On Wednesday afternoon I get in touch with Drew Landry, a connection through Audrey George (Miss Audrey) who lives in Houma, LA.
Ms. Audrey is a B+B owner, Cajun cultural activist and general powerhouse who knows anybody and everybody in the Mississippi delta.
I stayed at her B+B for a story about Cajun culture in 2006, and when I found it hard to find somebody who could take me out into the marsh, I thought of her.
Within 2 hours she got me in touch with Drew Landry, musician, club owner and activist, who is creating a web-based information network for locals concerned and affected by the spill. (His website: www.dirtycajuns.com)
© Imke Lass
Drew said he was going out on a boat ride to Grand Isle and Bay Batiste with another photographer the next day, and that I could come along. We meet for a minute at Ms. Audrey's house in Houma, and talk.
Drew's big concerns: the drilling moratorium and its affect on the local job market, and the fact that most fishermen are hired by BP.
He explains: just before the oil started to hit the Louisiana shores, BP started hiring local fishermen to help with the cleanup work.
The caveat: it takes about a week to get the fishermen trained, up to 2 weeks to get their boats certified, plus they signed waivers to not talk to the press, so when the oil hit, the people most affected by the spill, concerned citizens, had their voice taken away.
Also, once the oil hit, they were sitting at their dock, not being able to help, as they were not fully trained yet.
Now, Drew says, the cleanup workers are faced with a new round of health liability waivers, are not allowed to wear respirators. Oil crews go out to sea, come up on a patch of oil, clean up some of it, and are called back. In the morning, most of the remaining oil is gone because "They sprayed the piss out of it and dispersed it". Why? "Because it's easier, and it doesn't look bad. It doesn't smell bad. It's all about PR."
We rant.
Corporate interest. Corexit made by a company partially owned by BP, nobody wants to talk because nobody wants to loose their job. Green, clean, what can change, can we change, we all drive cars, apathy, consciousness, greed etc. pp. Consumer bullshit.
Anyway, on Thursday, we meet at the Delta marina at Empire, LA, a small community in Plaquemines Parish, 10 miles North of Venice. Water to the left, water to the right. Elevation: 3ft.
This is where Hurricane Katrina made landfall in 2005, and I assume that some of the boats I see along the side of the road are remnants of the event.
© Imke Lass
At the marina I meet Drew and Daymond, a photographer on assignment.
A guy walks up to my car, sees my Georgia license plate, and comes over to say "hi". he used to live in Valdosta, is here now, and about to take out a group of scientists.
Really? Probably something to do with the spill. I come upon one of them as I head into the marina store.
"Hi, I hear you are scientists, what are you going out for, anything to do with the spill?"
The guy looks at me and I see that veil, that I am so familiar with by now, go up.
"My wife is a veterinarian, we are going out later." And you, what's your mission? "Um, ... we're here to help the birds."
Really? Could you be any more vague?
I tell him what I am here for, thinking that might open him up, and he completely shuts down. "I am really not at liberty to discuss this with you, for more information, please visit BP's response page online."
Wow. What Drew said about the contracts is true.
Eventually we meet our captain, Phil Simmons, boat captain, farmer, oyster and shrimp fisherman.
Phil's family has lived right here, in Empire, since the 1700's.
He says so far he got one check for $2,500 for loss of income about two weeks ago, and is waiting for another one. They said it was in the mail. He is going to sign up with BP eventually .
We head out to the Bayou.
© Imke Lass
It is a truly magnificent day, we expect to be out for about 3 hours.
The bay is speckled with oyster beds, oyster farming had been prohibited at the end of May. We ride along.
After a while, suddenly, the water goes calm, and the engine starts chugging. I get a heavy feeling on my chest, like I'm covered with an x-ray lead jacket.
Phil explains: "Oh yeah, that's oil sheen".
© Imke Lass
One minute later, the surface becomes alive again. "Now, this, this is normal."
© Imke Lass
Was that a lot of oil?
"Naaah, that's just sheen, Mother Nature will take care of that. The bad stuff, that's in the marshes, still, from 3 weeks ago. You'll see it."
We go a little while longer, into Bataria Bay. There, we turn towards the marsh. And there is the oil.
From far away, you could almost convince yourself it's just dirt, clinging to the marsh grass like leftover debris from the last high tide.
© Imke Lass
The closer we get to the marsh line, the more distinguishable the scene becomes.
© Imke Lass
There is sheen, streaks on the water. Brown drops on the sheen. Dispersant, Drew explains.
© Imke Lass
Broken up oil as droplets in the water. It looks like brown, curdled milk.
