On Haiti - Part One

I’ve been trying for about a week now, to figure out a way of organizing my thoughts on my three week trip to Haiti. I could do it chronologically, and just do my best to tell the narrative. I could instead break it down into areas of interest. No matter what angle I approach it from, though, it seems that you’re going to be missing out, and I think I just have to be okay with that. Because I could give you a Nabokovian deluge of descriptive prose, and you’d still not really have a clear picture of what it was like. So I think I’ll just dive in, and just try to write a bit each day, and post it as I move along.

Getting off the plane in Port Au Prince, I was met by a flash of heat, and the sound of a band. Well, band isn’t exactly correct. It’s more of a Haitian approximation. I chuckled to myself as I stepped off the staircase and saw a man playing a banjo, and a little person playing a tambourine and singing. There was a horn player who was taking a break, and looking rather bored. As I walked by I knew that this was only the first of times I’d feel a bit outside myself in this place. The little tambourine man smiled at me and held out his hand to ask for ‘bagay’ (something). Also the first of many times this would happen.

I met Cara inside (where she was being teased about me by airport security. The teases had turned a bit blue, I think, so she was happy to be off), and we were driven to the small airport to catch our flight to Jacmel. Not that we had to literally catch it. It wasn’t going anywhere. We sat in the airport for several hours waiting for it to fill up, and I got to meet Colleen and Guerda, two of Cara’s lovely compatriots in Beyond Borders. We also ran into a guy named Mark, who was there on a mission. I was ready to be asked about whether or not I’d been saved, but it didn’t come. He was the less pushy variety of missionary. Big zealous eyes, but very nice and willing to allow me my belief in ancient genomes, as long as he got the last word and made sure we knew he considered himself a son of Adam, genomes be damned.

The puddle-jumper to Jacmel was a gas. Our pilot seemed to like buzzing the mountaintops, which was okay by me. I loved seeing the lay of the land, and was surprised by the vegetation. I think that I’d heard so many stories about deforestation, and I’d transposed that into no vegetation. It’s true that you can see a severe lack of trees, but it’s a very green place. Just not so much with the BIG green.

We stayed two days in Jacmel, to kind of ease me into being in a new place. Keep in mind that I’d never been out of the U.S. before. So the sights and sounds and smells of Jacmel were a big departure for me. First of all, I was in scooter-heaven. A mayor of Jacmel had made a deal a few years ago with a Chinese scooter company, and consequently there are scooter-taxis everywhere. This is the way many people get from A to B. Also a big change for me, seeing as how in the states I wouldn’t get on my Vespa without a helmet, and the only time I ever ride with flip-flops is when I’m going a block to the beach near my house. Here, I rode with Cara and the driver, my pack behind me, and her pack backwards on the driver’s chest, Cara fixing the straps on his shoulders every couple miles. When in Jacmel, I guess. This brings me to my first of many tangents…

On Getting Around...

Getting around in Haiti is an art. You can take the aforementioned scooter-taxis, and many people do. You’ll see people carrying baskets of food on their heads riding behind drivers that are trying desperately to compensate for the crazy shift to their center of gravity. You can see someone dragging rebar behind them on a scooter. Another choice is the Tap-Tap. Tap-Taps are pickup trucks that have additions welded on and a roof added to the back, so that you can pack about fifteen people into the bed. Fifteen if you’re lucky. Twenty if you’re not so lucky, with people sitting on the roof. And a chicken. Gotta have a chicken. If you’re riding in a Tap-Tap and there isn’t a lady carrying a chicken in a straw hat on her lap, you should get out and wait for another, because your experience isn’t complete. There’s also the larger version of the Tap-Tap, called a “machin.” This is a flatbed truck, with a similar roof welded on, and usually a bench added in the middle, so that you can fit upwards of sixty people in it. Expect at least one verbal fight to break out over the price of the fare. If there isn’t a fight of some sort, or someone balking at the price, it’s not a true machin ride. There are cars in Haiti, and if you’re waiting for a machin, you may long to be in one. They’ll wave genially as they pass you by to bake in the sun. Depending on where you are, you may have to wait an hour or two to find a machin that’s going where you want to go, and actually has some room in it.

