Sunday, all my uncles and aunts, Dad and I got up at 5am for a three day mini vacation to Le Sud (The South) and a little island off the coast of Haiti called Ile a Vache. This would be the first time my aunt and uncle left town since the quake so they NEED to get away; My other uncle was bringing along his new bride who had never been; my other aunt and uncle had only ever travelled as far as Jacmel; and my dad and I had only spent the day on Ile a Vache and knew we wanted to go back to spend a few days there so dad is the one who booked it for everyone. It takes about three hours to drive to Les Cayes and from there it’s a 35 minute boat ride to the island. Leaving at the crack of dawn allows us to avoid the monstrosity of a traffic jam that makes Carrefour infamous these days as it is Grand Central Station for practically every tap-tap in Haiti. Well, leaving at 6:00am sounded like a good idea, but ideas and realities don’t always see eye-to-eye. With two SUV’s full of suitcases, beach bags, ice chests of food and beverages, grumpy old men and their princess wives, getting everyone in the car simultaneously and on the road on time was a bit of a comedic skit in the making. Sooooo, we left an about an hour late, but surprisingly Carrefour wasn’t as nightmarish as we expected. The problem was, my uncle driving the car ahead of my dad’s, decided to take us through a “short-cut” to avoid most of the worst areas…riiiiiiiight. Probably under normal circumstances, the proposed short-cut may have worked had it not been for the plethora of streets completely blocked off by tents and people living in the streets. So much for the short-cut…we would have been better off sitting in the traffic through Carrefour. Oh well.
The drive through the country was just as beautiful as I remember. The luxuriant, green landscape is absolutely breath-taking (the good kind this time), although signs of an earthquake ravaged country keep reminding me of the plight of the people. Tent cities can still be found speckling the landscape. Unfortunately, many of these cities are really tents at all, but instead, are blue tarps pitched in such a way that only a single person could possibly occupy the interior. Aid in the way of providing tents never made it here for one reason or another. :/
The road itself is still in good condition (mind you, in Haitian standards). There are only a couple spots where it has cracked open like an egg or where the hillside butting up to it came tumbling down, now making it a single lane. Other than that, it was smooth sailing into the city of Les Cayes, and onto the boat headed for Abaka Bay, Ile a Vache….Aaaaaaah, if I could only describe the feeling of euphoria as we rounded the western top of the small island and the turquoise bay with its white sand beach came into view! And it only got better when we were greeted with an Abaka bay cocktail of citronade and rum! Oh wait, it gets even better! The owner upgraded Dad and me to a suite…SWEEEET! Somebody please pinch me for I must be dreaming!!! When we had visited last year, they were in the process of completing an extended set of beach front bungalows. The resort already had a cluster of rooms that hugged the steep terrain adjacent the large choucoune (palapa, or open-air, thatched roof gazebo, if you will) that made the front desk. The beach front bungalows were in the typical Caribbean style and brightly painted in yellows, oranges, and teals. Our suite had a kitchenette, dining table and chairs, living area with a pullout sleeper sofa, a large deck out front, king size bed, lots of windows for natural ventilation, ceiling fans and two air conditioner units, mosaic tile bath with a HUGE shower and skylights….REALLY?!?! Oh please, stop it some more!
Lunch was served in the outdoor dining pavilion. Dinner is served in the fancy indoor dining room, painted a deep crimson on some walls and exposed local stone on the others, air conditioned, and has two lounge areas tricked out with leather sofas and a plasma TV that played pirated copies of top American movies. (Who the heck would be crazy enough to sit inside and watch movies when you have Heaven’s playground outside?!?! Well, I found out later.) There’s no choice on the menu…you what they serve you but who the hell cares?!?! Everyone else went back to their rooms but Dad and I sat on the porch chatting and smoking a Cuban. I don’t think I slept so well in a looooooong time that night. The sound of the waves slapping the beach and the ocean breeze rustling the coconut was music to my ears.
