East Texas

EDITOR’S NOTE: Religion Editor Patrick Butler was traveling from Florida on Interstate 10 back to East Texas Saturday and today when he got caught up in the traffic of evacuees fleeing the Gulf Coast region.

By PATRICK BUTLER
Religion Editor

While driving west on Interstate 10 on Saturday toward Pensacola, Fla., one is struck by hundreds of vehicles making their way east from Mississippi and New Orleans. Very few are making their way toward New Orleans and East Texas as I am, trying to beat Hurricane Gustav’s potential destruction projected in a matter of hours.

Saturday evening, packed lines of cars outlined by headlights slowly churned their way east, inexorably, slowly, like a human flood. As I pass roadside hotel parking lots I see they are jammed with cars loaded with top-carriers, trailers or filled to the brim with blankets, coolers, kids and pets.

It is eerie to be traveling toward New Orleans instead of away from it, as if daring to foolishly venture in a dangerous direction. It is obvious most people have one thing in mind: Getting out of the way of the coming storm. There are no cars with Texas license plates traveling with me and it seems a solitary journey on a major highway. There are few commercial vehicles on the roads.

Cutting up from Pensacola after hearing radio warnings that Gustav is gaining speed, I travel via nearly deserted Mississippi Highway 44 to Meridian where crowds again blossom as I intersect Interstate 20 at 2 a.m. Sunday. Gas stations are packed far past capacity and all the hotels – “all of them” — said a clerk at the Quality Inn in Meridian, are full. She hands out a sheet of directions to the Hampton Gardens, “Where there might be space,” but the last room was taken at 1:45 a.m. explains an apologetic desk worker. The Garden’s parking lot is filled with cars, whole families simply sleeping in their vehicles with no place to go. No one chases them away.

A white-haired clerk at the Holiday Inn I inquire at advises I “go back to Florida” if I can, or drive all night to East Texas. She lived through Katrina three years ago, she said, and says Meridian will bear the brunt of a similar storm.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “All these (travelers) think they’re safe here, but they’re not. During Katrina I stood right here and watched the roof torn off the hotel across the street. I saw trees being snapped in two. These poor people are simply not far enough away from it.”

“So you’re very concerned something similar will happen with this hurricane?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, yes,” she said, peering out at the night skies. “Very concerned.”

There is no sign of panic, but many people, simply standing about gas stations or fast food joints off the highway, say they just “want to make sure” they are out of the way of another devastating flood like Hurricane Katrina. I remember the clerk’s words at the Holiday Inn and keep driving east.

It is nearly 4 a.m. Sunday near Jackson, Miss., when Mississippi Public Radio interrupts the regular broadcast and begins urging citizens to avail themselves of the “contra-flow” at Interstate 55, the reversing of southbound lanes to accommodate the mandatory evacuation of New Orleans.

“Don’t wait,” says the announcer. “This is going to be huge. It will be as big as Katrina, maybe bigger.”

Mississippi Gov. Haley Barbour implores “churches and congregations” to open their doors and hearts to help ease the crush sure to hit shelters in a few hours.

As I approach northbound Interstate 55 from the east, I’m nearly alone on my side of the interstate as the same scene of a steady stream of cars that I saw in Florida heads back toward Meridian. But after I pass the junction of Interstates 55 and 20 heading west, I’m in the middle of a flood myself, surrounded by vehicles of all description headed to Texas: Vans, trucks, trailers, beat-up four-doors with no hub-caps filled with belongings, or late-model Altimas, using their pick up and late-model speed to negotiate traffic and leave us behind.

Now it’s slow going, with many delays for accidents, impromptu shelter set-ups or careful drivers as they avoid dozens of groups of vehicles simply stopped in caravans of three to five on the shoulder of the interstate. People are even freely wandering about the grassy shoulders of the road or near exits.

As dawn approaches, I have to sleep at a rest stop after 16 hours straight driving. The rest stop is jammed past capacity. Cars are stopped everywhere, with entire families strolling about with no place to go. One man explains he left New Orleans 12 hours ago with his family of five.

“I just didn’t want to be in New Orleans,” he said. “It’s better to be anywhere but there.”

With two hours to go until I reach Texas, traffic has visibly increased as daylight breaks. The rush is on.

Patrick Butler is religion editor for the Tyler Paper.
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