So due to a FAQ: "How is Lamont/that guy doing these days?" I realized that I should post something about him here. As soon as I got back from Haiti I abandoned this blog and now I feel somewhat like the mother of a dumpster baby. Can I take it back?
Anyway, he spent a few days at the hospital in Fort Pierce, quarantined because they didn't know what he had, developed pneumonia on top of what turned out to be a broken hip, e coli and some other parasite, and then recuperated at a friend's house there in Florida for a week or two. We are all extremely grateful that he had insurance. Never travel without it, people.
Lamont is doing great these days. He is back in New York, hip healed, having fun, and doing stand up comedy. We've talked once in a while on the phone and he stills calls me 'Dragon Lady.' I hope to visit him and some other friends in New York soon, maybe in the fall.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Tent city latrine
One of the places we visited with Dave Porter's group was a tent camp off of Delmas 40, where they were building a latrine for the camp's inhabitants, partially funded by the money Dave had raised before coming to Haiti. This latrine probably only cost $1400 to build, so a little can go a long way. People who lived there said that latrines were the most important thing to get right now, after food. It is important to have a place to contain human waste, not just for dignity's sake, but also for better sanitation especially when the rainy season comes and can spread contamination.
The latrine being built in the tent camp. A long deep hole is dug out, lined with concrete block, and then fitted with basic seats and a tin roof.
The group of visitors to the tent city latrine, American and Haitian alike, gathered by the Cine Imperial before going into the camp.
At the Cine Imperial, one of Haiti's oldest movie theaters, now destroyed, people sleep in the gated area around the complex, in what was the parking lot. Someone wrote "Please do not piss here" on the wall by their bed.
The latrine being built in the tent camp. A long deep hole is dug out, lined with concrete block, and then fitted with basic seats and a tin roof.
The group of visitors to the tent city latrine, American and Haitian alike, gathered by the Cine Imperial before going into the camp.
At the Cine Imperial, one of Haiti's oldest movie theaters, now destroyed, people sleep in the gated area around the complex, in what was the parking lot. Someone wrote "Please do not piss here" on the wall by their bed.
Faces
I'm finally able to put some photos on here. The following is a selection of beautiful Haitian faces.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Men anpil, chay pa lou (With many hands, the load is light)
The lack of posts on this blog is the product of failure to upload. Apparently there is a 100 mb limit to how much one can upload or download on this internet service, and after that has been reached, we get penalized with super slow service for 24 hours. So, I haven't been able to get many photos up, and combined with being busy helping Mom and running around town with her groups of visitors, this blog has not quite turned out to be as informative as I would have liked.
Since I don't want to wait forever to upload any photos, I want to just write down some of the things I have done since I got here, and then when I get back to the States I'll put up all the photos I've been taking. Some of them are very good, really, but we'll just have to wait. Sorry.
I arrived March 1st and immediately went to the UN base near the airport with my companions who went there for a cluster ngo meeting. I rode up to Gwo Jan with them since they were staying at my parent's house there, and the next day went down to Port-au-Prince to see the effects of the earthquake. Those photos actually made it up on a previous post. March 3 was my 31st birthday, so since Mom needed a break and wanted to treat me to something special, we went to Jacmel by public bus for two days. Her friends Erin and Christian from Alaska had invited us to stay with them in their rental house by the beach.
When we got back, we started separating all the supplies that had come in with previous visitors and myself, as well as gifts of cash, that Mom distributed to the community of Gwo Jan. The next day, March 6, we picked up a group of visitors from the airport and brought them up to Gwo Jan for the week. They consisted of Dave and Pat, two professors from a college in Pennsylvania, Diane, a pastor from Washington D.C., and Lamont from Brooklyn. While they were here, we visited a tent camp on Delmas 31 where Dave donated some money to build a latrine, we went to Fond Parisienne to see the site of a future school that a Haitian pastor wants to build, we visited the grassroots coalition in Port-au-Prince, and we went to Leoganne, the epicenter of the quake. Then Lamont got sick, and I believe I described all that in detail so I won't go into that again except to say that he is safely back in the States in a hospital in Ft. Pierce, where he was told he had developed pneumonia on top of everything else and they still don't know what is wrong with him.
Lamont and Diane got on a plane on Tuesday the 16th, and Mom picked up another group of pastors visiting from San Diego. They brought money and medicine, and so we visited several tent cities where they generously donated to build latrines and showers. It is unbelievable and disgusting to me that people have been living for so long without any toilets or showers. There are organizations here doing stuff, but I think it's just that there are just too many people that have been displaced by the earthquake that it's difficult to cover everyone. Who knows.
Anyway, while Mom took the pastors around town in a rented van, I drove behind in the family car. My first time driving in Haiti, very exciting! It's totally different than the States. It's more like rally racing really, with hundreds of other cars. You have to be fearless and defensive at the same time, and watch out for potholes, dogs, people while navigating streets that have no posted signs. You really have to just read what other drivers are doing and tell them what you're doing with eye contact and laying on your horn and hand signals. Extreme attentiveness is needed at all times. A piece of cake. Well, it wasn't the first time I've ever driven in Haiti, but the last time I was 15 and I crashed into a police car, and I won't go into that, except to say that my parents decided at the time that I shouldn't get behind a wheel after that until I was safely out of the country.
Today, Friday, the pastors have taken a flight to Port-de-Paix to distribute medicine and won't be back until Tuesday. Mom has been able to have a breather to catch up on her emails. I've been helping her with her new laptop that I came with, which is a Mac. It's been hard to ever get anything accomplished during the day because there's a constant flow of people who need to talk to Tantka (Mom's nickname meaning Aunt Carla).
There's also been quite a few people sleeping here on and off during my stay, not to mention the group that was here last week and the week before. The pastors are staying in a hotel downtown though. Most of the people who stay over are friends who spend half the time in camps down in the city and come up to visit and organize and have meetings, or in the case of the members of my parents' band, come to rehearse and play music. Our more permanent residents who live in my parents' guesthouse are Dieula and her two daughters, son-in-law, nephew, and three grandchildren, who we've known for 25 years now, who came up after the quake, as well as a young couple with a three-year-old, and another family of three members. They all contribute by taking turns cooking, cleaning and washing laundry, and helping Mom run other community organization activities with the visiting groups that stay here. The first floor of the house is used as a communal area, to watch tv, use the computer, have youth group meetings, band rehearsals, and make art, as we have two resident artists, Nadjee and Mona, who have decorated the walls and lined the porch with their paintings and sculptures. There's very little privacy and a lot of different upbringings living together, and sometimes the stress levels are pretty high, but it's still a great place to live and work considering the alternative.