By far, my favorite way of getting around in Haiti was walking. There’s so much to see, and if you’re looking with an eye for beauty, you’ll find it. We walked a great deal while I was there, and twice we hiked through the mountains. Despite the heat, you find yourself wishing you didn’t have to look where you were stepping, because you feel you might be missing something, and you find yourself glad to be alive, because everywhere you go, you’re met by people who greet you with, “Coman ou ye?” (how are you?). But that’s another tangent…

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After a couple days of exploring life in Jacmel, with dinner at the Jacmelian - a local hotel - and a Coke on ice, a super great treat in a place where not all the ice is safe for foreigners to eat, we headed to the countryside where Cara’s host family live. It’s a village called Dal about twenty-five minutes Northeast of Jacmel, and it’s beautiful bumpy ride along the river to get there. The scooter drivers will weave back and forth following the least bumpy route over the roads. The roads are horrible, but these guys have it down to a science. They know exactly where to put their tires, and if someone happens to be walking along that route, they beep and beep until that someone moves. And they better move because there is no such thing as pedestrian right of way in Haiti. As such, the drivers just expect you’ll get out of the way, because you like living. The thought that someone might not move doesn’t seem to occur to them. Funny enough it occurred to me, and I’m sure more than once a driver wondered why he was being goosed by this crazy blanc. (a blanc is a white person in Haiti).

So, once we got to Dal, it was a short walk up through her small community to the home of Cara’s host family. I was introduced to everyone, and invited to “chita” (sit) on their front porch, where Cara filled everyone in on where she’d been and how her family was. Cara had brought back some “foto” with her, and the ensuing madness was truly hilarious. She had nicely separated the pictures by person, to make sure that everyone got the pictures of themselves. Picture processing not being an easy thing in the country, it is a special treat for a person to have a picture of themselves. Also, as I was soon to learn, mirrors are nowhere near the ubiquitous thing they are in the States. So, when the pictures came out, there were play fights, and games of keep away, and more than a little playful hording of other peoples ‘foto.’ In all of this, I got to see a bit of the spirit of laughter in this family. Gabo, (Gabriel) Cara’s host father, was stealing pictures left and right, saying that his children could have the pictures when he died, because he wouldn’t need them then, and then laughed as they were stolen from him and he had to chase down his pregnant daughter, Margaly, to get them back.

At one point, the foto coup had wound itself down, and I mentioned to Cara that I thought it might be a good time to bring out the gifts that I’d brought with me. I felt that it was a big deal for this family to be letting me live with them for a few weeks and I wanted to do something. So, for the two sisters I brought earrings. For Madanm Gabo, I got a head scarf. For the two brothers, sunglasses(which Anchelo immediately went inside and came out to show how cool he looked wearing them. Jean Richard quietly thanked me and went inside as well, but I’m not sure I ever saw the glasses on him). For Linda, a teen-aged cousin, and Cara’s special friend, I brought a harmonica, which was promptly stolen by everyone and we would hear it ringing throughout the valley in the coming weeks, rarely in Linda’s hands. Anchelo’s three-year-old son, Dede, got a mini-keyboard toy. This also was frequently passed around, as Dede refused to play more than one note over and over, and would come over to set it on your lap so he could do that near you. But my favorite gift, and that which I was most proud of, was a wall hanging that I’d made for the family (and given to Gabo). Here is a picture of the two of us holding it on the front porch. Upon opening the package, Gabo looked at Cara and said “peyizon!?” (peasants!?). He had never seen himself, or his people, depicted in art before and was so happy. It was an amazing feeling, to know that this thing I’d had in my imagination for many months was finally in the hands of the people for whom I’d created it, and they loved it.

