Log margin notes:
[WARNING: Adult (and revolting) Language]
I wrote a story today... my first one of the trip. I sent it to the Huffington Post so I'll hang it up on the blog on Thursday (the actual anniversary of the 26/11 attacks, which is the subject of the story.)
For now, I'm happy to go on and on about how I actually got this big scoop.
I was told by a local journalist, who is one of my contacts through a friend in New York, that this seaside slum called the Fishermen's Colony (where the terrorists infiltrated the city from small craft) has not changed at all since the attack.
I made every attempt to get a hold of various police officials on Monday and Tuesday. I answered the dumb questions of speed-bump functionaries who finally let me in to wait for someone who could talk to me. He said he'd be happy to talk on Monday... four days after the anniversary of the attacks. I was beginning to understand that I had missed the opportunity, although through another journalist I met in the hallway introduced me to the Commissioner himself. He said he may have a minute late on Wednesday. That would have to be good enough. (See Nov. 23, 2009 post for more.)
Still, I didn't give up and set out the next morning to get my pictures of the colony even if I wouldn't be able to speak to a police official. The person who told me about the colony in the first place said I probably shouldn't go in there alone. I didn't have enough time for all that. I got on a train.
On my way to the seaside slum I heard drumming and saw a lot of police activity. I was determined not to be distracted, but I stumbled onto a police parade rehearsal in preparation for the big show of force on 26/11.
I got a few pictures and found out that the Commissioner was around. I couldn't find him, but spoke to another reporter who said the Fishermen's Colony was really no big deal. I could go alone.
After a bit more walking I found the place. If I had tried I could have followed the smell... a sour waste smell burned my nose from the road. To this Long Islander, the more familiar stink of low tide was a cheap, but welcome cologne on top of the other odors. Just inside the gate from the main shoreline road, shacks stand next to fishing boats. People were milling around and not overly interested in me or my camera. The residents were busy cooking over small burners sitting in the soil or hanging laundry outside of their patchwork shelters.
I walked 50 yards down to the waterline to find a shot from the perspective of the attackers who landed there. More people began to notice me as I stood with my shoes just submerged in the filthy water. As I looked around the beach for another perspective I walked over a line strung seemingly for no reason from the gate to the beach. All of a sudden I noticed I had narrowly missed a few piles of shit. It was too big to be dog shit and then I saw that the people squatting beyond me were not looking for bait fish in the shallows. I was standing in the shitter. I did not recognize the originating animal, at first, as the poop (shall we say) lost its form as it was washed over by the tide... which I imagine was the intent of the poopers.
I'd had about enough of that and went to see if I could speak to some of the people there. I thought English might be a problem and I was right. I started to leave and saw some elderly ladies sitting around big buckets of fish on the sidewalk. I still had my camera out and went for a shot.
One old lady seemed like she was motioning me to 'come over' to buy some of the fly-swarmed seafood. Seemingly annoyed by the camera she made as though she would throw a fish at me. I figured I'd had enough altogether of the Fishermen's Colony. I had what I went for.
The next step was going back to my room to drop off the camera because I could not take it into the police station.
I ran out and back from the 'burbs and sat until I finally met the Commissioner. He pretty well killed my story by telling me that the poop, um, poor conditions at the colony had nothing to do with the terrorists ability to come ashore. Even the poop didn't keep them away. What else ya gonna do?!
I went back after giving up on a story that didn't seem to exist and figured I'd write what I had. I couldn't do that before I had words with my landlady about the her not giving me a key. She said I could 'come and go as I pleased' when we agreed that I'd rent the place. I assumed I'd get the key the next day or something. How could I not get a key, right?
As it turned out I get no key because I'm only here for a month. I said as long as she's there to open the door, what do I care? But now it seems that she thinks I can only come and go when it suits her schedule. This is gonna be testy for the next three weeks.
No big deal. I'm otherwise feeling fine. I've got the actual 26/11 parade to cover tomorrow and who doesn't love a parade?
Goodnight everyone.
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