The next day, we got up early and I found my aunt and uncle already in the water before breakfast. After breakfast, we decided to make the 25 minute trek to Port Morgan (as in Captain Morgan!); the island’s other resort on the north side of the island. I can’t even begin to tell you how beautiful that hike was. We passed through groves of mango, banana, coconut, greeted by goats, chickens and the island’s children running through barefoot with their shirts full of freshly picked fruit. Just to give you a better picture, there are no roads at all and no cars exist here. We made our way via a time worn and well travelled path about 3 feet wide. The entire island seems almost uninhabited but apparently, there are 18,000 residents…at least for election purposes, we were told. I really don’t see how that was possible, unless the lush vegetation covered up all the residences. Only a few Grande Maisons capped Ile a Vache’s peaks. After going up and over one of the hills, we came upon a village (which we had been directed by a local to look out for to know were on the right path) that could have come out of a fairy tale. It consisted of a few of the typical Haitian provincial two-room “huts” trimmed in Caribbean colors of pinks, blues and turquoise. They had neatly fenced in yards with perfectly manicured gardens. There was even a library that fascinated me and Dad. A local offered us a peek inside and as much as I was dying to see it, I almost felt like it shouldn’t be disturbed by my nosey ass. We reached sort of a plaza area where a girl was playing marbles and a horse grazed nearby. When we finally reached the bay of Port Morgan, I was met with a site that rivaled that of Walt Disney. It seriously looked like an amusement park! And the best part was, there was a freakin’ real life pirate ship (sans real life pirates of course) sitting in the middle of the bay… I’m totally serious!!! Stick a fork in me I’m done! When I die, I want my Heaven to be Ile a Vache!
We stopped and talked to a local who told us how a writer came to Ile a Vache from the U.S. to research for a book. He commissioned the local to build him a boat so they could take it to Miami. The local received a temporary 6 month visa to make the voyage. The man built the boat but they had to wait three months for the winds to change and it took another month to make the journey to Miami. But once they reached Miami, the Haitian was afraid of his visa expiring so he came back to his tiny island. I guess the writer hooked him up with another temporary visa and flew the Haitian to Washington. Now that’s an adventure for a man who has probably never flown in a plane, stayed in a real hotel or even had running (hot) water in his life!
The resort of Port Morgan is perched on the hillside overlooking the bay. By the time we reached the dining pavilion we were parched from making the steep climb in the piercing (but super delicious) Caribbean sunshine. We took a table on the edge with the best view of the bay and I had my first Cola Champagne of my trip…the BEST! We asked to see one of the rooms to check out the accommodations and lucky for us, only the three bedroom villa was available. Even if I could steal that house and take it anywhere I wanted, I would leave it right where it is. Dad and I climbed to the viewing deck on the roof and could take in the 360 degree views. One day we will return with the whole family.
We wanted to see as much of the island as possible so we got a small motor boat to take us back to Abaka Bay. After lunch we jumped back into the water until it was time for our last dinner. Torturous! They are gonna have to pry me off the coconut tree with a crowbar before I’ll leave. ..OK maybe not quite that dramatic. But my aunt and I did throw a tantrum of sorts on the pier getting into the boat to take us back to Les Cayes the following morning. A trip to Abaka Bay is a must for anyone visiting Haiti, except I really don’t want anyone to go because I want to keep it pristine and all to myself. Yeah, that’s right…I said it. Selfish brat I know. ;o)
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Haiti May 2010 Day 2 & 3
Yesterday was my first full day back in Haiti. I woke up at 5am, which seems to be my normal time while I’m here…can’t figure that one out, but whatever. After eating breakfast, I settled in my usual perch at the dining room window, only this time, I’m not sitting on Mamie’s antique Chinese chest, but rather, at the small round dining table that used to be out in the Treehouse that has temporarily been moved inside while the Threehouse is being worked on. There, I did some writing and took in the view of Port-au-Prince through the mango and coconut trees. The shoreline is noticeably different and the Cathedral no longer exists (there goes that pain in my heart again).
