A Do-It-Yourself Relief Convoy

It started out as a small, homegrown plan hatched by a group of tattooed, chain-smoking guys from Lake Elsinore.

Enraged by what they felt was an inadequate government response to Hurricane Katrina, and the gut-wrenching images on television from New Orleans and Mississippi, they decided they had to try to make things right.

Like other relief efforts, this one caught fire. By Labor Day, they collected $13,000 in cash and organized a caravan of two semi trucks, two car trailers, and a cargo van to deliver tons of diapers, baby clothes and toothbrushes.

With all of this came the compassion of the people of Lake Elsinore, estimated population 35,000.

Bound for the Houston Astrodome about 1,500 miles away, on Labor Day a crew of 11 men and one woman, some from the Ink Sanity tattoo shop in Lake Elsinore and the rest from around Southern California, traveled through four states on Interstate 10, living on Camels, black coffee and cheeseburgers. And in case it wasn’t obvious, they plastered a sign on the lead truck: “Elsinore Rocks Hard.”

Three days later, the rag-tag convoy found itself on North Stadium Drive in front of the hulking dome, which teemed with thousands of evacuees.

You can’t go in, a relief official at the Astrodome told Jack Martin, who owns the tattoo shop and who organized the trip.

One hour, and dozens of cell phone calls -- to relief agencies and even the governor -- later, the grim-faced crew turned around and retreated with their aid, in search of victims.

Finding them didn’t take long.

The Plan Forms

Just after the hurricane hit, during a midnight phone call between Martin and a friend, James Livingston, the plan had started out simply: round up buddies from the tattoo shop and truck out a load of relief supplies in Martin’s 38-foot trailer.

Livingston, foreman at a door installation company, had called Martin to rant about government rescue efforts.

“There was a black guy holding a baby with no formula,: Livingston, 37, later said. “There were people lying in the shade near a department store, and some guy had to cover them up when they died.”

So Martin and Livingston called newspapers and TV stations, and descended on the city’s minor league baseball stadium, home of the Lake Elsinore Storm, to ask for contributions.

Just give, Livingston told news cameras, and we’ll do the rest.

Ink Sanity was bombarded -- formula, tampons, underwear, even coffee makers and microwave ovens.

Kids gave what little they had: $15 in pennies, a favorite teddy bear, a bible, lunch money, savings for a trip to Disneyland.

Martin and Livingston were dead set on hauling it all to Houston. They had no idea what to expect when they arrived. They’d figure that out on the road.

On the Road

When the convoy crossed the Colorado River into Arizona on Monday night, Carl Piper, a wiry 20-year-old auto mechanic who had never ventured far from Elsinore, stuck his head out a cargo van window, the cool air rustling his spiky hair and Social Distortion T-shirt.

Along with inking him with tattoos, Martin was Piper’s free-wheeling mentor. And Piper was eager to make the trip.

“I’m on a road trip to Houston,” he told a friend on the phone. “Watch the news, you’ll see. We’re driving big, big trucks.”

Piper, between inhaling Marlboros and downing cans of Pepsi, said he was sick of seeing evacuees getting no help.

“And you give money to [victims], what good does it do? They’re stuck in a dome,” Piper said.

The Lake Elsinore convoy chugged past more and more relief caravans on Interstate 10.

Ruben Arnada and his friend were playing catch in a gas station parking lot in Wilcox, Ariz., waiting for an oil change. The 23-year-old from Pomona was hauling a wooden trailer filled with socks, dress shirts, deodorant and some baseball equipment -- just in case some kids lost their gloves and bats.

“See you there,” Arnada shouted to Martin and crew.

Gassing up in Ozona, Texas, a day later, Martin and his crew swapped stories with Sal Martinez, 47, a pastor from San Bernardino.

Martinez was taking towels, soap and 10 pounds of coffee to a Southern Baptist relief center in San Antonio.

“You can tell that people [rescuers] are out there,” Martinez said. “You can see stuff piled in the back of their trucks, and they’re all heading east.”

Martin was growing wary of all the caravans migrating toward the disaster area.

“The longer we take to Houston, the less likely they’ll take it, because they’ve already got enough,” said Martin, 46. “What are we going to do, sit on it? Take it back home? Have a big yard sale?”

Martin had been shut out before. After the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, Martin had called New York City to volunteer his help.