© Imke Lass
The marsh grass is speckled with oil. Blobs of oil are swimming on the surface. Captain Phil grabs one and holds it up to the camera.
© Imke Lass
Drew says: "We came here when it was fresh, and we were just kinda excited, something new to see. Now it's just here, still here."
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
Phil puts his hand down into the water again and brings up a handful of oil and dirt from the bottom.
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
"This is not going to go anywhere anytime soon."
I think about the marshes along the Georgia coast.
The oil is everywhere, and only one skimming boat in sight. We turn around and head back to the marina.
On the way back, Phil stops and lets his helper get a crab trap out of the water. In it: a catfish, a blue crab, a couple oysters hanging on, one big fish.
They look alright, and I don't know what to say to them.
© Imke Lass
Drew and Phil's helper try to get the big fish, which got stuck in the middle chamber of the cage somehow, to come out. It's a bit of an epic struggle, the fish flops around and tries to breathe, its gills pumping desperately.
Eventually they get it out, stroke it gently, and release it back into the water.
Phil grabs a chucking knife and starts opening one of the oysters.
"Get a picture of this!", Drew says, "This is the last oyster eaten out of Bataria Bay!"
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
Phil grins, slurps, a moment of silence. Oysters have been off the menus in New Orleans for a few weeks now.
We head back to the marina (the scientists are still sitting there, did their boat captain get fired?), where Phil pulls out a huge photo album, images of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. 
© Imke Lass
He lost 600 cows and 43 bulls, and is left with 300 heads of cattle. He is waiting for the day when the oil will push up on his pastures, which he says it will.
He has no plan what to do when it happens.
We have lunch at the marina's restaurant. The atmosphere is jovial, everybody is laughing.
I remember Terry and Terry, whom I've met on Pensacola Beach what seems like weeks ago.
Terry (the man) was sitting in the water, visibly not phased by the news that oil, back then, was just a few miles offshore.
I had walked up to him and asked if he wasn't concerned about the water quality.
He said, smiling: "No, we're from Louisiana!"
What does that mean?
"You know, just when you think it can't get any worse, it does. So what good does it do to worry? If it's bad, and you worry, and then it gets worse, you'll have spent all this time worrying, for nothing.
We lost out son a few weeks ago, to Lou Gerig's disease. What we do here is what he would have done. Enjoy the good. What else can you do?"
© Imke Lass
So I head down towards Myrtle Grove on Wednesday morning and call the station at 8 a.m. to ask about going along on a boat.
Nobody picks up the phone. I try again, nothing. I am on my way there already, so I just stop by the gate again and asked to see Moody.
He meets with me and tells me that all operations were on hold that day due to stormy weather, maybe another day. Then he gives me the number of a BP PR person to call and arrange everything.
So I drive back to New Orleans and call. No, this is not the correct number, call the coast guard.
I call the coast guard. No, this is not the correct number for press requests, call this number at the BP headquarters in Houma.
I sure am not the first person with a trip request?
I call the headquarters: no, there are no press rides or any rides out of Myrtle Grove today, but if I wanted I could sign on for a press trip viewing wildlife, boom and skimming operations tomorrow at 1 p.m., there was one seat open, and then there was a viewing of the pelican rescue operations at 1 p.m. in Fort Jackson today.
So after 7 days of driving along the coast and observing life surrounding the spill, I have finally come upon the oil spill media machine.
© Imke Lass
It feels a bit like I had just called moviefone.
Apparently it still seems nigh impossible, this close to the gusher, to get a clear sense of the scope, impact and effect of it, or at least turn an objective eye at the situation.
Boat rides with BP are free, everybody else charges $600 for a 3 hour trip to see oil or affected areas.
Most fishermen, and almost anybody who owns a boat, has contracted with BP out of financial desperation, signed a waiver and is not at liberty to talk to the press.
Nobody wants to say anything bad about anybody.
Press tours are well orchestrated and choreographed, so many images in the daily press are on the same subject matters.
It drives me a little bit crazy.
I wonder what I am doing here.
Nevertheless, I am here, so I decide to drive to the pelican rescue station at Fort Jackson and take the tour.
I arrive half an hour early and have to hang out by the gate with a handful of reporters.
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
At 1 p.m., the press is allowed in. After a short briefing we are guided, one by one, into a little trailer where we leave our credentials and sign up for the tour.
© Imke Lass
We get a quick intro to the operation and a run-down on the number of pelicans that have been reported here (1,600+ total,), the number which are here right now, and the background and mission of the operation.
