Deseret News in Haiti: Haitian 'street boys' rely on, help nurse from St. George

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti — A piece of plywood leaning against a building on a busy thoroughfare catches Rebecca Maesato's eye.

She asks her Haitian assistant to pull over to see if it's for sale and how much it costs. Patrick Noel, 26, pulls the Mitsubishi four-door pickup to the curb.

"Plywood is like gold," Maesato says as Noel bargains on the sidewalk with the owner of the coveted building material.

"Six hundred gourdes," he says after taking his seat behind the steering wheel. Maesato does not want to pay $100, and they drive on.

The pickup, affectionately nicknamed "Chouchou," or Darling in English, is already loaded with some scrounged mattresses; empty wooden crates, which are to be dismantled for flooring; and a couple of boxes of Nestle crackers. Also on board — on top of all the stuff, actually — are Maesato's "street boys," young men she has befriended over many years living and visiting Haiti. They tie necklaces and bracelets that she sells back home in St. George to earn the boys a few dollars.

Jimmy Pierre, 18, Michelet Joseph, 19, and Bony Alfred, 23, will be her moving crew and security detail for the excursion into a tent city in Delmas 33, an area severely damaged in the Jan. 12 earthquake. All three are fairly proficient in English.

Maesato, or "mom" to the boys, huddled with them before heading out. The plan was for them to carry the items in first, while she and relief worker Ryan Haldeman and a couple of visitors lag behind.

"I don't want a lot of people swarming us," she said. "Bring some friends back for security. I want these guys protected."

The drive to Delmas 33 isn't far, but it is long on the jammed streets of Port-au-Prince. Cars, trucks, motorbikes and even pedestrians accelerate for any opening. The sidewalks, too, are teeming with people and street vendors offering everything from sugar cane to motor oil. The streets are alive, but in Joseph's view, the country is not.

"There is no Haiti," he laments at one point. "There is no Haiti anymore."

As Noel, who retrieved his father's body after the quake and buried it himself, steers the truck deeper into the neighborhood, collapsed and broken buildings become more frequent. Ones still standing could topple with a sneeze. The bumpy path he drives is more like a rocky mountain trail strewn with crumbled cement blocks and pockets of stagnant water.

Noel stops at what will be the staging area.