DESPAIR IN PORT-AU-PRINCE
On streets of Haiti's capital two days after quake, growing despair
Friday, January 15, 2010
PORT-AU-PRINCE, HAITI -- The news on the radio delivered the latest shock to Ives Sima: The eight-story technical college run by his cousin in the Haitian capital had collapsed in Tuesday's massive earthquake.
Sima, a high school biology teacher, jumped onto his bicycle and pedaled the nine miles from his home to the wrecked building. He wanted to offer the only tool he had: his hands.
All day Thursday, Sima and a handful of other volunteers using small, dull saws and broken windowpanes were the only rescuers searching for dozens of missing students and teachers at St. Gerard school in Port-au-Prince. Eventually, a volunteer turned up with a dump truck, a student's relative with a generator for a drill.
"It's the families of the victims -- it's not the government," said Sima, 32, whose cousin Louis Larosilière had founded the college. "For us, the government doesn't exist at all."
Bodies were piled on street corners, and residents stepped past quickly, holding limes to their noses to block the stench. Family members were moving their dead across the city in coffins borne on shoulders. One man ferried a body down a street in a wheelbarrow. A crew of men with shirts wrapped around their faces lurched down the block in a converted school bus stacked with corpses.
At a partially collapsed funeral home, the open carport held 20 bodies, some of them children. Just outside the chaotic General Hospital was an especially gruesome pile of corpses, bloated from the sun.
"We are all alone. We don't have any contact with anyone. No phones. No help. We beg for the Americans to come help us. Look at us!" said Jules Hector, an elderly man helping a neighbor, Pauline Paul, who was being carried to the hospital on a broken door.
'Now I have nothing'
On St. Martin Street in central Port-au-Prince, men chipped at the heap of sagging concrete that was once a Methodist church and school. The percussion of their blows could not drown out Exellent Fontus's wails.
"My mother is in there!" she cried. "My mother is dying."
Fontus stamped her feet and flapped her arms. She sobbed, and no amount of consoling could calm her. Her mother, Issionese Fontus, had gone to the little teal-trimmed church for a Bible-reading session. It took her daughter a full day to pick through the debris-strewn streets to reach the church, where she fears her mother will be entombed.
"No one could have survived this," a man said as he plunged back into the concrete pile.
Tens of thousands of people were erecting tents of sheets on any piece of open ground. Markets were closed, and it was hard to buy either food or water.