People of Lafayette Not Caught Off Guard By Gustav

About the time that Gustav made landfall down the coast, and the winds began spinning the suspended traffic lights like beads on a string, Alan Kansa came into his own: a minor local hero to the people riding out this hurricane.

So far as Kansa knew, his was one of only two shops still open Monday morning in Lafayette, a town of 110,000 that lies directly in the eye of the storm.

Gustav was expected to pass over Lafayette by mid-afternoon Monday, bringing it with the possibility of tidal surges, tornadoes and flooding as it moves past Louisiana towards Texas and Arkansas.

This time though, three years after the horrors of Katrina, the people of Lafayette and southern Louisiana were ready -- or at least far readier than they have been before, thanks to the mobilization effort by the state authorities.

The day began with preternatural calm: no rain, not even a breath of wind, just the occasional flock of birds, circling in confusion, before flying off to the north.

Aside from Kansa's shop, there was almost no sign of movement. Entire shopping malls were boarded up, or cloaked with bright orange netting. The large picture windows at the local Hilton were taped up as if was a war zone. A number of houses had sandbags at the doorways, in case of slanting rain.

Officially, Lafayette was not under mandatory evacuation, but the town seemed to have emptied out, or hunkered down.

No one came out unless they had to. The few who ventured out had a definite sense of purpose. They wanted the essentials, and quickly. With the storm coming, that meant cigarettes, or ice, because of predictions the electricity would go out by evening and not return for days.

For Leslie Montgomery, that meant a case of beer and a bottle of vodka. "I'm going to forget the storm," she said.

As the first raindrops began coming down, Barry Brunet was sent out by his wife to get tinned dog food. The Brunets had evacuated their home in Houma further down towards the coast, boarding up the windows and hoping for the best.

Brunet had been hoping to stay put. "As far as I am concerned they can eat dry food," he said.

Kansa kept an eye out on the approaching storm, but, with business good, he was in no hurry to close up shop and go home to hunker down. "I've been in this position so many times," he said, wafting his hand through the air, jaded.

But three years after Katrina, most Louisianans in the storm's path were in no mood to take chances. Days before, as Gustav began swirling its way out of the Caribbean, the mayor of New Orleans, Ray Nagin, began sounding the alarm.

The storm of the century was coming, he said. It was time to be scared, he said and time to get out.

The old-timers, who can count off the names of the hurricanes they have lived through almost as if they were family members, were unphased. "We've been through hurricanes since we were kids," said Denis Girouard, stopping for a last-minute game of pool on Sunday night with his brother in the small town of Breaux Bridge. "I wouldn't be here if it was a category four or above though," he said. "Then I'd move north."

Others knew they were gambling with their lives, but when the last two bus loads of evacuees left town on Sunday afternoon they just could not pictures themselves on it. "I've never run from a hurricane -- although this one might change my mind," said Sally Angelle, heading off to a slot machine.

She had made her calculations. The house was secure. The five family cars and four family motorcycles were filled with petrol. "What's going to happen is going to happen," she said.

But it was harder for others to resist panic. Like everyone else living in a trailer, Lottie Miller was ordered to evacuate.

"That's the most stressful thing, all the warnings," she said. "I think they did overkill this time. For Katrina, they didn't do anything and this time they did too much too far in advance and now they are scaring people for nothing."

Miller couldn't bear to leave her daughter who is in the state national guard. She compromised, bedding down on a mattress on the floor of a local bar. It's got brick siding and boarding where the windows should be, and a corrugated tin roof. Miller thought it would stand up. She expected her home wouldn't.

"My trailer is a rickety thing. The landlord is going to put a brace across the doors, but I'm afraid I am going to lose everything I have," she said.

The authorities in a number of low-lying areas near Lafayette continued to urge people to get out if their homes were unsafe Monday morning and offered to help them make their way to a shelter.

A few hundred people made for the local hospital, but they were mainly the families of the doctors and nurses.

But the window was closing. "You needed to start moving earlier," the host of the local hip hop station, turned over to hurricane coverage, chided a caller on Sunday night. "It's too late, it's too late. Let us be clear, people, 12 hours from now you are going to see trees blowing down."

By Monday morning, the message had changed: stay home and wait for Gustav to blow through. In a few hours even the police will not be there for you. "This is the time you should be hunkered down in a house somewhere," David Anderson, the local police chief, said in a broadcast. "If you go out to do some sightseeing and get in a crash or your vehicle gets blown off the road way we will not respond."