No one called back for two weeks, and then he was told no thanks.

Years ago, when he was fed up with working in construction, a tattoo artist offered to teach him the trade. His teacher was locked up three months later. Martin completed his education on his own.

‘This is Saving My Soul’

Lightning flashed in the distance, and water droplets painted a brilliant rainbow.

“It’s an omen,” said Norwood Clark Jr. from the back seat of Martin’s truck.

Clark, 49, was born in New Orleans’ Charity Hospital, raised on gumbo and lulled to sleep by rain on his family’s tin roof. He headed west for work as a video engineer in the late 1970s, and eventually opened Uncle Darrow’s Cajun/Creole Eatery in Marina del Rey, with catfish shipped from the Gulf Coast.

When he heard about Martin’s caravan, he sped to Lake Elsinore to help.

He had no intention of joining them, but the day before the crew left, Clark broke down in tears as he watched the morning news. He told Martin he had to go.

He was one of the few nonsmokers on the caravan, with a round face and broad build, and no tattoos.

“This is saving my soul,” Clark said softly. “My heart was already lost.”

On Wednesday morning the crew woke up in El Paso to dreadful news.

Martin finally got a call through to the Salvation Army: Don’t come to Houston, he was told. The stadium was overflowing with do-gooders and donations, so their supplies might sit in a warehouse or not be accepted at all.

Crewmate David Scholder whipped out his laptop, and e-mailed an SOS to the Oprah Winfrey and Howard Stern shows, hoping they’d come to the rescue. He got no immediate reply.

Houston at Last

The next day, outside the Kettle diner in Seguin, Texas, Martin and his crew met Katrina’s devastation face to face. Her name was Joan Dixon, a 59-year-old nurse from New Orleans.

Dixon told them she fled in her hospital scrubs, and had been bused with her mother and 5-year-old granddaughter to Houston. After tracking down her husband, she and her family starting driving west.

“It’s like a ghost town,” she said of New Orleans. “It’s like someone swallowed it all up.”

The men piled twenties into her hands, and filled her back seat with shopping bags. Clark’s eyes watered.

The convoy hit the highway and drove until the Houston skyline loomed ahead, passing Texas flags at half-staff as they drew closer to downtown.

The Astrodome was surrounded by scores of people milling on the grass, their shirts stained with sweat.

Martin and Clark were silent.

Martin turned on North Stadium Drive and halted at the security gate.

He picked up his cell phone and called a relief station inside the dome. They could drop off one bag of relief supplies, he was told, and they had to take the rest to a warehouse.

“One bag is a symbolic gesture, and we didn’t come here for a symbolic gesture,” Jan Beber, one of the convoy drivers, moaned in disgust.

Martin lit a Camel Light and dialed number after number, pleading with relief agencies. He called the Texas governor’s office.

“If the governor’s here -- Rick Perry, right? -- I’d like to meet this man and show him what’s being done for his state,” Martin told a government operator.

After a half-hour passed, a volunteer named George came over to calm things down. “You don’t have to turn back. It can be put to good use,” the volunteer said, then went back through the security gate, never to return.

Going to Plan B

As the dejected crew was leaving the stadium parking lot, two state troopers in cowboy hats flagged down a passing Salvation Army truck to see if the driver could help. The driver told Martin he could unload the trucks at a Salvation Army warehouse in Pasadena, Texas.

On the 20-mile ride over, Clark scrambled to find other options. He made a call to a Houston mega-church -- a friend in L.A. had given him the number earlier in the week, thinking the church might be able to use a bag or two of necessities.

Clark found out they needed a lot more -- the New Light Christian Center Church had assisted more than 5,000 evacuees.

So the crew made quick work at the Salvation Army warehouse, dropping off two trucks and then hopping back on the road for the hour’s drive to New Light.

The sun hovered overhead as the crew joined about two dozen men from the church’s drug rehab program, forming a line to unload quilts, denim shorts and baby supplies.

Out came flashlights and teddy bears to applause and “alleluias.”

In 15 minutes, the trucks were empty.

Much of the $13,000 in cash was used for fuel and expenses. Organizers said the remainder would be donated to evacuees.

“The good Lord brought us here,” Livingston told the men.

“Amen!” they said.

Martin wandered back to his truck and leaned against the cab, exhausted, then fired up another Camel Light.