I am back at the airport the next morning. We ride on a van and a taptap, a large open pickup truck with a covered back. I am with the group from Nebraska. One girl isn’t unable to understand why people leave their trash on the street and not in a trash can. I am unable to understand if she thought about where the trash can would dump it’s waste except in the rivers. I’m too consumed in gathering reflections to respond back. Though her comments trigger me they help me better understand what the world outside is like when they look in.
We get off, everyone starts walking towards the second terminal. I am the only one to walk towards the one behind us. I wait in a line that circles around. I am surprised they have some of the airport equipment they do. I don’t know where to sit in the waiting room.
My flight travels from Portauprince to Fort Lauderdale. After we get off the plane, the next stop is a long one at immigration. There is a Haitian lady with two children. One is a toddler wearing a-line puffy pink dress. The mother has two children, she holds one along with her luggage and her daughter with the dress walks in front of her. She is having a hard time, I hold the girls hand and guide her out. We get off the plane. She thanks me. This tiny hand that I hold for maybe ten seconds is my last physical connection with Haiti. This moment hits me.
When I finally make it through many lines of immigration, for extra exploration of my luggage and barely make it on to my flight I am relieved. I arrive in Houston. My first few images are of a girl with a name brand purse, styish fingernails and starbucks in her hand. She is dressed for fashion, walking down somewhere. I continue to walk, I wander around the airport making my way to appropriate places. I look like a stranger in a foreign place. My face is blank. Everything zooms by me. I see a girl waiting for me, holding flowers. She is waiting for me, she asks why I look lost like a nomad. “Who are the flowers for?” I ask, “you of course,” she respons. This place has become new to me.
Friday, August 13, 2010
American haven
America draws nearer to me as I visit the ‘Baptist Mission’ a gift shop, restaurant, hospital and zoo. I walk into their giftshop, things seem overpriced, $20 for a book of Haitian proverbs, I wonder if google will help me with finding half of them in there. I order from the combo menu and eat a sandwich and fries that don’t have prices able to be afforded by locals. I have really missed French fries, I welcome them with delight. I go to the zoo and see a peacock and alligator. I wonder if these animals have been seen here before. This is probably the only zoo in the entire country though it is just a few animals placed in cages side by side. A family that once used to live at the home in Haiti has also come to visit from England. They escort me through this microcosm community set up by an American couple who created their own haven here with paved roads and a viewing house of animals and gift store for tourists to stop by and purchase things from. The hospital and services included cost money and aren’t free services like many foreign made clinics and medical facilities. I find that quite interesting, much of what I have seen here is charity. It’s a bit different to see something comparable with an American haven resort in these mountains.
Coloring on the patio
The first day we get to Wings the day before, I don’t do much. I assume I will be teaching becaue I only have a few days here. Everyone is transitory. I just sleep and wake up to have missed my only meal. I hang out and color with the boys and the dog on the patio. One of the boys Frank E may have recognized me. He needs attachment. A few of them sit and color. I sit with them, helping them color. Coloring is one of best forms of stress relief; great form of art. I am happy to be given fresh detergent smelling sheets and a pillow. Feels as good as it did the first time we were in Fermathe.
Through mountains and memories
I wake up at 430. I start packing up the few things I have left into my backpack. Everyone is still asleep. I am late and unfed when someone comes to the gate. G comes to get me and take me to the mountains, more than three hours away. Everyone is asleep. One of the boys is awake D. He gives me a hug and the assistance director waves to me from his mattress on the countryard. This is it. I like silent goodbyes. I walk out it’s over. There’s not time to stop and reflect.
Although I have taken tap-tap to Portauprince before and this trip is just a bit further I also feel like vomiting, just as first morning when we went from Fermathe to Jacmel. After having nothing in my stomach i’m only offered what I specifically asked to not get, anything acidic. After gulping the juice with motion sickness medication time passes slow. I try to sit closest to the open air, most forward on the middle bench that moves as we turn. I feel really sick. Many many times I am tempted to ask the bus to stop and just like on the mountains that we’re winding around. I keep thinking this and feel if we just stopped and rested we’d find another bus to take us back. I see other people stop and do this. We pick up a lady from the road. She is lifted up completely onto the truck by a man. She sits right next to me with her belongings. I start feeling really sick. I question if I will even make it alive to any stop. I tell them I am sick but communication is difficult and there are no options. Eventually I vomit off the back of the truck. All the people grab onto me thinking I will fall off. They tell G to wipe my head with a towel. The truck gets even tighter. I sit very close to the lady. After leaning all over people I start to see a bag shake. I think I have lost my mind and am starting to get delirous. I move back in shock. From inside the bag the lady rearranges a live chicken. I start praying things get better. As we get closer to the city and more people get on and off and transfer I see another Haitian boy vomit. I realize the motion sickness isn’t just for foreigners. I keep thinking we’re closer as we see more development and less greenery but it’s still far. When we get to the first stop my energy is low. We then take a car to another tap tap stop and then take a last taptap. I have to sit closest to open air so I don’t get claustrophobic and sick in congested covered pick up trucks. There are no more chickens after we get to the city. We finally arrive. We have to walk a couple miles. I walk without my travel pack and just by handbag. I am still very slow and careful. I am happy to be off the bus and am well but I cannot keep pace with G who walks ahead with my travel pack. I try not to lose sight of him. Finally we make it.
