Dark Cloud over Kenscoff

In a different era, Graham Greene wrote in his novel The Comedians about the dark cloud over Kenscoff. Nearly half a century later, it's still there: the black rain cloud that empties itself on the mountains above Port-au-Prince.

R&R on Friday Afternoon

land of mountains

quieter streets

Cite Soleil post-UN gang round-up.

the girls of Haiti

Still hope of a future...

Saved from starvation...

At serious risk of teenage pregnancy...

Tortured Contrasts

An old woman sits on a hill situated slightly west of Port Salut. A crop of dying sugar cane surrounds her and her rusty tin hut, which is no larger than a spacious outhouse. She sits facing away from this scenery, toward the road. She has a panoramic view of the southern Caribbean but not desire or ability to enjoy it. Only a few other thatched-roof huts speckle the landscape; each has a stunning coastal view and a resident blinded by poverty and structural violence. Haiti has stretches of coast with little or no development. The few beaches near more populated, waterfront towns are usually destroyed or literally covered with trash. With recent improvements to infrastructure (better bridges, paved roads, electricity) and slow but steady economic growth, the facts about this devastated Caribbean island could change. Miles of empty, turquoise water do not promise change any time soon, though. Even with some real achievements in national monetary policies and with GDP growth creeping ever higher, the government must still face major socioeconomic challenges. Human rights violations remain Haiti's greatest plague. This lingering and gruesome quality of a long-unstable government is painfully visible everywhere in the country and creates a stark contrast to the dazzling colors and uninterrupted panoramas.

tropical waves bring drama to the skies

Orphans on Ile-a-Vache

fishing the empty waters

...the darndest things

Blan: Looked they burned out the tree!

Timoun: Ya.

Blan: Think there're evil spirits in that hole?

Timoun: Hmm...

Blan: I think there are. Would you sleep in there?

Timoun: (silence)

Blan: Evil spirits...

Timoun: There aren't any. (pause) I'm not afraid of the devil!

Blan: Oh no?

Timoun: Nope! (kicking the air) I'd fight'em.

Blan: (looks at kid)

Timoun: Ya! (still shadow boxing) And 'sides, they burned that tree out to kill the evil spirits. So there aren't any any more. They're gone now.

too much of fire now

Reading M.S. Bell's biography on Toussaint Louverture, one cannot help but wonder what Ayiti, land of mountains (so-called by the Arawak Indians), looked like at the time of the famous slave rebellion against the French colonizers. Certainly, the verdure of the foothills and mountains exceeded that of even the lushest parts of present-day Haiti. Thousands of deserted slaves found cover in the jungle and rain forest that covered the steep terrain, which now mostly hangs in craggy, naked swaths above the limited plains.
The hills above Port-au-Prince offer a panoramic view of the capital city and the mountains around it. By day, the beige-colored land looks cracked and thirsty. By night, the hills still blaze in places where any vegetation remains. With nothing left to shelter the sun-baked land from tropical rains and winds, thousands die in mudslides like the one in Gonaive not too long ago.

Despite the senseless waste laid to the land here, sadly reminiscent of a destruction wrought all too often upon the people, the land retains a hint of its former ability to produce life. Magical places turn up suddenly and unexpectedly. In the mountains of the south, one still finds handfuls of untouched rain forest.

According to Bell's research, some still attribute Ayiti's 300+ years of tribulation to "the fact that the [slave] revolution was originally founded on fire instead of water," a statement based on the absence of Toussaint (who is said to have been protected by the water lwa - voodoo spirit) from the beginning and final stages of the revolution. Sometimes, in the face of intense structural violence, deaths from natural disasters and rampant poverty, this explanation seems as good as any other...

Bebeto - laughing

drug trafficking crackdown for Haiti

One of the few realities to penetrate the smokescreen of fear, lies and sensational journalism that veils the true Haiti from those in the more developed west is that this complex island nation has a major drug trafficking problem. On Monday, the combined powers of the Haitian National Police and the U.S.'s DEA and special forces began a roll-up. These efforts have been met with some success:

U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration agents and Haitian police raided the home of former army officer Guy Philippe near the southern town of Les Cayes... Haiti, the poorest country in the Americas, has long been a key transshipment point for South American cocaine headed for markets in the United States and Europe... While the U.S. and Haitian agents failed to capture Philippe, they did arrest a hotel owner, Lavaud Francois, on drug trafficking charges on Monday, said Osman Desmangles, a spokesman for police in the northern town of Gonaives.

