Travelling into the forest of deep green trees and bayous of the Mississippi/ Louisiana border was a relief from the contaminated beaches of the Gulf Port coast. We were on a road trip to Grand Isle, LA, and outside our vehicle the world flashed by in the blur that only interstate driving creates. At one point we passed over a high bridge that offered up a seemingly endless field of the most lush green, a million tree-tops spread out like a sky full of clouds; the beauty of it struck with a force that only a natural vista can. Sadly, the lifting feeling was soon to be all but lost for each and every one of us on the trip.

The beach we were heading to investigate lies at the end of an island that reaches out into the Gulf. One thing became clear as we worked our way along the single road heading south: big oil has claimed this area of the Gulf of Mexico. From refineries to storage facilities and transportation ports to equipment depots, the oil industry infrastructure almost dominates. It is only the scores of fishing boats and processing plants that maintain any other form of industry to the outside eye. The curious mix of oil and fishing side by side, checkered in alternating lots, raises the question of how two seeming opposites can exist in balance so closely together. Tragically, it would seem the answer is that they don’t, at least not in the area of Grand Isle in the year 2010. As the boats sit docked and commercial fishing grinds to a halt in the Gulf, the area’s other major fishing activity is dead in the water: the Tarpon Rodeo drew upwards of 50,000 people at a time and has been held for the last 81 years, until being cancelled for the first time just a few weeks ago.

As one nears the end of the two-lane road, beachside houses begin to dominate. From the more modest to somewhat extravagant camps (as they are called in the area), a vacation community takes over just before a state park area and massive oil industry infrastructure at the edge of the island. We found a parking spot near a beach access tucked between two nice little camps and got out to head over a high bank to get our first view of the Grand Isle coast. Cresting over the dune revealed a truly chilling sight. For miles in either direction the beach had been dissected with three continuous barriers: a fence, sand berm and an endless snake of water-filled “flood boom” (think one giant cylindrical sand bag). We stood along side the camps and beach access paths on one side of the division. The other side buzzed with various types of vehicles running lengthwise, packs of clean-up crews, BP officials, security forces and police. It felt like a scene out of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” – truly an authoritarian lock-down destroying any chance of accessing the water.

As we approached the horrifying scene, the first person to meet us was a BP official wearing a mask over his mouth and driving a “Gator” (think 4x4 Beach Golf Cart). A couple of us had already passed through a section of fallen fence to get a closer look at the shoreline and the official told us we could not pass over the sand berm. If we did we would be subject to a full decontamination procedure, and we were assured “we didn’t want that to happen”. Within minutes we were then approached by a pair of private security agents who would not look out of place in Afghanistan. They reiterated the serious command to keep on the landside of the berm. Shortly after a Sherriff’s deputy motored up to us on a quad ATV and commanded us to remove ourselves back behind the fence. Now firmly instructed, our group slowly drifted into a few clumps of couples and singles as we numbly wandered up and down the beach, fully exposed to the eerie nature of the scene and the import of the environmental devastation.

Miles and miles of what has been a “resort area” on the Gulf of Mexico for hundreds of years (the area was first settled in the 1700’s) is now nearly a war zone. Any chance of access is completely out of the question for the camp owners and the public. It is not that one cannot see the water, the division is less than a football field away, but the tragedy of what has happened with this disaster is only deepened by the authoritarian attitude of the “people in charge”. BP is paying for the clean up, for the enforcement of “protocol”, for the damages; they are calling the shots and issuing the directives – why are they not consoling us? Why are the security forces steely eyed and tight jawed? Why do the packs of clean-up workers scoff and joke under their breath at the tourists, journalist and camp owners? Why does a national tragedy, that well should be mourned and cared for with the grace, dignity and respect of a funeral, lie in the hands of a force that intimidates sensitivity and sternly goes about “business” with a begrudging, sour attitude?

It seems as if no one was looking, BP wouldn’t think twice about not cleaning a thing. And on our trip to Grand Isle, it certainly felt like BP is doing everything it can to stop people from looking.