New Orleans - More than just Mardi Gras
In between our time in the snowstorm madness of New York, it was comforting to know that we were in the safe haven of New Orleans for four days. Understandably, half a week is a short time, but we reiterated that every little bit of warmth was precious to us as we climbed into the back of our yellow cabbie for JFK at four bloody AM.
Fast-forward six hours later, we were at the Louis Armstrong Airport without any United Airline-sized hiccup. Call it bad fortune or a combination of that and bad timing - but who goes to New Orleans and not time it within the duration of Mardi Gras. Apparently, this silly couple did and as our SUV drove through the neighbourhoods recovering from the festivities, the purple and green beaded remnants were still hanging from the neck of iron gates and sunbathing on the sidewalks. It was later confirmed by our Uber driver himself, who made us feel a whole lot better, when he brought up how incredible the experience was for his year-old toddler. For most, and of course, the people of New Orleans, the city is synonymous with Mardi Gras and for us to miss the festival by a fortnight was plain foolishness, but what we discovered about the Crescent City was that it was way more than just Mardi Gras.
From our research, it was made clear that there was some form of peculiarity hanging over the city and it was not the purple haze that seemed to stain some streets in the French Quarter. Not many would have heard the tale of Marie Laveau, but her name had the sort of richness to it that did enough to shudder a few bones out of place – what we soon discovered was that Laveau was a practitioner of voodoo and she was revered yet admonished by the common man in the 1800’s. While we were particularly careful not to knock on the tale, sheer curiosity led us into one of the city’s last remaining voodoo shops peddling trinkets, safe keeps and charms – effective or not, it was not in our place to contest them, but the word on the ground was that it was very much still practised in some parts of town despite its popularity leveling off.
And with Leanne checking herself into a fortune-telling session, I returned to the shop hot and bothered – unsure if it was the novelty of it all or the incense in the air that drew me in. Instead of letting my crazy take the better of me, I listened wide-eyed to the helpful, yet ambiguous words of caution from the shopkeeper on some of the items in his possession. My memory may fail me, but I clearly remembered that hair-raising feeling when I stood watching the tribal masks on the wall staring back at me with their hollowed out eyes. No touching any items on the altar, I remember – since I am almost certain picking up an occult moss voodoo doll is what kills 66.7% of protagonists in most horror films and also the fact that I have been brought up a well-mannered gent.
One of my favourite things to do is to explore a city on my own – since I had the better of an hour while Leanne ran her hand by a fortune teller in a crowded room of tarot cards and the smoky waft of incense, the beautiful architecture of the city was all mine to uncover. From where I had dropped Leanne off within the French Quarter, I mapped my path towards the most identifiable landmark found in almost every city in the world, a.k.a. The Hilton, and only had to turn a few corners to appreciate the meticulously-restored townhouses that still retained its cast-iron facades and ornate stylings (even the good ol’ Chase bank was left untouched aside and typified the 1800s vibe with its all-American furnishing within).
Aside from the brilliant architecture and the promise of a fun time in Mardi Gras, something that gets lost is the connection to slavery that (we are led to believe) the city has tried to erase – perhaps I was being overly observant, what I discovered was that there were almost no physical markers that pointed to these significant moments in history. Even within the French Quarter, where Leanne and I have been told that slaves were freely sold in courtyards like everyday commodities (just run the Omni Royal Orleans Hotel under a Google search) or thrown into what were known as slave pens, there was no signs that retold this history and we had to get on a rental car out of the city to get a glimpse of that.
I can more or less understand the city’s reluctance to celebrate such a negative point in history but that’s perhaps just another excuse to erase and rewrite history. On the outskirts of town, there were a few plantations that allowed outsiders to take on a different perspective and peek into the lives of those who toiled on the sugarcane and cotton fields.