Read the whole article here, (the truest and best article on the story, given my sources). One can only hope that this trend continues. The presence of drug traffickers corrupts so many levels of society, politics and security here -- not to mention the international implications.

Despite my intellectual comprehension of Haiti's dilapidated state of affairs, I still sometimes struggle with the notion that this place is my present reality. The neighborhood where the U.S. air-power swooped down to arrest Guy Philippe is only 10 minutes from my downtown office. Several times, Guy has sat a table over from me at the local watering hole and his wife (incidentally an American from Wisconsin) has exchanged pleasantries with me once or twice at a popular lunch place. Though I came to this country with multifaceted intentions, I had no idea I would find myself close, sometimes dangerously so, to history as it unfolds.

THE FANTBULOUS FOUR-O

We call ourselves the Fantastic Four. We experience many adventures together (yes that's me on the backhoe).
After a little evening out, we braved our flooded living quarters together. Our names are (left to right in the middle photograph) Portia, Paige, Blood and Erin. We are superheroes. We have incredible powers. We - are - taking - southern - Haiti - by - storm... at least as long as the storms don't take us first (last night was wild).

in a glance

The southern region of Haiti is the lushest part of the country. The children at Pwoje Espwa eat 3 meals a day and attend school free of charge. Even the streets of Cayes are not completely filled with the sorts of deformed and crippled beggars and street kids that riddle descriptions of Graham Greene's Haiti (though, admittedly, most of Haiti has not improved since the penning of the Comedians).

Nonetheless, the poverty here disturbs. A visitor to our organization cried at the realities she encountered at Mother Theresa's home in downtown Cayes. She had been expecting Mexico-like conditions and instead encountered dejection, poverty and disease rivaled only in Bangladesh, Sudan, Somalia and the like. And yet, the Cayes area cannot compare to the Artibonite region and Gonaive.
The Espwa kids come to us from this reality. Though we cannot offer them everything, we can offer thousands of children a hope they might not otherwise know. We often kid about the face that might "make" Espwa's non-existent trust fund -- we want to do more for Haiti's future. So, we talk about the "honest-to-goodness fly-in-the-eye orphan." We know these exist and that this is no joke, but what we really mean to say is that we must capture that reality and bring it to the consciousness of those who might help.

Claudia's eyes may be bug-free and she may have parents (albeit, very poor ones who have trouble staying employed and can hardly even afford a one-room house in which to shelter their extended family of 7) but her eyes still have a look that one does not see in the developed world. Even with a smile on her face, her eyes have a nearly intangible, but certainly real, sad or wise look to them. What gives these children such a curiously deep glance at such a young age? Can they truly process an understanding of the unfair hand life has dealt them before they even reach the fabled age of reason?

creepy-crawly things i'm forced to live with

A holy frog, known here as a CRAPO. It's as big as a meaty fist and it's residing in the quad's chapel.

Paige, also known as PAGINA to the Spanish-speaking world or PIDGE to the Creole-speaking world. "Pidge" is my favorite. Say it out loud a few times to yourself.

(guess which one's creepy and which crawly... or is it D, all of the above)

building hope and homes

Denise (AKA: Matante)

Rosmanie

*************************

Pwoje Espwa literally builds hope for over a hundred families in Haiti by facilitating the construction of homes. Cross International funds this work and we help vet the recipients and select the builders. These two homes were built in Camp Perrin, Haiti, the town where Espwa first set down its roots.

bitter-sweet waiting periods

Perhaps some are under the illusion that work in the developing world is fast-paced. I like to refer to my experience working here as "The Great Wait." To give you an idea:

The Cayes-office is dark, there is spotty, slow internet. Charcoal dust and the scents of pig entrails and tripe blow in the window from the neighboring kitchen. Two different sets of computer speakers blast music -- one kompa and the other Celine Dion. Working out at the farm is impossible since the guy who's supposed to set up the internet has said "tomorrow" since last week. A large satellite dish sits on the bottom floor of the quad, secure in its corrugated cardboard, taunting us.

We can't get the Haitian government to recognize our NGO status. An ongoing saga. Every day it's going to happen "tomorrow." This prevents us from participating in round-tables with other organizations in the area. This also prevents funding from major international organizations who would otherwise be able to provide immense help.

Organizing and requesting aid from peripherally located organizations means securing a ride into town, finding a printer that works, printing off the request, driving it half way up a mountain, waiting around, handing over the request, waiting, driving home. This can take up to a whole day, which means that not much else gets done.

