Here's a first hand story about irregular radio operations during Hurricane Katrina. I may curate this somewhere more permanent later; there are a bunch of related ones. Maybe there is something to learn from it, I don't know.
This story starts some time after the part15.org (long defunct) group managed to get passes, on the strength of being volunteers to help with comms, that let us freely move around the disaster zone, through national guard checkpoints and whatnot.
cc: @ai6yr @hannu_ikonen
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A small group of us went to Stennis NASA base in Mississippi. It is a few of miles inland from Bay St. Louis and the uncomfortably named Waveland where Katrina made landfall, and is where the officials had set up an Emergency Operation Centre.
I introduced myself as an amateur radio operator and got the working frequencies to use. Then my friend* who had travelled down from Montreal with me, went to have a look around.
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Near the EOC there was a warehouse. Probably an aircraft hangar of some sort. The pharmaceutical company Pfizer had stocked it full of medical supplies. Basic medications, bandages, isopropanol, and so on, and so forth.
The Pfizer workers were very upset. They had been there for days. Nobody could tell them how to get the things in their warehouse to where it could be used. The frustration had them in tears.
We had just arrived and didn't know, but we promised to keep an eye out for a way.
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As we left the warehouse, we crossed the path and saw some more people, "smart casual" sort of dress. They approached us and asked if we wanted back rubs.
We politely declined and asked them who they were and what they were doing there. It turned out they were Scientologists who had volunteered to give massages to the government agency workers.
No, I am not kidding.
We moved on...
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Having got the lay of the land as far as Stennis was concerned, we set off towards the coast. Our goal was to find any remaining place that would be suitable for putting radios on. High ground. Tall structures. Tall structures on high ground. To find anything useable.
And to visit the house of the grandmother of an acquaintance, a Baptist preacher studying up in Canada. She lived in Bay St. Louis.
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As we drove towards the coast, we noticed things where they ought not to be. A boat in the middle of the highway, a good two miles inland. It didn't have any growth on the bottom and had probably blown from somewhere nearby.
As we came into Bay St. Louis, the landscape took on the appearance of having been shredded. That is the word I thought of. The true impression is impossible to describe and I won't try.
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When catholic countries colonised places, the first thing they did was build churches on high ground. And there was one here, unscathed. Church, school and community centre. We found the priest giving out clothing in the community centre. Of course we were welcome to put radios anywhere we liked. We thanked the priest and took our leave.
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We continued to where our friend's grandmothers house. It had been just in from the beach. The foundation slab remained, the entire town's belongings, and pieces of houses, mixed and strewn everywhere.
While we were there, the grandmother arrived, so far as I know by coincidence. She had just been allowed back to see where her house had been. We explained who we were and spent some time with her.
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A few minutes later, a pickup truck pulled up and a man got out. He wore new-looking blue jeans and a FEMA t-shirt with matching baseball cap. He was lost.
There were no street signs, you understand, they had washed away in the storm. But it was no problem, the kind grandmother standing on the bare foundation of her house gave the young FEMA man directions.
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We then went to find the other part15.org people to tell them we had found a good place to put radios.
Their idea was that people needed Internet access to get at the FEMA web site in order to do the bureaucracy that would get them temporary places to live and money for food. It was a terrible web site that needed Flash or something abominable like that. Nevertheless, people needed to access the Internet to do it.
We were going to use 802.11a/b to do it (hence "Part 15")
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We found them at the Baptist church across town. It had been badly flooded up to the rafters. People were trying to clean it. We shared the news of the church on high ground we had found. There was power, it wasn't damaged, we could use it.
Strangely, this news was not welcomed because the main organiser of part15.org, from up in Rayville, Northern Louisiana, was a Baptist and this mattered to him. Not in so many words, but he made it clear he didn't want to work with the catholics.
Bizarre.
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That was enough for one day, anyways.
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The next day -- it was probably the next day, it is easy to get exactly what happened when mixed up, it was nearly 20 years ago and I wasn't taking notes -- or it might have been that evening, we stopped at a strip mall parking lot on the inland outskirts of Waveland.
The Rainbow Kitchen was set up there. They were cooking and giving out food. It must have been that evening. We had a nice meal of something vegetarian.
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It was obvious that working with part15.org would be unproductive, so we went to find out what the situation was in New Orleans, where by now we were allowed in.
The specific destination was Malik Rahim's house in Algiers, across the river from New Orleans. Malik is a pillar of the community at Algiers Point. His house he opened to anyone from anywhere who wanted to help. It was the depot for giving out food and cleaning supplies to the neighbourhood.