© Imke Lass
(Note: I am just looking at the latest numbers here at home on my computer, out of 1,900 birds collected, 815 were alive, all visibly oiled, and of the 1,100 which were collected dead, around 800 were not visibly oiled. Dispersants, anybody?
Total number of birds released back into the wild: 177.)
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
I am pre-occupied with photographing the location, so I don't take any notes, for more info on pelican rescue, please. visit http://www.ibrrc.org/
The building is huge, crammed with net covered pens, some of which are filled with pelicans.
A pervading stench fills the air. I wonder if it's oil or fear.
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
Drained-looking volunteers carry washed pelicans, covered in towels, out to the holding pens.
© Imke Lass
I briefly talk to 2 of them, one is a man from California, who has arrived here 2 weeks ago, another from Puerto Rico, who is here with his girlfriend. 
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
They look tired, but confident. They are the first people I meet involved in the cleanup operations who don't seem to be doubting their purpose.
We see pelicans being brought in in cages, carried to examination table, evaluated, pre-cleaned, washed, soaked in detergent, scrubbed, rinsed, rinsed, rinsed again, and carried out. 
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
I can't imagine the stress these creatures must be feeling throughout the procedure, after probably sitting soaked in oil for a while.
There is one pen for animals that are beyond stressed which is completely covered with blankets. We are not allowed to peek in.
Outside, a number of pelicans are prepared for release.
© Imke Lass
They get tagged, recorded, their blood gets taken.
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
Before pelicans can be released, they have to regain their "waterproofed-ness", build up the natural oil film on their feathers which got dissolved by oil and the use of cleanup detergent, and get them into perfect alignment by preening.
The release pen is filled with a few dozen birds, most of them are preening, some of them are huddled in a corner or along the side of the pen. 
© Imke Lass
One veterinarian, Dr. Dan, glows and says: "This is what we are here for, this is the last stage before they get released. This is where there is hope".
I hope they will all live.
© Imke Lass
(Note: I am home in Savannah, and am writing the following posts in retrospect.)
On Tuesday, I spent the first part of the day organizing myself, backing up files, taking a breather.
Since I didn't have a plan for how this day was going to be, I decide to drive down into the delta, towards Venice.
New Orleans and the areas surrounding are an intense conglomerate of layers: patched up neighborhoods, areas of industry, commerce, hospitality and plain residential life bleeding and melting into each other.
Further down into the delta, trying to find my way out through the maze of highways and bridges: oil refineries, fruit stands, vacant and half destroyed remnants of hurricane Katrina, mansions, trailer parks, cattle, citrus plant, more industrial plant, marinas.
© Imke Lass
© Imke Lass
I take a turn into Myrtle Grove marina, and discover, by accident, one of the 2 BP staging areas on this part of the delta.
The staging area contains piles of booms and other containing equipment, workers and BP personnel roam about, a handful of guys rest under the roof of a small bait and tackle shop outside of the fence.
It feels like I better not take my camera.
I walk about to see what might happen and approach a guy who is working on a boat on the pier.
I ask him if he might be taking people out to where the containing and skimming operations are. Somewhat guarded he says no, he's working for BP, but he know 2 guys in Port Sulfur who do.
I grab my phone and enter their numbers.
And then, yes, there's the security guy who I have been semi-expecting this whole time, coming towards me.
"And who might you be?"
Yeah, hey, my name is Imke, I'm a freelance photographer, I am doing a trip down the coast on my own dime, looking to take some pictures of the operations here, is it possible to go inside the fenced in area and shoot that boom pile over there?
"Well, yeah, I think so, but you have to get permission from somebody inside the fence." Then he smirks: "But don't forget, they all get paid $22.95 an hour in there."
Enough said.
I walk over to the gate and casually ask the security ladies who I might talk to to get a permit to photograph inside. One of the lady radios for somebody in charge. After she is done, she turns to me and says: "Don't expect this to work out, they don't let ANYBODY shoot in here."
I shrug my shoulders and wait.
A guy walks towards me, he introduces himself as Moody (his first name), I tell him about what I do, and ask whether I could catch a ride and see some of BP's operations out on the water.
"Sure, call me at 8 a.m. in the morning, I'll figure something out for you for 8.30 a.m.. Another freelancer just went with us the other day, no problem".
Hm. Sounds pretty easy. Can I take a picture of the booms over there?
He cringes: "Um, no, my supervisor isn't here, and I am not authorized to give you permission. Tomorrow maybe."
Hm. Ok.
Nothing else happens on Tuesday, I drive back and download the few pictures I took that day. Here's one of them, a hand-made sign by the side of the road.
© Imke Lass
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