Although I have taken tap-tap to Portauprince before and this trip is just a bit further I also feel like vomiting, just as first morning when we went from Fermathe to Jacmel. After having nothing in my stomach i’m only offered what I specifically asked to not get, anything acidic. After gulping the juice with motion sickness medication time passes slow. I try to sit closest to the open air, most forward on the middle bench that moves as we turn. I feel really sick. Many many times I am tempted to ask the bus to stop and just like on the mountains that we’re winding around. I keep thinking this and feel if we just stopped and rested we’d find another bus to take us back. I see other people stop and do this. We pick up a lady from the road. She is lifted up completely onto the truck by a man. She sits right next to me with her belongings. I start feeling really sick. I question if I will even make it alive to any stop. I tell them I am sick but communication is difficult and there are no options. Eventually I vomit off the back of the truck. All the people grab onto me thinking I will fall off. They tell G to wipe my head with a towel. The truck gets even tighter. I sit very close to the lady. After leaning all over people I start to see a bag shake. I think I have lost my mind and am starting to get delirous. I move back in shock. From inside the bag the lady rearranges a live chicken. I start praying things get better. As we get closer to the city and more people get on and off and transfer I see another Haitian boy vomit. I realize the motion sickness isn’t just for foreigners. I keep thinking we’re closer as we see more development and less greenery but it’s still far. When we get to the first stop my energy is low. We then take a car to another tap tap stop and then take a last taptap. I have to sit closest to open air so I don’t get claustrophobic and sick in congested covered pick up trucks. There are no more chickens after we get to the city. We finally arrive. We have to walk a couple miles. I walk without my travel pack and just by handbag. I am still very slow and careful. I am happy to be off the bus and am well but I cannot keep pace with G who walks ahead with my travel pack. I try not to lose sight of him. Finally we make it.
Cake without words
I thought I if I wrote a speech I might cry. I know if I say anything I will start crying. And not just a tear. I sit around not knowing when the party will start. The main director is gone and soon after class the assistant director calls me as we are just sitting. Awkwardly we all come into the main dining room. The boys all slowly show up. Only one or two are missing. One of them has gone to a rap competition. The heavy rain will prevent him from coming home tonight. I won’t see him in the morning. He is one of my favorite. His English is phenonmenal. There’s a cake with pink frosting ordered for me. There is popcorn and soft drinks. I didn’t have amny words to say, so I say ‘I have nothing to say’. I take pictures of all the boys in two by twos. Some are sweaty from playing soccer some don’t want to take pictures with each other. I get almost everyone.
We don’t do proper hugs or goodbyes, I assume I will see them in the morning in morning meetings before I leave. Soon all the food is gone. Everyone goes back to their own things. I sit around with the boys for a few hours after. I haven’t properly backed but I give away many things like shaving blades and towels and other odd items. I leave my clothes for the laundry ladies in the morning. I hope now after I am gone they may like me more. They were the only Haitian females inside the actual home. But yet I only saw them to drop off my laundry when they came and they were never happy about it. I was never happy about it being placed all over the roof on top of pebbles later to be thrown into the courtyard and claimed. To me at first this was amusing, until I realized my clothes were slowly being shared and worn and sometimes never returned . I had already started to give things away. In my last night and day I distribute other items like blades and towels. One of the twelve year old boys, M, gives me his ring and another asks if we will be wed. Such jokes continue into the night with just a few of us. They make fun of each other and we share laughs. I don’t remember about what.
I didn’t know if they expected words. I wrote a letter many days later. I don’t know if my letter was ever read during meetings or service. I don’t know if there was ever a proper goodbye.
We don’t do proper hugs or goodbyes, I assume I will see them in the morning in morning meetings before I leave. Soon all the food is gone. Everyone goes back to their own things. I sit around with the boys for a few hours after. I haven’t properly backed but I give away many things like shaving blades and towels and other odd items. I leave my clothes for the laundry ladies in the morning. I hope now after I am gone they may like me more. They were the only Haitian females inside the actual home. But yet I only saw them to drop off my laundry when they came and they were never happy about it. I was never happy about it being placed all over the roof on top of pebbles later to be thrown into the courtyard and claimed. To me at first this was amusing, until I realized my clothes were slowly being shared and worn and sometimes never returned . I had already started to give things away. In my last night and day I distribute other items like blades and towels. One of the twelve year old boys, M, gives me his ring and another asks if we will be wed. Such jokes continue into the night with just a few of us. They make fun of each other and we share laughs. I don’t remember about what.
I didn’t know if they expected words. I wrote a letter many days later. I don’t know if my letter was ever read during meetings or service. I don’t know if there was ever a proper goodbye.
Goodbyes are my weakness
Good bye’s have started. Good bye’s have always been my weakness. In middle of rubble I say goodbye to one of the boys I have become closer to. I make my way back through the rubble, meandering around broken stone and concrete in front of me. Once it was a house, not it is remains knocked down on the street in front of me. My feet crawl through the structure in new ways.
I come back I sit in the court yard. Alone. Staring up at the sky. I try not to let tears roll down. The boys walk past me and stop and glance. They know I am hurting. I see concern in their faces. I smile. Throughout all my clarity in Haiti, I have had sporadic moments of further clarity and vision. I cry. I smile. I have become what to someone is a miracle. To me being there in that moment has also become a miracle.
I come back I sit in the court yard. Alone. Staring up at the sky. I try not to let tears roll down. The boys walk past me and stop and glance. They know I am hurting. I see concern in their faces. I smile. Throughout all my clarity in Haiti, I have had sporadic moments of further clarity and vision. I cry. I smile. I have become what to someone is a miracle. To me being there in that moment has also become a miracle.
Dancing in Marigo
We go back to Marigo on a tap-tap to see the girls’ dancing class again. I’m shown around the beach. It’s a developing area. There are some sellers and small canoe sized boats. My feet are burning in the sun. We walk over rocky beaches. I snap a few shots. We drink a grape soda. We go to the dance class. They bring heels and decide to strut like models. They all change shoes and learn how to walk with sass. I sit back and watch, thinking this is just a intermission. It ends up lasting the whole hour. There is no dance practice.
Last time we went to Marigo for dance practice it rained. We stood under a tree with the djeme drum and my camera. The rain got worse and we say no tap-taps coming going back to our town. The girls from the class had changed and arrived back on the street. We all hid in small store. We didn’t get tap-tap back for an hour. It continued to rain. People hopped on the back of the taptap and hopped off without proper stopping. We sat on each other’s laps. We hopped off and took a motorcycle back through the rain to the home. No jackets or umbrellas. I don’ t remember seeing many umbrellas ever. And it rained almost every one to two nights during hurricane season. Sometimes puddles would collect. The drum still lasted and was used again at dance practice.