Dad took me, my aunt and uncle downtown to check out the situation. We headed to the Champs de Mars and the National Palace first. The Champs de Mars is like our own National Mall in Washington DC only smaller. There are monuments and a park area in the center. Except now, none of it is visible as it is entirely occupied by a tent city and rows and rows of Port-O-Potty’s (I think I just came up with a new NGO- POP’s for PAP…there are tons of them, but not enough). The National Palace still sits there, slumped over, a UN military tank sits on her front lawn, the grass just barely being maintained. The two outer domes sit cockeyed while the center one is gone altogether exposing the rooms that once existed behind it. The IRS building is nothing but a pile of rubble (oh darn), City Hall was hit by an earthly bomb and the Minister’s office is broken and tattered beyond repair. It’s a breathtaking sight and I don’t mean in a good way either. Imagine the White House of the United States being reduced to a single story of rubble and a spiderweb of twisted metal, or the US Capitol building with a decapitated dome and thousands of people living in tents and cardboard shacks on the National Mall. Americans wouldn’t know what to do with themselves and I imagine the country would fold like a lawn chair. Well, that’s pretty much what The Champs de Mars looks like…and yet life goes on.
We made our way down by the water, where a tenant of ours is a maritime agent. It was from here he made a harrowing trek home on January 12th sans communication with his wife or 5 kids and had to walk THROUGH a crumpled, screaming, burning city of Port-au-Prince and his completely flattened neighborhood of Turgeau only to strike gold when he discovered his entire family and his home were intact. I hope to get his account first hand during my stay here. The entire marina and shipping docks had completely collapsed and vanished into the bay of Port-au-Prince…cranes, containers, roadway, everything…gone. The relief efforts in the last four months have since supplied at least a temporary if not permanent shipping and receiving dock so business for the country is not totally crippled.
Driving through the streets of downtown PAP, it’s difficult to truly assess the progress that’s going on here. By that, I mean the streets has been cleared of rubble for business and there are marchands (merchants) everywhere, conducting business as usual. I noticed right away, though, that the streets are no where nearly as crowded as pre-J12. They are passable this time. Is that because they have cleared out of PAP into the provinces? Are there just fewer people? Dad thinks it’s because everyone is clinging onto their tents and what little they have left for fear of theft. Who knows really? I hope to find an answer before my departure. The one thing that hasn’t been completely cleared are the miles and miles of, old buildings, condemned buildings, destroyed buildings, buildings marked for demolition and not yet touched. During our entire excursion of Downtown, I don’t think I saw a single bulldozer or earth mover. That’s not to say there aren’t any at all, but I just didn’t see one. I did see one former building (now a pile of broken concrete) with a crew of organized Haitians in their bright yellow team shirts and hard hats, picked away at the pile and removing the rubble, one chunk at a time. At this rate, my great-great-great grandkids MIGHT be able to enjoy New PAP. I had a major reality check at the sight of this and it was one of those, “Holy S**t” kind of reality checks.
After coming home for lunch and a break for my weary eyes, my uncle took me on a tour of the streets of Turgeau, my hood. Turgeau is an old neighborhood and has some beautiful old homes. Last year while I was here, I came across a book (at a bookstore that no longer exists) of historical photos of Haiti. One of the photos was of the natural fresh water well from the 1800’s that still sits outside our gate. I hope to God I can find another one of those books while I’m here…it’s a gem! I really hope someone with a better camera than my little Nikon Coolpix took better pictures of the hood than I can to document the evolution of this place. There is not one single home in Turgeau that has not been affected. Every single home either no longer stands at all or is so badly damaged it’s only standing because the cobwebs are keeping it up. There is one street a block down from us that makes a big loop of about 12 or so formerly large, glorious homes. An entirely family once occupied this street. Not one single home remains now. There is also an apartment building belonging to another family whose entire back wall has crumpled, exposing all the units that once stood privately behind it and now stands askew. There are clothes and shoes, book and papers and other belongings strewn everywhere. One of our other satellite family members has a small compound the next block down that used to contain three homes on it around a central quad area. One of the homes was completed last summer during my stay here. Apparently the bottom floor is condemned, but not the second… Yeah, I can’t figure that one out either, but let me know if you find out how that works. The second house is still standing although there are large visible cracks everywhere and walls have separated. The third house belongs to the matriarch and is a large wooden typical Caribbean-style structure painted in turquoise blue with red trim. It looks perfectly untouched!...until you drive around the side and see that the whole back of the house fell off. It literally looks like a dollhouse now.
