I sat distraught and exhausted in the American Airlines Admirals’ Club, staring dreamily at my laptop screen. I was applying the final touches to my enduring midterm — a take-home test for an MBA class at the George Washington University foggy bottom campus, a stone’s throw from downtown DC.
I had heard it several times over — almost in a trance — every excruciating syllable as I read and re-read the key paragraphs of my take-home mid term for my Technology Entrepreneur class at the George Washington University school of Business.
Sooner or later, I had to click the send button — regretting the hours spent procrastinating when I was actually planning my big trip. The moment was here, I was off on my first Spring Break in nearly 20 years. Grad school is tough. But it is even tougher at 42.
At the white sandstone building at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, hundreds of kids from all over the country rolled Easter eggs on the South Lawn, a tradition since the Civil War.
Truly I had many pressing things I could be doing. But the final announcement had already echoed eerily from the Intercom that my AA flight from JFK was ready to board immediately. Once again, I was in a rush to go somewhere I wasn’t sure I should be going in the first place. And in this case, I was heading to earthquake-ravaged Port-au-Prince, a land beyond relief.
To say that this trip was rushed and unprepared would be a gross understatement. Not only had I not properly prepared, I decided less than a week ago to make this journey. Before this tumultuous week of preparations and midterm, Haiti wasn’t even in my lexicon. Yeah, I had seen the gripping scenes flash before my eyes on CNN, but like virtually everyone else around me, the Haiti disaster seemed so distant so surreal.
It was only when I was sitting home studying for my midterm, wondering what I would be doing for spring break that I heard her call me. I didn’t have any plans and Haiti seemed like the right place to be.
One of the first things I did was post a question on Haiti Rewired:
“I’m planning on going to Haiti for five days. Will there be any food and water there that I can purchase?”
Within an hour came a reply from one of the site’s administrators: Rick Davis:
“Yes, there’s food and water that you can purchase. Why are you going?”
Then came my response:
“To cover the plight of the people and their struggle. To tell their side of the story.”
“There’s plenty of media that’s already down there. The place is a mess and you could put yourself in danger. IMO, you shouldn’t go.”
I boarded the flight from Reagan with a layover in JFK. Just packing for this trip and bringing everything that I needed was a daunting challenge in and of itself.
But what was even scarier was the fact that I didn’t have a place to stay. Not knowing anyone there, I was literally taking a step of faith by embarking on this trip. I had a sleeping bag and a mosquito net, but those two things could not protect me from the danger that lurked around the corner at nightfall.
Upon arriving at JFK, I checked the monitor to see a direct flight leaving NYC for Port-au-Prince. Terminal 2, 1:30 PM it flashed. My flight to Santo Domingo would be leaving an hour after that. Good. My one and only chance to meet people and perhaps secure a room before I arrived.
Eunice Tasson is a sister from Massachusetts. A spry women who both showed compassion and leadership, she had been visiting Haiti since 1984. As the founding director of the Church Outreach to Youth Group (COTY) in North Adams, Massachusetts, Eunice leads a group of young people up to the mountains several times a year. Their destination is Desab, a beautiful village located six miles up a dirt path in the mountains, a village without electricity, without running water, but plenty of clear, blue sky and orchard trees.
I was so glad to meet Eunice and she was so surprised that I didn’t have a place to stay. No problem. I’ll make a phone call right now. Her first call was to Veniel Jean, the manager of Wall’s International Guest House. Once a popular and comfortable place to stay, the guest house was almost completely destroyed while people were inside. Many got out. Five people (three guests and two staff) were killed.
By the time I headed over to the Admiral’s Club to finish my midterm, I received this email:
Hello Chito ,
Thank for your interest to stay at Wall’s International Guest House. The people there did not sleep under room, they prefer to be outside under tents. If you would like to be under tent , we can reserve a place for you.
We charge $US 35/person include breakfast and dinner, If you would like we will come to pick you up at the airport please let us know your flight number the cost is $US 20.
If you have future question email us.
Veniel Jean
Manager
Wall’s International Guest House
8,Rue Mackandal Delmas 19
I was elated and thankful. Sister Eunice Tasson was my angel for my trip and Wall’s Guest House would provide a roof over my head and provide protection.