EDH (Haiti's national electricity company) hooked up power to our farm. This is awesome except that EDH is highly unreliable... So there are surges and 12-48 hour periods with no electricity at all. Yesterday, since our batteries hadn't been recharged for days, we had no power... We waited and waited and finally were able to get something done on our computers by evening.

Now, the upside to all these "down periods" is that the kids are happy to see us around, hang out with us and harass us. If I let go of my neurotic, American expectations to be on the 'net every day, then I can be very happy out here playing with children and running a backhoe (yes, running a backhoe). Then, too, I recognize the ability to have other kinds of successes.

All these things taken into consideration, it'll be bitter-sweet leaving Haiti behind. Right now I am engaged in a transfer of "power." Paige is meeting my friends around town and learning about some of the projects that I have been working on. She'll pick up the mantel where I leave off in mid-August.

Frankie -- the tiniest artisan

Jackson - one of the coolest kids

Camp Perrin: Old lady with grandson

The Beaches at Port Salut

visitors and septic

The quad is exploding with visitors, this time mostly female. Actually, I am going into a bit of a shock because my Haiti experience has been, to date, amidst a bevy of boys. Now there's me, Paige, Dee, Jamie, Angie, Erin, and Kelly. What the HECK?! I know... it's weird. I don't think Fr. Charlie knows what to do.

Yesterday I went to the Uruguayan UN base and begged them to come pump the kids poops again. Lt. Colonel Talagorria agree happily. They are there today, pumping away in the heat.

Fr. Bal, our 83-year-old master carpenter, is leaving us now for good. He's finally retiring. We'll do a little goodbye for him today -- surprise, last minute.

More exciting stories about our adventures to come!

Led around for a string

Portia and Paige trembled with excitement. A trip to town! But despite their elation, they wondered nervously how they would travel from the farm where they lived to the shabby, bustling city. Would Jonny drive them? Fr. Marc? Would they (gulp) have to find a motorcycle? But they both knew, despite the transportation obstacle, getting to town was a must. They had a mission and that mission was………. to find some string.

At 10:00am a sweating Haitian youth rushed into the quad where Portia and Paige sat reading (A Heart Breaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers and My Friend Leonard by James Fry respectively), legs crossed, minds elsewhere.

“Vit. Pócia. Pe-a ap rele’w” (Translation: Hurry. Po-see-a. The father is calling you.)

“Li ale?” (Translation: He’s leaving?)

“Wi!” (Translation: Yes!)

“Di pe-a n’ap vini!!” (Translation: Tell the father we are coming!!)

The two girls ran to their rooms, threw their things into their bags and raced to the entrance of the farm. Weeee!! Everyone piled into the vehicle and the green and cream-colored SUV (built and outfitted especially for hot, third world countries) bumped down the rutted road toward town. First stop: an orphanage called FOCSED (just say it out loud).
Everyone, Fr. Marc, Directors Bertony and Eddie, Paige and Portia, one artisan named Sammy and two kids spilled out of the car like clowns. The amiable director of FOCSED, Junot DesRivaux, also a policeman, showed everyone around and introduced the 19 orphans, the youngest of which entertained everyone by bouncing off of cement walls, skidding across the floor next to the railing-less stairway (hearts in throats), and kicking Sammy the Artisan (much laughter).

Fr. Marc entered an office to “discuss things.” Portia tried awkwardly to make conversation with the mother/cook/babysitter/teacher figure. Paige played hide and seek with a child who, in the States, would most likely (and perhaps wrongly) be labeled ADHD. An hour later, they left. Next stop: La Madonne.At La Madonne, Paige and Portia patiently braved the excessively slow satellite Internet access, squeezed some money out of the financial office, grabbed Sammy the Artisan and departed the front gates West, in the direction of La Cayenne. Before even attempting to locate string, the girls need to fuel their bodies with papaille-au-lait (papaya milkshakes) and chicken BBQ sandwiches.

The unlikely trio trooped through the streets of Cayes together, Paige towering over Portia, Sammy trudging alongside the two “blan-yo,” (whities) complaining the whole time of the heat. Soon they arrived at La Cayenne and entered the dark, windy restaurant – dark because Haitian store-owners do not illuminate their establishments with rows of fluorescent lights, a-la-their American counterparts, and windy because La Cayenne has industrial-sized fans in the corners.

Without much ado, the odd threesome selected a table and ordered their meals. Before too long, the waitress set before them one of the greatest treats available in both the developed and undeveloped world: Papaya milkshakes – thick with crushed ice and fresh milk, colored a vibrant Easter-egg orange by the fresh, blended papaya.

