12 hours in Port-au-Prince

By the time we got to the border the sun was making its rapid tropical descent. The dusk closed in on the aptly named border settlement of Malpasse surrounded by a stark almost lunar landscape that encircles a seemingly lifeless lake.Within an hour of crossing the border we were in the outskirts of Port-au-Prince and passing the first signs of the incredible damage inflicted in less than 5 minutes ten days previously.

Arriving in Port-au-Prince

From the occasional one or two we were soon passsing greater and greater numbers of buildings and houses in various stages of disintegration some with multiple storeys crumpled into sagging layers and others reduced to mere piles of rubble and twisted metal. We reached Delmas, down town Port-au-Prince and the ruined Catholic Cathedral. The West wall and window were still standing defiantly and against all the odds.

The next corner we turned revealed something in the road. As we got nearer we realised it was a body, bloated, blackened, scarred and dusty lying in an awkward heap. It brought the whole reality of the devastation into sharp focus. For me, until that moment it was images, however shocking, on television and the collapsed houses I had just seen real but almost unbelievable. Now it was a dead human being, a body decomposing before my eyes. The body was perfectly framed by a lamp light, it was clear that he had been there for sometime. I asked why he was in the middle of the road, no one could tell me. He had been there for some time it was an horrific sight but unexceptional enough in an exceptional location to be swerved around by our bus as we neared our destination.

The smell was appalling with a violent yet almost sickly sweet flavour that is instantly revolting and instinctively brings your hand to cover your mouth and nose. I was  lucky enough not to see another dead body during my brief stay in Port-au-Prince but that smell would come at me a number of times from piles of rubble beside the road.

We arrived at the bus stop, the car park of the former Hotel Palas. The building was standing but collapsed with supporting walls buckling under the weight of the storey above. The other cars in the car park were dusty and damaged by fallen concrete. Once the bus had stopped the place was  a hive of activity while the trawler was unloaded. My friend Danielle had said she was sending another friend Menahem to pick me up but he had not yet turned up and before long it was only myself left with the photo-journalist and the tour operator, the spectacularly name, Fabiola whom Miguel had introduced me to in Santo Domingo. They were wanting to get away, and so I got a lift with them and Fabiola told Danielle to redirect Menahem to the Oloffson Hotel which was on her way and is a safe and well known hang-out for ‘rich white outsiders’.

It is run by Richard A. Morse who has an famous international Haitian folk/rock group called RAM (his initials). They do a great show and always end a show with the fantastic Haitian carnival rhythms known as Ra-Ra. The hotel was far busier than I had seen it during my visit in 2006. To tell the truth the scene was a little disturbing after driving through the devastation. There was an incredible air of normality and socialising and chinking of glasses. I even overheard one chap say indignantly when handed a drink; “No ice!”

Menahem soon arrived and to be fair to the inhabitants of the Hotel another chap outside asked us for a light as we were leaving, when my friend pointed out that there were a number of candles around he apologised for not noticing and said he was having a quiet moment trying to come to terms with what he had seen. 

My friend Menahem was with another guy Jordani. Menahem’s house had completely collapsed but Jordani’s was still standing although some people had been beginning to sleep inside the houses that were still standing a sizeable tremor early that morning had changed most people’s minds and meant everyone even if their house was still standing was sleeping in the streets. We were on our way to meet Danielle. We were in a taxi that raced up the hill and round corners expertly avoiding the barricades of chairs and pot plants that marked out sleeping areas in the street for a group of people.

Sleeping in the streets

After getting dropped off we walked down blocked off street and met with Danielle. Her house, which is in one of the wealthier areas near the city centre was still standing but next door is a four storey hospital that is ready to collapse. She has been sleeping in the street with the neighbours since the earthquake happened. My friends were keen to emphasize that despite some flaring tempers the social effects were largely positive with everyone saying hello to each other and sharing everything that they have. That said they also slightly more ominously mentioned that those such as the escaped prisoners were indeed going round robbing, looting and killing and that many people slept with a knife or machete under the pillow just in case.

Just down the road was Jordani’s flat. They brought a camp bed down down which I shared with Menahem. He was determined to show me the devastation before my bus left the next morning. The early morning chill woke me up before my alarm. It had been quite hot when I went to sleep. We met up with Danielle who showed me round her family house, intact but damaged with crosses cracked into each wall. She had been taking a nap in a room at the back of the house by the courtyard when it all happened. The courtyard was full of rubble, she was very lucky not to have been trapped. Her dog was tied up by the gate and was very excited to have some visitors. The dog was very happy to have some visitors. Best for her to be kept in one place but she has been desperate to join the sleeping party outside and has escaped a number of times.