I have four more days before I leave, and I'm getting sad thinking of my departure. This experience so far has been amazing, intense, profound, and a major kick in the butt, and I'm constantly astounded by the will to keep going and the tenacity and spirit of the Haitian people. I am seeing this all through my adult eyes now, instead of the memories of my childhood, and I am realizing that I don't know very much at all.
Since I don't want to wait forever to upload any photos, I want to just write down some of the things I have done since I got here, and then when I get back to the States I'll put up all the photos I've been taking. Some of them are very good, really, but we'll just have to wait. Sorry.
I arrived March 1st and immediately went to the UN base near the airport with my companions who went there for a cluster ngo meeting. I rode up to Gwo Jan with them since they were staying at my parent's house there, and the next day went down to Port-au-Prince to see the effects of the earthquake. Those photos actually made it up on a previous post. March 3 was my 31st birthday, so since Mom needed a break and wanted to treat me to something special, we went to Jacmel by public bus for two days. Her friends Erin and Christian from Alaska had invited us to stay with them in their rental house by the beach.
When we got back, we started separating all the supplies that had come in with previous visitors and myself, as well as gifts of cash, that Mom distributed to the community of Gwo Jan. The next day, March 6, we picked up a group of visitors from the airport and brought them up to Gwo Jan for the week. They consisted of Dave and Pat, two professors from a college in Pennsylvania, Diane, a pastor from Washington D.C., and Lamont from Brooklyn. While they were here, we visited a tent camp on Delmas 31 where Dave donated some money to build a latrine, we went to Fond Parisienne to see the site of a future school that a Haitian pastor wants to build, we visited the grassroots coalition in Port-au-Prince, and we went to Leoganne, the epicenter of the quake. Then Lamont got sick, and I believe I described all that in detail so I won't go into that again except to say that he is safely back in the States in a hospital in Ft. Pierce, where he was told he had developed pneumonia on top of everything else and they still don't know what is wrong with him.
Lamont and Diane got on a plane on Tuesday the 16th, and Mom picked up another group of pastors visiting from San Diego. They brought money and medicine, and so we visited several tent cities where they generously donated to build latrines and showers. It is unbelievable and disgusting to me that people have been living for so long without any toilets or showers. There are organizations here doing stuff, but I think it's just that there are just too many people that have been displaced by the earthquake that it's difficult to cover everyone. Who knows.
Anyway, while Mom took the pastors around town in a rented van, I drove behind in the family car. My first time driving in Haiti, very exciting! It's totally different than the States. It's more like rally racing really, with hundreds of other cars. You have to be fearless and defensive at the same time, and watch out for potholes, dogs, people while navigating streets that have no posted signs. You really have to just read what other drivers are doing and tell them what you're doing with eye contact and laying on your horn and hand signals. Extreme attentiveness is needed at all times. A piece of cake. Well, it wasn't the first time I've ever driven in Haiti, but the last time I was 15 and I crashed into a police car, and I won't go into that, except to say that my parents decided at the time that I shouldn't get behind a wheel after that until I was safely out of the country.
Today, Friday, the pastors have taken a flight to Port-de-Paix to distribute medicine and won't be back until Tuesday. Mom has been able to have a breather to catch up on her emails. I've been helping her with her new laptop that I came with, which is a Mac. It's been hard to ever get anything accomplished during the day because there's a constant flow of people who need to talk to Tantka (Mom's nickname meaning Aunt Carla).
There's also been quite a few people sleeping here on and off during my stay, not to mention the group that was here last week and the week before. The pastors are staying in a hotel downtown though. Most of the people who stay over are friends who spend half the time in camps down in the city and come up to visit and organize and have meetings, or in the case of the members of my parents' band, come to rehearse and play music. Our more permanent residents who live in my parents' guesthouse are Dieula and her two daughters, son-in-law, nephew, and three grandchildren, who we've known for 25 years now, who came up after the quake, as well as a young couple with a three-year-old, and another family of three members. They all contribute by taking turns cooking, cleaning and washing laundry, and helping Mom run other community organization activities with the visiting groups that stay here. The first floor of the house is used as a communal area, to watch tv, use the computer, have youth group meetings, band rehearsals, and make art, as we have two resident artists, Nadjee and Mona, who have decorated the walls and lined the porch with their paintings and sculptures. There's very little privacy and a lot of different upbringings living together, and sometimes the stress levels are pretty high, but it's still a great place to live and work considering the alternative.
I have four more days before I leave, and I'm getting sad thinking of my departure. This experience so far has been amazing, intense, profound, and a major kick in the butt, and I'm constantly astounded by the will to keep going and the tenacity and spirit of the Haitian people. I am seeing this all through my adult eyes now, instead of the memories of my childhood, and I am realizing that I don't know very much at all.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Dominican trip
Oooh, I got one up! It's probably my limit for the day, so enjoy.
A sand mine by the road to the Haitian-Dominican border, filled up with water from the lake across the road, Lac Azuei, whose waters have risen due to the hurricanes last year.
A sand mine by the road to the Haitian-Dominican border, filled up with water from the lake across the road, Lac Azuei, whose waters have risen due to the hurricanes last year.
Monday, March 15, 2010
I feel like I know Hopital de la Communaute Haitienne like the back of my hand after the last three days. So I'll just call it HCH from now on, because I feel like I'm entitled now that we are on such familiar terms. HCH is a community hospital in Petionville located off Rue Frere. How came I to this intimate knowledge of HCH? It's a long story, but I will try to write it as succinctly as possible.
