I should have come to Haiti before this. This is madness, and despite all I’ve read and seen, Haiti could never be like this. Driving across the border from Santo Domingo was a good way to to ease into the shock. As we approached Port-Au-Prince, the outbound traffic became increasingly heavier, and took over both sides of the street, choking it. We skirted downtown, and instead climbed into Petionville to our hotel just outside the city. Concrete, houses and rocks partially blocked the road in places, and our Dominican driver kept the windows up and a facemask on as protection from the dust. My throat swelled too, and I wrapped a scarf across my nose and mouth, a practice I’ve quickly settled into whenever I’m in the street.

The partially collapsed Villa Creole is one of the media hotels, and the international press works all day and into the night from the poolside terrace. We have electricity, spotty internet and clean water, so despite huge cracks in the walls and debris strewn throughout, the hotel is up and running. The front courtyard is home to several dozen injured and displaced Haitians, and between the sheer numbers of guests, and dubious structure, every spot on the grounds is taken at night by someone in need of a place to sleep. After sleeping on the hard tile outside my colleague’s room, I’ve switched to a spot in the inner courtyard, alongside several other photojournalists and writers.

Yesterday was my first day covering this story, and it began with an eye-opener. As I went up to the terrace for breakfast, a huge noise and vicious shaking blurred my vision and filled my ears. For a heartbeat I paused, then quickly sprinted to the terrace moving away from any standing structures. People came flying to the terrace; everyone moving as far from the buildings as possible. I looked up and saw the fractured roof rippling and billowing like a sail in the breeze. No one wasted any time getting to safety and many people just ran, whether naked or not. It was over in a few moments and we all started talking excitedly, happy we could have a little faith in the ground once again.

We headed downtown in a two-vehicle convoy to see what was going on. Downtown is demolished. Rubble. Every park, including one across from the Presidential Palace has a tent city. Desperate Haitians scavenge the wreckage, taking incredible risks to go inside shaky buildings hoping to find something of use. Food, bedding, clothing and firewood are priority. While not as widespread as last week, there are still lifeless bodies on the street. At least 72,000 are officially dead, but that number is low. They are still counting. We spent the day crisscrossing Port-Au-Prince, from the port, where hundreds of families are looking for a way out, to the General Hospital with 1500 patients and counting, to water distribution stations and more. The scene while chaotic, was peaceful. Haitians are beautiful and resourceful people and just want to survive this great suffering. Do more than pray for them. Send help.

This is a Deep South experience, a real shift from my normal perspective. USM is in Hattiesburg, MS, which is about two hours east of New Orleans by car. Five years on, Katrina’s mark is still indelible. Works starts then stalls from the immensity of it. So many people who left never came back, and the dearth of humanity has left so much undone.

That slow rhythm of the South stalls time;
Man’s things idle, but Nature resumes her heartbeat.

A night in the Dancehall in Kingston