The
two men are among hundreds of thousands of Haitians whose lives have
barely improved since those first days of devastation, when the death
toll climbed toward 300,000 and the world opened its wallets in
response.
While
U.N. Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon, former U.S. President Bill Clinton
and others vowed that the world would help Haiti "build back better,"
and $2.38 billion has been spent, Haitians have hardly seen any building
at all.
At
the time, grand ambitions were voiced for a Haiti rebuilt on modern
lines. New housing would replace shantytowns and job-generating industry
would be spread out to ease the human crush of Port-au-Prince, the
sprawling capital with its 3 million people.
But
now the government seems to be going back to basics, nurturing small,
community-based projects designed to bring the homeless back to their
old neighborhoods to build, renovate and find jobs through friends.
The
reasons for the slow progress are many. Beyond being among the world's
poorest nations and a frequent victim of destructive weather, Haiti's
land registry is in chaos - a drag on reconstruction because it's not
always clear who owns what land. Then there's a political standoff that
went on for more than a year and still hobbles decision-making.
After
the quake, a disputed presidential election triggered tire-burning
riots that shut down Port-au-Prince for three days. The international
airport was forced to close and foreign aid workers had to hunker down
in their compounds.
Even
after the vote was resolved and Michel Martelly was installed as
president in May 2011, there were further snags. The former pop star,
new to politics, took six months to install a prime minister, whose job
is to oversee reconstruction projects. He infuriated opposition
politicians because his administration jailed a deputy without following
the law and named a prime minister without consulting them first. They
retaliated by trying to thwart him at every turn.
For
six months, Martelly was running a government with ministers of the
outgoing administration. "It created a situation where it was difficult
to take off," the new foreign affairs minister, Laurent Lamothe, told
The Associated Press.
Another
victim of the impasse was a reconstruction panel co-chaired by Clinton,
the U.N. Special Envoy to Haiti. Lawmakers refused to renew its
mandate, complaining it contained too few Haitians, though they may have
been using it as a pretext to punish Martelly. But it meant that for
the next six months there was no agency in place to coordinate
home-building.
Meanwhile government employees could be found napping at their desks while awaiting orders from their bosses that never came.
The
government and international partners say there has been some progress -
600 classrooms for 60,000 children to return to school, more than half
of the 10 million cubic meters of rubble cleared, and roads newly paved
in the capital and countryside.
New
housing is still the most critical objective, yet the biggest official
housing effort targets just 5 percent of those in need, and the
encampments of cardboard, tarps and bed sheets that went up to cope with
1.5 million homeless people have morphed into shantytowns that
increasingly look permanent.
More
than 550,000 people are still living in the grim and densely packed
camps that are squeezed into the capital's alleyways and pitched on the
side of rural roads. And many of those who left the camps, often being
evicted or paid to go, say their new conditions are little better, and
sometimes much worse.
"I
certainly wouldn't call (reconstruction) a success," said Alex Dupuy,
who has written books about Haiti and teaches at Wesleyan University in
Connecticut. "Other than putting a government in place ... I haven't
seen any concrete evidence of recovery under way."
In
the first year after the quake, the previous government never set up a
housing agency or a clear housing strategy, and meanwhile the camps
swelled because foreign aid groups were delivering what the government
didn't: water, latrines and electricity. Former President Rene Preval
identified five plots of land for new housing but only obtained one,
through eminent domain.
Of
the 10 best-funded projects approved by a reconstruction panel, not one
focuses exclusively on housing. A U.S.-financed $225 million industrial
park includes housing for 5,000 workers. But it's on the northern coast
of Haiti, 240 kilometers (150 miles) outside the quake zone.
The
highest-profile effort to house the displaced came three months after
the quake, on the eve of the rainy season. The U.S. military and actor
Sean Penn bused 5,000 people from a flood-prone golf course to a cleared
field in Corail-Cesselesse, north of Port-au-Prince. It was supposed to
be the country's first planned community, with factories and houses for
300,000 people.
That never happened.
Today,
the people of Corail-Cesselesse are ravaged by floods or bake in the
heat in their timber-frame shelters. They are far from the jobs that
sustained them before the quake. They speak of abandonment and lack of
services.
"It
looks like there's no government," said Stanley Xavier, a 30-year-old
former cabbie, now unemployed. "Before they moved us out of the golf
club, they made a lot of promises like they'll create cash-for-work."
"They
said they'd give us jobs," said neighbor Jocelin Belzince, 39. Instead
he says he has had to become an extortionist, charging newcomers $250
for a scrap of land he doesn't own.
"It's
an opportunity for us to survive; I have kids to feed," Belzince said
with a smile. "It's not only us doing this. There are a lot of people
doing the same thing."
Martelly's
new administration has begun building two housing projects: 400 homes
by the bay and another 3,000 at the foot of a deforested mountain. And
Lamothe, the foreign affairs minister, says $40 million in Venezuelan
aid will be used to develop the southern coastal town of Jacmel in hopes
of decongesting the capital.
But
the government's overall strategy now is to move quake survivors back
into their old neighborhoods even if many of those were slums even
before the quake. That skirts the land title issue, makes infrastructure
cheaper and puts people closer to old friends who might help them find
work.
This
comes in the form of a housing project in Port-au-Prince called "6/16."
The government and aid groups are moving residents of six camps into 16
neighborhoods to be redeveloped. Several thousand people have already
left three settlements, one in a stadium parking lot, the others in two
middle-class town squares ringed by amenities such as restaurants, a
church and a hotel.
The
program seeks to house only 5 percent of the displaced population, but
government officials say it's a pilot project that they hope to
replicate elsewhere.
Residents
can pay the landlord a subsidized annual rent of $500, or accept money
to build or rebuild their own homes. They also get $150 in moving costs.
"Staying
in a tent is not an option any more, two years after the earthquake,"
said Nicole Widdersheim of the U.S. Agency for International
Development.
Although
it's more modest than the old ambition of dispersing population to new
areas, "6/16" is getting some $125 million in aid, mostly from the World
Bank and the World Bank-run Haiti Reconstruction fund.
Many
former camp dwellers have moved into old, boxy apartments in the vast
mountainside shantytown called Jalousie. Here young people hum Rihanna
hits and fist-bump each other, saying, "respect - Jalousie," a sign that
a sense of neighborhood is taking hold.
Marise
Nelson, a pregnant mother of one who received $500 from aid groups to
pay a year's rent, doesn't miss the camp in the town square which she
left after two years.
"You couldn't find food. You couldn't find water. You couldn't find a community," said Nelson, a 26-year-old homemaker.
She likes her new one-bedroom house, the neighbors, the water well and the little boutiques.
"The
big difference here is that I can keep the place clean," she said as
she stirred a pot of white rice and her daughter peered behind her.
Meristin
Florival wishes he could too. Instead, he says, he must put up with
neighbors in a camp who use plastic bags for their bodily waste and toss
them onto shanty roofs.
Jean
Rony Alexis and his wife, Darlene Claircin, are glad to have shade from
the sun and room for a table and bed, but say life is no better in the
crowded Delmas section of the capital than it was in the camp.
"It's the same thing," Alexis said. "I was suffering there. I'm suffering here."