The first stop on the flight was Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic; Santo is a busy, breezy metropolis where people are friendly and there are lots of surprises at every block.
Night on the Beach
I spent the night in Santo in my compact rental, first on the beach, then in the airport parking lot. I was way too tired to worry about danger. If someone came swinging at me, I would be too tired to defend myself anyway. Awake for nearly 48 hours, I would soon be facing another bout of sleepless nights, under a droopy, leaky tent, the sound of helter skelter hungriness lurking all around me.
I managed to pop into downtown, through the Zona Colonial and under the massive Asian gate with dragons, lions and other Chinese allegorical sculptures and plants that evoke the culture, tradition and philosophy of over 45,000 people. Of this number, over 30,000 are Chinese–Dominicans.
Bario Chino
I met several Chinese expats who have built and developed a Chinatown that stretches four blocks, boasting as the 8th largest Chinatown (not just in the Caribbean) but in the whole world. Along Avenida Duarte, there were several dozen Chinese-owned businesses: restaurants, laundries, supermarkets and video rentals. I spoke to a handful of them and looked and tasted their food — it surpassed my expectations — wasn’t the deep fried chicken I expected, but authentic Chinese food with sweet and sour recipes, General Tso’s Chicken and tofu balls dowsed in spinach soup. I was greatly satiated and I loaded down for my big trip the next day.
Enroute to Port-au-Prince
First thing next morning, I am sitting aboard an American Eagle shuttle, waiting on the tarmac because an announcement was made that the plane was over 600 pounds overweight, and we cannot take off unless we shed off some weight.
As the plane and ground crew worked out a solution (they simply removed a dozen bags off the plane), I kept my fingers crossed, hoping that my sleeping bag, inflatable pad, and mosquito net would make it to Port-au-Prince with me.
I managed a quick nap on the 50 min flight to PaP, which was ideal because in the day’s ahead, I would be seriously deprived of sleep.
Arrival
When we arrived in country, the views were dismal, As I looked around to assess the damage a tear rolled down my cheek, and I was certainly not emotionally ready for what lay ahead.
In fact, often my mind could not comprehend and I had to shut my eyes. I stared in disbelief, in grief — for me personally, there was deep shame, deep blame. A city that was originally designed for several thousand people now was home to a million. Over 220,000 have been killed by the earthquake. Where did we go wrong?
In many ways, I read the US was partly to blame for exporting poorly-thought out agricultural policy that only hurt the Haitian economy while protecting the U.S. rice farmers and hog farmers.
In the 1980’s Haiti was self-sufficient in food. The staple food of Haiti – West African rice, had been cultivated there for over 200 years.
But then two things occurred that changed the path for Haiti’s local economy: the environmental degradation, and the trade liberalization policies signed by Clinton. The subsidies provided to American rice farmers in the 90’s resulted in the rice they export to Haiti been cheaper than locally produced rice. This resulted in greater poverty and food insecurity. Additionally, the Iowa pigs sent to Haiti frequently got ill and couldn’t flourish under tougher Haitian conditions.Today, Haiti, imports 80% of its rice and 60% of its food supply.
In Port-au-Prince, I saw thousands and thousands of families living desolate on the street with nothing over their heads except a piece of canvas and perhaps a filthy mattress they carried from the dump.
They were calling out as we passed, asking for bread, water, flip flops, anything that we could possibly give them.
“Merci beaucoup,” I said — about the only French or Creole that I know.
Straight ahead, a handful of kids were drinking water, from the ground, splashing a handful of water from the sewer. A lack of clean water is causing a dystentery and typhoid problem in Haiti — another problem — lack of city wide trash pickup.
Luckily, cholera had not surfaced in Haiti, yet. However, this deadly disease is exactly what health workers fear after a natural disaster when the infrastructure is destroyed and drinking water becomes contaminated with fecal matter.
I thought about the malaria problem. I knew I had not taken any doxycycline before my trip, but I at this time I wasn’t too concerned.
In the distance, several men from the three-thousand bustling full tent city were burning trash. The raunchy smell of smoke and debris was so pungent, my eyes began to well up.
Trash was everywhere — on the streets, on the sidewalks, human waste — the smell of desolation, the smell of dirt mixed with misery.
