With my neck bent forward, I'm just able to squeeze my head through the open window and catch a glimpse of the stars dancing above us. The last four hours have been spent within our compact metal shuttle as we bounce along the deteriorating roads and speed by the thousands of families scattered across the countryside. Our tin roof on wheels with paint peeling around the corners feels like a kings palace in comparison to the plastic USAID tarps of those all around us. My heart breaks as our tap-tap passes by each families' tent - as easily as we turn off the nightly news reports back home. A statistic is a statistic until you meet them face-to-face. But for tonight, the stars will have to suffice and paint the picture of what has happened under their careful watch this past year.

Today was spent traveling north of Port-au-prince to a small beach just outside of the city. A private driver took a group of us north and for the first time this trip, I felt as if I were on an amusement park ride - but with a mixed range of emotions.

How easy it was for us to pull a few american dollars from our pockets, make a couple phone calls, and travel to a beach with no more pain. Escape to a somewhat familiar comfort zone seemed far too easy in comparison to the thousands of Haitian's who remain confined to a life of unimaginable suffering. 

Up until then, I could only imagine what that suffering looked like. The tent camps of Haiti are deceiving; rolling hills lined in blue tarps, masquerading the commotion and chaos of the lives beneath them. Driving by these settlements stirs up a mixture of uneasiness, mystery, and sadness - but all of which remain hidden to the streets and cars passing by. Little did we know that tomorrow we would have the chance to step behind the curtains and see life from the inside.

A city already bustling with people, after the earthquake hit, Port-au-prince became a vastly overcrowded and overstrained city. With the buildings leveled, space became scarce and living quarters dramatically shrank in size. No longer could they build on top of one another, instead, they had to spread wherever they could find space. This has resulted in one of the largest and unanswered challenges post-disaster: how do you rebuild a city when the people occupy all the available free space?

One of the failed solutions has been to create similar tent camps, lined with the same tarps covered in bold and unnecessary USAID logos. Sanitation and latrines are no more prevalent. Private space and humane living conditions are just as dismal. But worst of all, the people are no longer connected to the energy and markets of downtown. For many residents of the tent camps, they have still managed to operate small street-stands selling goods and services. But by relocating to the tent camps north of the city, they are left unconnected to the only means of sustaining their families - a tiny economy to provide income.

Yet for some reason, as our truck drives north, the dry and desert-like countryside around us are lined in tents. Their simply is no space left for people to go and even this unlivable terrain has found itself home to thousands of people.

But my curiosity remained, what was it like behind the blue-tarped walls?

The following day we had the chance to visit a friend of ours work within the tent camps. Rafeal had spent the past few months getting to know the families and people I was so curious to meet. He graciously took us up the street and into the world he has lived and assisted in tirelessly. Turning down the small pot-holled lined path into the tent camp was like entering a new country.

We entered a country with it's own economy full of business and service providers from hair salons to cyber cafes. A country with it's own government system composed of unsung leaders who emerged out of the rubble around them. A country with it's own pride in family who take care of one another through death and pain, hope and rebirth.

Passing by the residents, we turned up a road that passed under a few clotheslines and around small fire stoves before leading to a fence made of the country's main resource - plastic tarps. Behind the fence was the home of Genesis, his wife and baby daughter. Genesis is one of the camps' elected leaders and who lives in a unique transitional home designed by Rafael. Lined in corrugated plastic panels and attached to an erector set of aluminum beams, the home stands out as an entirely different way to handle future natural disasters.

As we are welcomed inside the home, I am impressed by the organized and efficient use of space within the split-level building. As we are talking, Genesis helps a friend unload some computers from the third story to begin repairing for the newly opened cyber cafe, and we begin to learn about the economy, politics and way of life within the camps.

After the earthquake hit and tents were erected, the people of Haiti began to organize themselves into communities of families. The particular tent camp that we were in was home to 30,000 people and was the second largest in Port-au-prince. Among the 30,000 people, the camp was split into 13 communities (known as committees) each run by a president and team of council members. Frequently the heads of each committee gather together to talk about the welfare of the entire camp.

As president of one of the committees, Genesis coordinates the work of the aid groups and makes sure everyone has access to water, shelter, food and a way to improve their lives. He knows everything that happens within "his family" and begins telling us the stories of life in the camp.

We learn about the 6 tents that caught on fire last month and burned a small baby alive. After the community chipped in money to help cover the cost of the funeral, he appealed to international organizations who refused to help them with the funeral. He talks about the political consequences of where they live. Because the tent camps are built on a mixture of private and government owned property, international organizations are unable to assist them because it acknowledges and encourages the residents to stay in the camps and therefore undermines the government who wants the people to leave the property.

We learn that he is the only one in the entire camp with a home elevated off the ground - which means that when it rains, he is able to sleep on a dry floor unlike the homes around him that are nothing but a tarp resting on a dirt floor which turns into mud when the rainy season approaches (starting in May). He tells us how he opens his home at night to all the families who are pregnant or with small children to come and sleep on his floor to escape the rain.

We learn that he takes great pride in the entrepreneurial spirit of his committee and their ability to find opportunity after such destruction. He tells us that the best way that outside groups can help them now is to provide jobs that create money and income for the people, rather than a free hand-out which kills their ability to sell their own goods and services. Of all the organizations operating in Haiti, World Vision seems to have one of the best programs designed to do just that and provide individuals with money in return for their help to clean up the city. But he wishes that they would work more closely with the political structure of the camps so that he can help oversee that the people who are most in need of a job receive the work.

But most importantly, we learn, and witness, the strong sense of community within these walls of plastic. It is the ability to extend their understanding of family beyond a group of 4-5 people to 3,500 people. And it is that trait which will sustain Haiti despite the lack of organized aid, despite the political and environmental uncertainties, and despite the unimaginable redevelopment challenges ahead. The people of Haiti have given me that hope, and I just wish that I can share that message with those who continue to support them.