina, which hit days before his homeowner's insurance could take effect. He wanted to move to East New Orleans after one of his twin sons was killed by a stray bullet in the 9th Ward, and was when we met him working six days as week to manage a Dollar General while supporting an extended family, and putting himself through college to teach elementary school. Because the organization we were volunteering with, the Episcopal Diocese of Louisiana, had lost funding to continue their rebuilding program, Jeff did not have a site supervisor who could help provide the tools and supplies needed to get all the sheetrock up and prepped for painting, not to mention handle installation of cabinets and appliances that Jeff has to purchase with the little income he can spare.

Those circumstances made our work frustrating, since without sufficient tools and organization our energy and willingness to work felt wasted, though we knew the need for those things was so great. Still, it did highlight why it is we ride. If the attention, resources, and organization to tackle the affordable housing crisis and the effort to rebuild the Gulf Coast from Katrina already existed, there would be no reason for us to do cycle. We'd just drive from build to build.

What we are trying to do, though, is first to let people know that these problems exist, and that even though national attention has receded the Gulf Coast will be rebuilding from Katrina for the next two decades, despite recession-drained under-funding and a new environmental and economic disaster creeping along their shores. That these people have to face these twin disasters is almost beyond comprehension, and as our site supervisor in the 9th Ward (donating his time and materials to help his childhood friend's mother get her home back) showed us photos of his weekend fishing haul (probably 100lbs of catfish and saltwater stock) it was apparent that, for many in New Orleans and along the coast, the oil crisis will be just as painful as Katrina. He had related to us without flinching how he fled with his family, lost all their possessions but their clothes, and spent several months working full time to make both housing payments, and then working at his own home into the wee hours of each morning so that his family could move back in and they could return to something like a normal budget. But when I asked him whether he thought enough was being done to stop the spill and face the clean up, his face twisted: "If they wanted to plug up that well they coulda done it. We put a man on the moon 40 years ago. But they know if they cap it then they can't get at it, and there's a lot of money there. A lot of money, so they'll just make people suffer."

For us New Orleans was a city of extremes, with more excitement that we are likely to get all trip, an indefatigable joy that floats on its vibrant musical culture, and a deep and painful wound that will now see more salt than care. If that seems a hard place to leave it, then I would say the same about our departure from that wondrous place.

Love from the road,
Luke

**This post goes out to Heather McGuiness, a good friend in DC who supported my participation on this trip! Thanks Heather, and to all of you who have donated!**

Monday, June 14, 2010

Like walkin' down Dauphine Street

It's not been so long since we left Panama City, but in Bike and Build time it might as well be a month. A quick run-down of recent highlights include watching dolphins jump and hunt fish in the Gulf, savoring the best shrimp creole on either side, bayou, or delta of the MIssissippi, and visiting Beauvoir, the last home of Jefferson Davis, where the staff granted myself and new best friends Zhi, Caroline, and Chelsea not only free admission but a generous dollar donation. It might have felt odd to receive such warmth and support from an organization that parades the stars and bars, but I already believe that our commitment to the USA as a single community and the inspiration spread around by what we are doing cuts across even the most entrenched political divide!

Two recent experiences, though, stand out, and help to highlight just how wonderful this experience is. The first came as we left Pensacola for Mobile, Alabama (the city which offered up the title for this post, which was apparently a 20's, make that 1820's, phrase denoting a thing of exceptional quality). Myself and frequent riding partner Zhi, who races for NYU, were going along at a good clip when he suffered another one of what has proved a despicable streak of flats. With a sigh we pulled off to change the tube, itching to get back on the road and knock out as many miles as we could before the heat rose. Zhi set to work, but an abnormally loud rumble of a jet engine drew my eyes skyward. Suddenly a Navy jet adorned with the blue and yellow of the Blue Angels came screaming over the tree tops, just a few hundred yards over our heads. We could read all the markings clearly for a few seconds, before the pilot pulled into a steep climb and a seemingly effortless flip turn to join 3 of his comrades for some supremely excellent formation flying. Poor Zhi tried hard to quickly change his deflated tube, but my shouts of "Whoaa" and exhortations to look up as the jets looped, turned and barrel-rolled just over our heads, probably complicated matters for him. Other riders rolled by as we all exchanged amazed looks, and we were back on the road as the impromptu air show seemed to subside. This is one of the many wonders encountered when cycling across the country!