One of the guys in the group that Mom has been hosting for the past week here in Gwo Jan, Lamont, fell down onto his back while getting out the van at one of our stops on Thursday. He waved it off like any young man would, saying he just tweaked his knee. I didn't see the incident though, but I was told by one of our companions that he had landed on his back. Friday morning, as we were preparing to leave to go to Leogane, the epicenter of the earthquake and a great tourist attraction these days (I say facetiously), Lamont complained that his lower back was a little sore, like he had slept on it wrong. He took a couple aspirin and we went on our way. After the hour-long drive, we stopped at a gas station in Leogane and some of the Gwo Jan guys who came with us (more about them later, it's a group of young men who organized themselves to help with rebuilding efforts) tried to help Lamont stretch his back because they thought it must be a sore muscle or something. The stretching didn't help.
Lamont's back felt worse and worse on the way back to Port-au-Prince, and by the time we got out of the car in Gwo Jan, he could barely walk because of the pain and needed assistance to get down the stairs to our house. He was laid on one of the beds in "my" room, where I've been sleeping but also sharing with the group since they left their bags in there and have been using it to shower and brush teeth and collect themselves every day. He said his left hip in the back was really hurting him, and he was in constant pain even lying down and not moving. We gave him some pain killers and I tried to make him comfortable. I tried looking up back pain on Google but the internet had decided to check out for the day (a frequent occurance which is why I haven't been updating this blog very much). I put a pillow between his knees and put him into a fetal position. He could barely move without yelling about the pain at this point. I slept fitfully. He called me to help him to the bathroom, and I think at this point I realized that if a 26-year-old man from Brooklyn was desperate enough to need me to carry him to the toilet (it was actually more a piggy back ride/shuffle), then we definitely needed to get him to a hospital. He felt really hot to the touch too, and when I finally dragged him back to bed he started vomiting. Uh oh.
In the morning, as the news spread that beloved Lamont was sick (everyone has fallen in love with him here), it seemed like all of Gwo Jan was in the bedroom with him to check in on him. Haitians don't really have a thought for privacy when it comes to sickness, by the way. They'll just come right on in and look at you lying there. But it's really just their way of showing they care.
They arranged for a van to come up and take him down to the hospital, and they put a mattress and blankets over the front seat so Lamont could lie down in semi comfort. Dad, Williamson, Najee and someone else carried Lamont up to the van and put in, hollering the whole time from the excruciating pain of being moved. I thought he had broken his back.
Dieula started crying, Williamson and me and Mom were crying, because the sounds that issued from Lamont were so heartbreaking, and everyone in the van with us knew that the bumpy road ahead of us down the mountain was going to be cruel. Our driver tried as hard as he could to go slow, but that road seems to be made of boulders and ravines on a good day. Pastor Bazin, a neighbor, on his knees on the front makeshift bed, supported Lamont's torso with his arms the whole way down, while Mom, in the passenger seat in front, faced backwards and supported Lamont's left leg. I sat in the seat behind Lamont with Dieula and Williamson, and I supported his right leg while squeezing his hand. Williamson poured water over Lamont's head and washed his face while Dieula sang church songs and prayed. I can't imagine how bad that trip down was for Lamont. And just as we were almost to Rue Frere, where the road is paved and smooth, we saw a big Mack truck broken down, blocking our way, and we had to back track and find another road, even more rocky, around the blockage.
We finally made it to HCH. We parked in front of the emergency room entrance and Mom ran in to get someone. Then we saw her run back out and head to the front entrance. Puzzling. Diane, one of the group members who came to Haiti with Lamont, was in the back of the van and got out and went to help Mom find a doctor. They returned in 20 minutes with a volunteer nurse from North Carolina. Turns out the reception at the emergency room told Mom there was no room for anyone and on top of that, didn't even get up to see what was going on. Mom asked if there were any American doctors there and was told no. Turns out, if you go into the front entrance of the hospital, the place is teeming with American medical workers. I was enraged. I mean, come on. If you're going to have an emergency room open, have a care, have a doctor there, something.
Anyway, the nurse, Nicole, got some of her volunteer team to get a gurney and got Lamont situated in the doctor's lounge of the hospital. She got Lamont hooked up to an IV, took his blood pressure and announced that it was too low to give him any narcotics. Damn! She needed some 10 cc syringes, and sent Mom to go look in the bulk storage closet. Meanwhile, Nicole sent me to get some test tubes for blood samples from the lab downstairs. Now, I have been fortunate enough not to have much hospital experience but I'm pretty sure this doesn't happen in the States. I ran downstairs to the lab, rang the doorbell several times, and when after I got no response I just opened the door to the lab and asked one of the technicians for the tests that Nicole needed. Back upstairs, Nicole drew Lamont's blood, sent me back down to the lab with it and specific instructions for several blood tests that I needed to have her write down for me, then translate to the lab tech in Creole, then was told that they didn't have the capability to do all of the tests Nicole wanted done. Well, at least they could do a malaria smear but it would take a day to get the results. Then I was sent to Radiology to schedule the x-ray for Lamont.
One obstacle to getting proper care for Lamont was that he hadn't actually been admitted into the hospital but was only being treated there by the American nurses. So when I asked for blood tests and an x-ray, the lab and the radiology department wanted to see his hospital slip. But hello! They pretty much turned us away at the emergency room so we had to do what we had to do. Mom and I just sweet-talked them into getting the blood tests and the x-ray done though, pretty, pretty please. Since Lamont hadn't been given any pain killer since he got to the hospital, he had to bear the cot ride downstairs again (literally, since there is no elevator) and endure the sheet pull manuever to get him onto the horrendously outdated x-ray machine. Curiously, the x-rays didn't show anything broken in his back or hip or femur.
Once back up in the doctor's lounge, Lamont conked out from lack of sleep the previous night and from the exhaustion of the trip and the pain, and it was only noon. Mom and Diane left to go to the airport to change his ticket because he was supposed to be leaving that day to go home. I was left to take care of him. Because he also had diarrhea, his sleep was short-lived. He had to brave the pain in order to get up to use the bathroom, and I could only feel the utmost sympathy because I could see how painful it was for him to move. I had to be very deliberate to help him off the bed. The bathroom seemed about a mile away because there were no wheelchairs, just an office chair with wheels and I had to manuever that out the door while holding his IV and go down the hall, lift him up again and shuffle piggyback to the toilet.