We chose to call in on the Oak Alley Plantation and sensing how the plantation alongside others chose to reiterate the grandeur of the slave owners’ lives, the slightly uncomfortable contrast between the grand lives that the owners led and that of the second-class servants was easy to size up. From the veranda, you can admire the two rows of Oak Trees that seem to line up into a picturesque postcard. But in the background, we heard the same plantation bell ring to signal the start of the work day and the end of the work day – for the slaves, who owned neither a timepiece or pocket watch, time was another way of oppression since they were made to work 18 hours on the fields a day with no semblance of time whatsoever.
What the guide on the plantation told us was that the Mississippi River was important for the slave trade, since that was how the owners ferried their crops and with them, the slaves as well. Like they say, “when there is water, there is life” and for the slaves, the Mississippi River was an opportunity for them to gamble for a new hand in life by diving right into the waterway when they saw their chance. But who knew what lurked within the Mississippi River…
Now that we were out of the city, Leanne had one last surprise for me. She had pretty much dropped a pin on Google Maps and told me to drive to a petrol kiosk just off the expressway, before instructing me to follow a minibus with a trailer at its tail. I only had an inkling of what was to happen when I was handed a canoe paddle and of all times to be holding a paddle, I was
not ready at the slightest – for Christ's sake, there I was in a button-up shirt and jeans before being launched into the waters.
Despite Leanne being the more experienced of us both, she argued, “there is no way I am going to ferry your 160-pound body”. A little harsh but point taken and so there Leanne was, leading from the front, with myself, taking charge from within the engine room. As we edged along the waters, we soon realised that at any given time, there was some form of whisper from the wild and when we kept incredibly still, it was those sorts of spine-chilling quiet that I had never experienced.
The silence was soon broken up by our guide as she directed our attention in hushed voices towards the banks from her little red canoe. From deep within, there were this set of beady eyes just staring straight at us. From the looks of it, what was submerged was the straight as an arrow body of a little baby alligator not more than three feet long.
Without putting much thought into it, I paddled forward to feed my curiosity. Before you call me stupid, I have seen too much of this majestic creature on Nat Geo and in the back of my mind, with a harmless bambino just lying there 30 meters away, I sure as hell wasn’t going to let my first encounter be a hi-bye situation. But of course, logic prevailed and as I was just about to take another stride forward, my guide whispered, “when baby is here, mommy sure isn’t going to be too far away”. Confident as I may be, I sure wasn’t going to argue with that and to date, Leanne still believes she was 30 seconds away from being a main course and I am sure she isn’t going to let this go.
Slightly shaken, we were told the only way back was forward so we crept at snail’s pace along the meandering path of the river. In the background of the cypress forest, we heard owls call gallantly as the water splashed against our dinghy but for the life of us, we could not follow their sound of music to their source. But if you think about it, what was our own little game of Where’s Waldo could be their life-and-death game of survival – it was obvious that aside from us, there was no sign of human’s imprint on their world and it was untouched and untainted, just as Mother Nature intended.
After what felt like only an hour, it was time to return to shore – I was mildly upset since I felt like this ticking off the bucket list wasn’t as deserved. Back when I was in the wildlife conservation club in primary school, we were awarded a badge if we spotted 30 different wildlife and our tally count for the day was shy of a good ten or so. But there we were, with the sound of our heartbeat dictating this moment, about to turn back with our tails between our legs. But at the highest of a tree, I caught sight of a fair bit of rustling and movement and like a true wildlife spotter, muttered to our guide as the binoculars were being passed about. I could barely make it out with my own eyes but there it was, the silhouette of a little bald eagle poking his head out from the nest. That was enough for me, I had earned my badges and stripes and that sense of pride had left me brimming from side to side.
Back in the city, I chewed on a beignet and sipped on my French coffee from Café du Monde and found that my afternoon peace was pierced by a steam horn blaring in the air. As we gravitated towards the Mississippi River, what broke our gaze was this massive steamboat styled in the old colours of the classic steamboat that used to raced along the Mississippi. Lured by the promise of jazz onboard the steamboat (they were playing ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’), we spent our last few hours in the Crescent City in the company of jazz, our feet moving silly to the beat of the music and our eyes glued shut, “This is the New Orleans that no one told us about”.
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