Haiti

In some parts of Port au Prince every second building has been flattened. Five months since the quake hit, the scene is still horrific. Three storey blocks have been reduced to two. Or one. Concrete shells of former houses, or shops, or offices, perch on piles of rubble, lop-sided, as if they might roll on to the pavement or into the road. Precarious looking staircases, which would have once occupied the central atrium of buildings, hang metres off the ground.

A few months ago, waiting for a train on London Underground’s Victoria line, I found myself staring at an oversized advert for the Dominican Republic. The scene was nothing short of idyllic: palm trees, beaches, cocktails, vibrantly attired dancing ladies. “The Dominican Republic has it all”, the poster beamed.

Britain had barely risen from its post-Christmas slumber when news of the Haitian earthquake thundered into the headlines.

“Thousands feared dead as huge earthquake destroys Haiti”, screamed The Times newspaper. “Earthquake devastation unimaginable”, shrieked The Guardian. “Island of tragedy”, squealed The Sun.

And suddenly, after years of scant reporting on the poorest nation in the Western hemisphere, the people of Britain woke up to Haiti’s plight as never before.