Sadly, Haiti a nation of 10 million, doesn’t have a trash treatment plant. The residents just dispose their trash and human waste on the streets, wherever they can. They build up in the camps causing a pressing health threat spreading diarrheal illnesses and the stench of decomposing bodies that just won’t go away. They attract insects that can easily spread malaria with the coming of the rainy season. Sometimes, you see an unattended child standing in a pile of trash. No one turns an eye; no one is concerned. This is Haiti — the poorest country in the western hemisphere (before the earthquake). Even “Haiti’s pigs live better than this.”
And when it rains, the water runs through the concrete canals through the city and out to the sea. With it, it’s combined with the waste water from sinks, showers and toilets. Hopefully this doesn’t contaminate the drinking water and spread typhoid.
True to form, Veniel met us as we arrived at the airport.
Shortly after I arrived at Walls, I met two missionaries: Marvin and Mickey. Marvin was older, subdued, balanced. Mickey was more outspoken, stocky, 6′ 3″ a former Marine who still looked it, if it wasn’t for his long locks that rolled down to his shoulders.
They were brought in by Pastor Luc who had met Marvin and Mickey at the airport. For someone who had just experienced such a catastrophic loss, Pastor Luc carried a magnetic aura of serenity that surprised even his greater doubters.
“Nice to meet you Pastor Luc. It’s a tremendous honor.” Pastor Luc St Felix is a gentle, kind-hearted minister whose complete destruction of his three-story church not only affected his intermediate family but his entire church family.
As we stand next to the mountain rubble that used to be the 3-story Port-au-Prince Pentecostal church, we are forever touched by the tremendous attitude and amazing fortitude of his congregation.
Already the church is on the second round of debris removal — which was positive news, considering that the debris had already piled over rooftops, jagged pieces of rebar, so flexible that you could easily bend it 90 degrees with a quick flip of the wrist.=
There were over 700,000 displaced people living in make-shift camps. Just emptying latrines was a big issue. Without a sewage treatment plant, trucks often take the waste to the Troutier trash dump near the slums of Cite Soleil on the city’s ragged edge.
In these streets of the seaside slum, where gun law is the only law, there is no food, no water, no nothing — just violence and a whole lota bullets. Cite Soleil was always dangerous even before the disaster.
“No way am I going there,” Veniel Jean said. “I wouldn’t go to Cite Soleil if you offered me a million dollars.”
Now, the earthquake has created a huge security vacuum. More than 4,000 prisoners escaped from the city’s penitentiary. They returned to the slums now loaded with guns.
When walking through the tent villages, I always kept an attentive eye on who was around me and who appeared to be suspiciously staring down at me. If you notice a young man lingering around, then another seemingly watching you. They are likely tapping away on their cell phones. They are likely armed and are considering whether you are worth their trouble and how much money they could get if kidnapped.
I couldn’t cry. Somewhere along, I ran out of tears.
Later today, I will be visiting Pastor Luc St. Felix’s church to see first-hand the destruction and to hear from him what we can do to help the cause.
________________
It took a moment for Veniel Jean to realize what had just transpired. It was Friday evening. Veniel had strolled down the road visiting the city’s pitted exhaust-chocked main thoroughfare Delmas 33, shopping for items for the house at the One Stop Market when the ground started to move.
What was that? No way. This was a big one. Didn’t know something this strong could happen this far south.
Veniel instinctively ran outside without thinking whether he was running to safety or danger. Was relieved to see one of the guests who had just arrived from Canada and a couple of her friends running for dear life. He looked up at the sky and back at the building and it seemed like the world around him was starting to come to a head spin. After about 30 seconds, the main shock ended. But then a series of after shocks followed.
There were people crying, then the screams laced with blood, immersed in pain. 10, 20, 30 seconds, the shaking got stronger, more consistent; earth felt like jello now, buildings began to pancake over until they just crumbled like sand castles on Wahoo Bay.
At this point every structure around had leveled to dirt so Veniel would now be able to see for miles from coastline to mountain front, if it wasn’t for the fact the sky was thick with dust swallowed by a pillar of smoke. Why this, why us? The silent voices struck back.
Clearly these buildings were built shoddily.
