Free enterprise shock in NOLA

CAMA, the Army Corps, seven planning boards and zoning departments. Special vegetative zones, permeable and non-permeable surfaces. Are produce stands allowed? Will outside dining on a wood deck count as lot coverage? Is it legal to put a small wind turbine on my roof or to cut down a tree in my yard?

Regulations are so ingrained in the Outer Banks psyche, it would almost be a shock to the system if you found yourself walking, as I did, in the midst of a wide-open, regulation-free environment that would make Ayn Rand proud.

Such was the case, if only for a short week, in the Fairgrounds sub-district of New Orleans during its annual jazz festival.

New Orleans’ excellent public transportation system will get you only so close to the Fairgrounds, the epicenter of the festival. But you are then rewarded with a six- to eight-block walk through a delightful residential area of old homes, shops and eateries.

The Fairgrounds district, which surrounds the horse racing track of the same name, is a racially mixed area — 70 percent black, 28 percent white — with an average family income of about $32,000 per year. The district is surrounded by poorer neighborhoods dotted with projects.

As you move along the streets towards the festival entrance, you are confronted with a host of street vendors. They do a brisk business. And no wonder. Fried chicken outside the gates can be had for $2 a plate. The cheapest meal at the ‘Fest will set you back $5. Bottled water goes for a dollar on the street, three bucks past the ticket booth. The differential for a can of beer is $4; street-vended cans, a mere $2.

Street vendors are nothing new. They exist in all big cities. But the “NOLA” street vendors are different. They are residents purveying their wares in front yards, from covered porches, sidewalks and the street itself.

Grills are working in side yards. Extension cords run from open doors and windows to power Fry Daddys, griddles and other appliances set up on makeshift tables. The beer and water is served up from Igloo coolers by men, women and in the case of water, children.

At one residence the specialty is lemonade — the regular variety as well as a “Special,” spiked with a shot of vodka. The proprietress has offered this product for so long, return Jazz Fest visitors ask taxis to drop them in front of the “lemonade lady’s” house. And the taxi drivers know exactly where to take them.

Homes with larger yards sell parking spaces for 30 bucks a pop. Some even sell the spaces on the public street in front of their homes, which seems a tad extortionist. On the other hand, if you pay, I suspect all your tires are still attached to the vehicle when the concert is over.

Yet, not one of these vendors is licensed, sanctioned or supervised by any government authority. It is an act of spontaneous free enterprise, and the City of New Orleans allows it to happen each year. No food inspectors or certificates assigning numerical grades to the food vendors. No fire department personnel freaking out over long runs of extension cords. And the cops even keep their distance from the beer and liquor stands, except to check the age of the merchants and the consumers from time to time.

Others along the street sell rain ponchos and beer “coozies.” Old hippies hawk “legal” herbs guaranteed (by the proprietors anyway) to create the same effect as the illegal stuff. “Drew Brees for Mayor” tee shirts? Several styles and colors were available.

I’ve talked to folks who have attended the jazz festival for years. The vendors have always been present. Given the longevity of these neighborhood entrepreneurs, the absence of municipal government authority has not led to anarchy, unfair competition charges or public health scares. To my knowledge, no one has died from front-yard fried chicken or side-yard gumbo or been blinded by driveway spiked lemonade.

Compare those results to portions of the food industry heavily inspected by local and federal agencies. My entire Rotary Club was once made ill from tainted food at an Elizabeth City restaurant. Fast food restaurants across the nation have been cited after the fact — for feeding patrons salmonella-infected food. And how many times have meat packing facilities been forced to recall tainted meat — even though USDA inspectors are stationed there. And let’s not forget the heavily regulated financial industry, which imploded anyway.

Throughout the city, this laissez-faire attitude prevails. No state-owned liquor stores. Heck, they sell spirits at the CVS and Walgreen’s. Bars aren’t required to meet food quotas to serve adult beverages. In some bars, dogs are regular patrons. Restaurants and bars can choose to allow smoking or ban it. Both varieties exist in sufficient numbers and somehow the patrons and employees sort out where they wish to work, dine or imbibe with no “help” from the nanny state.

Thinking about all the rules and regulations in an area as sparsely populated as ours — conformities and non-conformities, tree and vegetation ordinances, bars masquerading as restaurants, state-run monopolies selling bets (or lotteries for the genteel set) and spirits, architectural standards — should give us some pause. Do we really require all of this oversight to function as a society? Most of these rules are meant to somehow bring about order and avoid chaos.

I’m not sure the result is always sanguine. Often, when talking to business owners or a home owner wishing to add a swimming pool or install a wind turbine on a roof, instead of maintaining order, these rules often seem to add stress to our lives.

I’m not advocating the Outer Banks adopt a New Orleans lifestyle or manner of municipal governance. There’s corruption aplenty there as well as hedonistic excess.

But it sure is nice to see people making a buck the old fashioned way by working hard and encouraging repeat business by choosing not to kill their clientele with tainted food and drink — the best form of regulation — if only for one week a year.

It’s all the more gratifying when you realize most of these folks are poor, even by Dare County standards. One young teen couple, quoted in the local newspaper, was selling bottled water to save up for prom night. Poverty- stricken neighborhoods resorting to unfettered capitalism to help make ends meet?

Maybe Dare County, in the grips of its own financial crisis, might take some lessons from a inner-city neighborhood in a city plagued by ill-fortune.

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