I parted company with USNS Comfort this afternoon to move into Port-au-Prince. It was a bittersweet good-bye – on one hand, I will miss the crew with whom I have worked for the past sixteen days. On the other, I have longed to move into Haiti to experience at least one night on the ground. Nonetheless, it was time to move on.
Over the past week and a half, I have seen in the Haitian people an intense determination to survive and move on. I have reported the stories of some of those who were buried in the rubble for days, to be found alive; and of those who have struggled against all odds to survive traumatic injuries. Other, yet unreported, stories tell of people who struggle to bring some sense of normalcy to Haiti.
One such story is that of a teenaged boy who meets us in a rowboat as we come ashore in one of the Comfort’s search and rescue boats. As we approach our embarkation point, known as South Pier, he and his friend row their heavily laden skiff to meet us. Their intent is to relieve us of some of our hard-earned American Dollars in exchange for some handmade Haitian trinkets. One of my media colleagues purchases a couple of souvenirs – doing her part to stimulate the local economy.
“I want an I-Pod,” says the boy, motioning as if he were putting on earphones. The crew of Comfort’s small boat has some friendly banter with him before we pull away.
“I’ll see what I can do,” calls Deck Officer Joe Kranz of the Military Sealift Command as he steers our boat toward the pier.
Just ahead of our boat, a Colombian Navy small craft pulls up to the dock. It carries items such as diapers and baby wipes. Across the harbor, heavy cranes lift containers off of a US Navy Seabee barge. Workers scurry about the docks. Relief supplies are making their way into this poverty-stricken and devastated country.
Two men from my colleague’s organization meet us at the entrance to the port. We pile into their small SUV and set out for an apartment out of which more of their fellow journalists work. Our journey takes us through what seem to be some of Port-au-Prince’s poorest neighborhoods. A man walks nude in the street – his buttocks a dirty white from sitting in the in the debris left by the earthquake. He passes a woman selling cabbages. She doesn’t seem to notice his state of complete undress.
Dust, which has been kicked up by the heavy traffic, covers the leaves of the trees. The roads are clogged with vehicles and our driver expertly negotiates our route. We pass several businesses that are being repaired and repainted. Money and goods are changing hands. Life goes on.
The earthquake left Haiti at a nexus. Will the Government take the path less taken and rebuild the country to its fullest potential, or will they choose the status quo? Only time will tell.
We arrive at the apartment and are greeted by a cadre of journalists who work on their computers on the veranda. My shipmate and I go to the roof to eat our dinner. The melodic sounds of Creole singing reach our ears as the sun sets in the west.
I do not know if this will be my last night in Haiti. My journalist friend plans to fly to the Dominican Republic in the morning so she can connect with a flight to the United States. Perhaps I will remain for a few more days. Perhaps I will go to Havana to follow-up on a lead about Haitians who have been taken there for medical care. Maybe I will return home. Stay tuned, I will keep you posted as I am able.