These voices had seen the test of time and were hoarse now with bitterness. Since the beginning of time, Haiti as a nation had experienced unfathomable tragedy upon abuse, most recently Hurricane Hanna that ravaged the city of Gonaives, its damage worsened by the rampant deforestation spurred by demand of charcoal from the west. After the damage had been assessed, it was determined that the destruction had further decimated the indigenous farming industry that had once been its crown jewel.
The list of mishaps had no end, and it began way back when the Haitians stood up to Napoleon and the entire nation of France and demanded the end of colonial rule and withstood a battle that spanned 13 years during the turn of the 18th century.
it became painfully clear, that Haiti had just experienced a natural catastrophe unique in its long history of social economic tragedy. Many called for medical help that was virtually non-existent. There was no evidence of police or EMT anywhere.
So Veniel did what any caring person would do. He ran around the ruins, honing in to screams and started picking up rubble to get as many people out as he could. The other guests stuck around giving Veniel a hand.
But Veniel and company had other pressing concerns…
Down the road at Delmas 19, Betsy Wall and her daughter Alexis had just arrived from Canada two hours earlier with a bunch of aid workers, all excited about working in Haiti and all determined to make a difference during their two-week stay. Betsy, 57, the Executive Director for the Foundation for International Development Assistance, was just in Haiti three weeks ago and had been coming back and forth to Haiti for nearly 40 years. The humanitarian work started with Betsy’s parents, Jack and Anne Wall from Ontario, Canada who sold most of their possessions and moved to Port-au-Prince in 1984 to help the poor. It was indeed a bold sacrifice for the Walls who were both in their sixties at that time. Today, Betsy continues the family service dedicating her life by introducing technology and resources so that communities all over Haiti can overcome adversity and create self-sufficiency.
And today, the country would need Betsy’s services in a more urgent way.
It was 4:30 PM. Being awake for over 12 hours, Betsy and Alexis were simply beat. Air Canada 950 had been delayed on the tarmac about 15 minutes due to an electrical light glitch. Upon retrieving their bags from Toussaint Louverture International, Betsy and her large entourage of aid workers worked their way through the cacophony of cars and bikes on Delmas to the inviting sanctuary and secure gates at Walls. The hotel was only 10 minutes from the airport and $35 a night also provided two meals, unlimited Culligan water, WiFi, a hot shower and close camaraderie amongst missionaries and aid workers from the US, Canada and Europe. This was a great deal in comparison to the higher prices of the Montana Hotel up the mountain towards Petionville.
After making her usual round of greetings with the hotel staff, Betsy decided to steal a quick nap before dinner. The team had a lot on the plates the next day. Little did they know they would not sleep again for 48 hours.
Meanwhile, other members of the team decided to take a dip in the pool and cool down with some cold refreshments. The succulent aroma lime chicken with rice and beans drifted up with the seaward breeze. A couple of Canadians enjoyed the pungent tang of the sea while relaxing on the rooftop balcony overlooking the pool.
In the kitchen, both Simerite and Marie Franse were cutting fresh papaya to serve to the guests.
Martine Garneau, a volunteer with Mission Corail Haiti who also flew in on the Air Canada flight that afternoon was in the pool relaxing with her fellow volunteers.
A fly was flying around and wouldn’t leave Martine alone. Mysteriously, he just fell and landed on her beer. Camil Perron being the gentleman that has always been his trademark offered to go into the kitchen to fetch another cold one. It was at that precise moment that the earthquake rocked the city bringing down the entire guesthouse.
Betsy was sound asleep when the walls came tumbling down. She was fortunate to get up the moment she heard the walls shake. Her instant thought was that a large truck had slammed into the pool wall. But then when walls and ceilings began crashing down, she dashed out with Alexis by her side.
They had made it just in the nick of time. Another fraction of a second and the entire main guest house would have completely collapsed. Meanwhile the earthquake struck with such force that it completely emptied all the water from the pool. And when the main guest house came down, it collapsed on top of the kitchen.
It was the instant Camil had gone in to fetch a cold glass of beer and Simerite and Marie Franse were preparing the meal for the evening.
Betsy gathered the team to ascertain who was alive and who was trapped. Shortly after, Veniel and the group who had gone into town arrived.
Betsy was thankful that Veniel was safe and wanted to know where she could evacuate her guests to.