Last time we went to Marigo for dance practice it rained. We stood under a tree with the djeme drum and my camera. The rain got worse and we say no tap-taps coming going back to our town. The girls from the class had changed and arrived back on the street. We all hid in small store. We didn’t get tap-tap back for an hour. It continued to rain. People hopped on the back of the taptap and hopped off without proper stopping. We sat on each other’s laps. We hopped off and took a motorcycle back through the rain to the home. No jackets or umbrellas. I don’ t remember seeing many umbrellas ever. And it rained almost every one to two nights during hurricane season. Sometimes puddles would collect. The drum still lasted and was used again at dance practice.
Die with dignity
In Jacmel there is a Mother Teresa camp. While visiting the PortauPrince Mother Teresa I was told of a sisters home. I finally am able to visit them during visitation hours the following day. We have passed by here before, it is right across from the doctors without borders hospital. We walk up and through to the back. A Indian sister Nun comes up to us. She is happy to see us, I tell her I’m from Texas and originally from Pakistan. She introduces me to the other ladies. They all are nurses and caretakers. They have a room for mentally challenged adults. Another for babies sick or malnourished, where they care for them temporarily. The last is a home for mentally challenged and sick elders who have mainly been abandoned and have nowhere to go. The mood doesn’t ring bells of hospice environment to me.
I continue to talk to her after. She tells me she’s always wanted to go to Pakistan, they have homes there too. She has been serving for fifteen years and has travelled all over to South America, a few other places and now the Caribbean. She speaks many languages.
She speaks about the earthquake. One of their buildings in the front has been destroyed. And so has the home where the sisters live. They want to build something sustainable and study she tells me. They have been there for 20 something years. They are living in a huge tent. She talks about the earthquake. She says how many people died on the street. She says how they dug graves and buried so many. She says at least here they die with dignity, the elders. I am enchanted. She says everyone should at least die with dignity.
I’m not the typical foreign volunteer. I have a feeling she will remember me.
I continue to talk to her after. She tells me she’s always wanted to go to Pakistan, they have homes there too. She has been serving for fifteen years and has travelled all over to South America, a few other places and now the Caribbean. She speaks many languages.
She speaks about the earthquake. One of their buildings in the front has been destroyed. And so has the home where the sisters live. They want to build something sustainable and study she tells me. They have been there for 20 something years. They are living in a huge tent. She talks about the earthquake. She says how many people died on the street. She says how they dug graves and buried so many. She says at least here they die with dignity, the elders. I am enchanted. She says everyone should at least die with dignity.
I’m not the typical foreign volunteer. I have a feeling she will remember me.
Don't go chasing waterfalls
The next day the four of us including the teacher one of the boys and visitor go far out to see waterfalls. We take a motorcycle an hour out up the mountains past the valleys. His motorcycle is new. A couple times we stop. The motorcycle cannot go through rugged terrain with two of us on the back. We walk up and across and get back on the motorcycle at the top. After a beautiful scenic drive. We arrive.
We walk through the mountain. We take a rope down. I am asked to climb first down the rocks. We cross past rivers and over rocks. My bug bites start to scrape. I take off my slippers. I walk slowly up and around and down.
We make it to the two highest waterfalls. We watch from the rocks. I pass on jumping off from the 70 feet above. I take pictures of the tour guides and C. They dive and canon ball in. They come back. Let’s go again I say. I jump with my sunglasses in. We make it to the rocks. I climb and am pushed up. “Go higher” I’m told. No, 30 feet is fine. What if I hit the rocks and don’t jump far enough? What if I fall face first in the water? I decide not to dive. I jump. I go all the way down. I open my eyes. I let the water slowly bring me back up. It is green and foamy. I make it back up. I start to swim slowly. I get tired fast I don’t remember the last time I swam. We have a forty minute walk through and around the rivers mountains and rocks. If I swim back a few minutes back to the other side I’ll have no energy. I stop the current slowly pulls me back. I drift to the nearest rocks. I don’t want to give it my all to swim back. C gives me a pep talks and swims across with me. The tour guide is swimming behind me. His hat is still on backwards. We make it back. We walk across and slowly dry off. My slippers continue to have me slip around and wobble. I walk back again with my bare feet. My but bites are scraped and cut from slipping along rocks. We make it back.
On the way back we start to dry off as we get on and off at different parts of the ride.
We stop and say hello to a man and school children. The children come and kiss us on the cheeks and say good morning. A smile glides across my face. ‘Just sweet children going to school’, I’m told. I don’t think the driver knows anyone either. Here everyone knows everyone.
We walk through the mountain. We take a rope down. I am asked to climb first down the rocks. We cross past rivers and over rocks. My bug bites start to scrape. I take off my slippers. I walk slowly up and around and down.
We make it to the two highest waterfalls. We watch from the rocks. I pass on jumping off from the 70 feet above. I take pictures of the tour guides and C. They dive and canon ball in. They come back. Let’s go again I say. I jump with my sunglasses in. We make it to the rocks. I climb and am pushed up. “Go higher” I’m told. No, 30 feet is fine. What if I hit the rocks and don’t jump far enough? What if I fall face first in the water? I decide not to dive. I jump. I go all the way down. I open my eyes. I let the water slowly bring me back up. It is green and foamy. I make it back up. I start to swim slowly. I get tired fast I don’t remember the last time I swam. We have a forty minute walk through and around the rivers mountains and rocks. If I swim back a few minutes back to the other side I’ll have no energy. I stop the current slowly pulls me back. I drift to the nearest rocks. I don’t want to give it my all to swim back. C gives me a pep talks and swims across with me. The tour guide is swimming behind me. His hat is still on backwards. We make it back. We walk across and slowly dry off. My slippers continue to have me slip around and wobble. I walk back again with my bare feet. My but bites are scraped and cut from slipping along rocks. We make it back.
On the way back we start to dry off as we get on and off at different parts of the ride.
We stop and say hello to a man and school children. The children come and kiss us on the cheeks and say good morning. A smile glides across my face. ‘Just sweet children going to school’, I’m told. I don’t think the driver knows anyone either. Here everyone knows everyone.