We got him situated in a bare, but private room downstairs, which actually had a bathroom, although the toilet handle was missing and the only way to flush the toilet was to take the top of the tank and lift the plug manually. The room had lots of mosquitos so I sprayed the walls and sheets with mosquito spray. Since the nurses were busy, I went upstairs and raided the storage closet for a bed pan, some soap and a towel for the room. We finally got some pain pills around 5 because Nicole found his blood pressure to be high enough. Diane and Mom called, saying that there was an emergency and they needed to go pick up some other people who'd just had a car accident, and so I stayed at the hospital until Diane came to relieve me at 10 p.m. Let me just note that Lamont had not been seen by a doctor yet, just a nurse, Nicole, who at least taught me how to change the IV bag and monitor the drip rate before she left for the night. Oh, and then there was pretty much no medical staff there at night.
Yesterday morning Mom and I came back to the hospital bright and early to discover that Lamont still had a fever, still in great pain, and heard stories from Diane about the rats that tried to come in the room all night. I relieved her from hospital duty and she and Mom left to go back to the airport to try to change Lamont's ticket again, and if that didn't work, the American embassy. This time Sarah, Dieula's daughter, had come along to help out and was my company and teammate for the care of Lamont. She was amazing. By noon, though, we hadn't seen anyone come by to check on him, so I was out exploring the hospital, remarkably empty, but it was Sunday. I had just returned a pair of scissors to the clinich and got to talking to some American nurses who, once they realized that Lamont wasn't being attended, immediately jumped to action and gave him iv injections for nausea, which thankfully put him to sleep, as well as extra electrolytes and antibiotics. I think everyone had thought that Diane was a doctor, since she was wearing clothes that resembled scrubs, so they assumed he was being cared for already. And since he was an "admitted" patient, no Haitian doctors, if there were any, stopped in. But as soon as the nurses found out, they worked their magic and we finally got a flurry of activity coming in, including a nurse called Melanie who totally took it upon herself to network and find a flight for Lamont on Tuesday in a small aircraft to Florida.
In the meantime, he had to be stable enough to be transported, which means he had to spend another night in the hospital, which Sarah and I both agreed we would spend with him. We found two chairs apiece and somehow slept. The night was pretty uneventful, with Lamont so doped up he slept most of the night, with one trip to the bathroom. No rats came in sight, but there were plenty of mosquitos. Morning came with Diane and Mom and nurse Melanie and news that Lamont could get on a plane to Florida on Tuesday. I left for Gwo Jan around noon to shower and nap, write this up, grab Lamont's suitcase and things, and head back down to the hospital.
On top of the exhaustion though, I think all I feel right now is just gratitude to those volunteer nurses who came to our rescue. Thank you for coming to Haiti!
One of the guys in the group that Mom has been hosting for the past week here in Gwo Jan, Lamont, fell down onto his back while getting out the van at one of our stops on Thursday. He waved it off like any young man would, saying he just tweaked his knee. I didn't see the incident though, but I was told by one of our companions that he had landed on his back. Friday morning, as we were preparing to leave to go to Leogane, the epicenter of the earthquake and a great tourist attraction these days (I say facetiously), Lamont complained that his lower back was a little sore, like he had slept on it wrong. He took a couple aspirin and we went on our way. After the hour-long drive, we stopped at a gas station in Leogane and some of the Gwo Jan guys who came with us (more about them later, it's a group of young men who organized themselves to help with rebuilding efforts) tried to help Lamont stretch his back because they thought it must be a sore muscle or something. The stretching didn't help.
Lamont's back felt worse and worse on the way back to Port-au-Prince, and by the time we got out of the car in Gwo Jan, he could barely walk because of the pain and needed assistance to get down the stairs to our house. He was laid on one of the beds in "my" room, where I've been sleeping but also sharing with the group since they left their bags in there and have been using it to shower and brush teeth and collect themselves every day. He said his left hip in the back was really hurting him, and he was in constant pain even lying down and not moving. We gave him some pain killers and I tried to make him comfortable. I tried looking up back pain on Google but the internet had decided to check out for the day (a frequent occurance which is why I haven't been updating this blog very much). I put a pillow between his knees and put him into a fetal position. He could barely move without yelling about the pain at this point. I slept fitfully. He called me to help him to the bathroom, and I think at this point I realized that if a 26-year-old man from Brooklyn was desperate enough to need me to carry him to the toilet (it was actually more a piggy back ride/shuffle), then we definitely needed to get him to a hospital. He felt really hot to the touch too, and when I finally dragged him back to bed he started vomiting. Uh oh.
In the morning, as the news spread that beloved Lamont was sick (everyone has fallen in love with him here), it seemed like all of Gwo Jan was in the bedroom with him to check in on him. Haitians don't really have a thought for privacy when it comes to sickness, by the way. They'll just come right on in and look at you lying there. But it's really just their way of showing they care.
They arranged for a van to come up and take him down to the hospital, and they put a mattress and blankets over the front seat so Lamont could lie down in semi comfort. Dad, Williamson, Najee and someone else carried Lamont up to the van and put in, hollering the whole time from the excruciating pain of being moved. I thought he had broken his back.
Dieula started crying, Williamson and me and Mom were crying, because the sounds that issued from Lamont were so heartbreaking, and everyone in the van with us knew that the bumpy road ahead of us down the mountain was going to be cruel. Our driver tried as hard as he could to go slow, but that road seems to be made of boulders and ravines on a good day. Pastor Bazin, a neighbor, on his knees on the front makeshift bed, supported Lamont's torso with his arms the whole way down, while Mom, in the passenger seat in front, faced backwards and supported Lamont's left leg. I sat in the seat behind Lamont with Dieula and Williamson, and I supported his right leg while squeezing his hand. Williamson poured water over Lamont's head and washed his face while Dieula sang church songs and prayed. I can't imagine how bad that trip down was for Lamont. And just as we were almost to Rue Frere, where the road is paved and smooth, we saw a big Mack truck broken down, blocking our way, and we had to back track and find another road, even more rocky, around the blockage.
