Reporter's Notebook: Katrina's Aftermath From the Ground

NEW ORLEANS, Sept. 2, 2005 — -- It was early Sunday afternoon. Just hours before the first rain bands of Hurricane Katrina would arrive. The humid Southern day had begun with perfect sunshine, but as the hours passed the sky was clouding over.

As we drove through the streets of New Orleans, signs of Katrina's arrival were everywhere. Quiet rows of boarded-up houses; family cars being hurriedly packed by those who decided to join the exodus at the last possible minute; lines at gas stations. We stopped to capture all of this for our story that would lead Sunday's "World News Tonight."

As we headed to the now-infamous levees for some final shots of the waters lapping against their banks, we passed through a poor black neighborhood. My eyes caught an image that seized my attention.

"We've got to stop and turn around," I said to cameraman Dan Holdren, who was behind the wheel. Next to a bus stop a frail elderly black woman sat in a wheelchair with a suitcase beside her. She looked as alone in the world as anyone I've ever seen.

In a heavy Southern drawl, Bobbi Sanchez told me she was waiting for a bus to take her to a shelter. "You're gonna die if you don't go," she told me, her glassy eyes looking directly at me. "It's true."

Another elderly woman walked over to greet us. Sanchez was not there alone. Her sister, Lois Bass, was accompanying her on this exodus. They were heeding the mayor's call to evacuate New Orleans. But like so many of the city's black people they did not have the means to drive out of town or pay for a bus ticket or rent a hotel room on their fixed incomes -- Sanchez lives on her disability benefit, Bass lives on Social Security. So they waited for the bus.

I have been thinking a lot about Sanchez and Bass these last few days. When I left them on Sunday I wished them safe passage and assumed they would be taken to the safety of the Superdome, New Orleans' shelter of last resort for those who simply couldn't afford to leave town.

When the worst of Katrina arrived in New Orleans in the early dawn hours of Monday morning we were confined to our hotel. The power went out at sunrise as Katrina's winds lashed the city. Amazingly, the hotel's Internet connection still worked, as did our cell phones. With power from the hotel generator we scrambled to transmit by video phone and Sightspeed, a crude form of Internet transmission that ultimately triumphed.

As the winds thundered outside, debris was whipped against the glass and we heard crashing sounds all around. Windows started popping around us. We retreated to the bathrooms and the corridors.

Meanwhile, my colleague David Muir -- the only other ABC correspondent in the city at the time -- spent the night inside the Superdome, where he was reporting that the roof was coming apart and rains were pouring in. The 10,000 people inside cowered under the balconies. I wondered how Sanchez and Bass were faring. Was Sanchez still in her wheelchair? Did they have enough food and water?

The storm was violent, but thankfully not as ferocious as we'd expected. At the last minute Katrina's eye jogged to the east, saving New Orleans from the worst. Or so we thought. By late morning it was clear that the hurricane was passing as the winds and the rain eased up. I was able to stand outside on the hotel's flooded deck amid floating debris and broadcast live to "Good Morning America."

In the early afternoon we ventured onto the streets. The destruction was everywhere: downed trees and power lines, tall buildings with curtains billowing in the wind and a few collapsed walls.

Apart from some ripped awnings and battered signs, the fabled French Quarter seemed remarkably unscathed. As we drove farther east we had to veer around massive trees that blocked our way. And then we could go no farther. The streets around us were filled with water, but it wasn't deep. Only a foot or two. Most houses were high enough to stay dry.

Oscar Blank, a tall, round, middle-aged man, waded toward us in his rubber boots. He and his mother chose to not evacuate.

"Actually, I feel lucky," he said, "I thought it was going to be worse in my house. I thought it would be more damage, more flooding."

And that was the consensus on the streets. New Orleans was battered, the damage was extensive, but this was not the apocalypse so many had feared and fled from.

Reports from the Superdome sounded grim. The roof held, but most inside were wet and frightened. With the streets impassable and with the power out, those inside would have to wait several days before they could go home and assess damage. Were Sanchez and Bass among them?

Late Monday night, we drove through the city. Apart from a few buildings with generators the streets were pitch black. The police told us there was a dawn-to-dusk curfew, but they made no effort to enforce it. And how could they? With no lights and no power, homes and hotels were stifling. The rubble-strewn streets were menacing. It was impossible to know who was walking in your midst, only the unsettling sound of feet crunching on broken glass and debris. The police advised us to go back to our hotel.

We took one last spin down Canal Street, the wide road with streetcars down its center that borders the French Quarter. There were trees and wires down, but the pavement was already dry.

It would take time and money, but the city could be rebuilt. Exhausted, we went to sleep.

And then it all unraveled.

The scientists had always said if the apocalypse came to New Orleans in the form of a hurricane it would happen quickly. The city sits vulnerably below the sea, ringed by the levees that hold the water back. The most common theory held that the huge storm surge would wash over the levees and flood the city. That's not the way it happened.

In reality, it was slow and surprising.

When we woke very early Tuesday morning, we heard confused reports of floods on Canal Street. Those same streets we'd driven on at midnight were now under water. Canal Street really was a canal. It was as incomprehensible to us as it was to the people who live here. How could this have happened when the hurricane was long gone? We learned that the levees had not been over-topped, but the pressure from the raised water levels of the storm surge had forced them to give way.

And then the anarchy. As the morning wore on, hundreds and hundreds of people emerged from the side streets, wading waist-deep in the water. They began smashing windows and doors and prying off security gates. They gleefully grabbed anything they could: T-shirts and shoes, cosmetics and electronics. One woman straddled the high window ledge of a beauty shop, laughing as she tossed boxes to a throng waiting below. They didn't seem to care what they got. They were just thrilled to be getting something for nothing.

New Orleans police watched from a distance. "We're trying to do as best we can with everything we have," said one officer who wouldn't give his name. His men clearly outnumbered. His force clearly unprepared.

This city so famous for its Mardi Gras was suddenly a carnival of lawlessness.

As the floodwaters rose, poor families waded through the water heading for the safety of the Superdome, which sits high above sea level. Suddenly, the 10,000 people inside swelled to 20,000. There was no food, no water. Sanchez and her sister must have been exhausted and frightened. High water made it impossible for us to get near the Superdome.

By Wednesday, it was clear that the help was not on the way. The legendary quick response of the Federal Emergency Management Agency simply wasn't materializing. Elderly people were starting to die in the stifling heat. The Superdome itself was becoming rancid and violent. Plans to evacuate the people inside were moving at a snail's pace.

Finally, on Thursday, the buses began to roll. Thousands of weary people began the journey to Texas and other neighboring streets. But thousands more are still waiting. Where are Sanchez and Bass? I hope they're somewhere in that sea of weary faces and someone is looking out for them.