Two Years After the Earthquake - Part 3

boys at an orphanage loving the bubbles we brought. Fabio Diniz photo

This is the third story about returning to Haiti two years after covering the earthquake.  For part 2, click here.

Today we're heading to the orphanage where our relief team stayed after the earthquake.  Finding the compound is tricky because many streets don't have signs.  Two years ago we had a tap tap (truck taxi) driver to guide us but now we're on our own.

An orphanage worker had told us, "turn right at the old rundown shack with a water hole in the ground with a tire over it."  Dane thinks we missed the turn a half-mile back but I can't tell.  While the rubble and UN trucks are gone, dilapidated huts and abandoned tires litter almost every block.

We're not far off course and soon find the bright teal gates just as we remembered.  New Life Children's Home.

As the armed guard lets us in, we see the mango tree!  We'd spent hours talking, eating, praying in that spot.  The last time we were here, tents had covered the soccer field that we had turned into a base camp but now the field is lush and green.

A staff member greets us in English, "The kids will be so happy to see you." Most of the kids are in class but the toddlers are outside playing.

Kevin!  He was a starving newborn who slept holding my thumb the last time I saw him.  Now he's a healthy two-year-old with a  round belly who carries himself like a ringleader in diapers. 

Kevin and John, now thriving at two, were starving orphaned infants when we met them.

"When you were born," I demonstrate rocking an  infant in my arms, "I took care of you," I say pointing at Kevin.  He seems to think I'm calling him a baby and stomps off to get a toy truck.

Playing with the other kids, I try to coax a gaunt-looking boy to join us. Before I can stop him, he rips a piece off a plastic mat and eats it.  Still afraid of starving, I guess.


A mom waits
Staffers take the kids inside for naps. A young, White woman comes for John who had been rescued from the mountains after the quake.  "I'm his mom,"  she says in English.  She's living here waiting for the government to approve her and her husband's adoption paperwork.

As we talk, she mentions wishing they had baby pictures of John.  "Is the Internet working?"  I ask.  Nurses on our team had taken the first pictures of John two years ago.  Amazingly, I'm able to download several Facebook photos on to her laptop.

Before leaving I pray with this mom who refuses to leave her son, knowing that in Haiti it can take two years to bring a child home.

Barefoot boys
Later, our host drives us to a Haitian orphanage.  "It won't be like the American one," he warns.  We come to a small, concrete building that can only be reached by climbing a steep hill.  Instead of mango trees and a grassy field, we're met by barefoot boys playing soccer in a concrete entryway that's smaller than most American closets.

Dane Melberg photo

The kids don't wait for the pastor who runs the orphanage to introduce us, instead they grab our hands and lead us inside.  As we break out stickers and bubbles we've brought from the US, the kids erupt in joyful shrieks, giggles and laughter.

The tiniest child, Samuel, wants to chase bubbles with the other kids but he's so frail his bones might break if one of them accidentally steps on him.  I pick him up and let him help me blow bubbles.  Our host says Samuel wasn't expected to live, suffering from TB and starvation.  The three-year-old's hands seem much too big for his body; he weighs no more than an 18-month-old baby.

The kids climb on Dane like a human jungle gym as he tosses them over his head.  Samuel wants Dane to toss him in the air, too.  It's too risky, though, in case he falls.  But how can we say no to a child who just wants to play?  Dane gently lifts a beaming Samuel over his head as the other kids laugh and cheer.

It's hard to say goodbye. The pastor closes the gate and walks us down the hill to our truck.  I still have Samuel in my arms.  I want to drive away with him, just to keep feeling his heartbeat...

little Samuel leaning on my shoulder

"A child here in Haiti would probably trade whatever toy you give them for five minutes on your lap with your arms around them." ~ Patty Meyer, New Life Children's Home

www.facebook.com/shayholland

Two Years After the Earthquake - Part 2

Haiti 2012 (Sarah Batista photo)

This is the second story about returning to Haiti two years after covering the earthquake.  For part 1, click here

Stormy night

Tropical storm!  The downpour sounds like it will rip through the tile roof of our host's home.  I can't help but think about the families living in tents - just tarps  and sheets, really - that have been their homes since the earthquake.

In the two years since the disaster, the government has moved the larger tent camps to the hills outside Port-au-Prince but smaller ones remain.  Families living amid the stench of rotting garbage; women bathing in plastic tubs of dirty water; children playing in waste-contaminated mud...

I feel a twinge of guilt at our own comfort but mostly gratitude that we're in a dry place; sleeping outside would have been miserable.  The weather had been mercifully clear when our relief team camped on a soccer field after the earthquake. 

At least the storm quiets the roosters that normally crow all night.

Rebuilding
By morning the roads are passable.  We drive to a site where a pastor started an outdoor church for residents of a tent camp. Our host's organization, Brazil-based MAIS, had heard of the congregation's plight and helped buy land for a building.

