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.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
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
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