Oye! I had enough for the day. We went home and got dressed to have dinner at our cousin, JP’s house. It was a fabulous evening of delicious appetizers and main course and we discussed what lessons each of us has walked away with since J12. My lesson was a bit different than everyone else’s …my lesson was that God has a plan and it’s not up to us to decide or control what happens to us. Everyone else said that material things do not matter. I didn’t think of that because I cannot really relate to it. I am still living in a perfectly safe house with all my clothes, trinkets, hot water, electricity and abundance of food. My personal lesson stems from having nothing to go on but my faith that God kept my dad and the rest of family safe. Without communication or news of what’s going on with family on a daily basis, it’s a nail-biting anxiety that takes over, so all you can do is pray and have faith. And it made me realize the different types of “affected” people. I think there are three different types: Those who were in Haiti at the time of the earthquake; those of us who were not in Haiti at the time, but were deeply affected by it because of their personal ties to Haiti (like me); and those who don’t know Haiti from squat with no ties to her at all and only know what they see or hear on CNN and could never fathom such a catastrophe.
At least I was able to temporarily forget the day’s madness in JP’s killer Dry Martini’s.
Dad took me, my aunt and uncle downtown to check out the situation. We headed to the Champs de Mars and the National Palace first. The Champs de Mars is like our own National Mall in Washington DC only smaller. There are monuments and a park area in the center. Except now, none of it is visible as it is entirely occupied by a tent city and rows and rows of Port-O-Potty’s (I think I just came up with a new NGO- POP’s for PAP…there are tons of them, but not enough). The National Palace still sits there, slumped over, a UN military tank sits on her front lawn, the grass just barely being maintained. The two outer domes sit cockeyed while the center one is gone altogether exposing the rooms that once existed behind it. The IRS building is nothing but a pile of rubble (oh darn), City Hall was hit by an earthly bomb and the Minister’s office is broken and tattered beyond repair. It’s a breathtaking sight and I don’t mean in a good way either. Imagine the White House of the United States being reduced to a single story of rubble and a spiderweb of twisted metal, or the US Capitol building with a decapitated dome and thousands of people living in tents and cardboard shacks on the National Mall. Americans wouldn’t know what to do with themselves and I imagine the country would fold like a lawn chair. Well, that’s pretty much what The Champs de Mars looks like…and yet life goes on.
We made our way down by the water, where a tenant of ours is a maritime agent. It was from here he made a harrowing trek home on January 12th sans communication with his wife or 5 kids and had to walk THROUGH a crumpled, screaming, burning city of Port-au-Prince and his completely flattened neighborhood of Turgeau only to strike gold when he discovered his entire family and his home were intact. I hope to get his account first hand during my stay here. The entire marina and shipping docks had completely collapsed and vanished into the bay of Port-au-Prince…cranes, containers, roadway, everything…gone. The relief efforts in the last four months have since supplied at least a temporary if not permanent shipping and receiving dock so business for the country is not totally crippled.
Driving through the streets of downtown PAP, it’s difficult to truly assess the progress that’s going on here. By that, I mean the streets has been cleared of rubble for business and there are marchands (merchants) everywhere, conducting business as usual. I noticed right away, though, that the streets are no where nearly as crowded as pre-J12. They are passable this time. Is that because they have cleared out of PAP into the provinces? Are there just fewer people? Dad thinks it’s because everyone is clinging onto their tents and what little they have left for fear of theft. Who knows really? I hope to find an answer before my departure. The one thing that hasn’t been completely cleared are the miles and miles of, old buildings, condemned buildings, destroyed buildings, buildings marked for demolition and not yet touched. During our entire excursion of Downtown, I don’t think I saw a single bulldozer or earth mover. That’s not to say there aren’t any at all, but I just didn’t see one. I did see one former building (now a pile of broken concrete) with a crew of organized Haitians in their bright yellow team shirts and hard hats, picked away at the pile and removing the rubble, one chunk at a time. At this rate, my great-great-great grandkids MIGHT be able to enjoy New PAP. I had a major reality check at the sight of this and it was one of those, “Holy S**t” kind of reality checks.