That night, a little before sunset, Gabo took Cara and Dede and I for a walk to see his fields. He’s a farmer, and he’s very proud of his fields. This started my Kreyol lessons. As we walked, Gabo would point out different trees and plants and say their names in Kreyol, and I understood I was being told their names so that I would learn them and remember. “Yon pye bannann,” (a plantain tree), “yon pye mango” (a mango tree), “yon pye palmis,” (palm) “cocoye” (coconut), “pistach” (peanuts), “bef” (cow), “cabrit” (goat), “cochon” (pig), etc…and as he walked, I realized that not only was he teaching me, but this was a really wonderful way of welcoming me to the things that were most important to him. You could tell that he loved being out here, and that sharing this was a big deal. Dede followed his grandfather with his hands clasped behind him, mimicking the older man reverently. He loves his Gabo, and would follow him to the ends of the earth. And one of my favorite moments of the entire trip happened as we walked back to the house. Dede is obsessed with “motos” (scooters). He’s obsessed, but also has a healthy fear of them. So, at the moment that one goes zipping by, he runs either into the brush by the side of the road, or to the leg of the nearest adult, to be sure that the moto doesn’t get him. But as it goes off on its way, he’ll exclaim that it’s his moto. And on this particular occasion, he yelled, “VO-LE!!” When I asked Cara what that meant, she said, “Thief,” and smiled. We all laughed. That no-good taxi driver had stolen Dede’s moto. “Vo-lehhhh!”

On Dede-
Dede(pronounced somewhere in-between Day-day and deh-deh)is one of my favorites. He is three, but he obviously rules the roost. His aunts will threaten to whip him with a switch, but I think he knows it’s a ruse. He never really runs, or makes like he’s afraid. He knows they love him immensely. His wide grin, and pealing laughter are things I’ll remember for as long as I live. He is almost always followed by his machin, a yellow Fisher-Price volkswagon bug that he pulls behind him on a rope. He will also tie this car up to any low hanging branches. He seems to be tying it up the same way that Gabo ties up his bef, or his cabrit, and very often a family member will remark, “He ties that machin up like it’s going to run away!” Dede is always calling out to Cara. The family pronounces her name, Kah-ra, and sometimes shortens it to a simple, Ka. But for Dede, the K sound isn’t the easiest, so about fifty times a day you’ll hear him yell out, “Tah!” Sometimes he does manage a “Ka!” but usually, he doesn’t really have anything else to say. He just knows that Cara will answer him, and so he calls to her. And when she does, he grins, and knows that he is loved, sometimes holding up an ear of corn that he’s eating (which a family member has given him, complete with a twig inserted as a handle) or sometimes carrying flowers he’s picked to bring to his favorite “Ka.” Dede took to me pretty readily too, and gave me my Haitian name. Sean isn’t easy for the Haitian mouth, because the “aw” sound isn’t really in their ears. So Dede made it succinct and easy. He called me, “Chanm.” (pronounced, Chahm). The last moment I’ll share about Dede happened one night as we were lying down to bed. The family has two houses, and Cara and I were sleeping in the smaller of the two, with Linda in the next room. The rest of the family slept in the big house, and very often you could hear them talking and laughing well into the night. On this night, though as we settled in, we heard Dede doing a Waltons-esque series of goodnights. He got to us and yelled out, “Tahh!” Cara, yelled, “Wi, Dede!” “Pase bon nwi!” (good night). “Chanm!!” Me: “Wi Dede!!” Dede:“Pase bon nwi!” Me: “Pare, Dede” (you too). We later found out that as he’d said goodnight to everyone, and everyone had responded, he called out to his father, Anchelo, who said nothing. Dede then called him a “Mal bulrik.” Which literally means a bad donkey, but I think you can figure out what other meanings it might have. You have to love a kid who calls his father a bad donkey.

More to come...