Back to Port-au-Prince

29 May, 2010

The drive from Léogâne took over three hours because of traffic, earthquake damage to the roads, and the rains which have begun in earnest.


Here are two photos of the presidential palace, which we passed by on the way to the guest house in Port-au-Prince. A Haitian physician friend, who now works for the WHO in Leogone, said he was in the Dominican Republic when the earthquake occurred. He got a call from the US about an hour later, and went on Facebook where he saw pictures similar to these. He said he thought the pictures had been “Photoshopped”—he didn’t believe they were real. Then he saw the same photos on CNN, and raced across the boarder to Haiti to see his family, and to help out.

As is evident, absolutely nothing has been done to clear away the rubble, much less reconstruct the palace--it stands exactly as it did on January 12th. This is a poignant metaphor for the discouraging situation in Haiti, now approaching five months after the earthquake.

Two days ago was our last mobile clinic. We drove over muddy roads (the rains have finally begun in earnest) and across swollen rivers to a tiny village near the base of a mountain. We set up in the dirt under a big mango tree, next to a sugar cane field and across from a raggedy banana grove. Little bleating goats clambered over our equipment as we unloaded it and small jet-black pigs, like self-guided torpedoes, cruised around the periphery, grubbing for food.

Part way through the clinic it began to rain hard, and everyone rushed into a tiny single-roomed building with a tin roof, rousting the alarmed goats who had taken cover there. We managed to set up our interview tables and chairs and relocate the three big rolling bags of medicines that made up our pharmacy and began treating patients again while those waiting to be seen huddled under cover of the roof. In a low-budget imitation of a three-ring circus, we listened to hearts and lungs, pulled men into a slightly secluded corner to examine hernias, dressed wounds, gave babies ORS (oral rehydration solution) and handed out pills and condoms while children cried and goats bleated in time to the rain on the roof.

The last patient I saw in the increasingly steamy little room was a 53 year-old man who complained of three years of headache and belly pain, the two most common complaints of Haitian patients. I got the details, did my examination, and began to explain to the patient (via my translator, Conception) that I didn’t think these represented anything serious, but that I’d give him some medicine that might help, as well as worm medicine which we give routinely. The opaque discussion in Creole between translator and patient took a lot longer than usual. At one point Conception’s face lit up and he said something like, “oh, aha!” More discussion, then in answer to an apparent question, he showed visible disappointment.

"OK, Conception, I said, let me in on what’s going on!"  He smiled a little self-consciously. “Well. This man told me that the cause of his stomach ache is that a woman who doesn’t like him put a charm on him three years ago.” What? “You know, a charm. What she did was take some of her poop, put it out in the sun to dry, then ground it up. Then she sprinkled some of the poop powder into his food or into something he drank, he’s not sure which. That started his stomach aches.” Really? “Of course! But it’s so sad, this man’s mother is dead.” Yes, I said, that is sad. But why did you mention it just now? “Well only a person’s mother can counteract the charm. If she were alive she would give her son some of her urine. Or wash her vagina with a little water. And give it to him to drink. That would make the charm go away.” It would? “Of course!” Is it only the mother who can supply the urine or the washings? “Of course.” Oh, I guess that’s because they are from where he came from when he was born? “Of course.” Wow. Do you really believe this stuff? “Of course.” I finished writing the prescription for antacids, with very little hope that they would make a difference.