Anarchy amid the anguish in Haiti

By Douglas Montero

EPA / FROM HUNGER: A survivor appears to bite into a piece of food held by a friend in Port-au-Prince.

The bullets whizzing over our heads are all the proof we need that things are starting to get ugly here.

Desperation has gripped Port-au-Prince. Gangs are now in control of some parts, setting up roadblocks and seizing the scant amount of food or supplies that cross their paths.

Post photographer Bill Farrington and I saw this anarchy firsthand as we drove through a particularly lawless part of town at around dusk.

We saw an angry group of young men swarming over the remains of a building. At first it seemed like they were trying to set free someone trapped below -- but then I saw some of them rush out with handfuls of clothing. I immediately knew they were looters, and we were in big trouble.

Things got really dicey as they approached our dust-covered Nissan 4x4, surrounding the vehicle.

Then we heard a shot fired.

I slammed on the gas, but you can only go so fast. The narrow streets are littered with debris, fallen power lines and squashed cars.

Then we heard a second shot.

Bill and I ducked our heads beneath the dashboard and plowed forward -- now going about 40 mph. We didn't look back.

I'd never thought about what the post-apocalypse would be like, but if this isn't it, I don't know what is.

After four days with no food, no water and no signs of help, this city has become a powder keg.

In the red zones -- areas of the city where there are almost no buildings left standing -- all the aid that is piling up at the airport may as well be continents away. People are taking matters into their own hands.

While aid is getting to some parts of town, there are huge swaths with no sign of civil authority. We've seen some United Nations soldiers and aid workers, but they are far and few between.

Makeshift roadblocks have started popping up everywhere -- some manned by gangs, but most by residents trying to protect their own neighborhoods. Many of these people had very little to begin with, and now have nothing.

In one area, a group of kids who set up a roadblock thought we were aid workers, and swarmed our car as we drove past.

"We're not going to let you through. We need help now," said one, pointing to a pile of some 20 bodies piled up in a rubble-strewn lot. "These are out loved ones. They cannot sit out here any longer."

We explained through our translator that we were not aid workers, and that there was little we could do to help. I apologized and offered our condolences. We gave them some bottles of warm water and they let us drive on.

People are desperate, and it's hard to imagine what will happen when the truckloads of food and water finally get here.

"There is no way you are going to keep people from jumping on the trucks and taking what they want. They haven't eaten in days," Salvation Army Maj. Ron Busroe told me at an orphanage where hundreds of people have sought shelter. "We need water, food and medical supplies, but we definitely need the security to distribute these things."

Photos: Aerial Views Of Haiti Destruction

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This is a tropical country, and although whatever authorities there are have been picking up as many bodies as they can, the air is thick with the smell of rotting flesh.

People walk with handkerchiefs wrapped around their faces. Others have smeared toothpaste beneath their nostrils to fight off the stench.

I had some extra surgical masks, and when I tried to give one to a man who asked for one, I was swarmed by dozens of others desperate for the rest. Everyone in this country needs something right now -- even if it's something this simple to allow them their humanity.

Those who can leave are making every effort to do so. US citizens here visiting relatives have swarmed the barely functioning airport. People waited patiently in a roped-off area on the tarmac for any seat available on any aid flight heading out.

Some of them first had to spend a night in the chaos-ridden streets.

"It's a disaster. I was walking over dead bodies," said Jean Phevry, 57, a chef at the Salem Golf Club in Westchester County. "I could hear people yelling from underneath the concrete, but there was nothing I could do."

Despite it all, he said he was glad to have been with his relatives through the disaster -- rather than in the United States not knowing if his family had survived.

"I had to sleep in the street, but we stayed together as a family," he said. "This hurts, but at least I was able to share it with them. It was better than being in New York not knowing what was happening to them."

Having money made no difference. There are almost no functioning hotels, and not a single store appears to be open.

"We slept on the streets like everyone else," said Lionel Bernard, 47, a businessman from Fort Greene, Brooklyn. "Money doesn't mean anything. There is no economy left here."