We finally made it to HCH. We parked in front of the emergency room entrance and Mom ran in to get someone. Then we saw her run back out and head to the front entrance. Puzzling. Diane, one of the group members who came to Haiti with Lamont, was in the back of the van and got out and went to help Mom find a doctor. They returned in 20 minutes with a volunteer nurse from North Carolina. Turns out the reception at the emergency room told Mom there was no room for anyone and on top of that, didn't even get up to see what was going on. Mom asked if there were any American doctors there and was told no. Turns out, if you go into the front entrance of the hospital, the place is teeming with American medical workers. I was enraged. I mean, come on. If you're going to have an emergency room open, have a care, have a doctor there, something.
Anyway, the nurse, Nicole, got some of her volunteer team to get a gurney and got Lamont situated in the doctor's lounge of the hospital. She got Lamont hooked up to an IV, took his blood pressure and announced that it was too low to give him any narcotics. Damn! She needed some 10 cc syringes, and sent Mom to go look in the bulk storage closet. Meanwhile, Nicole sent me to get some test tubes for blood samples from the lab downstairs. Now, I have been fortunate enough not to have much hospital experience but I'm pretty sure this doesn't happen in the States. I ran downstairs to the lab, rang the doorbell several times, and when after I got no response I just opened the door to the lab and asked one of the technicians for the tests that Nicole needed. Back upstairs, Nicole drew Lamont's blood, sent me back down to the lab with it and specific instructions for several blood tests that I needed to have her write down for me, then translate to the lab tech in Creole, then was told that they didn't have the capability to do all of the tests Nicole wanted done. Well, at least they could do a malaria smear but it would take a day to get the results. Then I was sent to Radiology to schedule the x-ray for Lamont.
One obstacle to getting proper care for Lamont was that he hadn't actually been admitted into the hospital but was only being treated there by the American nurses. So when I asked for blood tests and an x-ray, the lab and the radiology department wanted to see his hospital slip. But hello! They pretty much turned us away at the emergency room so we had to do what we had to do. Mom and I just sweet-talked them into getting the blood tests and the x-ray done though, pretty, pretty please. Since Lamont hadn't been given any pain killer since he got to the hospital, he had to bear the cot ride downstairs again (literally, since there is no elevator) and endure the sheet pull manuever to get him onto the horrendously outdated x-ray machine. Curiously, the x-rays didn't show anything broken in his back or hip or femur.
Once back up in the doctor's lounge, Lamont conked out from lack of sleep the previous night and from the exhaustion of the trip and the pain, and it was only noon. Mom and Diane left to go to the airport to change his ticket because he was supposed to be leaving that day to go home. I was left to take care of him. Because he also had diarrhea, his sleep was short-lived. He had to brave the pain in order to get up to use the bathroom, and I could only feel the utmost sympathy because I could see how painful it was for him to move. I had to be very deliberate to help him off the bed. The bathroom seemed about a mile away because there were no wheelchairs, just an office chair with wheels and I had to manuever that out the door while holding his IV and go down the hall, lift him up again and shuffle piggyback to the toilet.
We got him situated in a bare, but private room downstairs, which actually had a bathroom, although the toilet handle was missing and the only way to flush the toilet was to take the top of the tank and lift the plug manually. The room had lots of mosquitos so I sprayed the walls and sheets with mosquito spray. Since the nurses were busy, I went upstairs and raided the storage closet for a bed pan, some soap and a towel for the room. We finally got some pain pills around 5 because Nicole found his blood pressure to be high enough. Diane and Mom called, saying that there was an emergency and they needed to go pick up some other people who'd just had a car accident, and so I stayed at the hospital until Diane came to relieve me at 10 p.m. Let me just note that Lamont had not been seen by a doctor yet, just a nurse, Nicole, who at least taught me how to change the IV bag and monitor the drip rate before she left for the night. Oh, and then there was pretty much no medical staff there at night.
Yesterday morning Mom and I came back to the hospital bright and early to discover that Lamont still had a fever, still in great pain, and heard stories from Diane about the rats that tried to come in the room all night. I relieved her from hospital duty and she and Mom left to go back to the airport to try to change Lamont's ticket again, and if that didn't work, the American embassy. This time Sarah, Dieula's daughter, had come along to help out and was my company and teammate for the care of Lamont. She was amazing. By noon, though, we hadn't seen anyone come by to check on him, so I was out exploring the hospital, remarkably empty, but it was Sunday. I had just returned a pair of scissors to the clinich and got to talking to some American nurses who, once they realized that Lamont wasn't being attended, immediately jumped to action and gave him iv injections for nausea, which thankfully put him to sleep, as well as extra electrolytes and antibiotics. I think everyone had thought that Diane was a doctor, since she was wearing clothes that resembled scrubs, so they assumed he was being cared for already. And since he was an "admitted" patient, no Haitian doctors, if there were any, stopped in. But as soon as the nurses found out, they worked their magic and we finally got a flurry of activity coming in, including a nurse called Melanie who totally took it upon herself to network and find a flight for Lamont on Tuesday in a small aircraft to Florida.
In the meantime, he had to be stable enough to be transported, which means he had to spend another night in the hospital, which Sarah and I both agreed we would spend with him. We found two chairs apiece and somehow slept. The night was pretty uneventful, with Lamont so doped up he slept most of the night, with one trip to the bathroom. No rats came in sight, but there were plenty of mosquitos. Morning came with Diane and Mom and nurse Melanie and news that Lamont could get on a plane to Florida on Tuesday. I left for Gwo Jan around noon to shower and nap, write this up, grab Lamont's suitcase and things, and head back down to the hospital.