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The phone line was working and a modem shared by a bunch of Windows computers made it possible that people coming to get food and supplies could also do the necessary bureaucracy. Hackers had started making a wireless network between there and other strategic spots.
Malik had already turned his mosque into a community clinic.
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We went to visit the clinic and spoke with the doctors. We called up the EOC and got the doctors talking with the frustrated Pfizer warehouse workers.
Now, we just needed transport.
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It was easy enough to call around and locate a cube van we could use. Off we went, back to Stennis. While the warehouse workers loaded it up, we noticed that the Scientologists were gone. We collected some ice from the Rainbow Kitchen too keep cold stuff cold, delivered the contents of the van to the clinic, had a nice gumbo in Malik's back yard, and left.
That was the next day.
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At a bit of a loss about what to do next, we returned to Stennis. It seemed to be a place that had stuff, and we had found where people were coming to get stuff.
I presented myself to the EOC desk and asked where I could be helpful as a radio operator. They gave me to a guy from the Forestry Service.
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Mobile phones were now working in the area, and the forester didn't need a radio operator to help him go about his business. Except, he said, there was one person that they couldn't talk to: he only spoke French. Could I help?
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It transpired that a truck driver had driven from Québec in a giant refrigerated 18 wheel truck filled with ice. He had been sitting in the same spot on the road for a week and nobody could talk to him. He was getting understandably impatient. He was also extremely happy to have someone who he could explain this to.
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Ice is important on the Gulf Coast in September when there is no power for refrigeration.
Who could get ice to people? Obviously, the Rainbow Kitchen just down the road. It was already distributing ice. A telephone call to our new friends, the cooks who had (yes) driven down from Montreal in a beaten up Volkswagen Jetta with a dodgy gearbox, to ask if they could handle a tractor-trailer full of ice. Yes, no problem, they had run out.
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The driver from Québec was very happy. His boss had been hassling him. Happy to try to help with the disaster response but not to sit for a week by the side of the road! He had to get back and would leave the next day. He gave me a bag full of cigarettes and said, if I ever needed anything, that I was to ask without hesitation.
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On the way back to where we were staying, we talked about what had happened so far. By and large, Mississippi was well-supplied. There were few people in the shredded places. No birds. In New Orleans there were chronic shortages. If we had the use of a very big truck, could we fill it with stuff?
Phone call to our new friend from Québec, and he agreed to delay leaving for a day.
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The following day started early. I don't remember how early, but it must have been early. Maybe not. It will have been morning at any rate.
We got the cube van again, went to collect the cooks, and headed to Stenis to meet the driver.
It took until nearly nightfall to get all manner of supplies organised and packed into our convoy. I forget what. Food, cleaning supplies, bleach, more medical supplies, that sort of thing.
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So, off the convoy drove, into the setting sun, white Volkswagen Jetta with myself in the front passenger seat, cube van, and refrigerated 18 wheel tractor trailer, stuffed with supplies, towards New Orleans.
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The driver was nervous. After the experience of not moving for a week, what would happen when we got there? He couldn't afford to wait around. Were we sure we could unload I forget how many tons of supplies? Would we know how to navigate a route through the city that he could follow? We reassured him.
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At length we came over the bridge to the East bank of the river where Algiers is, the same bridge that Nazis had put a roadblock on some days earlier to shoot at black people trying to evacuate the city, and off the highway, to the checkpoint. It was after curfew. We stop.
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The soldier walks towards the driver's side of the Jetta. I roll down my window and becon him over.
"Is this your truck?" he asks, gesturing to the tractor-trailer.
Me, very nervous but trying not to show it, "yes".
I show him my pass.
He waves us through.
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We drive, slowly, through the deserted streets to Malik's place which is a hive of activity.
The driver looks dubiously at the collection of activists and punks and hackers and hippies, and looks at his watch. He is in a hurry. Don't worry, don't worry, and we take him into the back yard where the cajun chef is making gumbo again.
In a little more than an hour, or maybe it was a little less. In about an hour, the trucks were emptied and everyone was fed.
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That is the end of this story, but for a post script. I returned some days later to Stennis. I was spotted and told to go to the EOC to find the sheriff.
Uh oh.
The sheriff asked to see my ID. I showed him my pass. He took it from me and inspected it.
"Who are you working for?" he asked.
"Uh, nobody, really..."
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The sheriff of Hancock County did not return my pass. He told me that he was upset that I had moved "his" resources, especially across state lines.
He then told me to get out of his county by sundown.
Which I did.
EOT
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