Haiti

Haiti. A place that I can't say I knew much about until a couple months ago.

Once I knew I was going to be there in May working for CAWST delivering training and helping in the development of a water treatment, hygiene and sanitation program for youth, it became clear that I needed to learn more about the country and more importantly the people and their culture.

What is their history? What has shaped them? What kind of perspectives might they have? But really there is only so much reading you can do about a place that cannot in any way bring you to a full reality of the place.

Strangly, as soon as we deplaned, I was reminded of India.

The chaos at the airport was a good start. The earthquake of Jan 12 destroyed the original terminal. In it's place, they converted a still standing small airplane hanger that included immigration, a baggage claim area and even toilets. The recent addition was the baggage carousel that Olivier noticed was an addition since his trip here in March. Although the 30m loop of the carousel was quickly overwhelmed and luggage was piled high off to the side making the search for your bags that much more of an adventure.

Upon leaving the building, the throng of shiny, dark faces were all jostling for a small job of either giving you a ride somewhere or helping with your luggage. Habituated from past travels, I was aware of their anchored persistance; just making eye contact equates tacit agreement to hiring their efforts. As we made our way through the crowd I was convinced I smelled incence. India? my mind asks.

Once we found him, we made our way with Thomas, the director of PAIDEH and our host, to our vehicle and beetle out of Port-au-Prince immediately. Plans have changed. We were supposed to gather up the materials we would need for the trainings we were doing, but didn't know that it was a holiday so all the shops were closed. Not only that, Thomas and his family were still living in a tent in one of the camps (like 3.5 million others) so we didn't have a place to stay. Luckily, the family house survived the erathquake even though many of their neighbours' houses didn't. Still, even though their house survived , they are still afraid to sleep in it.

As we drove out of the city (past numerous spontaneous settlements of internally displaced Haitians) I was again struck by the parallels with India. The garbage, filth, disrepair, masses of motorcycles, horns blaring, hot and humid. The smell coming through the window was the familiar combination of diesel, dust, fried fat, diaper (from open sewage), sweat and sweet fragrance from the tropical foliage, all of which are forced through a furnace vent and up your nose. Not something that can be truly understood by words alone.

The decibel level is just as loud as any overpopulated area. (I remember returning to Shanghai after being in Delhi and was in awe of how clean and quiet the city of 15 million seemed.) Voices, moto engines, horns, diesel trucks, music and in general a chaotic cacaphony that boggles the senses into a heightened state then falling into a state of submission.

To be sure thought this is a classic case of not judging a book by its cover.

It has taken most of this week to really feel the beginnings of a connection to the essence of the people, their spirit, the complicated, dark and twisted path of their past and their tenuous and challenging path into the future.

But what little I do know is those that I have had the pleasure to share time with are quick to smile, to laugh, to joke, to live, to survive, which is not a reflection of the environmental disrepair they are surrounded by.