Port-au-Prince is very hilly. If you travel north or eastwards it is even more dramatic. West, to the Dominican Republic, is flat and uneventful.
Travelling by car this morning, as soon as we left the gates of the convent, it struck me again how beautiful it is here.
I could see a long way into the distance through breaks in the palm trees. The rich greens and yellows, the rich blue sky and the sea completing the view. Houses are stacked precariously on every hillside - fascinating for their sheer impertinence. Amazing: defying convention and reason. And yet there's an order than seems to belong - no one will say, 'I told you so'! If they should all fall. They were built there out of necessity and lived in for expedience.
Port-au-Prince is a series of basins interlocking. A district of peaks and troughs. Valleys and hills of trees and roads and thick forestation where I thought there were none. All this has grown in a short, critical time of trauma; serial traumas and events - natural and political. The boiling Haitian sun beats down regardless giving the place such drama and colour everywhere. I surrender to the sweltering heat.
Clothes - yellow, orange and green: brilliant and radiant.
Walls whitewashed, brands, logos and slogans hand painted precisely. Then weathered. All the way out of town the pavements are dotted with
people sitting and selling, walking and carrying. Everyone toots - especially the driver I am with. I realised the horn means: 'caution - I am passing'. And everyone seems grateful for the advance warning. At home it's a rude outburst. But everything is back to front at home. Before, it was here.
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