*Editors Sylvie Barak and Marc Speir are in Haiti this week, filming a documentary about the rebuilding of the impoverished country’s telecom infrastructure over a year after the quake. Barak and Speir are exploring how mobile helped those in the wake of the disaster and how NGOs and non profits on the ground are continuing to work relentlessly to train, maintain and rebuild. The following thoughts are not necessarily telecom based, but give our readers a glimpse into a day in the life of our reporters*
PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti – From above, we descended on Haiti through the scattered puffy clouds, as the island’s lush green mountains rolled into view. As our flight descended further, the corrugated blue roofs of the slums, peppered paradoxically with pretty palms peeped into view – sunlight bouncing off the tin and bits of metal holding Port Au Prince’s ramshackle accommodation together.
Through the mist we could see the tents, interspersed with bouts of bougainvillea in pinks and oranges.
Coming down with a bump at Toussaint Louverture International airport, we exited the plane only to be met with a wave of humid, heavy air, tinged with the smell of smoke.
Marc was stressed out. “The e-mail says we’re not supposed to let anyone touch our stuff,” he kept muttering at me as we made our way to the bus on the tarmac. “And they’re going to hassle us to get in their taxi,” he added. “Well, we have a driver coming to meet us, so I reckon we’ll withstand the pressure,” I sighed, trying to keep my Texan colleague calm.
Immigration and Customs, which included a steel drum band and banjo ensemble sponsored by telecom provider Digicel, was actually a pleasant affair. Wooden crates with smiling officials inside stamping passports nonchalantly gave way to a baggage hall where our bags were already waiting. “That’s service you don’t even see as a Continental Silver Elite passenger,” I marveled, as Marc grumbled “they said we shouldn’t let anyone touch our stuff!”
“Stuff” in tow we emerged into the chaos of cajoling taxi drivers. Persistent is not a strong enough word. “Non merci, non merci, on a déjà un chauffeur,” I repeated over and over as people clutched at us from left and right. “Ok, we will bring you to him!” declared a trio of unrelenting porters, easing our suitcases out of our grip as we chased them into the parking lot.
A friendly face stepped out in front of us. “Hello, I’m Nixon,” our driver said with a smile. “oh, cool, that’s lucky, we didn’t think we’d find you in this crowd,” I said. “We find him for you, we bring you to him, we help you,” chirped our pushy porters. “Do you know them?” Marc asked. Nixon shook his head in a “non” like gesture. “Do we have to pay them?” I asked. “yes, maybe just $10 for the three,” he replied. Marc handed over a $5. It wasn’t enough to placate them. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a $20. “Yeah, so, I don’t suppose any of you have change, right?” Porters score $25, Marc and Sylvie score 0.
“Stupid tourist” label firmly established, we sheepishly got into Nixon’s 14 year old SUV and trundled off on our way to change our much coveted dollars to Gourds, at a mini market at the top of a very steep hill, where Nixon’s car promptly died. Or rather, took a nap for 10 minutes, while he fiddled about under the hood and then let it roll halfway down the hill with us still inside.
“This is somewhat different than I expected,” said Marc, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
Slamming on the handbrakes and revving the accelerator, Nixon managed to work his mechanical magic and we flew up the hill again, on our way to Digicel to purchase a local SIM.
Slowly weaving through the crippling traffic, made worse by motorbikes and chickens criss-crossing in front of us, we meandered our way through Port Au Prince’s rubble. And my word, was there rubble!
The best way I can currently describe Port Au Prince is a giant car trunk sale at a construction rubbish dump. Sneakers and handbags are strung up on walls as chickens peck about at the mish mash of miscellaneous fruit and vegetable at vendors’ feet. Rap music blares from everywhere. Peeling election posters are plastered on every available surface, defaced with Graffiti, enhanced with graffiti.
Haitians wearing faux-logo designer-wear, or blinged out Jesus t-shirts lounged against sugar cane stands, while children in school uniforms scuttled everywhere. Women lay in disarray next to their random selection of produce, looking hot, bothered and miserable. Children in rags banged on our windows begging for cash. Nixon turned up the air conditioning and drove on.
“Dieu est mon droit,” and “I love Jesus” type messages abound, scrawled on walls, painted on truck taxis, tattooed on people’s arms, shoulders, backs and hands. “God is love,” “Jesus is good to me” – words scraped onto buildings shattered and broken by a natural disaster that killed about 316,000 people, wounded another 300,000 and left a further 1.5 million homeless. “Jesus saves” indeed.
We asked Nixon what it had been like the day the earthquake hit. “I can’t say it was a bad day,” our driver replied. “I was up in the hills, where I live. My mother was at the market. We felt the ground shake, and I ran to tell her to come home. It was only three or four days later, when we could finally get into Port Au Prince that we realized what kind of tragedy had hit us,” he went on.
“A school collapsed and killed some of my young cousins,” he confided, sinking back into silence. Despite being journalists, Marc and I didn’t have any words.
For $35 we picked up a cheap but functional little Nokia with 10 minutes worth of credit, and drove on to meet our hosts from Architects for Humanity.
Their offices, in Petionvile, were an oasis of calm and quiet. The volunteers sat plugging away at their MacBooks, tweaking designs for new schools, new hospitals, new buildings to emerge from the shattered rubble. Most were young trainees, happy to work for nothing if it meant giving a little hope to a place which had so little.
We were told to drop off our luggage and make ourselves comfortable at “La Maison” up the road, which actually turned out to be up a very steep hill. Nixon’s car shuddered and sputtered all the way up, but we made it through the gates, guarded by gunmen with Alsatians at their side. Architects For Humanity take their security seriously, apparently.
The tops of the walls were all covered with impaling pieces of broken glass and bottles – to prevent potential intruders from climbing over. “This looks cozy” said Marc nervously.
Inside the house was a different story, however. A huge house situated on the side of a hill overlooking a valley, the views were stunning and the place felt snug and welcoming. The housekeeper gave us a tour of the multitude of rooms, both upstairs and downstairs, before settling us into the storeroom in the basement. Actually, it sounds bad, but really isn’t – plus, the upside of rooming with a wireless communication company is that the Wi-Fi rocks.
Mosquito nets dangle over every bunk and the bathroom has a shower curtain instead of a door, but it all adds to the charm. The mosquito nets should have served as an advance warning, however – Marc and I are already eaten alive.
After a refreshing cold shower and an improvised canned tuna and olives lunch, we set off with Nixon again to see one of the largest refugee camps in the city.
Situated right across from the Canadian embassy, “tent city” as it’s known, is a heartbreaking sight. A horrible mess of plastic sheets on sticks with “generously donated by the American people” stamped on them goes on for as far as the eye can see.
Barefooted, malnourished children pick their way through rubbish, stones and dead animals – in what our guide tells us is “a very well organized camp.”
Oxfam has a base there. But we’re told most of the 50,000 to 70,000 people in the camp subside on just one paltry meal a day. There’s barely any medical treatment, and just one school. Aid, we’re told, is being slowly siphoned away, as the fickle west turns its back on Haiti in favor of more trendy causes. Soon, the camp’s residents, almost all of whom are unemployed, will have to start paying for clean water too. Most won’t be able to.
As darkness fell, we made our way back to the house and had a dinner of salt fish and rice with the rest of the crew. Tomorrow, La Maison will be hosting its one year anniversary party. After such an emotional day it’s hard to imagine a party tomorrow night, but for the volunteers who work tirelessly here day after day, it’s probably the only way to really blow off some steam.
It’s getting late here and we have a full day tomorrow, so before I pull down my mosquito net, I wish you all goodnight.