On top of the exhaustion though, I think all I feel right now is just gratitude to those volunteer nurses who came to our rescue. Thank you for coming to Haiti!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Yesterday Mom and I picked up a group of four fresh from the States. After leaving the trauma center that is the airport, we went immediately up to Gwo Jan with them. Mom did her whole tour spiel with details about the area we were passing through, which bypasses the city but goes past President Aristid's old house and an ancient sugar plantation which has been made into a museum, so there's lots to see on the way besides quake damage. The visitors are Lamont, a young man from Brooklyn, Pat and Dave, two art teachers from a college in Pennsylvania, and Diane, a pastor and advocate. Diane and Dave had visited Haiti before the quake and felt compelled to come again to see the country again now, and Lamont and Pat decided to come with them. They brought some big tents with them and set one up on some land not far from my parents' house, right beside the tents of the families who live there. The women who live there made a huge pot of tea on a small charcoal fire outside, so after the visitors' tent was set up, the local guys brought some benches for the growing crowd to sit around the pot of tea. By this time though, only Pat and Dave were awake, but they sat and talked to the group about why they had come to Haiti and what Haiti meant to them. Pat asked them to introduce themselves, and Woutson brought a candle out and lit it so each person could hold it as they introduced themselves because it was dark and the only light was the charcoal fire. Introductions were hilarious. It was hard for most to keep a straight face as they introduced themselves, because their neighbors and friends would tease them and laugh at them, and at times they wouldn't be able to talk for laughing so hard. After introductions, the candle was placed on a rock and the jokes started. Krik, Krak, tim tim, pwa sech. Then one of the matriarchs that was there, Margaret, said that everyone should stand and tell their own stories about what happened to them and where they were when the event happened on the 12th of January.
I can't retell all the stories they told here. Most of them didn't know what the heck was happening when the earth trembled beneath their feet and rattled the tin roofs over their heads. Some thought the world was ending, that those were their last moments. The stories that were the most horrendous were those told by the men who had been in Port-au-Prince during the earthquake. They saw so many deaths, so many horrible things. They had to step over body after body. They saw people stuck half in, half out of buildings, screaming. Just the fact that those two men recounting their stories could still walk around and talk normally after living through something like that is incredible.
I can't retell all the stories they told here. Most of them didn't know what the heck was happening when the earth trembled beneath their feet and rattled the tin roofs over their heads. Some thought the world was ending, that those were their last moments. The stories that were the most horrendous were those told by the men who had been in Port-au-Prince during the earthquake. They saw so many deaths, so many horrible things. They had to step over body after body. They saw people stuck half in, half out of buildings, screaming. Just the fact that those two men recounting their stories could still walk around and talk normally after living through something like that is incredible.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Church at night
The community church has been destroyed by the earthquake so there are services held outside. There was a sort of a revival thing going on where services were on every night of the week.
Church at night
Church at night
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Update!
I've been caught in a whirlwind of activity since I stepped off the plane, and I haven't had a lot of time to finish posting on here, but today I finally have time, electricity and internet to get 'er done.
I worked all day yesterday to put more photos on the first post since I've been here but the internet was so slow that I would have to walk away from the computer and do something else for a while, then come back 15 minutes later, and it would still be uploading a photo. I tried all day and accomplished nothing, so the post about the "Olympic Village" may have been confusing in the state it was in with some photos but no explanation, but there was nothing I could do about it so my apologies to anyone who was confused about it. I've also changed the name of the blog to Ale Retou, which means there and back, because I thought the title "A Trip to Post-Earthquake Haiti" was pretty uninspired and lame-o.
Anyway, I'm told the internet can be adversely affected by cloud cover. Today we had a nice clear sky so the internet was fast.
Missing my family back in the States but I'm so glad I'm here right now too.
I worked all day yesterday to put more photos on the first post since I've been here but the internet was so slow that I would have to walk away from the computer and do something else for a while, then come back 15 minutes later, and it would still be uploading a photo. I tried all day and accomplished nothing, so the post about the "Olympic Village" may have been confusing in the state it was in with some photos but no explanation, but there was nothing I could do about it so my apologies to anyone who was confused about it. I've also changed the name of the blog to Ale Retou, which means there and back, because I thought the title "A Trip to Post-Earthquake Haiti" was pretty uninspired and lame-o.
Anyway, I'm told the internet can be adversely affected by cloud cover. Today we had a nice clear sky so the internet was fast.
Missing my family back in the States but I'm so glad I'm here right now too.
Disaster tourism
Mom and I went with Hannah and profs to see downtown, to the national palace and the area around there. I call this activity "disaster tourism" because with our cameras and our sandals and our white skin, I'm sure we looked exactly like tourists you can find anywhere else in the world on vacation. Except instead of wildlife or the beach, we were taking photos of buildings and people destroyed by the earthquake. And we weren't the only ones. There was almost a gaggle of Americans near the national palace taking pictures, and a busload of foreign nurses were dropped off near us at the cathedrale as we were leaving. I do want to go back to take photos of the damaged buildings, but maybe next time I'll go more low-pro and just walk around on my own.
Obama we need change.
A tent city by the national palace.
The national palace.
Documents in the rubble of the office of the Minister of Public Health.
A suit and a dress hang from the entrance to what were the offices of the Minister of Finance.
The ruins of the Ministry of Justice. Mom said it was the Ministry of Injustice, now it's had it's own justice.
The tax offices.
Walking up to the national cathedral.
Inside the cathedral.
Laundry hanging on the fence around the cathedral.
Hannah looks at the ruin that once was St. Trinity Episcopal church, a historic building that had these amazing paintings on the walls.
Mom looks at the ground after taking some photos of inside St. Trinity's.
Another view of St. Trinity's.
Obama we need change.
A tent city by the national palace.
The national palace.
Documents in the rubble of the office of the Minister of Public Health.
A suit and a dress hang from the entrance to what were the offices of the Minister of Finance.
The ruins of the Ministry of Justice. Mom said it was the Ministry of Injustice, now it's had it's own justice.
The tax offices.
Walking up to the national cathedral.
Inside the cathedral.
Laundry hanging on the fence around the cathedral.
Hannah looks at the ruin that once was St. Trinity Episcopal church, a historic building that had these amazing paintings on the walls.
Mom looks at the ground after taking some photos of inside St. Trinity's.
Another view of St. Trinity's.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
The Olympic Village
So, this first post was kind of jacked by the slow internet connection at my parents' house. I uploaded a few photos and then it stopped working, and I couldn't really fix it until today, between there being no electricity and Mom grabbing me to go visit the neighbors. I was going to write a big introduction but I think I'll just caption these photos...
My cup of cafe con leche for breakfast at Sabor Latino, a small restaurant by the airport Mariott Hotel in Miami where I spent Friday night, sharing a room with Hannah. I had to take a photo of this because I've been craving me some Cuban coffee since I last went through Miami. It's the highlight of the long trip, let me tell you. I woke up an hour earlier than Hannah and walked over just to get a taste before we had to
catch the shuttle back to the airport for the last leg of the trip, into Port-au-Prince.