Jacmel, Mwen fou pou ou (I'm crazy for you)
One of the teachers tells me about a meeting in the countryside of Jacmel. Young Haitians in their late 20s and 30s gather to talk about social problems. That sounds so neat I tell him, I invite myself. Two weeks later we attend. The meeting is 30 minutes by motorcycle. I take the other American lady, T, living in the house and one of visitors, C, from Portauprince. On the board is “Welcome Fariha Tayyab and friends” we’re asked to lead the meeting. I lie at the feet of the Haitian people, honored to be at their service. I try to explain this. We are asked to lead the discussion. We talk green. We talk about recycling. We talk about trash. We talk about deforestation. How do you teach people how to recycle? Where does the trash go if we collect it and not pile it and burn it? It just stays around. People don't understand the need to recycle. How do you tell people to stop chopping down trees non systematically when they're all starving in poverty? All these concerns arise. Change starts through modeling. Change starts through one.
Environmental degradation in Haiti is unparalleled. This country is at the midst of environmental crisis on many different levels. 90% deforested land remains and problems such as- eroding loss of top soil and soil fertility, flooding, agricultural chemicals, intensive lack of renewable water resources, radioactive and chemical toxic waste dumping by US, charcoal fuel production, endangered species - only grow worse.
The meeting is 30 minutes away by motorcycle. Jacmel is breath taking. Huge island trees hang over the sandy road paths. We ride on a motorcycle through the countryside around the mountains. We go through a river bed. We stop at the river bed. I walk across. The fresh water is up to my ankles. It is a dull clear blue. I see the pebbles. The water consumes me. As I look down I feel my body moving in the same direction as current, I feel I may fall into the actual river with it. The current gets a bit strong half way across. The whole scene we pass through is a break in the mountains and country side. The river bed along the mountains captivates me. I feel like I’m in Africa. Haiti is the Africa of the west. I see other people and motorcycles crossing slowly. I feel like I am in the Lion King. Everything is so surreal, but so real. We take pictures. We walk across to meet motorcycle on other side of the river. We see the river bed again as we wind through mountains back to the city. I want to come back. I think of the other cities. I think of Jacmel. I think of the beach and the countryside. I think of haven in a country. I think of retreat. I wonder if people come here for mental retreat. Earlier that week I am given a present, a tshirt, it reads translated, ‘Jacmel, I’m crazy for you’
The lush green countryside of Jacmel, the mountains, the valleys, the rivers, the beaches, the overall landscape is still so surreal to me. Even as I stand on the roof, and glance at the sea, meshing into beach, meshing into mountains, I ask myself if this is really happening. I do not want to see the day I leave. Jacmel, you are so alluring. I will always be crazy for you.
Environmental degradation in Haiti is unparalleled. This country is at the midst of environmental crisis on many different levels. 90% deforested land remains and problems such as- eroding loss of top soil and soil fertility, flooding, agricultural chemicals, intensive lack of renewable water resources, radioactive and chemical toxic waste dumping by US, charcoal fuel production, endangered species - only grow worse.
The meeting is 30 minutes away by motorcycle. Jacmel is breath taking. Huge island trees hang over the sandy road paths. We ride on a motorcycle through the countryside around the mountains. We go through a river bed. We stop at the river bed. I walk across. The fresh water is up to my ankles. It is a dull clear blue. I see the pebbles. The water consumes me. As I look down I feel my body moving in the same direction as current, I feel I may fall into the actual river with it. The current gets a bit strong half way across. The whole scene we pass through is a break in the mountains and country side. The river bed along the mountains captivates me. I feel like I’m in Africa. Haiti is the Africa of the west. I see other people and motorcycles crossing slowly. I feel like I am in the Lion King. Everything is so surreal, but so real. We take pictures. We walk across to meet motorcycle on other side of the river. We see the river bed again as we wind through mountains back to the city. I want to come back. I think of the other cities. I think of Jacmel. I think of the beach and the countryside. I think of haven in a country. I think of retreat. I wonder if people come here for mental retreat. Earlier that week I am given a present, a tshirt, it reads translated, ‘Jacmel, I’m crazy for you’
The lush green countryside of Jacmel, the mountains, the valleys, the rivers, the beaches, the overall landscape is still so surreal to me. Even as I stand on the roof, and glance at the sea, meshing into beach, meshing into mountains, I ask myself if this is really happening. I do not want to see the day I leave. Jacmel, you are so alluring. I will always be crazy for you.
'Everyone came to help after the earthquake, but nobody came to help us' - Pap Day 4
Citi Soleil - is the largest slum in Haiti and the poorest slum in the western hemisphere.
I have extended my stay in PAP. The assistant director who has come to pick myself and other visitors up who will come for a couple days has already gone back. Nobody from here is to take me, but I know I will figure it out. I came this far out to see Citi Soleil and I made a commitment. We have one more chance, a half day to go into the slums. I transcribe for the leader of an organization, L. She is doing research thesis on children in abject poverty. Rumor has it about Wyclif running for president. They will vote for him. A certain line from the boy rings in my head again and again and will continue to do so, ‘Everyone came to help after the earthquake, but nobody came here’. He doesn’t ask why. Why would relief workers come to a site where everyone has always been in makeshift housing. I wanted him to add the reason, the reason he believes. I wanted him to say it’s because we’re so poor and we’ve always been so poor, nobody will care. I feel emotionally vulnerable. The interviews are painful. We sit by a clinic for the community, “The Lamp”. Its open three day a week to the public. People line up hours before. We sit in the courtyard. The kid has a solemn face. He is so cute. Little raindrops pour through the thick bright exotic leaves that hover over us. The rain is silent like my heart unable to understand struggles.
After 3 days of waiting we have one hour to go into the shanty parts of city soliel, deep in. Finally! We go to fishermen town, Warf Soleil. It is black. There is no sand or brown dirt on the ground. Black mud and other stuff I’m unsure about cover the ground. Everything looks the color of liquid tar. We see the new site for the clinic. It is along a road. We see fisherman making his fishing nets out of hand. If there was a full time clinic here it would still not be enough for these few hundred families. Medical care is never enough. Ironically each time you walk a distance, you always see clinics, but in terms of the populace, diseases and sicknesses, clinic ration is radically disproportionate. They suffer from everything. I cannot understand their suffering, it us intensely multifaceted. We walk back behind the road. We see little boats like canoes, they are handmade, having been carved by people. I am fascinated. The children follow us. A man sits on something. His feet are in the black mud. He reads the holy Bible. The children all want their pictures taken. They want to see them after. The giggle and get excited. They all smile and pose. They have high spirits. We take pictures. We walk around. I’m stuck in the back with kids creating circles around me, unable to hear our tour guide. I miss some details. I am curious. Our Translator R translates. We see naked babies. We see the same boy with a outstretched stomach. The soles of his feet are covered in the tarry liquid mud. We see a girl with her underwear. Her braids go in different directions. The other two little boys make action poses. I wonder if they have ever seen a cartoon on television. I wonder if the naked ones do not have clothes or if their one pair of clothes they have are dirty or are given to another sibling. All these thoughts occur to me later as I go through pictures.
