Haiti Earthquake

TO BE HONEST, I’m not really sure what to write today. I had a commission yesterday for a British newspaper, so my whole day was tied up at the UN compound at the airport. More on that when it’s published. But that’s not the reason I’m stumped for words. After spending the morning photographing another UN food drop at a refugee camp, this afternoon I was sent to photograph one of the largest of the mass graves that has been created to bury some of Haiti’s estimated 200,000 dead. We asked our driver if he knew where Titanyen was. Of course he did. The town holds a special significance for Haitians as one of the most feared places in the country. During the 1960s, ’70s and ’80s the area around the village was the dumping ground of “Papa Doc” and “Baby Doc” Duvalier’s political opposition. Haitian mothers warn their naughty children that they’ll be “sent to Titanyen” if they do not behave.
Before we headed there I did some research on Titanyen’s location. I needn’t have bothered. I’d anticipated the smell but nothing could have prepared me for it. With a surgical mask underneath a tight bandana covering my nose and mouth, the stench of the mass graves alerted me to their presence with a knockout jolt. However, whatever protection I’d used to mitigate the effects of the smell offered absolutely no protection to my eyes. I was absolutely stunned. I’ve seen and photographed dead bodies before, but never bodies dumped, piled high, and left to rot in the blazing hot Caribbean sun. The smell left me retching a few times and not for the first time on this trip I entered a daze – my thoughts racing too fast trying to make sense of the situation.
Suffice to say, I didn’t eat dinner tonight. I had joked with the friend I made on the flight from Philadelphia to Santa Domingo that I’d save a couple of the miniature bottles of rum they were handing out in case I really needed it. Tonight I drank them.