After coming home for lunch and a break for my weary eyes, my uncle took me on a tour of the streets of Turgeau, my hood. Turgeau is an old neighborhood and has some beautiful old homes. Last year while I was here, I came across a book (at a bookstore that no longer exists) of historical photos of Haiti. One of the photos was of the natural fresh water well from the 1800’s that still sits outside our gate. I hope to God I can find another one of those books while I’m here…it’s a gem! I really hope someone with a better camera than my little Nikon Coolpix took better pictures of the hood than I can to document the evolution of this place. There is not one single home in Turgeau that has not been affected. Every single home either no longer stands at all or is so badly damaged it’s only standing because the cobwebs are keeping it up. There is one street a block down from us that makes a big loop of about 12 or so formerly large, glorious homes. An entirely family once occupied this street. Not one single home remains now. There is also an apartment building belonging to another family whose entire back wall has crumpled, exposing all the units that once stood privately behind it and now stands askew. There are clothes and shoes, book and papers and other belongings strewn everywhere. One of our other satellite family members has a small compound the next block down that used to contain three homes on it around a central quad area. One of the homes was completed last summer during my stay here. Apparently the bottom floor is condemned, but not the second… Yeah, I can’t figure that one out either, but let me know if you find out how that works. The second house is still standing although there are large visible cracks everywhere and walls have separated. The third house belongs to the matriarch and is a large wooden typical Caribbean-style structure painted in turquoise blue with red trim. It looks perfectly untouched!...until you drive around the side and see that the whole back of the house fell off. It literally looks like a dollhouse now.
Oye! I had enough for the day. We went home and got dressed to have dinner at our cousin, JP’s house. It was a fabulous evening of delicious appetizers and main course and we discussed what lessons each of us has walked away with since J12. My lesson was a bit different than everyone else’s …my lesson was that God has a plan and it’s not up to us to decide or control what happens to us. Everyone else said that material things do not matter. I didn’t think of that because I cannot really relate to it. I am still living in a perfectly safe house with all my clothes, trinkets, hot water, electricity and abundance of food. My personal lesson stems from having nothing to go on but my faith that God kept my dad and the rest of family safe. Without communication or news of what’s going on with family on a daily basis, it’s a nail-biting anxiety that takes over, so all you can do is pray and have faith. And it made me realize the different types of “affected” people. I think there are three different types: Those who were in Haiti at the time of the earthquake; those of us who were not in Haiti at the time, but were deeply affected by it because of their personal ties to Haiti (like me); and those who don’t know Haiti from squat with no ties to her at all and only know what they see or hear on CNN and could never fathom such a catastrophe.
At least I was able to temporarily forget the day’s madness in JP’s killer Dry Martini’s.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Haiti May 1 May 2010
After a loooong day of travel and a quasi-nap on the Miami International Airport floor (that’s a whole other story altogether) I anxiously anticipated my arrival back to Haiti. It has been less than a year since I last left Haiti, but this was my first trip back since the devastating earthquake of January 12, 2010. I thought I had prepared myself for what I might find upon landing but I don’t think anything can ever truly prepare anybody.
The flight from Miami sat me in seat 14B, next to a girl from California (YAY!) who was going to Haiti for 6 weeks to help with a British NGO in Bellvue. She was excited to sit next to someone who was familiar with the country but whom could also communicate with her. She wanted to know where she should go visit while there. I basically told her where NOT to go as that list is much shorter. The flight was not only not packed to the gills and bursting at the seams as usual (maybe because it was a 7am flight?) but there were also many “non-Haitians” travelling to Haiti as well. In hindsight, I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised now. Everyone has their hands in Haiti’s cookie jar. There was even an actress on board, although I cannot for the life of me, think of her name. It will probably come to me at some random time. I was just so happy so many people of the world still care about Haiti...she needs alot of help.
