Entire audio (50 min)

Prince funeral – entire

Divided by Track

Prince 01 – Melinda

Prince 02 – Principal

Prince 03 – God brother

Prince 04 – Bishop McKeown

Prince 05 – Song – This is the day

Prince 06 – Pastor D

Prince 07 – Bishop Nelson

Prince 08 – Closing Hymn

Prince 09 – Closing Prayer

Prince 10 – God be with you

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One of the stops on our western swing, dubbed "Olliepalooza," was Idaho Falls. This fence was built by my father the very day I was born (it was a different era then!). This is a night shot, moonlit. (Canon 5D Mark II - 30 sec at f/4 - ISO 800)

Surfer caught atop a wave in Nicaragua by photographer Shelbi Randenberg. Beautiful shot.

At only 8 days old, these fingers still don't seem real to me.

The baby is calling. Time to get him out! Tomorrow!

Photographs from Haiti - March 11, 2010, Port-au-Prince, Haiti – Chappy Rago

My boots are still caked in the dust and debris of Port-au-Prince, Haiti. And I’m fairly sure that in my veins somewhere is a dormant illness I brought back with me- I didn’t declare either at customs. But honestly, in the grand mess of things that could kill you in Haiti, bullets and machetes included, an itchy rash, an infected cut, malaria, even hunger- all cheap to treat- are leading the pack. During this last trip to Haiti I served as a translator for a medical relief team eager to make even a small dent in the lives of the underserved and largely forgotten: the people of Port-au-Prince’s slum, Bel-Air. (continued below)

Each day we would haul our medical supplies to the slum of Bel-Air, thrown into 9 bins in the mad rush to beat the setting sun the evening before. And then each subsequent evening, unable to turn away the tired looks of a skinned knee or a case of scabies, and too tired to sort everything out later under electric candlelight, the bins would be filled again with a random collection of scissors, gauze, latex gloves, toothbrushes, and cipro. Somehow, we made it work.

On the second day, 50 yards or so away from our medical tent, they had uncovered a body buried under the rubble of a fallen house. I approached the scene cautiously; having an itchy trigger finger with a camera is an easy way to overstay your welcome in some countries. What I found amid the crowd was a young man straddling a coffin, itself surrounded by drums and trumpets and flags. He wasn’t crying, or yelling, or even visibly-angered at the loss of what I later learned was his cousin, a well-known musician and voodoo priest in the community. He sat there solemnly, rocking back and forth, sitting or laying face down on the lid. All the while talking through the coffin. Early deaths have always been a common part of life in urban Haiti, but I walked back to the medical tent hoping I would spend the rest of my week only around the maimed and dying instead. Abdullah, one of the medics on our team, reminded me during our ride back that night, “You may not think of Death, but Death is always thinking of you.”

At some point later in the week, I don’t remember when exactly, a young man was rushed into the tent, his left arm wrapped in rags and bleeding everywhere despite it. We laid him down on some of the bins we had been using as chairs and uncovered the rags to see the neon red blood spitting out of a very deep laceration in his wrist. He’d fallen on a sharp piece of corrugated sheet metal, a common material used in roofing in PaP. One medic ran out looking for a driver and a truck to take him to the hospital. The rest of us fed him water mixed with electrolytes to keep him from passing out, squeezing his wrist to slow the loss of blood. I took a quick photo of his face, a little shaken by the idea that I may have just captured his last moments. When I ran into the hospital with his wrist clenched in my hand I found a group of American surgeons busy with gunshot wounds. I left the kid in the waiting room with an attendee. Tensions, apparently, had been building in darker corners of the city.

In 1804, at the dawn of its independence from France, Haiti was already long considered the “Pearl of the Antilles”.* It’s lush horizons and abundant resources were promising of a long and bright future for the country. That future never came. Haiti has fallen into ravishing underdevelopment, endemic poverty, and worst of all, obscurity. Before the quake, Haiti had the highest infant mortality rate in the hemisphere and more than three-quarters of the population lived on less than $2-a-day. Half of the population on less than $1-a-day. That the country was only two hours outside of Miami International didn’t seem to help it get noticed. Only now, after January 12th, can the average American point to it on a map (I’m counting those that accidentally point to the Dominican Republic too). Like a record that’s been played backwards too many times, Haiti struggles to stand against 200 years of misuse and abandonment. Let’s not forget it again.

Whether clotheslines draped with clean sheets, or a crowd of smiling young faces, these photos show that the resiliency and hope of these people- tested time and again- will prove to be the most valuable resource in a country that has little else.

* Haiti is only the second republic to gain independence from its colonizers; The US was the first. Haiti, however, is the first to do so as a nation of slaves.

Snapped this shot with the iPhone in the Newseum a few days ago. I love the thick colors and the contrast in moods between the boys sitting in front of the image and the kids on the horses. The background photo was a pulitzer prize winner taken in Mexico. (iPhone 3Gs)