I always wonder why the Haitian people are so pleased and content. I never will understand. It will always be beyond me. Years thinking about it and it will always be beyond me. What God has done to the Haitian people and what they Haitian people have done to be in terms of defining God will stick with me like glue. Invisible glue that will seep into places I did not know existed. Like everything I do not know becomes a huge part of life. And all things we know become minimal and trivial from a certain point forward. I have hit that point again.
I am with L the head of an organization. She comes here often. Her left foot steps into a pool of mud. Gross. Someone brings a bucket. The man bends down and pours it over her foot. I am surprised to see a clear bucket of water. It is not drinkable but it must be available. I know he brings it out because we are foreigners. Maybe we will do something for them. They do not say anything. I know his intention for helping and pouring that water is done with sincerity. I know he also thought that we were going to help him. A lady with short hair and blue shorts and a matching jacket, says to my friend ‘We’re sick, we’re ill’. This is the first time I have heard someone make such verbal statements. We walk out towards the road slowly. My time is up. I must take a bus back very soon.
We walk back out. The same lady she walks behind me, a baby still in her arms. She is so young, maybe younger than me. All she says is, ‘agua’. I click. We walk back out to the road. I ask the community leader who is also our current tour guide about their water. It is no longer free. Its 5gourds a bucket. People here make nothing. This is the slum of the slums. I ask if I we can give money for 50 buckets of water for 50 families. The people we have left behind us still look at us from far away. It’s like we’re all paused in a photograph. My mind is on pause. 2 seconds later feel bad. We cannot just supply 50 families and ignore the others. How will he choose? How will I trust him? He recommends buying a huge truck of water. Wow. I don’t have that kind of money I think. Then I pause, I have all my savings with me in our car. 2 seconds later we ask about the price of the truck. We buy a truck of water. I know I will cry when this all happens. We go back to the main roads. We find a truck on the other side. The men get out and signal it over.
We come back. The truck stops in the middle of the road. He opens the pipe from the side of his truck. Water gushes out like a massive hose on full blast. Some people are already there they rush to get buckets. Soon the news spreads and then everyone comes with their buckets. They come with their bottles. They come with huge garbage cans. They come with containers. They come with their jugs. They are civil. Most wait in a disorganized clump of a line. Little children bathe. I try to help with efficiency and less water wastage by maneuvering the buckets faster through and line them up. We’re so American I think, always having to be at the front of everything. I feel so arrogant. Eventually we move back. Everyone starts to crowd and the line gets messy. I want everyone to have water. The water must be filled to the brim, not anything less in Haitian culture. Even if 4 cups will be wasted as the woman put huge buckets on their head. The concept of filling to very top is important, it states completeness and fulfillment. I roll my pants up to my knees. My sneakers are solid black. My wounds are wet and puddles lie inside my feet.
The albino boy asks me for a dollar. He has followed us everywhere. He has little speckles of black like big freckles across his body. ‘But you have water, I don’t have a dollar’. He wants my shoes. This is the first time I have been asked for things, today. I don’t have extra shoes or I would have taken them off to dry my wounds. I already promised another girl my watch, I cannot give you that either. The same girl in the blue shorts comes up to us. She is the reason this all happened. I have to go. I jump into the van. They crowd around us, and say we’re sick through the two inch openings of our window. I’m wet and now nervous. We drive off leaving the truck behind, he's almost done. We make it to the bustop. I did not cry. I am strong, but in reality I am so weak. They are so much stronger. Like rocks they have been molded and shaped and polished…. ‘The rocks in the water don’t understand the life of rocks in the sun’
I have extended my stay in PAP. The assistant director who has come to pick myself and other visitors up who will come for a couple days has already gone back. Nobody from here is to take me, but I know I will figure it out. I came this far out to see Citi Soleil and I made a commitment. We have one more chance, a half day to go into the slums. I transcribe for the leader of an organization, L. She is doing research thesis on children in abject poverty. Rumor has it about Wyclif running for president. They will vote for him. A certain line from the boy rings in my head again and again and will continue to do so, ‘Everyone came to help after the earthquake, but nobody came here’. He doesn’t ask why. Why would relief workers come to a site where everyone has always been in makeshift housing. I wanted him to add the reason, the reason he believes. I wanted him to say it’s because we’re so poor and we’ve always been so poor, nobody will care. I feel emotionally vulnerable. The interviews are painful. We sit by a clinic for the community, “The Lamp”. Its open three day a week to the public. People line up hours before. We sit in the courtyard. The kid has a solemn face. He is so cute. Little raindrops pour through the thick bright exotic leaves that hover over us. The rain is silent like my heart unable to understand struggles.
After 3 days of waiting we have one hour to go into the shanty parts of city soliel, deep in. Finally! We go to fishermen town, Warf Soleil. It is black. There is no sand or brown dirt on the ground. Black mud and other stuff I’m unsure about cover the ground. Everything looks the color of liquid tar. We see the new site for the clinic. It is along a road. We see fisherman making his fishing nets out of hand. If there was a full time clinic here it would still not be enough for these few hundred families. Medical care is never enough. Ironically each time you walk a distance, you always see clinics, but in terms of the populace, diseases and sicknesses, clinic ration is radically disproportionate. They suffer from everything. I cannot understand their suffering, it us intensely multifaceted. We walk back behind the road. We see little boats like canoes, they are handmade, having been carved by people. I am fascinated. The children follow us. A man sits on something. His feet are in the black mud. He reads the holy Bible. The children all want their pictures taken. They want to see them after. The giggle and get excited. They all smile and pose. They have high spirits. We take pictures. We walk around. I’m stuck in the back with kids creating circles around me, unable to hear our tour guide. I miss some details. I am curious. Our Translator R translates. We see naked babies. We see the same boy with a outstretched stomach. The soles of his feet are covered in the tarry liquid mud. We see a girl with her underwear. Her braids go in different directions. The other two little boys make action poses. I wonder if they have ever seen a cartoon on television. I wonder if the naked ones do not have clothes or if their one pair of clothes they have are dirty or are given to another sibling. All these thoughts occur to me later as I go through pictures.