As we were landing we flew over Cite Soleil of which about half looked the same (cinder block and corrugated steel houses) and the other half was an ocean of blue tarps covering the tent city. Once I focused my eyes on the rest of the landscape, I could see large blotches of blue, white and grey tent cities for miles. Upon “parking” the plane at the gate (YES! An actual gate with the hamster tunnel!) I realized I was slightly disappointed at not feeling the slam of the tropical heat when deplaning and walking down the mobile stairs and across the tarmac to the immigration lines in the terminal. It seems each time I come to Haiti now, I am greeted with a new experience…oh boy. The arrival terminal was badly damaged during the quake and is no longer functional so we had to be shuttled to a temporary-but-will-probably-will-end-up-permanent terminal down a bit by where the old boneyard of vintage planes used to be. That entire portion of the airport has been nicely cleaned up. One of the grassy areas now houses a team of giant US military helicopters …they looked like Black Hawks, but what do I know?!?! Anyways, Don’t think I’m not gonna try and catch a ride on one! Other than that, the chaos of post-J12 at the airport seems to have subsided and is somewhat back to normal.
I had told my new friend that I would bet my dad will probably be waiting inside the airport at baggage claim and will take me to La Coquille for lunch (A restaurant in Petionville that serves all-you-can-eat homemade Haitian food for about $5…the BEST!!!). I really wish she would have taken me up on that bet… I could probably make a living off betting what my family members and friends will do.
Driving through Port-au-Prince was….uuuummmm…interesting. I know we hear about the tent cities on the news (well, we used to anyways), but I’m not sure the news reports did them justice. These tent cities to house the displaced victims of January 12th (or Goudougoudou, as it’s locally known, mimicking the sound of the earth trembling) are EVERYWHERE. Anywhere there is a spot of open and somewhat flat land, there is a tent. There are tents in parking lots, there are tents crammed between the wall of the airfield and the busy street of Mais Gate, there are tents perched on top of rubble….you name it, there will be a tent or 100, or 1000. And many of them are identified by the organization that is sponsoring it: The Red Cross from pick-a-country, USAID, etc. Rows of port-o-potties line the streets to keep the sanitary away from the unsanitary which apparently has become a problem in the not-so-organized tent cities. Yet, the streets are teaming with Haitians and it’s business as usual, although it’s not. It’s a strange feeling, a sort of ominous realization of, “This is the new norm?”
The road leading up to our property, Le Clos, is at the very tippy top of Ave Jean Paul II in the neighborhood of Turgeau on the outskirts of PAP. Before J12, it was a very narrow 2 way paved road with large concrete and stone walls enclosing the large homes that stood grandly behind the gates. The street was always crowded with Haitians travelling to and from the natural fresh water well that sits just outside our gate, with “marchands“ selling their mangoes or pharmaceuticals up against the walls, people bathing or washing their clothes in the run-off from the well. But now, the crumbling of most of Turgeau’s large old homes has left Ave jean Paul II an almost impassable 2 way paved road filled with mounds of rubble everywhere…and people travelling to and from the well, marchands selling their mangoes and pharmaceuticals, and people bathing or washing their clothes in the run-off. Two cars passing each other becomes a well choreographed Dance of the Rubble as they inch passed , careful not to sway into each other as they both precariously make their way up and over the remnants of someone’s wall or former home. The gate to our property is almost blocked by the team of water trucks that have come to fill their giant tanks with fresh water for distribution to the tent cities. Once we finally make it through the gates, things are back to normal…yeah, not quite.
