It's just past two on a sunny New Orleans afternoon when, "I'm going to stop here, but if you still want to go, just keep going down St. Claude and turn left at the lights. I ain't going in there."
These are the words of our escort - if you'd call her that - as we pull up beside her in a gas station parking lot just outside of the humbled Mardi Gras city's infamous Lower Ninth Ward. In a hot Dodge Caliber that presumably belonged to her father, and fresh off a shift working at Starbucks on the other side of town, we turn to the young woman for any form of confirmation that driving in alone to take pictures of basketball nets won't result in our untimely deaths.
"Just remember, St. Claude is the street you'll want to take to get out."
We can only assume that the locals here know more about the area than what's shown on CNN, so our hesitation to go through with the plan builds. Convincing a barista at the end of her shift to show us the city's most "dangerous" neighbourhood was one thing, but asking her to drive in with her own vehicle was an entirely different story.
Not wanting to be a pair of "those people" who get themselves in trouble pursuing foolhardy thrills we ask ourselves if we really want to go through with the plan - to take photos of a dejected basketball court forgotten amongst the chaos and carnage of Hurricane Katrina. We're not volunteering, we're not putting ourselves out there for any significant reason, we're simply just tourists driving around with a camera more expensive than we know what to do with.
The "we" I mention refers to myself, the sports editor of a small circulation newspaper in Ontario, and a long-time friend whose journalism experience could be fully accounted for in a single sentence. Now, faced with an opportunity to experience something other than travel stops and continental breakfast, we were torn.
It wasn't long after we sat there with our nameless guide when, despite a horrifying infatuation with Anderson Cooper's post Katrina coverage of New Orleans in 2005 (or perhaps because of it), we knew that passing on this opportunity to witness society - equal parts fragile and forgotten - would come back to haunt us.
"They're human beings," I tell my partner, more for my own reassurance than hers. "It can't be as bad as it's made out to be."
And with that we turned on our blinker and left the gas station parking lot towards Culture Shock, Louisiana.
***
It's nearly 20 degrees Celsius and a clear day with little wind. For two Canadians in February, the short-sleeve weather is a comparatively tropical change of pace. When we approach the war-torn neighbourhood in our dirt-stained Mazda3 we expect the worst but skeptically wonder if anything could be as bad as the area is made out to be. The sun is shining and people are in and out of their homes nearby.
This time last year, the USA Today ran a story painting a picture of unabated violence and thuggery not far from where we stood, citing increases in theft as the major reason why. A frightening murder rate proportionate to the city's re-growing population and drug-related gunfire rounded out the harrowing account of criminal activity in the area.
With 210 killings in 2007 alone, the city of New Orleans took the dubious distinction of being America's murder capital. As such, the presence of the National Guard was justified. On Feb. 27, of this year, however, it was announced that the Guard would be pulling their last troops out of the city. A motion that, according to the Associated Press, is perceived to have caused quite a stir.
In a story published last Friday, journalist Mary Foster wondered if the "desperate and dangerous" city was in any position to fend for itself, referring specifically to the "woeful Ninth Ward". Statistically, of course, it probably could not. Realistically, however, is a different story.
Through a combination of horror stories, like the aforementioned, that run in newspapers across the country and on media networks like CNN, it's hard to imagine anyone being particularly optimistic about the area. Five minutes into our stay in the Lower Ninth Ward, we met exactly that.
***
Nervously shuffling around a barbed-wire encased basketball court with the fat lens on our camera, we stood out like tourists. My only hope as I hopped a padlocked gate that I found nearby was that we didn't come off as ignorant ones at that. This was, after all, what appeared to be a public basketball court and if anything could unite people it was, and always will be, the power of sport. There's nothing wrong with objectifying a backboard.
"I think the only reason you are able to talk to me right now is because of sports," says Ward McClendon, a close friend of one of the residents who watched curiously as we measured up our initial photo opportunity. "I think, without the sports in my life at the time, I would either be dead right now or spending my life in the penitentiary."
Ward McClendon is a hero in this neighbourhood, born and raised in the Lower Ninth. On the recommendation of a stranger working diligently to repair his home, we tracked him down to talk about a project he had been working on.
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