Arrival

People told me that everyone in New Orleans had a story, and they were right. The taxi driver, a father of three from the suburb of Metairie, launched straight into an unprompted overview of the city a year on from Katrina, lambasting local and federal politicians as we lurched around corners. "The people here have learnt not to believe what they're told," he explained. "No, sir. We won't be believing anything they tell us again." Reassuring words, as officials are currently insisting that Tropical Storm Ernesto - currently brewing over Cuba - will only brush Florida, leaving Louisiana undamaged.

In a city politicised by a man-made tragedy, it wasn't surprising that people were so ready to volunteer their opinions on what had gone wrong - before Katrina, during the crisis and in the painfully slow reconstruction efforts since. And it was equally predictable that it wouldn't take long for the conversation to steer towards race. The driver, a portly, rambunctious white man who slapped the wheel at regular intervals to emphasise his points, shook his head and said what a shame it was that the blacks in power were so corrupt. "At least the whites would leave some money for the people," he sighed. In fact, Mayor Nagin's administration is a product of white elite support and increasingly despised by the black populace, as alienated as the city's white population by his desperate "chocolate city" gaffe.

As we sped over the 17th street canal, my Russian companion, a student from Moscow who was in the city when Katrina hit and has returned from the anniversary, described swimming to higher ground. "We were swimming through this toxic mix of chemicals and shit," he said quietly, gazing out the window, "and pushing bodies aside."