I always wonder why the Haitian people are so pleased and content. I never will understand. It will always be beyond me. Years thinking about it and it will always be beyond me. What God has done to the Haitian people and what they Haitian people have done to be in terms of defining God will stick with me like glue. Invisible glue that will seep into places I did not know existed. Like everything I do not know becomes a huge part of life. And all things we know become minimal and trivial from a certain point forward. I have hit that point again.
I am with L the head of an organization. She comes here often. Her left foot steps into a pool of mud. Gross. Someone brings a bucket. The man bends down and pours it over her foot. I am surprised to see a clear bucket of water. It is not drinkable but it must be available. I know he brings it out because we are foreigners. Maybe we will do something for them. They do not say anything. I know his intention for helping and pouring that water is done with sincerity. I know he also thought that we were going to help him. A lady with short hair and blue shorts and a matching jacket, says to my friend ‘We’re sick, we’re ill’. This is the first time I have heard someone make such verbal statements. We walk out towards the road slowly. My time is up. I must take a bus back very soon.
We walk back out. The same lady she walks behind me, a baby still in her arms. She is so young, maybe younger than me. All she says is, ‘agua’. I click. We walk back out to the road. I ask the community leader who is also our current tour guide about their water. It is no longer free. Its 5gourds a bucket. People here make nothing. This is the slum of the slums. I ask if I we can give money for 50 buckets of water for 50 families. The people we have left behind us still look at us from far away. It’s like we’re all paused in a photograph. My mind is on pause. 2 seconds later feel bad. We cannot just supply 50 families and ignore the others. How will he choose? How will I trust him? He recommends buying a huge truck of water. Wow. I don’t have that kind of money I think. Then I pause, I have all my savings with me in our car. 2 seconds later we ask about the price of the truck. We buy a truck of water. I know I will cry when this all happens. We go back to the main roads. We find a truck on the other side. The men get out and signal it over.
We come back. The truck stops in the middle of the road. He opens the pipe from the side of his truck. Water gushes out like a massive hose on full blast. Some people are already there they rush to get buckets. Soon the news spreads and then everyone comes with their buckets. They come with their bottles. They come with huge garbage cans. They come with containers. They come with their jugs. They are civil. Most wait in a disorganized clump of a line. Little children bathe. I try to help with efficiency and less water wastage by maneuvering the buckets faster through and line them up. We’re so American I think, always having to be at the front of everything. I feel so arrogant. Eventually we move back. Everyone starts to crowd and the line gets messy. I want everyone to have water. The water must be filled to the brim, not anything less in Haitian culture. Even if 4 cups will be wasted as the woman put huge buckets on their head. The concept of filling to very top is important, it states completeness and fulfillment. I roll my pants up to my knees. My sneakers are solid black. My wounds are wet and puddles lie inside my feet.
The albino boy asks me for a dollar. He has followed us everywhere. He has little speckles of black like big freckles across his body. ‘But you have water, I don’t have a dollar’. He wants my shoes. This is the first time I have been asked for things, today. I don’t have extra shoes or I would have taken them off to dry my wounds. I already promised another girl my watch, I cannot give you that either. The same girl in the blue shorts comes up to us. She is the reason this all happened. I have to go. I jump into the van. They crowd around us, and say we’re sick through the two inch openings of our window. I’m wet and now nervous. We drive off leaving the truck behind, he's almost done. We make it to the bustop. I did not cry. I am strong, but in reality I am so weak. They are so much stronger. Like rocks they have been molded and shaped and polished…. ‘The rocks in the water don’t understand the life of rocks in the sun’
Poverty spreads like fireflies on a summer night - Pap day 3
Definition of poverty - Poverty:denotes serious lack of the means for proper existence
Another day of riots in Citi Soleil, there are shootings. Again, we cannot make it inside the slums. The day before we brushed the surface and saw outskirt areas. I am determined to go. A boy from next door shows up five minutes after we call and is coincidently free to take me everywhere. We tour downtown Portauprince instead. I do not feel unsafe. I wonder if it is unsafe at night. Delmas is unsafe. I do not know what that means. Every street name also starts off with Delmas. We take many taptaps after seeing a Mother Theresa hospital. We go through downtown markets. There is trash everywhere in piles, in the middle of the road, it also serves the purpose of dividing traffic. There is some kind of statue in the middle of downtown Portauprince. Nothing about this downtown resembles other downtowns I’ve seen. There are no big buildings. There are just many people in the market streets and much trash. Downtown is just dirtier and crowded, this is what defines it. We bump into many of his friends on the street. I do not like attention so I wait quietly like a mute. I know everyone is asking about me. Not one person hasn’t he says. Explaining who I am is a bit too complicated, just say yes I'm Indian I tell him, that’s fine.
We meet his grandmother at her house along the streets. We continue walking through the rest of the entire city. He takes me through crowded streets. We finally go behind street market stalls to dodge car and truck traffic only to a small covered walkway. I hold his arm, he weans me through the crowd as I try to keep up and not trip behind him. I get stuck between men who are pushing from behind and those ahead who do not move, they brush against me from right and left as well. Finally we make it out. I pull my huge camera out again. I see a city pillar, the Haitian coat of arms and motto, right beside it there are tents. I can’t even take a proper picture. This scene itself is enough to describe the state of the country. We see the presidential palace collapse. I wonder where the new one is, I don’t really care. The Haitian government has been broken for some time in its own way. I continue to walk, I am not sure how long it’s been. We go through tent cities. Shamas. I wonder if Shamas has been around before. The tent town rides right into the streets right by presidential palace. It is flourishing with people. We do not go too inside. Everyone sees my camera. Haitian people do not like cameras. They still return my greetings and smiles. I want to wear a tshirt, I am not here to exploit. All around the city you see ‘We need help’ sprayed around. I do not see any help.