At the construction site, teenage boys push wheelbarrows filled with stone; gray-haired women carry water buckets; children shovel dirt with toy pails.  The workers are mostly congregation members who volunteered to help build the church; only a few skilled laborers and an American project manager are paid.

Building a church for residents of a tent city

Learning to carry water

"Have the women show you how to carry water," the project manager tells me. I follow two women to  a cistern and ask for a bucket in English but they only speak Creole.  Empty-handed, I walk back to the site.

"Come with me," says the interpreter, Schneider. His flawless English and breezy style, iPod headphones draped around his neck, remind me of a California skateboarder.

"You use this," he rolls a dirty cloth into a tight donut.  "It keeps the bucket in place," he explains, slapping the wet rag on my head.

At the cistern, I lower the dip pail but it keeps bobbing like a sailboat so I can't fill it. Schneider shows me how to skim the pail so it tips and takes in water. He tells me to stop when the bucket is half full.  "Since this is your first time, it will be heavy and slosh," he says. 

Next time I fill the bucket to the rim. "You carry it a little way and then I'll take it," Schneider says, "You might hurt your neck."  The 40-pound load hurts but I decide to keep going. Seeing the American woman carrying a full bucket on her head, the workers break into applause.  Success!

Our interpreter Schneider shows how to carry a bucket (left).  Success! (rt)

"Here," the pastor says, handing me a Styrofoam container. "You get lunch because you carried the bucket of water."  The crew laughs as we dig into rice and beans washed down with cold Coke and 7-Up.

We spend the afternoon shoveling stone and dirt.  Despite the heat and hard work, laughter fills the air.  The men tease eachother and trade funny stories, acting them out in a mix of Creole and English.

More storms
That night another storm pounds the island.  I think about the families living in the tent camps.  I fall asleep thinking, They have a joy no storm can wash away, no disaster can shake, no man can destroy.  Maybe they are the fortunate ones.

To read part 3, click here.

www.facebook.com/shayholland

Two Years After the Earthquake - Part 1

The presidential palace remains in ruins two years later. 

I'll be posting a few stories about my return to Haiti two years after covering the earthquake. Thanks for being part of the journey.

Mountains you can't forget

I open my eyes to see haze-covered mountains as we prepare to land at Port-au-Prince airport.  Groggy from a red-eye flight, I take in the differences since the last time we flew over these mountains.

Makeshift tents blanketing the landscape. military jets clogging the runways. the huge tent hospital for the most severely-injured earthquake victims - all gone.

Even the air feels lighter as we step onto the runway. The humidity's mild, temps in the mid-80s.

We're ushered to a crammed bus with no seats or air-conditioning.  We take a short ride to the terminal where a band singing in Creole greets us so we'll drop some cash in the tip bowl. The scene feels jarringly festive compared to our arrival after the earthquake when U.S. military had taken over the airport.

A man in a red shirt approaches and  I assume he's the driver sent to find us. "You give me $40 to get through customs," he says.  Dane (a paramedic from the 2010 trip) and I are suspicious.  

Turns out François is an "attendant" seeking gullible passengers.  We tip him $5 to get our bags and go wait in the customs line. We expect agents to hassle us about medical supplies we're carrying but they let us through without questions.

Outside the terminal our real driver recognizes us from photos.  We walk several blocks and climb inside a pickup; before we'd had to cram 15-20 members of our relief team on the back of a tap-tap (truck taxi). Windows rolled down, we head to the exit.

You're not afraid?
The traffic!  I'd forgotten about the jammed and dangerous roads.  There are few stop lights, pedestrians cross the street anywhere and drivers use whichever side of the road is open, seldom signaling for turns or lane changes.

The US State Department has issued a travel warning due to recent kidnappings.  "You're not afraid?" our Haitian driver asks me in English. "Not really," I reply, "since I blend in."

People here often greet me in Creole, mistaking me for Haitian.  Dane is the one who draws attention with his white skin and nearly 6'5", 215-pound frame; he towers over the much smaller Haitians.  I smile recalling how boys had followed our relief team asking what kind of meat the American men ate to grow so big.

We drive through unpaved streets packed with cars, people and vendors selling everything from meat to mangos.  Life seems to have returned to normal.  Even the rubble has been replaced by heaps of garbage.  A half hour later, we arrive at a modern yellow house with barbed wire fencing.

our host's home in Haiti

Ruben!
Our host greets us with bear hugs and laughter.  "The Haitians say I look Muslim," jokes Ruben about the thick, black beard he's grown since we last saw him.  I met Ruben two years ago in Brazil on a trip to build a kids' camp. He lives in Haiti now and runs a Brazilian organization that's rebuilding schools and churches.

Ruben can tell we need sleep even though the mid-afternoon sun is high.  We didn't rest much on the flight since Dane had helped with a medical emergency.

Ruben leads us upstairs in the large home rented from an American missionary; the family was too afraid to live in it after the earthquake.  Ruben has given up his room for me since I'm the only female; he and five male guests will bunk in the other rooms.

