My work week began at 3 a.m. on Monday – that’s what time I crawled out of bed in Jacmel in order to meet our driver at 4 a.m. for the three-hour trek into Port-au-Prince. I was due at the city’s international airport three hours later to join the throng of media authorized to trail Governor-General Michaëlle Jean on her first trip back to Haiti since the earthquake.
Given the chaos of Port-au-Prince I wasn’t taking any chances. And it turns out my caution paid off. It took us nearly four hours to get to the airport.
The drive to Port-au-Prince was largely uneventful (the last time we went we encountered a series of jack-knifed tractor trailers on the winding mountain highway that links the capital with Jacmel). But navigating the city is next to impossible. Driving through the traffic-choked maze of streets is like driving through quicksand. Eventually, though, we got there. I hopped on the Governor-General’s media bus and off into the chaos we went.
Fourteen hours later, after a hot, sweaty and food-less day of chasing the G-G around to various events (on buses that are not, by the way, able to make three-point turns on narrow city streets) our SUV was rattling through Port-au-Prince rush-hour traffic (which isn’t really any different than the traffic at any other hour) with me sitting cross-legged in the back seat.
I was typing madly to meet my deadline – a recipe for carsickness – but also keen on getting back to Jacmel, where we were due to meet Ms. Jean at 6 o'clock the following morning. When I finished my story, our driver pulled off the road so I could set up a portable satellite terminal to send it.
We use that technology fairly regularly in far-flung places, including in Afghanistan when we’re off the main base in Kandahar. But I will always remember this particular file. With cooking fires burning all around us on the sidewalk and curious pedestrians milling around us in the semi-darkness, we set the terminal on the top of our weatherbeaten black Isuzu and wired it to my laptop in the back seat.
I stood on the sidewalk waiting for the thing to connect while James, our fixer, struck a fierce-looking security guard pose on the sidewalk, arms crossed and chest puffed out. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him finger the army knife he keeps tucked on the inside of his belt – a gift from one of his brothers serving in the U.S. military – although I wasn't meant to see the flash of the blade. The scene around us was haunting.
Port-au-Prince has the feel of a desperate, dangerous place that is growing steadily worse. While Jacmel has been improving by small but significant leaps, in my two visits to Port-au-Prince I’ve seen little change. While small businesses are starting to open their doors again in Jacmel – soft-drink wholesalers, a few clothiers and auto parts and grocery vendors – Port-au-Prince remains wholly destroyed. The place looks, as the Governor-General pointed out, as if it has been bombed. A persistent cloud of dust hangs over the city, and its particles get everywhere – into your eyes, your nose, your ears, your mouth.
Both times I’ve come from the place, I leave it feeling filthy and spent. It is draining to see all the destruction, the utter lack of hope. I feel sorrow for the people who remain there.
Arriving back in Jacmel after more than a month of living here, feels like coming home. Opening the car window to breathe in the air reminds me of the year I lived in New York City. I lived in an apartment on Central Park West, right next to the park (although we couldn’t afford a view!) and when I would come up out of the subway after traipsing around the projects in Brooklyn all day, the air was clean and distinctive. The same is true in Jacmel.
The fact that there’s no large industry here is bad for the economy but wonderful for the environment. The sea air is lovely and welcoming after the pollution of Port-au-Prince. And even though the streets can feel packed and frenzied – and full of rubble these days – compared with the capital city, Jacmel is a mellow little town where nobody moves too quickly and nobody ever really gets upset.
It’s easy to see why the Governor-General, who spent part of her childhood here, feels such a connection to the place.