Then we go to Delmas sixty something, we go through and around the tents, down the mud steps, across the valley to the other side. I see an empty tent mud house, it is small. I see a girl's feet poking out of the tent, she lying across a bed passed out. I see an internet café in another tent. We continuously carve our way through clothes lines with damp clothes. I walk slowly, the streets with twigs and mud are all uneven. We carve through them shifting, ducking, bending as not to disturb the peace. Little toddlers waddle around. Ladies sit on stones in corners braiding hair. One woman sees me and goes inside. I do not take pictures of the people. The houses are all on different levels and styles, the land is not flat. Some tarp on top, some tarp on side. some metal shaft doors some curtains. some dirty, some clean. I barely get to see inside. The day concludes. In Haiti poor holds its own definition of basic needs of life. Poverty spreads through the city like a fireflies on a summer night. And still, I have yet to see slum life of those who live in worst conditions of abject poverty here.
Another day of riots in Citi Soleil, there are shootings. Again, we cannot make it inside the slums. The day before we brushed the surface and saw outskirt areas. I am determined to go. A boy from next door shows up five minutes after we call and is coincidently free to take me everywhere. We tour downtown Portauprince instead. I do not feel unsafe. I wonder if it is unsafe at night. Delmas is unsafe. I do not know what that means. Every street name also starts off with Delmas. We take many taptaps after seeing a Mother Theresa hospital. We go through downtown markets. There is trash everywhere in piles, in the middle of the road, it also serves the purpose of dividing traffic. There is some kind of statue in the middle of downtown Portauprince. Nothing about this downtown resembles other downtowns I’ve seen. There are no big buildings. There are just many people in the market streets and much trash. Downtown is just dirtier and crowded, this is what defines it. We bump into many of his friends on the street. I do not like attention so I wait quietly like a mute. I know everyone is asking about me. Not one person hasn’t he says. Explaining who I am is a bit too complicated, just say yes I'm Indian I tell him, that’s fine.
We meet his grandmother at her house along the streets. We continue walking through the rest of the entire city. He takes me through crowded streets. We finally go behind street market stalls to dodge car and truck traffic only to a small covered walkway. I hold his arm, he weans me through the crowd as I try to keep up and not trip behind him. I get stuck between men who are pushing from behind and those ahead who do not move, they brush against me from right and left as well. Finally we make it out. I pull my huge camera out again. I see a city pillar, the Haitian coat of arms and motto, right beside it there are tents. I can’t even take a proper picture. This scene itself is enough to describe the state of the country. We see the presidential palace collapse. I wonder where the new one is, I don’t really care. The Haitian government has been broken for some time in its own way. I continue to walk, I am not sure how long it’s been. We go through tent cities. Shamas. I wonder if Shamas has been around before. The tent town rides right into the streets right by presidential palace. It is flourishing with people. We do not go too inside. Everyone sees my camera. Haitian people do not like cameras. They still return my greetings and smiles. I want to wear a tshirt, I am not here to exploit. All around the city you see ‘We need help’ sprayed around. I do not see any help.
Then we go to Delmas sixty something, we go through and around the tents, down the mud steps, across the valley to the other side. I see an empty tent mud house, it is small. I see a girl's feet poking out of the tent, she lying across a bed passed out. I see an internet café in another tent. We continuously carve our way through clothes lines with damp clothes. I walk slowly, the streets with twigs and mud are all uneven. We carve through them shifting, ducking, bending as not to disturb the peace. Little toddlers waddle around. Ladies sit on stones in corners braiding hair. One woman sees me and goes inside. I do not take pictures of the people. The houses are all on different levels and styles, the land is not flat. Some tarp on top, some tarp on side. some metal shaft doors some curtains. some dirty, some clean. I barely get to see inside. The day concludes. In Haiti poor holds its own definition of basic needs of life. Poverty spreads through the city like a fireflies on a summer night. And still, I have yet to see slum life of those who live in worst conditions of abject poverty here.
This is how we roll; Haitian Muslims - Pap Day 2
It’s my first full day in Portauprince. I want to see Citi Soleil the poorest slum in the western hemisphere. I want to experience that life for a split second, and remember it for a lifetime. Our plan is just to figure out where things are as we go. This is how things in Haiti work, by coincidence, or luck. We start asking people how to get to Pastor Leon’s compound as we switch taptaps. One man knows, I am subtly intrigued. Then he gets on another taptap, I’m concerned as to how we will find it without his direction. As it starts to drive off, he continues talking to us, says someone on the next taptap we take will know. At home I don’t know if I would have never started going through a new city and asked people as I switched buses how to get places. This is how things in Haiti work, by magical coincidence or as some might say, luck. Ironically you know they always work out, you know when you walk into someone’s house they’ll be there at that time you come and that someone on the bus or street will know how to get somewhere. I’ve never missed a person or opportunity through what I call Haitian coincidence. We get closer to Citi Soleil. There are riots that day not many buses go into the actual Citi Soleil. We find pastor Leon’s compound. We find it, we get off. That is the last bus we’ll be able to take. We tour around, the church sits 1500 people, it’s huge with no walls, they have a school and a clinic. We are taken to classrooms one by one the children get excited and ask for their pictures. We leave an hour later, our next stop is Islamic Relief.
