With an amputated leg and leaning on crutches in front of the rubble of the house where she was trapped, Roseméne Jean has reassembled his mangos, beans and other foods market that she brings from the fields. "There are days when the discomfort is terrible and I have to rest for a few hours," she admits with a gesture of suffering this poor woman of 52 years, "but my three kids have to eat and we have no other way to get ahead."
Roseméne lives in one of many camps at number 33, Delmas, the noisy and chaotic Gran Via de Puerto Príncipe, taken by assault every day by hundreds of street vendors with a spectral landscape of blasted buildings on every corner. The day begins for her at six in the morning and often ends with just 100 gourdes in her pocket (the equivalent of two euros).
Doctors at the camp have warned that they are playing with their health and life on the street. Roseméne told them that they can not allow their children to starve. Her husband lost track long before the earthquake, "may be dead." The dream that keeps her alive in the nights of rain is to get her prosthesis as soon as possible. "The humidity is killing me" ...
That's Haiti hundred days after the earthquake: limping and battered, but extremely lively. The early bird song of the rooster starts a frenzied human train that descends from the hills of Petionville at the foot of the cathedral in ruins. The stalls arise from the rubble everywhere, the smell of decay and death is now part of the daily routine of these three long months, and those that remain.
