Inevitably, after a week of minimal sleep I woke up early this morning. Fortunately I had been asleep by 6:30 the previous evening, so I felt well rested. It was quiet outside. I had seen nobody since I had been dropped at the house the previous evening. I discovered a broadband connection, checked my e-mail and updated my Facebook status. My Indian Spice phone had refused to connect to a network over the past couple of days, but it decided it was happy to operate in its new surroundings and provided a text message. I had plenty of time to think about the events of the past week.
On Sunday evening I had arrived back in Oxford, after a weekend at home. I had been trying to make sure that I had everything I needed for 11 weeks in the Caribbean and some time either end in chilly Oxfordshire. On Monday I had been pronounced fit for travel by the doctor, collected a supply of anti-malarials and received injections for hepatitis A and meningitis. On Tuesday I visited the main Oxfam depot in Bicester. On Wednesday I made sure I had the necessary paperwork in order and received some systems training. On Thursday I was up at 4 am, at Heathrow by 6:15 and in Miami by 2:30 EST. On Friday I was up again at 4 am. A ninety-minute flight from the Sunshine State brought me to Haiti.
The cloud cleared enough to get a good view of the capital, Port au Prince as the plane made its final approach. From the air the scene seemed fairly unremarkable - streets in grid patterns, neat blocks of housing and industrial complexes. Only on closer inspection did it become clear that many of the neat looking buildings had walls, but no roofs and that the smaller carefully positioned constructions were tents.
On the journey from the airport to the office, again, there were no obvious signs of the terrible events that had overcome the city over the past 10 months (and I realise this was in part because I was moving away from the most damaged areas). I was more struck by how familiar the street scene was. The stacked produce on the market stalls, the cans filled with charcoal, the hand painted signs on the barber shops, the women carrying their wares on their head, the children up to mischievous behaviour. This was West Africa and it felt like home.