Another unique experience came in our ride into New Orleans. The day was impressively hot, with a heat index into the 110s, and we rode hard to get into the city to beat the heat and arrive in time for the USA v. England World Cup match. We made it, found an a/c restaurant in which to watch the game, and were treated to deeply discounted local fare. I ate more gumbo and shrimp po'boys than even I had thought possible, and after my comrades slept through the second half we rolled down Bourbon Street to our host. That experience, riding through the French quarter and drawing stares in our Bike and Build jerseys, is probably the closest I'll get to what American GIs felt when they liberated Paris.

I'll have a great deal more to say about our first few days in New Orleans soon. Sunday we explored the city, listened to street music, found two festivals, and generally enjoyed ourselves to the extreme. Today was our first build day, and we spent it in the lower 9th ward spackling drywall and speaking with folks who lost all they owned, and many of them close family members. Those two dimensions of my experience in this city has made for quite a bit to digest, but I feel already that this is the most unique and compellingly interesting city I've yet set foot in.

"I didn't know that a home could float, before Katrina"

Mac, a lifelong resident of the 9th ward who has returned and poured all of his energy and resources into a nascent community center for the neighborhood. "I sometimes say that Katrina was the best thing that happened to me. I ain't never been so happy, or so broke."

“Life. Is. Difficult!”

Here's the bit I wrote for our trip journal, which you can follow here. Also look for some photos there!


Luke's Journal, Day 7

Today was probably our toughest to date. We put in nearly 90 miles to get from DeFuniak Springs, Florida (which boasts one of only two perfectly circular natural lakes in the world, and yes, we [unnecessarily] cycled the circumference) to Gulf Breeze, just outside Pensacola. We knew the day would be hot, and so got off to an early start, up at 0500 and rolling out on our bikes before 7AM. In the morning the wind was with us; I and a few others averaged a cool 20 mph and even with a couple stops (free coffee, used book store . . . yes!) put in almost 40 miles before stopping for lunch around 10:30.

Heading out from lunch we felt the heat building fast. Though the air temperature hovered in the mid-90s, the heat index approached 110, and we felt it. To compound our difficulties, we were pedaling an especially un-scenic, high-traffic, and gravel-ridden stretch of pavement re-radiating the noonday heat like a bed of hot coals. Agitated and saddle-sore, we regrouped for a water break and opted to cross the intra-coastal waterway and reroute across the thin spit of land between the waterway and the Gulf. It proved a good decision, as immediately the traffic died down and a broad and beautiful view of sand and sea opened up before us.

Still, the sun was on top of us and our hoped-for breeze came in the form of a bruising headwind. Our average speed sank and our legs soon felt like we were spinning our wheels in sand. As we made our way through the eerily deserted town of Navarre Beach, we noticed not just the dearth of beach-goers but a few dozen men in reflective vests patrolling the shore, looking for washed-up oil and tar balls.

If this was something of a desolate and depressing scene on an already draining day, I quickly reminded myself that in a matter of weeks our group would be facing longer rides through deserts hotter, drier, and emptier. There will still be sand, I thought, but no sign of water or wind or beach huts selling cold drinks.

We battled onward, but the strength faded from our bodies as the afternoon wore past four o’ clock. Finally, we sighted the high bridge which we knew would bring us just a few short blocks from our host, and with a burst of energy I mashed my gears to get to the top. It was at that point that the bit of adversity we had faced for the day came into perspective against the reason why we ride: we faced some unfavorable winds and weather, but suffered nothing like the troubles of those against whom our social order and prevailing economic conditions have stacked the odds and shorted their hand.

More than a few people have already responded to us with sneers and a diatribe against handouts for people “who need to do for themselves.” What they fail to realize (and what we try, respectfully, to point out) is that, first, the playing field is not level. More importantly, and to use a favorite Habitat catch phrase, what we’re aiming to accomplish is not a hand out but a hand up. The recipients of Habitat homes (funded more and more frequently with Bike and Build donations!), after a long and grueling application process, perform up to 400 hours of what is aptly termed “sweat equity.” This takes the form of labor at the construction site itself, volunteering on other H4H sites, and attending classes on financial management and the basics of home ownership. In short, the sweat expended by our 33 team members today (and that’s no small figure when every person rode every mile despite the heat, the distance, flat tires, etc.) is a drop in the bucket compared to the commitment of those who receive the “charity” we are working to offer.