“The whole city has been destroyed,” Veniel added. “We could take them to the Montana, but I’m not sure she’s still standing.”
Meanwhile Veniel and staff continued to work endlessly, chipping away at the rubble to rescue and recover the five that were missing.
As we stand next to the mountain rubble that used to be the 3-story Port-au-Prince Pentecostal church, we are forever touched by the tremendous fortitude of his congregation.
One feisty jackhammer cranks away, smashing full-sized walls into a clump of bricks and large, jagged balls of concrete and rebar. But the main tool of the undertaking is not machine or automation but one rusted out wheelbarrow and a dozen shovels loading pile after pile of dirt and debris only to be dumped just 20 feet away. And the guy in charge of the clean-up effort is afforded the honor of been the boss mason. It’s important to properly train the masons. So many were killed because of shoddy workmanship and no regulation.
Here at the church, everyone helps out. There is one lady wearing a night gown, a wide-brimmed hat and flip flops that had seen its last days, sometime last year. Initially, there appeared that there was little for her to do. Yet, she methodically bent over and grabbed whatever pieces of rubble she could carry.
People of all ages claw away with their own hands the debris — anything they could do to make a small difference. In the back, several ladies helped out, concocting a nice pot of bean soup and stew. They were cooking on a large stainless pot over charcoal and wood. Although, the cooks labored hard, I wouldn’t define it as tasty — I personally don’t think I would eat it. But if my stomach was growling like theirs, anything that nourished my body was fine cuisine for me.
Down the road a group of about a hundred local workers, dressed in yellow T-Shirts and aptly called “yellow ants” work seven hours a day, breaking only once for lunch. Their compensation – $5 a day, enough to buy two meals, if they’re lucky.
Already the church is on the second round of debris removal — which was positive news, considering that the debris had already piled over rooftops, jagged pieces of rebar, so flexible that you could easily bend it 90 degrees with a quick flip of the wrist.
“Pastor Luc, what do you need the most? Would you like a team from the US to come down and assist with debris removal?”
“Yes, that would be great. I have a team of 20 plus coming from Alabama tomorrow. Some will be doing medical work.”
“But I also need money to rebuild and my people need tent and flip flops. Pastor Luc had lost several of his congregation to the earthquake — a few were still buried in buildings.
But he would not lose hope. He would keep his faith that his church will be able to clean up and rebuild.
“After all, “The church was too small anyways. We don’t need to just rebuild. We need to grow!”
The day after tomorrow, Pastor Luc will be heading up the mountains with Pastor Marvin and Mickey to visit three different villages. Some very remote, they are a stone’s throw from the Dominican Republic. In the villages, Pastor Luc conducts a feeding program that feeds 43 village churches, 13 village schools and three village feeding programs where 500 children are fed twice a week. Pastor Luc provides three different feeding programs, church and school –something that is never taken for granted in this desolate country.
I wanted to come along, but I would miss my flight home. My particular calling during my disproportionately short trip to Haiti had yet to be determined, but I slept all right cuz I knew God had a calling for me.
The next day, it poured hard early on. The anticipated downpour at dawn rocked my frail tent like a bucket of hail or a barrage of barrel-sized buckshot crashing down on a hot tin roof on a dusty, summer day.
I tossed then turned and rolled as much as my sleeping pad could take. Then I popped out, greeted by wetness that made me feel freshly renewed, the aroma of spring, soaked wood chips, like a tropical waterfall amidst a rich, thriving rain forest in the middle of some Caribbean isle, no where close to man.
Back home, the weather is warming drastically, around the tidal basin the first buds of cherry blossoms are popping, their eyes gleaming — a welcomed harbinger of spring. Baseball and half smokes are roasting. Here in Haiti, the woesome rains bring clean water for washing, for drinking, to cool off the sweatness after a long day of hectic heat and harsh, muddy humidity. But in conjuction with the rains come the deluge, the dreaded diseases, the dawn of a new season of harsh, bitter realities.
