The collapsed buildings and the corpses rotting in the street are different, but the rest of it seems awfully familiar: the crushing poverty, the cries for help, the inadequate government, the violent armed gangs, the foreign troops. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
In my first professional life I was a journalist, and Haiti was part of my beat. It was always a little strange. Haiti was prone to having a coup d'etat every year or two, each government being overthrown in its turn. In fact, ask a Haitian how old he is and he is as likely to give you the name of the president when he was born, as he is to give you the year.
One time there was rumor of another coup. I started calling all the government offices and found a minister of education working late. "No, no, everything is fine, there is no coup," he told me. Next thing, we both heard gunfire. He turned out the lights in his office, dropped to the floor, peeked out his window and told me there were tanks rolling into the courtyard. For the next hour or so, he proceeded to narrate the revolution to me until finally soldiers burst in. His last words to me were "Call my wife." He survived though, and a couple of months later we were reunited at the Miami International Airport.