As I learned on the playing fields of the Vassar College Rugby Football Club (many members of which have donated generously to this cause), “Life is Difficult!” (insert a Briton’s accent and emphasis.) Even if that is so, it is by overcoming its difficulties that we manifest life’s finer fruits, and we do it best when it’s done not just for ourselves.

A special thank you goes out to Sheryl and the Gulf Breeze United Methodist Church, which with their incredibly generous accommodations and provisions brought us like the Israelites out of the desert and into the land of milk and honey (and pleasantly raging a/c)!

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Panama City, Florida

Yesterday we entered Bay County, Florida, and, without expecting it, found ourselves on Central Standard Time! Having just the day before been amazed at the speed with which we crossed the Floridian Peninsula, for me this was another marker of just how incredible a machine the bicycle is. Now I've appreciated this fact for some time, from when a bike first expanded my 13 year-old horizons to enable trips to swimming holes 7 or 8 miles away, made my college commute to class almost instantaneous, and showed me that traversing DC's city streets with 30+ lbs of groceries was not only possible but offered a unique kind of satisfaction.

Now that my days, measured in miles, are timed by thousands of pedal strokes and the steady thrum of two wheels on the road, there's ample opportunity to dwell on just what bikes can do. They've carried 33 people who range from racing cyclists to those who still go cross-eyed at the mention of "derailleur" about 450 miles in less than a week. Most of all, they're powered by a renewable energy resource which our country enjoys in superabundance: calories! Even after doing about 400 miles in 5 days, I can now tell you how quickly a generously provided Southern Breakfast (thank you Sopchoppy Baptist Church!) will put fuel in the muscles and energy coursing in the blood vessels.

That our mode of transport just happens to display the virtues of forsaking vehicles glutted on gasoline is especially poignant as the towns we see brace themselves for the impact of oil on their shores. It is clear to the people here that BP will be unable to do anything to staunch the flow of oil into the Gulf until August, when they will attempt, in the middle of hurricane season, to drill a second hole which they hope will relieve the pressure enough to stop the spill. No one is holding their breath; the oyster fishermen in Apalachicola and the beach shop owners in Parker, Fl, and Panama City all know that their hard-earned livelihood and their communities will be utterly devastated, if not completely destroyed. The sense of impending disaster is palpable, and as we head west and hear that oil is now lapping the shores of Mobile and Pensacola we understand that we're getting a last glimpse of this very beautiful place as it never will be again.

If that's a slightly somber tone for what should be (and is) an overwhelmingly exciting and positive experience, it's worth asking how we got here, and where (and how) we go.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Habitat for Hu-Manatee!

On Sunday we dipped our tires in the Atlantic and headed west, with nights in Lake City, Callahan, Perry, and Sopchoppy, Florida. Since then we've built (approximately) one house, biked 350 miles, and swum with manatees (and gators). I've been surprisingly unsore, and with all the hospitality, good will and calories we've received from folks along the way it's hard not to stay energized. My highlight so far is cranking out 8 miles in about 20 minutes to swim the clear, cold Wakula Springs in a mangrove forest outside Sopchoppy. That or the 2 lbs of ice cream I put down after finishing 80 miles on Monday. I'll try to get some pictures up soon! I should add that you can follow our route on the bike and build website: www.bikeandbuild.org with daily updates on mileage, journal entries, and other good stuff.

Another fun fact I realized today (when we sighted the Gulf of Mexico through the Loblolly Pines): ours is the only Bike and Build route that hits three coasts! It's incredible we've put the peninsula behind us so quickly.

For breakfast I had 2 bananas and three plates of eggs, bacon, grits, and biscuits with gravy and Tupelo honey (apparently the Apalachicola Basin makes the best stuff in the world).

"Well Florida sounds like a colorful, lawless swamp, if it's a real place . . "

THIS TRIP IS AWESOME.