Kites Above.

Began the trip behind the eight ball. Packed medical supplies in LA, iodine spilled in the checked bag. Pulled off the plane by homeland security, interrogated and released at 2am, as I scrambled to book new passage my phone gets stolen, police reports until the sun starts to peak out. Very little sleep, got new ticket and new phone and spent the night sleeping on the floor of Miami International Airport.

Arrive in Port Au Prince (PAP), Madeleine is waiting. PAP airport is a mess, was a mess before the earthquake and is messier now. Push through the touts into a waiting silver SUV, the A/C blasts cold and wakes me up. PAP is bustling; traffic jammed and congested. 10,000 nonprofit orgs on the ground all trying to get somewhere. UN Tanks - US Army Hummers – helicopters everywhere – machine guns – street vendors – old men – kids – tents camps and rubble. We listen to the radio loud, Michael Jackson’s “They don’t care about us” plays on repeat. An ominous and dangerous word to send out, reminds me of secret messages I would hear on the radio in Zimbabwe as a kid after the revolution. PAP looks the same at first but then as you leave the airport you see a city in ruins; as if leveled by a bomb. You notice the smell, it’s familiar but there is something different; diesel, roasted meats, petrol and that sickly sweet smell of sweat and burning trash but there is another overwhelming smell in the air, dust. Piercing trough the air is the grey chalky smell of concrete dust, its everywhere and here, a month after the earthquake, the acrid particles still float. I inhale deeply this city of dust. Tent camps dot the side of the road. Kites fly above them and I smile watching kids running through the camps flying kites and laughing. Hope above despair.

We arrive at St Damien’s hospital, the beautiful gardens I used to sit in are covered in tents, no one wants to sleep inside, aftershocks still hit weekly. I meet Dr. Reza who walks me through the hospital, its always a slow walk, kids come running out of their rooms, many of them amputees wanting to hug you and play. Makes me cry to see how much hope and joy these kids have; most have no home anymore, all lost many of their family but yet they are still smiling. I meet a 13-year-old pregnant girl, waiting to give birth at any second. I hear the wails of another woman who is in labor and screaming to the unborn baby to stay inside and not come out, to stay safe and protected inside. I’m told she lost her whole family, husband and home. She is calmed down and gives birth to a healthy baby girl. The next morning I watch her leave with her baby, walking out of the gates into an unknown future.

I walk into St Damien’s temporary schools. Its hot outside and 150 kids sit under tents learning French and English and studying math and playing soccer. One kid comes up to me and digs in his pocket; he fishes out a piece of strawberry candy and hands it to me. I’ve passed out loads of candy to kids but no kid has ever given me some. A 5-year old girl walks up to Dr Reza and hands him some of their nutrition bar to share. I’ve never seen such generosity before. A un-intentioned lesson learned in a post disaster country where food and necessities are passed out liberally to those who need it. I’m moved beyond words.

At dusk the sun sets red through the dust. Dr. Reza and I drink wine and wipe the sweat from our eyes.

In the morning we drive our convoy of five trucks to the food depot to buy rice. We are caught in a small stampede of people, I hear gunshots, the US Army sets up a blockade. I am carrying $20,000 in cash in a trash bag at my feet. This was a mistake to ride along for this one. We swerve through the masses and get to the depot. We load 800 bags of rice, probably most of it stolen, into the trucks. We drive the rice back home keeping an eye out for gangsters looking to take our rice. People are hungry here.

We get back safe. In the driveway of the hospital sit a group of Chinese volunteers from a Buddest organization who have showed up to donate some rice and 20 tents. They want to perform a short ceremony with singing and dancing and speeches, Conan the hospital administrator passes off to me the responsibilities. I'm good at these thank you speeches anyway, made lots in Africa. Very cheesy ceremony they film it and take pictures, I make a quick speech and take the tents and rice which then gets quickly spread out amongst the different parts of the hospital. I learn very fast to make sure supplies go to the right place since everyone needs everything and will grab right under your eyes.

So much work to be done.

So many people trying to help, best of intentions but without directions. I meet a Hollywood celebrity who is building an Eco City and will talk with the government next week to convince them change their rebuilding plans, she tells me she has a better plan. I’m a bit baffled. Lots of egos here, lots of well intentioned but misplaced ideas. Everyone I meet thinks they know better then Haitians on how to proceed and rebuild.

First thing in the morning someone throws two dead bodies of children over the fence because they know Father Rick will bury them. Dr Reza puts them in bags, he vomits.

All before 8am. Good morning Port Au Prince.

At night, dinner in Pettionville, lobster grills above an open flame, cold beer, a bar full of expats, peanuts. Night motorcycle ride down the hill back to the hospital, the cold air feels good against my face. No electricity in the streets so many people are outside, grilled meats and yams by candle light. We pass a few discos, people are dancing, I smile. The motorcycle breaks down in the middle of the slum, it gets fixed. Back to the hospital, collapse on my air mattress on the floor of the pharmacy closet, I sleep deeply stirred only by my methloquine dreams. I pack for home for a week and then will return to the city of dust.

In the morning it’s hard to leave. At the airport we hop on a chartered 747 full of doctors from the University of Miami, when the plane leaves the tarmac they applaud, happy to be going home. The clapping disgusts me; there is nothing to applaud.

I’m a zombie back in Venice, need to return.

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