From patty to patty, block to block, pitiful tent city to supposed village, corner upon blunted corners, people are spread out in all shapes and directions wherever existence will allow it to thrive. They are utterly surviving on the streets not even a blanket to cover their souls from the torrential downpours, but perhaps a tattered piece of canvas strewn together by some duct tape or jagged pieces of wood or anything that closely resembles a possible solution or a cure. Here in Port-au-Prince, anything goes. A tarp tied together with rigid pieces of PVC molded in the shape of a shelter becomes suddenly a marvel of 21st century engineeering. Here in this country of dread and destruction, improvisation takes a new name, resources clawed out of dumpsters and trash from supposedly middle-class denizens, suddenly becomes something to sit on, something to put on, something to make life better to see yet another hopeful sunrise, another bitter sunfall.
And the rains bring not only flooding, they don’t just wash away the only pieces of shelter they hold dear to their name. The rains brings diseases, of all types ever imagined or wanting to forget. Dysentery, Typhoid, Malaria. Those who were fortunate to survive the earthquake, those who lived to bury their dead may be faced with another calamity of epic proportion later this spring. The torrid rainy season will bring days, nights, sleepless weeks of rain to the tippy point of desperation that even the beating sound of barrels of fist against a strained canvas tarp will be endearing sound compared to the brush of torrid downpour or horizontal rain at the edge of a Haitian horrid nightmare.
Suddenly and dramatically, like a bases loaded walk at the bottom of the 9th innning, the skies stopped pouring overtaken by the freshness of a rich dew drop on a fresh spring petal, a hustle of honeybees; even the tatterred sun took an occassional peek through a musky cloud cover offering hope, new life, humanity. Around the campground, a bold rooster cranked its rich, deep horn, signaling to the rest of the world that the night had drawn and it was now time to start a new day and earn a day’s wages, even in a city where work was almost non existent, even living was day by day.
___
I even heard about the infamous Haiti mud cakes that have become the staple diet for many in the villages: mud mixed with salt, vegetable oil and maybe butter — to stave off hunger. This practice was rampant a couple of years ago when food prices soared (due to higher oil prices). Tragically, Sadly, many Haitians thrive on only $2 per day. Eating dirt cannot be good for you. Soil is contaminated with viruses and bacteria, not to mention toxins. At worst, you could get poisoned. At best, it could lead to gastrointestinal problems or diarrhea.
Already the church is on the second round of debris removal — which was positive news, considering that the debris had already piled over rooftops, jagged pieces of rebar, so flexible that you could easily bend it 90 degrees with a quick flip of the wrist.
“Pastor Luc, what do you need the most? Would you like a team from the US to come down and assist with debris removal?”
“Yes, that would be great. I have a team of 20 plus coming from Alabama tomorrow. Some will be doing medical work.”
“But I also need money to rebuild and my people need tent and flip flops. Pastor Luc had lost several of his congregation to the earthquake — a few were still buried in buildings.
But he would not lose hope. He would keep his faith that his church will be able to clean up and rebuild.
“After all, “The church was too small anyways. We don’t need to just rebuild. We need to grow!”
Tomorrow, Pastor Luc will be heading up the mountains with Pastor Marvin and Mickey to visit three different villages. Some very remote, they are a stone’s throw from the Dominican Republic. In the villages, Pastor Luc conducts a feeding program that feeds 43 village churches, 13 village schools and three village feeding programs where 500 children are fed twice a week. Pastor Luc provides three different feeding programs, church and school –something that is never taken for granted in this desolate country.
I wanted to tag along, but I would miss my flight home. My particular calling during my disproportionately short trip to Haiti had yet to be determined, but I slept all right cuz I knew God had a calling for me.
I have never seen anything this painful. Not where I grew up onboard a 40-foot yacht sailing to remote parts of the Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia. Not two years ago, on the hot, dusty streets of Kabul. Not last summer on my marathon train ride from Turkey, Romania, Hungary and Poland.
_________________
Tomorrow, Pastor Luc will be heading up the mountains with Pastor Marvin and Mickey to visit three different villages. Some very remote, they are a stone’s throw from the Dominican Republic. In the villages, Pastor Luc conducts a feeding program that feeds 43 village churches, 13 village schools and three village feeding programs where 500 children are fed twice a week. Pastor Luc provides three different feeding programs, church and school –something that is never taken for granted in this desolate country.
I wanted to tag along, but I would miss my flight home. My particular calling during my disproportionately short trip to Haiti had yet to be determined, but I slept all right cuz I knew God had a calling for me, and I hoped one day to be back.