The room has a shower - cold water only.  I feel slightly guilty about the indulgence; last time we didn't have running water. I let the water cool my skin before crawling on top of the sheets, drifting off to thoughts of the orphans, the mountains, the roosters that crow all night...

To read part 2 about my return to Haiti, click here.

www.facebook.com/shayholland

Home from Haiti!

 Samuel leaning on my shoulder. He was so sick from TB they thought he would die.  

We're back from Haiti!  Our time was filled with adventures - I witnessed everything from a cockfight to a circumcision! 

I fell in love more times than I can count. 

I held a dozen orphans in my arms like a mom, giggling with them as they chased bubbles and sang to us in Creole.

I fell asleep to the sound of tropical rainstorms and woke to crowing roosters (even in the middle of the night!). 

I hiked a mountain in Kafour to a place where the people embrace life despite not having running water or electricity.  

I rode a motorcycle to the market and bartered for our dinner. 

I worked alongside Haitian women who taught me how to carry a water bucket on my head the way they do.

I walked along an azure-colored ocean in a place that looked like paradise. 

I held the babies  I met who were abandoned in the earthquake but are now thriving at two-years-old. 

And I came home knowing I will return to Haiti.  Again...

I will post stories in a few days.

www.facebook.com/shayholland

Haiti!

Haitian children from our 2010 trip (Scott Mortensen photo)

"This is a moment in history in which I've been invited to play a role. How can I say no?"  I wrote those words two years ago in the face of unthinkable tragedy.  Haiti.  A massive earthquake. More than 200,000 lost lives...

I will never forget landing in Port-au-Prince.  Despite the devastation everywhere, the primitive conditions, the threat to our safety, it somehow felt like the place I belonged.

Now I am returning.

I leave in two weeks with a paramedic I met on the 2010 relief team.  We'll be working with a friend who lives in Haiti and runs an organization that's rebuilding schools and churches.

I wish I could give some profound reason for the trip; something redemptive. But honestly? Disappointment from 2010 still lingers.  Instead of seeing lives and limbs healed, we often saw far more loss than anyone could help.  Instead of seeing miracles, we saw far more sorrow than anyone can comprehend...

Instead of being disillusioned in God though, I asked our translator to teach me a Creole phrase: "Map vini an Ayiti anko." It means, "I will return to Haiti." 

www.facebook.com/shayholland

Whitney

Whitney Houston in "The Bodyguard." Photo: Noel Phillips

What happens when you reach the end of hope?  

Not a comforting thought to wake up to on Valentine's Day but there it was...then just names - lost hearts. Whitney Houston. Amy Winehouse. Michael Jackson...

What about faith?  Doesn't that sustain even when hope fails?  

Whitney grew up in the church.  She knew faith. divine love. even sang "Jesus Loves Me"  to party guests the other night. 

Why didn't that carry her through the storm? 

Most journalists will tell you no matter what the coroner eventually says, Whitney's another statistic.  Most of us have seen prescription drugs trafficked from Hollywood to the Hamptons as openly as fake Prada purses.

Not long ago I got a lead into some places filling questionable prescriptions. Went to my publisher with the story idea - an investigative piece exposing suppliers might put some out of business and save lives.  He killed the idea. 

"No one will buy an ad around that kind of story," he said.  Wary advertisers meant lost sales.

News directors had quashed some of my controversial stories before but this time I was furious.  Where was our courage? We had a platform to confront our nation's drug epidemic and instead we walked off the stage because a pharmaceutical giant might yank an ad?

where do broken hearts go. when melodies are gone. can they find their way home...Whitney, I pray you did.  We will always love you.

www.facebook.com/shayholland 

Faith Wins.

Standing on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, I faced the oncoming storm. The skies turned red with rage, then black with vengeance - mirroring the feeling in my soul.  

I was exhausted. Honestly, 2011 has been a hard year, but not for the usual reasons.  While the economy faltered, my wallet grew fat. While the country suffered, I was secure.  

Yet, silencing the artist inside for a corporate paycheck comes at a cost. The future seems bleak...already lost to an invisible foe who's only goal is to destroy dreams.

"Why did you give up music?"  I  recently asked a new friend who'd quit chasing a career in the industry.  Her answer's repeated a million times in Hollywood:  doors closed. no opportunities. no money. 

"You walked away from music but it didn't walk away from you," I told her.  

Have you ever looked at someone and felt you could read their heart in their face?  I could see she had paid a price for the music inside that someone else needs to hear. 

"There's still a song inside of you waiting to be sung," I said, "music still waiting to be written..." 

"I don't think it will look the same but I will try again," she promised before leaving.

Dreams seldom look the same after they've been broken.

Facing the storm, I challenged the song stealer. 

You might kill my dreams but not my faith.  

Like my friend, my dream is broken but I'm confident that He who began a good work is faithful to complete it to the end. Just as the sun always shines after a storm, faith always wins.

www.facebook.com/shayholland