Our first guests have arrived, my boss and his wife. They got here safely and their bags were found after a short time of searching and waiting. Typical for Haiti. Saturday morning myself, Dr. Manno, Jeff and Darlene headed off to Port au Prince. I hadn’t been looking forward to the trip the week leading up to it and was hoping that it would be cancelled as the connections weren’t confirmed until late Friday afternoon.
The drive there was long and somewhat painful. I didn’t realize the first couple hours would be around the mountains with lots of potholes. The potholes I was expecting, the weaving and mountain driving I was not. Thankfully my “parents” had grabbed the AirCanada puke bags on their journey down and allowed me to use one. So gross. The rest of the trip was more enjoyable. Good conversations, different landscape and much to see. What caught me along the way was one portion of the road that was all gravel and rocks. The mountains were bare. There were no trees. It looked like they hadn’t gotten rain for years. All the cacti and other things along the road were grey. Everything looked dead, no life there. I didn’t see any vegetable gardens, no rice fields, nothing. I have no idea what those people in the community lived on. It was the picture of lifelessness. Barren. Death.
When we arrived in Port Manno picked up an old school friend who worked at the national palace who would help us navigate around to find our meetings and our place to stay. We saw some of the devastation along the way but nothing was setting in. We stayed with a pastor along with some other guests. We had planned to sleep together in a tent outside with a sheet we’d brought after eating only breakfast and granola bars along the way, but this family opened their home and their food to us. I felt truly blessed to be there. Lying in bed I imagined the ceiling coming down on me. Why was this house still standing? Why is this family still alive? The people outside who are singing and talking and sleeping, who have they lost? Where will they get food? How will find anything to sell? Where will they go? What is their future?
The next morning we drove downtown to see the national palace and more of the city. The streets were empty. Buildings were collapsed among buildings still standing. People were still trying to sell things on the street. Riding motorcycles to their destinations. Washing their clothes. Cooking food on a small flame. This sense of normalcy among the devastation was paralyzing. The streets. Empty. Thousands and thousands dead. What should have been streets filled with people, life, was filled with nothing. It took us no time to get through downtown Port. We were told it should have taken 2-3 hours. We attempted to get a tour of the national palace thanks to our new friend Max who was along for the ride, but were unable to as it was Sunday morning and the individuals who handed out the visitor passes was not there. Parked behind the palace in the restricted area we saw the US soldiers bathing under a hose that was rigged up over what looked like an old swing set.
A man approached Max while we were waiting and all he was asking for was water. He was in the palace when it collapsed and escaped. His house was demolished. And all he asked for was water. We gave him a bottle and he was satisfied. 1 bottle of water. And yet behind him a ways over were stacks of boxes of water for the soldiers. He has nothing, and all asked for was water.
The pictures and my stories don’t begin to explain the situation. No amount of pictures that I looked at prior to my returning to Haiti or watching of CNN for hours at a time will ever give you the understanding of this cities state. There is nothing. No hope. We saw trucks and a few machines there to remove the rubble, but where do you put it? How do you clean up an entire city? Where do people go? What will people do? Many have fled to other communities where friends or family live. Others apply for jobs in the DR and relocate their family. Other apply for the USA or Canada to start a new life. Max will try to get his family to Canada. A man who is in charge of communication at the national palace isn’t even taken care of. A government employee now has no job and no money. This is someone who you would think would be taken care of. And yet he didn’t have money to buy propane. I didn’t find this out until we returned home.
The Eben-Ezer Clinic will bring aid down there every second weekend for the next 3 months. There is a small community of people that have gathered in an enclosed yard. There are approximately 500 families living in this tiny compound. We brought a few big bags of rice, some Reliv (nutritional powdered drinks), a few tents and tarps. It was only a test to see how safe it would be. Thankfully we had Max with us (and his hidden gun) and everything went off smoothly. Many from the clinic and this community will return to do a mobile clinic and distribute food, clothes, and other supplies. This is only a small community and a small thing, but it’s what this Haitian community in Haut Limbé is capable of doing. And so it’s Haitians helping Haitians.
I wish I could take away all the pain here. I wish I could erase so much of the past. I wish I could change their future. So many have no hope for their country. They know their history. They know their government. They know their people. Every day I ask myself what I am doing here. Every day I’m reminded of the answer. There are people that are sick that need medication. There are people that are hungry that need food. There are people that have no houses, or have houses but are to traumatized to return to them. People without parents. Parents without kids. Darkness without hope. A past with no future. There is so much pain and suffering here, even amongst the smiling faces. Everyone has a story. A story of struggle and pain and heartache. What are we doing to help?