Again we have no idea where it is in a town of a few hundred thousand with a dime and dozen NGOs and campsites throughout. One of the workers knows where it is, he gives us directions. Four of us get on a motorcycle, including the driver. We drive down, we get to a point and stop and ask people where the people of Islamic religion are. I tell the assistant director who has taken us around with another Haitian boy from Jacmel, that the Muslim people don’t look any different than anyone else. I don’t think we’ll find anything this way, NGO’s setting up camps are as prominent as abject poverty here. We arrive down a small alley and I’m thinking how would a campsite be at end of an alley. We stop at a masjid. Wow. I bang on the door. As always someone answers, it is a Haitian in a thobe. I greet him with my Salaam, I don’t remember the last time I exchanged this greeting. Later I learn most people know Salaam and walaykumsalaam, and that InshaAllah, with the same meaning is also something people say in Haiti. I ask him about Islamic relief. It is right behind the masjid. Eventually the director comes to meet us. Neither of them was born Muslim. We pray the day prayer together. We walk down a small opening alley between two houses as wide as me and my purse. I see the camp site. There are 20 tents set up, with 40 families. They just sleep there, in the tents. Islamic Relief has other projects in Haiti, different sites in different cities, many building schools, and other projects to develop possibly in the near future I'm told. I get a three minute debriefing. They ask where my private driver, translator and group is, and where I will go next. I respond- I have the taxi driver who I met on the street, his number and name, Excellent, I am my own group with two Haitians from the home who equally don’t know what they’re doing and I got here by asking around on public transportation and moto. Everyone always seems shocked that I am solo with no entourage. They offer to take us in their car to a camp city 60 steps down. This is my first journey in a proper car or anything with doors.
I want to see the slums but this is a good start. I see people in a small tent town. Then we head back, I decide to call Excellent and continue my hope to get into the slums. It starts to rain. I finally get hold of other Americans in Citi Soleil, staying at the same house in Pationville, we had exchanged contact information that morning while heading out and realizing we’re going in same direction. They do not know where we are, they have already gotten in the car about to leave. The offer to pick us up though. The population of this town is 3-500,000 he says. In mean time another motorcycle was called for us by the Haitan Muslims and arrives. He doesn’t speak English. I hand him the phone, the guide on their line speaks to him. Everything arrives and gets decided within 1 min of each other. He figures out what main road to take us on. I just sit and roll on, he's never met the group or anyone else and yet he knows where to stop and spots them down. It all always works out here. That is how we roll.
The last stop is a children’s home/orphanage. The children were found wandering on the streets of Citi Soleil, many with and many without families all in need of care. They are so happy to see us. Everyone runs up to me. I’m drowning with guilt. I found out we were going to the orphanage with the other group just now. Fifteen minutes ago I found out it existed and we were making a stop to drop of some goodies. They all kiss me and saw bonswa. We pass out balls, and toys, and bracelets and pictures drawn by elementary school children in North California. Everyone is so happy, the kisses don’t stop. My guilt continues to drown me, I feel like crying. The children play, and eat their snacks and we get a tour of the new home and the school. . I want to tell them, I am not really part of this wonderful group and cause, and I did not make all these preparations and come with them, I am just a tag along. Often the confessing of shortcomings and weaknesses helps me feel relief. I want them to know. The girls do a dance for us. The each come up to me individually, kiss me on my cheek and give me tissue paper flowers. I have never been kissed that much in a day. There is so much joy in those hours. I feel so loved, I tie the flowers on my bag. I will keep them tied forever.
Again we have no idea where it is in a town of a few hundred thousand with a dime and dozen NGOs and campsites throughout. One of the workers knows where it is, he gives us directions. Four of us get on a motorcycle, including the driver. We drive down, we get to a point and stop and ask people where the people of Islamic religion are. I tell the assistant director who has taken us around with another Haitian boy from Jacmel, that the Muslim people don’t look any different than anyone else. I don’t think we’ll find anything this way, NGO’s setting up camps are as prominent as abject poverty here. We arrive down a small alley and I’m thinking how would a campsite be at end of an alley. We stop at a masjid. Wow. I bang on the door. As always someone answers, it is a Haitian in a thobe. I greet him with my Salaam, I don’t remember the last time I exchanged this greeting. Later I learn most people know Salaam and walaykumsalaam, and that InshaAllah, with the same meaning is also something people say in Haiti. I ask him about Islamic relief. It is right behind the masjid. Eventually the director comes to meet us. Neither of them was born Muslim. We pray the day prayer together. We walk down a small opening alley between two houses as wide as me and my purse. I see the camp site. There are 20 tents set up, with 40 families. They just sleep there, in the tents. Islamic Relief has other projects in Haiti, different sites in different cities, many building schools, and other projects to develop possibly in the near future I'm told. I get a three minute debriefing. They ask where my private driver, translator and group is, and where I will go next. I respond- I have the taxi driver who I met on the street, his number and name, Excellent, I am my own group with two Haitians from the home who equally don’t know what they’re doing and I got here by asking around on public transportation and moto. Everyone always seems shocked that I am solo with no entourage. They offer to take us in their car to a camp city 60 steps down. This is my first journey in a proper car or anything with doors.
I want to see the slums but this is a good start. I see people in a small tent town. Then we head back, I decide to call Excellent and continue my hope to get into the slums. It starts to rain. I finally get hold of other Americans in Citi Soleil, staying at the same house in Pationville, we had exchanged contact information that morning while heading out and realizing we’re going in same direction. They do not know where we are, they have already gotten in the car about to leave. The offer to pick us up though. The population of this town is 3-500,000 he says. In mean time another motorcycle was called for us by the Haitan Muslims and arrives. He doesn’t speak English. I hand him the phone, the guide on their line speaks to him. Everything arrives and gets decided within 1 min of each other. He figures out what main road to take us on. I just sit and roll on, he's never met the group or anyone else and yet he knows where to stop and spots them down. It all always works out here. That is how we roll.
The last stop is a children’s home/orphanage. The children were found wandering on the streets of Citi Soleil, many with and many without families all in need of care. They are so happy to see us. Everyone runs up to me. I’m drowning with guilt. I found out we were going to the orphanage with the other group just now. Fifteen minutes ago I found out it existed and we were making a stop to drop of some goodies. They all kiss me and saw bonswa. We pass out balls, and toys, and bracelets and pictures drawn by elementary school children in North California. Everyone is so happy, the kisses don’t stop. My guilt continues to drown me, I feel like crying. The children play, and eat their snacks and we get a tour of the new home and the school. . I want to tell them, I am not really part of this wonderful group and cause, and I did not make all these preparations and come with them, I am just a tag along. Often the confessing of shortcomings and weaknesses helps me feel relief. I want them to know. The girls do a dance for us. The each come up to me individually, kiss me on my cheek and give me tissue paper flowers. I have never been kissed that much in a day. There is so much joy in those hours. I feel so loved, I tie the flowers on my bag. I will keep them tied forever.