Danielle's courtyard

Menahem, Danielle and her dog

I asked about the aid and was assured that as far as they knew no aid was being distributed at all. This was 10 days after the earthquake. The only help they had was self help. The traders were still selling and it was up to communities to share what they had. I had seen piles of supplies from the bus the night before. As we passed the airport you could see it stacked up on the other side of heavily fortified walls. Menahem thought that that was probably just for the US troops. He also mentioned the story he had heard of a Cuban airoplane with doctors and emergency workers that had been refused permission to land whilst the Americans had control of the airport.

I asked about a disturbing interview I had seen on Cuban television with a Haitian medic who asked why all of the international emergency response, bar Venezuela, had gone to the richer neighbourhoods and not to the poorer areas like Carrefour and Delmas. This was apparently true.

We walked through familiar streets that were now broken. We passed the house of a famous politician. The external walls had crumbled displaying fragments of domestic interiors. Her car was still in the driveway. She had been in the house when it collapsed.

Danielle and Menahem guided me around the Down Town area on a tour of the destruction. Whereas in 2006 I had felt tension and the ever-present reality of violence and kidnapping, now with peoples lives carrying on under the makeshift shelters there just seemed to be a collective sense of shell shock and incomprehension.

Menahem described how he had just shown some friends from the US the Presidential Palace when they turned away and the earthquake struck. He said that the earth was moving like a snake, a powerful ripping movement and the fear of not knowing when it will stop or if the ground will open up under your feet. The Palace now stands bowed down by the strength of the catastrophe and the pain of the people. It is the mightiest buildings that have of course suffered the worst. Danielle points out that a lot of the older timber houses have fared much better.

The Episcopalian Cathedral of the Trinity is almost completely demolished. The bells have come crashing to the ground and I catch a glimpse of one intside wall panel painted so beautifully as was the rest of the interior until 10 previously.

That smell has come back again.

The Roman Catholic Cathedral is at the top of the road and has stood up to the earthquake a little better but not much. There were a lot of people gathered in front of the Cathedral. It turned out to be the funeral mass for Archbishop Monsignor Joseph Serge Miot. It seemed a little odd to be having such a grand affair for one person amid the thousands that had died. The President Rene Preval was there as was the American Ambassador with a four car motorcade and armed guards. If the grandeur of the funeral mass seemed a little out of place the muffled almost bewildered rendition of a powerful tune like How Great Thou Art somehow seemed rather more appropriate.

It was time to get back to the bus. If only I had some practical skills such as nursing or doctoring that could have been some use to the people there. As it was, even if I had had the guts to stick around I only would have been attracting trouble, using up food and water that could go to someone else and being of no practical use to anyone. The feeling of complete powerlessness is something I did not fully understand I saw the effects of the earthquake in Haiti.

The journey back to Santo Domingo and Pension Papa Noel was a long affair. The traffic leaving Port-au-Prince was bumper to bumper for quite a way. We passed more temporary housing made out of sticks and cloth. I was sat next to Eslade who was from Carrefour one of the worst effected areas. She said everything had been flattened, her husband and many others were dead. Living amongst the ruin and the bodies was very tough. I tried to imagine the devastation I had witnessed and lived with in the centre of the city multiplied to the level it must be in areas such as these. A terrifying thought.

Temporary accomodation

We got back to Papa Daniel’s around midnight, after only being stopped 13 times by the police to check everyone’s papers (See Getting to Haiti blog entry for more details). Getting some food from a late night hot dog stall with all the trimmings I met another guest at Papa Daniels, Jose. He is from Petionville, one of the worst hit areas. As we waited for our hotdogs he told me how his entire family was dead, he brought out a wallet photograph with parents, brothers, sisters and children. He had gone back to find people and there was no one left. He could see his brother in the wreakage of his house but could only watch him die. I think he said that there were even some rescue teams around but in this case nothing could be done.

There was a lot to think about on my journey back to the UK. The experience was painfully real but I was afraid that the creeping effects of time and distance would blunt the jagged edges of what I had seen reducing them to the level of media images; painful but at a comfortably observational distance.

No matter what however I could not agree with the LG sponsored television as it displayed the latest images of traumatised children in orphanages. “Life’s Good”?