Eyewitness Report from Haiti
The traffic is mind-boggling in certain areas — diesel fumes mingling with the saccharine-sweetness of rotting oranges and the aroma of burning garbage. In some places the concrete barrier between opposing traffic is only a suggestion. Once the "other" side gets over to ours, we permanently lose a lane.
And in addition to the sheer volume of people is the damage. In the city center, that damage seems almost apocalyptic — huge, ornate concrete structures tilting dangerously, domed roofs caved in, porches collapsed to the ground. The green lawn and security fencing around the Palais National creates a buffer of breathing room. Just across the boulevard, thousands of homeless stand on the side of their tent city to bathe, to trade goods, to simply sit, staring at the president's palace.
In some areas of the city, the damage seems capricious — one building seemingly unharmed next to another that's standing erect but sporting huge cracks across its face, across from yet another with three floors pancaked to the ground.
In other areas, closer to the epicenter, everything concrete is uninhabitable. The poorer the construction, the higher off the ground it once stood, the more the rubble. But simple hovels with tin roofs survive. So these people still have their homes, to use the word 'home' loosely.
Which is the big question here: Is the goal of "relief" simply to return Port-au-Prince to normalcy, the normalcy of pre-earthquake? Or is it to partner together to create a new normal — to help Haitians lift themselves up into a better way of life? As we realized from day one here, driving around, so much of what's visibly shocking is simply the poverty of Haiti — poorest country in the western world.
But regardless of the state of their buildings and their daily existence, the people of Haiti are beautiful. I'm especially struck by it when someone smiles — a smudged orphan sitting on my lap, a young girl waving as we drive past her tin shack, young men earnestly singing during a church service. Haiti's smiles are truly beautiful. And amazing, really, considering the past 3 weeks. Three weeks ago their world collapsed.
One American who lives here told me his story of Tuesday, January 12th. He was driving back from the hospital, having dropped off someone with malaria. The road started rolling, and as people poured into the street in fear, he frantically dodged them in his attempt to get home — to make sure that his family of orphans was safe. His family and house were some of the lucky ones. No one killed, the house intact. As they heard the cries and screams from outside, they hurried outside their gates to help uncover trapped neighbors. At the end of the evening, they gathered in their courtyard, shell-shocked yet praying, and listening to the screams and wails rising from across Port-au-Prince — "the collective moan of Haiti," he called it.
Every person has a story, and I so wish I could simply sit and hear those stories — magically endowed with the ability to understand Creole so that I wouldn't miss even a nuance of the emotion. Until God gives me that gift, I gaze at people as I pass them, wondering what they are thinking, feeling, fearing. I wonder where they were on January 12th, how many loved ones they've lost, whether they are too afraid to sleep under a roof each night. I especially stare at the children, unable to imagine their future.
But it's not all sadness and soberness. There is also a contingent of relief workers and pastors and churches with incredible energy and passion. And there are Marines.
We rumble past three U.S. Marines yesterday on a rutted road in the country. They're on foot, checking up on people's needs out in these villages, and they ask what our team knows about the people's needs here.
They've come to the right person. Mark — director of the crisis-response team I'm traveling with — gives them all the details about the people we are heading out to see, plus gps coordinates for other groups who are also receiving aid. And then the Marines invite us to their temporary encampment in the nearby town of Leogane, to pick up as many boxes of humanitarian MREs as we can carry. They are simply grateful to meet people who are working on long-term plans and are able to safely get food and supplies to where they're needed.
Soon, we're watching infantrymen from North Carolina execute a fast-paced, pass-it-down-the-line loading of supplies into our two trucks. Good-lookin', cleancut men — so young — all eager to do something to help, because the large-scale food distributions have been ineffective, and dangerous. "Come back soon," the first lieutenant tells us.
We will.