We went directly to the MINUSTAH (UN) compound from the airport. Hannah had hired a driver, Olga, who drove us over to the UN compound, which is actually right next to the airport. Mom had some trouble coming to get me so I tagged along with Hannah. They were going to attend a cluster socio-psyche ngo meeting, and then go up to Gwo Jan.
This is Hannah Hoover walking with psychologist Gary and anthropologist John, the two professors from her college in Chicago.
Where Hannah and profs had a cluster meeting with the social-psyche ngos. I sat in for a little bit but then decided to wander around until they were done. I was a little nervous that someone would stop me and ask what I was doing taking photos of the compound, but no one did. Maybe it's because I have ninja-like skills in creeping around places from my newspaper days.
This is the cafe for the ngo relief workers, soldiers, etc, that live and work in the UN compound. Hannah very cynically called this area the "Olympic Village."
A crane lifts a modular shelter into place in the MINUSTAH compound. It will serve as an office or dwelling for an NGO.
The UN soldiers' tents.
A sign listing methods of dealing with post-trauma. These posters were up all over the place.
On one side, Haiti, the other side, MINUSTAH. Barbed wire in between.
The United Nations flag, which Gary and I thought was very symbolically caught on the barbed wire that lines the wall surrounding the compound.
We didn't stop again until we reached Gwo Jan after we left the UN compound. I sniped this photo from the car of a building wrecked by the earthquake.
Another completely destroyed building.
A tent city. Everywhere people are afraid to sleep in their houses, especially if their roofs are made of cement. Even if their house is still standing, no one wants to take the chance.
My cup of cafe con leche for breakfast at Sabor Latino, a small restaurant by the airport Mariott Hotel in Miami where I spent Friday night, sharing a room with Hannah. I had to take a photo of this because I've been craving me some Cuban coffee since I last went through Miami. It's the highlight of the long trip, let me tell you. I woke up an hour earlier than Hannah and walked over just to get a taste before we had to
catch the shuttle back to the airport for the last leg of the trip, into Port-au-Prince.
We went directly to the MINUSTAH (UN) compound from the airport. Hannah had hired a driver, Olga, who drove us over to the UN compound, which is actually right next to the airport. Mom had some trouble coming to get me so I tagged along with Hannah. They were going to attend a cluster socio-psyche ngo meeting, and then go up to Gwo Jan.
This is Hannah Hoover walking with psychologist Gary and anthropologist John, the two professors from her college in Chicago.
Where Hannah and profs had a cluster meeting with the social-psyche ngos. I sat in for a little bit but then decided to wander around until they were done. I was a little nervous that someone would stop me and ask what I was doing taking photos of the compound, but no one did. Maybe it's because I have ninja-like skills in creeping around places from my newspaper days.
This is the cafe for the ngo relief workers, soldiers, etc, that live and work in the UN compound. Hannah very cynically called this area the "Olympic Village."
A crane lifts a modular shelter into place in the MINUSTAH compound. It will serve as an office or dwelling for an NGO.
The UN soldiers' tents.
A sign listing methods of dealing with post-trauma. These posters were up all over the place.
On one side, Haiti, the other side, MINUSTAH. Barbed wire in between.
The United Nations flag, which Gary and I thought was very symbolically caught on the barbed wire that lines the wall surrounding the compound.
We didn't stop again until we reached Gwo Jan after we left the UN compound. I sniped this photo from the car of a building wrecked by the earthquake.
Another completely destroyed building.
A tent city. Everywhere people are afraid to sleep in their houses, especially if their roofs are made of cement. Even if their house is still standing, no one wants to take the chance.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Flight Plan
I leave Denver on the 26th at 3:45 p.m., land in Miami around 11 p.m. I plan on meeting up with a family friend, Hannah, who is graciously sharing her hotel room with me before our flight to Port-au-Prince the next morning. Hannah works for the Children's Place, a Chicago-based organization that works to help families living with HIV/AIDS. I am grateful to be able to tag along with her, and planned my trip around hers so that I could fly in with someone and wouldn't be completely flying solo into post-earthquake Haiti. Although I have done that before in better times, and felt perfectly safe doing that, I wouldn't feel great about it this time for obvious reasons. I think a lot of family members feel better about my going now that I will be meeting up with someone else.
Two days to go, and the preparations are pretty much occupying all of my free time. I have so many supplies to bring, mostly donated by coworkers and friends, that I don't really know how it will all fit in my suitcases. I think I need Mary Poppins' carpet bag.
Two days to go, and the preparations are pretty much occupying all of my free time. I have so many supplies to bring, mostly donated by coworkers and friends, that I don't really know how it will all fit in my suitcases. I think I need Mary Poppins' carpet bag.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The catastrophe before the catastrophe
Written by Carla Bluntschli
Loved ones of ours,
Today Feb 11, the day before the month marker of this "event" (as it is commonly referred to now) which will begin a 3 day national time of prayer and fasting, normally the pre-carnival time 12th-14th, was one of the lowest days so far for me.
I am deeply grateful as an undeserving human who was not buried in the rubble of a planetary shakedown. We were somehow spared even as the church just a few yards above our house crashed, pancaking on itself during those fatal seconds. Fortunately, no one was within its unsuspecting death-chamber-like walls, but I am still reeling from the truth of the real disaster as it reveals itself out of the dust.
The ensuing chaos continues to be upon us. It almost feels immoral or unjust to me (is this survival guilt?), having been spared death, physical suffering or any loss of property through the quake but now even more so as the threatening clouds of the rainy season promise more disaster for the thousands cast out unceremoniously into the streets by this catastrophic itch in the underskin of mother earth. This year those long awaited rains for the expectant farmers to plant and the welcome relief to the months of tongue coating dust film, (now mixed with cement and human remains), seems more like a death certificate awaiting those who have not been fortunate enough yet to get a tent or just a tarp. Many families are sleeping with only a cotton sheet and scraps of plastic between themselves, their children and the cold evening downpours that will surely provoke sickness and more suffering will inevitably follow.
These crushed concrete schools, churches, businesses, homes have turned into spontaneous tombs for the unretrievable bodies of loved ones decaying in undignified cricumstances. But, for me, the spiritual weight of all these instantaneously snuffed out lives is much heavier than the concrete and steel that smothers them.
