An Offering to the Gods
We open the cans of sardines. I remember that I’d left bread on the table in the restaurant. Rodney and I go off in search of that bread. It’s the first time we’ve returned to the scene. Nothing has changed. The restaurant, made of wood, is more flexible than concrete. The breadbasket is sitting where we left it. I feel like I’m stealing an offering made to the gods.
The Second Night
We settle in. Everybody goes back to the spot where they slept the first night. We’ve claimed our territory. There’s movement by the entrance. The guards are coming with mattresses, sheets, and pillows. The pillow is the sign of a higher plateau of refinement. Our heads won’t be on the same level as the rest of our bodies. An enormous change compared to last night. A good night’s sleep will make us less sensitive to the smaller tremors. We’ll need steady nerves. Already we’re leaving behind last night’s anxiety, when we weren’t even sure we’d see the dawn. Now we’re more exasperated than worried. We just wish the earth would stop moving. I spot a red dot moving through the garden: a man smoking a cigarette.
A Pain in the Ass
People’s temperaments are quickly revealed within this small perimeter. All the major traits of our species are represented here. I suppose it’s the same in every improvised camp. You can spot them right off: the petty ones, the jealous types, the generous kind, the optimists, the pessimists, the adventurers, the careful ones, the quiet ones, and the pains in the ass. I’ve got one of the latter in my zone, a woman. She talks endlessly about her own problems. Most people here have family members either dead or injured, but she couldn’t care less. She knows that her husband is alive, but she acts like she isn’t sure just to be at the center of attention. She complains about everything. In her opinion, Haitians are partly responsible for this disaster. We must have committed some crime; that’s why misfortune follows us. And on and on. She’s just decided that it’s too beautiful a night to sleep. And she’s right: the sky is magnificent and the earth still warm from its convulsions. But I’d rather be attacked by hordes of furious mosquitoes than have her muttering behind my back. I set up my mattress a little further on.
A Teenager
He showed up this afternoon, found a spot, and settled in without a sound. He was having trouble with his foot. Maëtte, who has a way with stray dogs, took him under her wing. Especially since he’d lost his parents. She treated his wounds and defended him when a guard wanted to put him out. On the first night, we could welcome strangers into our space, because even the thieves were in a state of shock. Sleeping outside is always a risky business. Tourists possess two things that make thieves covetous: money and a valid passport. Besides, our suitcases were piled up along the fence. The men slept like babies. The women kept watch, listening for the slightest disturbance. They lifted their heads the minute a shadow moved through the garden. Often it was just someone looking for a tree to piss against. The women organized a spot near the fence for their basic needs so they wouldn’t have to leave the secure zone. Their anxiety became palpable once darkness began to fall. Luckily there were songs and prayers that were like lullabies in the night.
Morning Conversation
I spent a while watching a grandmother singing with her grandson. They were sleeping on the other side of the net on the tennis courts. It was a whole other neighborhood. The songs brought my childhood rushing back like a salmon swimming up a river. I heard them talking in low tones as, under the sheet, I noted down the morning thoughts that washed over me in streams. Reveries that had nothing to do with the earthquake. I understood that my mind wanted to escape the space where horror kept it prisoner. Muffled laughter. I looked up. They’re still talking in soft voices: the grandmother and the grandson. A strong bond links these two beings separated by the abyss of time. They live in the same fluid universe of dreams. At the beginning and the end of life, we enjoy a time stripped of the responsibilities that weighed down our days. That free time allows old age and childhood to join hands. The grandmother is doing all she can to spare her grandson the horror of the day. Some people can dance on hot coals. People call them carefree and irresponsible, and don’t understand that they are beings with exceptional souls. They pass through these times of suffering with steady hearts; they don’t feel they need to add their personal anguish to the collective tragedy. My grandmother tore me from the claws of the dictator by teaching me something other than hatred and vengeance. This grandmother, on the other side of the net, is taking the horrible images in her grandson’s head and replacing them with the songs and mythologies she can still find in her shaky memory.
Taking Stock
First thing in the morning, we get together to take stock of the situation. We can’t continue in this lethargy. We have to do something — but what? The whole city’s been through the blender. We’re in a state of shock. The planet’s eyes are riveted on Port-au-Prince. The images of destruction broadcast on a TV loop are stirring people’s energy all around the world. The radio stations that have managed to get back on the air are spitting out horror stories. The Internet works intermittently, ten minutes at a time. The phones are still down. It’s like the whole thing happened a thousand years ago. At the same time, we still haven’t assimilated how bad the situation is. Even though I saw the bodies, I go on dreaming. I didn’t describe the scenes to people who have stayed in the hotel. Figures are bandied about. It’s all so abstract: 100,000 or 200,000. Add or subtract 10,000 dead, as if each death wasn’t worthy of particular attention. All that is designed, of course, to keep you from going crazy. No one wants to be the first to go running naked down the street. We avoid considering reality, because reality is the problem.
Rumors
According to a rumor, the looting has already begun. Even in the hotel. Panic: it seems that someone has emptied the strong boxes in the rooms. In the courtyard and in front of the hotel, groups form to discuss the situation. We have to defend ourselves. We’re not going to wait to have our throats cut like goats tied to a post. Voices are raised. People are exhausted. I go off and talk to the security guards. All clear there. Then the chambermaids. They’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary. The hotel owners? First time they’ve heard of such a thing. The strong boxes are all intact. That’s how you kill a rumor before it spreads like oil on the glassy surface of a pond.
City of Calm
In the end, there never were those chaotic scenes that some journalists (but not all) no doubt wanted to see. I could just picture the front page of a major daily paper if looting really had broken out. And the televised commentaries from the instant experts about this barbarous country. Instead, people saw a dignified nation whose nerves were steady enough to resist the most terrible deprivations. When you understand that people were hungry long before the earthquake, you have to wonder how they managed to wait so calmly for help to show up. What did they live on during the month that preceded the distribution of food? And the sick who wandered the streets of the city without treatment? Despite all that, Port-au-Prince never lost its cool. We saw people standing in line, waiting for bottled water in the slums, the same districts that a few months earlier were considered danger zones where the government’s laws had no effect. So what happened? What can these changes be attributed to? Was this the shock the country was waiting for to wake up and halt its dizzying descent?We’ll have to wait a while longer to understand the true impact of such a tremendous event on the nation’s destiny. In the meantime, let’s enjoy the calm. Especially since we know that explosions of another kind (social, this time) are on the horizon.