The apartments on the right bare the wounds. Construction workers are all over the place in an attempt to get the apartments ready for tenants, who anxiously await their return or new tenants want to get in and get back to work right away. The 500 or so displaced that had been housed on our property in our tent city have since been sent home to begin their own rebuilding process, but a couple tents still remain on the stretch of grass between the apartment driveway and the driveway that leads to our house. My aunt and uncle still occupy one of those tents while their apartment is being fixed. The foundation needed to be dug up and reinforced to prevent the whole building from slipping down the hillside…a bit more work than just patching up cracks. Dad took me through some of the units to show me the progress. The little house on the left shows signs of patched up cracks on the outside. I have yet to venture inside and see the damage, but it’s still standing strong. When we reached our house, I noticed few battle scars on the “USS Mamie Liautaud” right away. A couple superficial cracks here and there, a few missing green roof tiles, and the obvious reconstruction of my favorite room , The Treehouse on Steroids, the only part of the house that suffered severe damage. A new lighter weight, steel roof crowns her top…it still has to grow on me. We entered, as usual, at the back of the house, through the kitchen where I immediately saw her patched up but unpainted wall on the right. It sent a sharp, metaphoric, pain straight to my heart (don’t worry, I’m not actually having a heart attack). The dining room wall also bares these giant patches. It’s paintings have been taken down and moved to my room for safe keeping. The portrait of Mamie sits on the bedroom floor and she stares at me while I’m dressing and sleeping…keeping me in check (Hmph!). There is also a large patch in the living room but, again, only a superficial crack. The house is now a little more crowded as all the furniture from the Treehouse had be moved in. The entrance gallery is now filled with a giant circle of wicker settees and chairs, the bar has a new temporary home in the living room, the curio cabinet that houses all of Mamie’s trinkets now stands as a separation between the hallway and Dad’s office. But the USS Mamie Liautaud still stands.
Later that evening, my aunt and uncle arrived from France and we were joined by my Godfather and his new bride, and my other uncle and his wife, plus a cousin. We enjoyed champagne & wine in celebration of Life and Family. It was a full house once again & Mamie surely is happy.
The flight from Miami sat me in seat 14B, next to a girl from California (YAY!) who was going to Haiti for 6 weeks to help with a British NGO in Bellvue. She was excited to sit next to someone who was familiar with the country but whom could also communicate with her. She wanted to know where she should go visit while there. I basically told her where NOT to go as that list is much shorter. The flight was not only not packed to the gills and bursting at the seams as usual (maybe because it was a 7am flight?) but there were also many “non-Haitians” travelling to Haiti as well. In hindsight, I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised now. Everyone has their hands in Haiti’s cookie jar. There was even an actress on board, although I cannot for the life of me, think of her name. It will probably come to me at some random time. I was just so happy so many people of the world still care about Haiti...she needs alot of help.
As we were landing we flew over Cite Soleil of which about half looked the same (cinder block and corrugated steel houses) and the other half was an ocean of blue tarps covering the tent city. Once I focused my eyes on the rest of the landscape, I could see large blotches of blue, white and grey tent cities for miles. Upon “parking” the plane at the gate (YES! An actual gate with the hamster tunnel!) I realized I was slightly disappointed at not feeling the slam of the tropical heat when deplaning and walking down the mobile stairs and across the tarmac to the immigration lines in the terminal. It seems each time I come to Haiti now, I am greeted with a new experience…oh boy. The arrival terminal was badly damaged during the quake and is no longer functional so we had to be shuttled to a temporary-but-will-probably-will-end-up-permanent terminal down a bit by where the old boneyard of vintage planes used to be. That entire portion of the airport has been nicely cleaned up. One of the grassy areas now houses a team of giant US military helicopters …they looked like Black Hawks, but what do I know?!?! Anyways, Don’t think I’m not gonna try and catch a ride on one! Other than that, the chaos of post-J12 at the airport seems to have subsided and is somewhat back to normal.
I had told my new friend that I would bet my dad will probably be waiting inside the airport at baggage claim and will take me to La Coquille for lunch (A restaurant in Petionville that serves all-you-can-eat homemade Haitian food for about $5…the BEST!!!). I really wish she would have taken me up on that bet… I could probably make a living off betting what my family members and friends will do.