This photo is of one of my best friend's front "yard", a place I've known for years, having visited a jillion times though always focusing on the beauty of laughter and the energy of life to blot out the sewage smell and uncleanable environment, the material deprivation in this ghostown ghetto was stark. This forced exodus from these once hot crowded spoonfuls of earth lay naked the truth of unbridled greed that crushed people into these conditions by an economic catastrophe that has been going on for generations. This photo is simple, but perhaps it can help tell the story of the lives and dreams of thousands of lives of loved ones crammed into the virtual fissures of bare cinderblock destined to having their bones and breath suffocated out of existence in a mere few seconds.
The uncomfortable question as to why an earthquake could kill the horrific numbers of people compared to earthquakes of equal seismic shock was asked during the Discovery program shown the other night. As the documentary camera zoomed into the rubble of Port-au-Prince, the condemning evidence of snapped off corner posts of schools and houses where too few bars of metal and sacks of cement were used in their construction gave some hints that should us squirm. The economic choices that parents in these types of neighborhoods are constantly pressured into making is that they literally sacrifice themselves to pay for their children's education at the expense of their own housing. This cosmic shudder exposed the worst of our human spiritual condition, stuffing a major part of humanity (most major cities have similar situations, but to a lesser degree) into indecent cracks and edges of life with no real choices. It has exposed an ancient catastrophe of racism, prejudice, exploitation and greed that exploded into this cataclysmic catastrophe of unjust proportions. There's no more hiding behind the thin curtains of laughter any more, the wails of grief have torn it away.
As I drove by a temporary shelter camp made up in a park in one of the richer neighborhoods of Petionville the other day, I saw an older man
stooping by the curb having found an unusually clean bit of water running in the gutter to scrub out his small washcloth. I thought about not looking at him allowing him my respect for his privacy in a somewhat humiliating circumstance, but I was impelled to see him and to have him see me understanding our mutual humanity in the seconds of our passing glances. He smiled with eyes glistening into my own and cast out his hands in simple resignation.
N a Sonje
"We Will Remember"
Carla
Loved ones of ours,
Today Feb 11, the day before the month marker of this "event" (as it is commonly referred to now) which will begin a 3 day national time of prayer and fasting, normally the pre-carnival time 12th-14th, was one of the lowest days so far for me.
I am deeply grateful as an undeserving human who was not buried in the rubble of a planetary shakedown. We were somehow spared even as the church just a few yards above our house crashed, pancaking on itself during those fatal seconds. Fortunately, no one was within its unsuspecting death-chamber-like walls, but I am still reeling from the truth of the real disaster as it reveals itself out of the dust.
The ensuing chaos continues to be upon us. It almost feels immoral or unjust to me (is this survival guilt?), having been spared death, physical suffering or any loss of property through the quake but now even more so as the threatening clouds of the rainy season promise more disaster for the thousands cast out unceremoniously into the streets by this catastrophic itch in the underskin of mother earth. This year those long awaited rains for the expectant farmers to plant and the welcome relief to the months of tongue coating dust film, (now mixed with cement and human remains), seems more like a death certificate awaiting those who have not been fortunate enough yet to get a tent or just a tarp. Many families are sleeping with only a cotton sheet and scraps of plastic between themselves, their children and the cold evening downpours that will surely provoke sickness and more suffering will inevitably follow.
These crushed concrete schools, churches, businesses, homes have turned into spontaneous tombs for the unretrievable bodies of loved ones decaying in undignified cricumstances. But, for me, the spiritual weight of all these instantaneously snuffed out lives is much heavier than the concrete and steel that smothers them.
This photo is of one of my best friend's front "yard", a place I've known for years, having visited a jillion times though always focusing on the beauty of laughter and the energy of life to blot out the sewage smell and uncleanable environment, the material deprivation in this ghostown ghetto was stark. This forced exodus from these once hot crowded spoonfuls of earth lay naked the truth of unbridled greed that crushed people into these conditions by an economic catastrophe that has been going on for generations. This photo is simple, but perhaps it can help tell the story of the lives and dreams of thousands of lives of loved ones crammed into the virtual fissures of bare cinderblock destined to having their bones and breath suffocated out of existence in a mere few seconds.
The uncomfortable question as to why an earthquake could kill the horrific numbers of people compared to earthquakes of equal seismic shock was asked during the Discovery program shown the other night. As the documentary camera zoomed into the rubble of Port-au-Prince, the condemning evidence of snapped off corner posts of schools and houses where too few bars of metal and sacks of cement were used in their construction gave some hints that should us squirm. The economic choices that parents in these types of neighborhoods are constantly pressured into making is that they literally sacrifice themselves to pay for their children's education at the expense of their own housing. This cosmic shudder exposed the worst of our human spiritual condition, stuffing a major part of humanity (most major cities have similar situations, but to a lesser degree) into indecent cracks and edges of life with no real choices. It has exposed an ancient catastrophe of racism, prejudice, exploitation and greed that exploded into this cataclysmic catastrophe of unjust proportions. There's no more hiding behind the thin curtains of laughter any more, the wails of grief have torn it away.
As I drove by a temporary shelter camp made up in a park in one of the richer neighborhoods of Petionville the other day, I saw an older man
stooping by the curb having found an unusually clean bit of water running in the gutter to scrub out his small washcloth. I thought about not looking at him allowing him my respect for his privacy in a somewhat humiliating circumstance, but I was impelled to see him and to have him see me understanding our mutual humanity in the seconds of our passing glances. He smiled with eyes glistening into my own and cast out his hands in simple resignation.
N a Sonje
"We Will Remember"
Carla
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
To go to Haiti
Th purpose of this blog is to inform family and friends about my trip to Haiti after the earthquake. My parents, who have lived in Haiti for 25 years, survived the earthquake and are now helping the community where they live to organize rebuilding and distributing aid. Their house, guesthouse and yard, all amazingly intact, are filled with people whose homes were destroyed. I am going to spend the month of March there with them, and do what I can to help. They live in Gwo Jan, which means "Big John" in Creole, a provincial area east of Petionville, a suburb of Port-au-Prince.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
