Earthquake Reflections-trip to Port

Looking out the truck window the world appeared normal. Small markets bustled with life as people talked, bartered and laughed. The rice fields of the Artibonite were dotted with folks at work. Vehicles roared by on their way to various destinations. The sun shown as the birds filled the sky with their songs. That I traveled with non-family reminded me that 'normal' had changed.

Each mile we drew closed to Port my anxiety grew. Past the hurricane ravaged towns of last year-some people still living in tents. Past the Wesleyan boat dock where so many happy trips to LaGonave started for me. Near the town of Arcahaie the damage started to become evident. Walls collapsed, here and there a building or house.

By Cabaret nothing looked normal any more. People covered in dust frantically digging though the rubble to reach voices buried underneath. No one in the truck talked much. I prayed without the words to express my thoughts adequately, knowing that the Lord would understand.

We drove through City Sole- many of the small shacks were still standing but even there damage was everywhere you looked. We drove along the coast-surprisingly some buildings even a few stories tall looked untouched. Some second and third stories intact rested on the base of a crumbled first floor. As you looked up town each street was blocked with vehicles and fallen buildings. The air buzzed with the sounds of helicopters and planes. Some multistory buildings now lay one floor pancaked on the other.

While the noises of life, trucks and rescues filled the air a sound that I listened for was remarkably absent. Normally when Haitians loose a loved one they grieve with very loud, heart wrenching wailing. Not one person did I hear. A few merchants selling their wares along the road even laughed and smiled as they interacted with their customers.

During the first part of the trip I wondered if the people just hadn't yet heard the news. Perhaps they didn't listen to the radio on the night of January 12th. Maybe they didn't live by many other's who would of shared the news. Phones didn't work so they couldn't of received a call.

But those in Port knew the devastation because they lived it. I looked, saw, heard, touched the rubble, listened to the stories, cleaned the wounds, inhaled the smell of death. But you know it still doesn't seem real. I know it happened. I shared the aftermath with the people-but part of me remains set apart. It's to big for my mind. Parts hurt to much to contemplate so I turn my thoughts away telling myself that I'll deal with that later. But will I? To early to tell.

Maybe those in Port-au-Prince can only focus on a tiny sliver of normal life. Sell a hot dog. Make a joke. Hug a friend who is alive. Rejoice over lives saved. One step at a time. Find a bit of tin or sheet to sleep under. Find a drink of water. Stay outside. Breath in and out.