Portia and Paige felt rejuvenated and Sammy beamed, sang to himself – delighted that two girls would buy him lunch and a lunch of papaille-au-lait and sandwich poulet at that. They paid and left La Cayenne behind, onto the next destination, the public market.

The three walked on the side of the street, dodging swirly, brown puddles, unrecognizable blobs, and parked cars, Sammy in front guiding them and Portia and Paige behind, looking this way and that, diverted by the colorful, bustling streets and terrified by erratic motorcyclists who turn left onto streets by driving onto the wrong side of the new road and then quickly crossing over to the right side without warning.

“Pistach! Gen pistach! ” (Translation: Peanuts, I have peanuts!”)

“Mab-yo! Mab-yo! Youn sak mab-yo pou 30 dollar!” (Translation: Marbles, marbles, one sack of marbles for ~$4.00US)

“Cheri, ou beswen youn bel chemis! Gade sa, sa bel pou’w! Ou vle?” (Translation: Deary, you need a beautiful shirt! Look at this, this is perfect for you. You want it?)

Paige and Portia were bombarded left and right by vendors. Sammy, on the other hand, passed unscathed, much akin to the way he and other Haitians cross over busy streets: perfectly, calmly. They looked at thick, nylon string, thin nylon string hanging on the walls of a very American-looking hardware store. They moved on, looking at shoestrings, boot and sneaker length, flat, rectangular and spherical, dark and light. They looked at electrical wire (promptly rejected). They inspected threads (too thin). Finally, a large sweating woman reached into her basket of toys and pulled out a roll of black yarn.

Sammy extracted a small wooden cross from his pocket and inspected the drilled hole at the top, looking to see if the yarn would, in fact, feed through that space. Paige nodded emphatically.

“Wi,” Said Portia.

They forked over a few hundred faded, ripped, greasy Haitian gourdes. Now Sammy and the other artisans had the string they needed to make little, crafty rosaries. Mission complete! The girls wiped their brows with handkerchiefs. Sammy complained of heat again. They began the trek back to La Madonne.

On the return journey, Portia and Paige, walking side by side, became diverted by an in-depth conversation on fashion and shopping. When Sammy asked Portia is she had 5 gourdes, she handed them over distractedly, not missing a beat in the dialogue. The next thing they knew, Sammy had fallen behind, was missing. Paige looked around. Portia called out, “Sammy?” Suddenly, from the right side of the street, a motorcycle took off, crossing in front of them, knocking Paige back on her heels a bit. The girls whipped their heads around.

There was Sammy, seated on the back of a motor-taxi, grinning and waving as the vehicle hastened away from the two shocked Americans. “Tooooo hoooootttttttttt!!!!” The young Haitian artisan cried out, as the taxi driver sped toward La Madonne and out of sight.

(to read another version of the story, go to Paige's page).

’Twas a battery killed the beast, a Lazarous story

The Nikon D-70 lay motionless in the new black camera bag. For all anyone knew, it was finished, out of commission, kaput. But, for all the announcements, mourning and complaining, and even the taking-of-photographs-with-the-small-backup-camera, I was not yet ready to give Ole Trusty (just coined, subject to change) up for dead.

I pondered: What could be the cause of this nonsensical and untimely passing?

Sitting with my knee raised as a prop for my elbow and my fist tucked under my chin, I thought. Could this be it?

(Flashback)

It’s a sunny afternoon in the beginning of June. I’m driving my beastly gray SUV to downtown Bethesda to purchase a new lens. I have been dissatisfied with my old lens, the focus was slow, the pictures less than satisfactorily sharp. I want, I need a new lens.

A spherical, bespectacled, fast-talking, photo-taking salesperson IDs “the perfect” lens for me but 3 minutes after I enter the store. He goes over the specs, the price. I am convinced. I love it. I’m ready to swipe my card. Then, out of nowhere, he asks me how many batteries I carry in my bag.

“You don’t carry around two batteries?!” He looks at me, his eyes bugging behind his thick glasses. The shrewd little eyes catch a look of doubt upon my face. He immediately adds, “I’ll sell you generic. You should have it, either way. This one’s cheap.” He scans the thing and throws it in the plastic shopping bag. Ooooo Kay.

Well, that’s the scene that popped into my head as I sat looking introspective on the second floor balcony of the quad. “I might as well give it a try,” thought I. Thus, I reluctantly lifted the deceased from its resting place. Still dubious, I removed the generic brand battery that I had inserted only several weeks ago and replaced it with the old Nikon brand one. I held my breath. I flipped the switch.

Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click

With the tap of my right index finger, the camera snapped 10-20 shots in a row. No stickage of the shutter. No freezing.

(Alleluia Chorus from Handel’s Messiah)

The unstoppable duo is back.

(Moral of the story: don’t buy generic and mistrust fast-talking salespersons.)

Feeble Celebrations

There were no beers on a lawn, no barbecues, no hoards of laughing friends and family, no vacation days, no fireworks. Still, Paige and I donned our red, white and blue in the hopes that there may be a few “Happy Independence Days” launched our way.

No such luck.

However, we were able to coerce Fr. Charlie into a rare photo op in honor of the day. For true musings on the celebration of America's 231 years, read the blog de mon frère. It's touching.

retardo kitty

Some things change and some remain the same... Tilice, the "baby" cat at the quad insists on this now bizarre habit. She's five months. She's as big if not meatier than her mother. She still suckles.

(And before you ask if we are or aren't feeding them, please know they feast on leftovers and have plenty of rats, mice and frogs to munch on for snack).

the parting of good friends

It is with a sad heart that I report the passing of my faithful Nikon D70.

It has been with me in Haiti these 6 months -- through thick and thin. We didn't hit it off immediately but given a few months, we were really meshing. When home, I rewarded it with a new lens. It was ecstatic. As a result, we produced some beautiful art together in North Carolina at the end of June.

Then it began to sputter, catch, click. I ignored the signs... not wanting to believe! Finally, it forced my hand, freezing just one too many times. I went to Ritz Camera.

"Sorry, lady. It's definitely not your new lens. It's your body. You're gonna hafta send it into Nikon for repairs."

"How long?"

"4-6 weeks."

"I have a day..."

"Well, you're outta luck then. Cross your fingers."

So I did. I crossed my fingers. As many as my limited dexterity would permit. And my Nikon and I traveled back to Haiti together to bravely document my remaining weeks.

Not a week into my return, I remove the faithful digital, single lens reflex from its bag. We're going to an orphanage run by a Haiti cop! What fun to capture the smiling faces of those 20 cherubs in sharp, perfect digital clarity.

SNAP.

((((((((((CLICK)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

The shutter stuck open. I reload the battery. Don't fret. Just try again.


SNAP.

((((((((((CLICK)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))


Sh*&.

I put the D70 back in its fancy black bag and resigned myself to documenting with a sorry, hand-held, happy snap camera.

Floppy Hats

Paige (right) comes from Arizona. She studied education and will spend a year here with Espwa working on overhauling the English and art programs. It turns out she and I have other things in common aside from an interest in Haiti and Espwa kids.

to heal an infant child

From the back of her thatched-roof house, the woman heard her eight-month-old son crying. The frazzled lady waited a few breaths. The wailing did not subside; it grew more frantic. At last, she left her pile of washing and rushed around the side of the house to the source of the shrieks.

The infant boy lay kicking and screaming as a stray pig dragged him around by his ears.

The mother flew at the pig, shouting nonsensical things, waving her arms, scaring it off. Then she swept down and scooped up the little child, cradling the wounded ear against her chest. A neighbor, hearing the commotion, rushed over. Within seconds the old lady had recounted the dreadful event.

"His ear... his ear," the woman moaned.

Suddenly, the neighbor remembered: Hospital Brenda! A few years ago, she reminded her distraught friend, a falling coconut had smashed her son's nose. A saintly Canadian nun took pity on their desperate situation and had admitted the boy to Hospital Brenda (incidentally the best Ears, Nose and Throat hospital in Haiti and only right down the road). The neighbor suggested going there first and immediately, as the good sister's doctors had restored her son's nose to normal at very little cost to the family.

The two women tore down the road, the mother pressing a cloth on the side of her now silent son's head. They arrived at Hospital Brenda and, given the urgency of the child's plight, were given instant audience with the little Canadian nun herself.

When Sister Evelyn saw the little bundle, whose ear continued to bleed, her worn face crinkled with worry. Though she had no formal medical training herself, years of "field experience" had given her an ability to assess most medical conditions and incidents with incredible accuracy. Something had to be done for this little one. She gathered the baby, who had begun to whimper, in her arms and clucked her tongue quietly as she listened to the poor woman tell of how a pig was eating her son's ears.

"Of course, of course we can do something. He will be fine... you will be fine little one." Then, looking directly the grandmother, still visibly overcome with grief, she went on, "and don't you even think about the cost."

Photo courtesy Fr. Marc Boisvert