Driving through Port-au-Prince was….uuuummmm…interesting. I know we hear about the tent cities on the news (well, we used to anyways), but I’m not sure the news reports did them justice. These tent cities to house the displaced victims of January 12th (or Goudougoudou, as it’s locally known, mimicking the sound of the earth trembling) are EVERYWHERE. Anywhere there is a spot of open and somewhat flat land, there is a tent. There are tents in parking lots, there are tents crammed between the wall of the airfield and the busy street of Mais Gate, there are tents perched on top of rubble….you name it, there will be a tent or 100, or 1000. And many of them are identified by the organization that is sponsoring it: The Red Cross from pick-a-country, USAID, etc. Rows of port-o-potties line the streets to keep the sanitary away from the unsanitary which apparently has become a problem in the not-so-organized tent cities. Yet, the streets are teaming with Haitians and it’s business as usual, although it’s not. It’s a strange feeling, a sort of ominous realization of, “This is the new norm?”
The road leading up to our property, Le Clos, is at the very tippy top of Ave Jean Paul II in the neighborhood of Turgeau on the outskirts of PAP. Before J12, it was a very narrow 2 way paved road with large concrete and stone walls enclosing the large homes that stood grandly behind the gates. The street was always crowded with Haitians travelling to and from the natural fresh water well that sits just outside our gate, with “marchands“ selling their mangoes or pharmaceuticals up against the walls, people bathing or washing their clothes in the run-off from the well. But now, the crumbling of most of Turgeau’s large old homes has left Ave jean Paul II an almost impassable 2 way paved road filled with mounds of rubble everywhere…and people travelling to and from the well, marchands selling their mangoes and pharmaceuticals, and people bathing or washing their clothes in the run-off. Two cars passing each other becomes a well choreographed Dance of the Rubble as they inch passed , careful not to sway into each other as they both precariously make their way up and over the remnants of someone’s wall or former home. The gate to our property is almost blocked by the team of water trucks that have come to fill their giant tanks with fresh water for distribution to the tent cities. Once we finally make it through the gates, things are back to normal…yeah, not quite.
The apartments on the right bare the wounds. Construction workers are all over the place in an attempt to get the apartments ready for tenants, who anxiously await their return or new tenants want to get in and get back to work right away. The 500 or so displaced that had been housed on our property in our tent city have since been sent home to begin their own rebuilding process, but a couple tents still remain on the stretch of grass between the apartment driveway and the driveway that leads to our house. My aunt and uncle still occupy one of those tents while their apartment is being fixed. The foundation needed to be dug up and reinforced to prevent the whole building from slipping down the hillside…a bit more work than just patching up cracks. Dad took me through some of the units to show me the progress. The little house on the left shows signs of patched up cracks on the outside. I have yet to venture inside and see the damage, but it’s still standing strong. When we reached our house, I noticed few battle scars on the “USS Mamie Liautaud” right away. A couple superficial cracks here and there, a few missing green roof tiles, and the obvious reconstruction of my favorite room , The Treehouse on Steroids, the only part of the house that suffered severe damage. A new lighter weight, steel roof crowns her top…it still has to grow on me. We entered, as usual, at the back of the house, through the kitchen where I immediately saw her patched up but unpainted wall on the right. It sent a sharp, metaphoric, pain straight to my heart (don’t worry, I’m not actually having a heart attack). The dining room wall also bares these giant patches. It’s paintings have been taken down and moved to my room for safe keeping. The portrait of Mamie sits on the bedroom floor and she stares at me while I’m dressing and sleeping…keeping me in check (Hmph!). There is also a large patch in the living room but, again, only a superficial crack. The house is now a little more crowded as all the furniture from the Treehouse had be moved in. The entrance gallery is now filled with a giant circle of wicker settees and chairs, the bar has a new temporary home in the living room, the curio cabinet that houses all of Mamie’s trinkets now stands as a separation between the hallway and Dad’s office. But the USS Mamie Liautaud still stands.
Later that evening, my aunt and uncle arrived from France and we were joined by my Godfather and his new bride, and my other uncle and his wife, plus a cousin. We enjoyed champagne & wine in celebration of Life and Family. It was a full house once again & Mamie surely is happy.
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