Go Gamecocks?

Although I am usually resentful of USC fans because they like to refer to themselves as “the real Carolina”, I went to my first cock fight yesterday and it was an interesting experience, to say the least. The make-shift cock pit, constructed out of discarded planks, lies less than half a mile from the OFCB compound under the shade of a mapou tree. The crowd consists of a handful of younger men dressed in bright colors and baseball caps, and a few nimble children that sit perched on the limbs above, but the spectacle belongs to a previous generation, dressed in straw bowler hats, who wear their short sleeved oxfords open to air out their boney torsos. It is these men, whose sunken skin is as tough as leather from countless decades of work in the fields and whose only adornment is the silver lint that clings to their cheeks, that find their solace on Saturday afternoons preparing their feathered gladiators for what may be their final battle. The process is taken very seriously. Just like professional boxers who weigh in before a bout, the roosters all undergo a series of scrutinizing tests to ensure that they are in fact qualified contenders. Bets are exchanged, talons are sharpened and a whistle blows indicating that everyone must evacuate the ring, for the event is about to begin. Last minute provisions can be purchased from the various “stands” set-up around pit and I strongly recommend the coconut milk mixed with fresh sugar cane as it is undeniably the best snack available. I did not have a front row seat yesterday but I was just as satisfied watching the reaction of the crowd who offered a unanimous “oosh” every time one of the animals released a decisive blow. At the end of the fight both chickens were still alive, albeit barely, but based on criteria that eluded me, a winner was chosen. To those of you who are avid PETA supporters and find such cruelty towards animals to be savage, perhaps you can find some humor in the situation. The purse, a term in sports vocabulary that refers to the earnings of the winner, is actually kept in an eight year old girl’s shiny blue purse that one of the tough bookies carries on his shoulder. To the victor go the spoils and to the loser, well, perhaps a drumstick.

Apre midi anba pye mango a

Travel to the Haitian hills,
A land that time forgot,
A verdant valley kindness fills,
And find more than you sought.
Watch your step, the slippery rocks,
As you cross the flowing stream,
Women wash their matted locks,
And ebony cherubs gleam.
Venerate the Holy Ghost
But leave the children naked,
For of the things revered here most,
The clothing isn't sacred.
Rice and beans to fill yours pants,
A mango if you chose it,
But fill your soul with song and dance,
Above all, gospel music.
Football played, no socks or shoes,
And limestone rocks for goals,
Elated children, win or lose,
Rejoice on calloused souls.
A women hastens up her pace,
The sack of charcoal smolders,
A nameless dame embodies grace,
Her fortune on her shoulders.
Mornings find us in the fields,
Shucking corn from husk,
But in the eve the labor yields,
And it's dominoes at dusk.
The stars reveal their brilliant light,
Too many to believe,
A somber breeze whispers "goodnight"
Through rustling mango leaves.

Ghostbusting

The week of Carnival has set the stage for a showdown between the pagan voodoo forces which are still pervasive in the Haitian countryside and the devout Christian congregation here in Cathor. The church has been holding extended services (eight hours alone on Sunday) and the congregation will convene every evening this week beginning at 6:00 p.m. The worship is characterized by a unified chanting, a disembodied swaying, that at times verges on thrashing, and a high-pitched shrieking, all interspersed by impromptu soliloquies to God. Despite these diligent efforts, however, the evil spirits were able to “infect” at least seven members of the congregation Sunday, including Actionnel’s nephew, Wilgar. The symptoms of the possessed do not include fever or headache but range from speaking in tongues with late family members to lying prostrate on the ground and rasping one’s lips. Actionnel, who I hoped to turn to for an explanation, has been in Port au Prince and Gonaives, so I am left with a limited understanding of the phenomenon. It has been requested that I make house calls to the “diseased”, as they have been so eloquently referred to by Jacques Elie, and that I pray to God that He prevail in the battle of good vs. evil. The school is on vacation so that the vacuum left by the singing children has been replaced by the rustling of mango leaves and the portentous cawing of crows. Even the weather has contributed its part to this eeriest of weeks by blowing spontaneous gusts of wind that send a chill up one’s spine and furnishing large charcoal clouds that block out the sun almost entirely during the middle of the day. The flickering of the lights due to a misunderstanding between the solar power system and the generator, right at the pinnacle of the religious ceremonies, was icing on the cake.

Fort Bayonnais

If you stand at the doors of the church and look northwest into the mountains you can just make out a square stone structure that resembles a castle. Although little is known of the monument, the "Fort de Bayonnais" is assumed to have been built by the French prior to the slave rebellion and subsequent independence of Haiti in 1804. Jacques Elie and I began our trek to the fort around 6:45 am on Saturday morning with a video camera and a satchel of necessary provisions. It was a formidable hike up the mountains with their steep slopes and jagged rocks but we made it in under four hours. Although the fort did not contain the treasure chest I thought I might find by deciphering cryptographic symbols on the wall, it did lend itself a remarkable view of the surrounding hills. The ground was overgrown with vegetation but the arched doorways and angled windows remained in tact after two hundred years. After a quick snack, we headed to the second, smaller fort across the valley. Though less of colossal presence, the second fort had a giant canon barrel in it which, because of its weight, had not been moved in two centuries. There was also an enclosed room which may have been a brick oven (the French used clay bricks as opposed to the stone and mortar typical of the Haitians). Finally, we found a large tomb that must have been 12 feet deep. No telling what kind of secrets a few shovels and a machete would reveal. In contrast to the bustling compound here, there were times when we would travel twenty minutes without hearing a single sound but the mountain breeze. It was only then interrupted by a wandering goat or a farmer sticking his head out of the sorgum to wish us good luck on our journey. We returned sunburnt, dehydrated and fatigued but as I have learned, there are few things that a siesta cannot cure.

Deux pieds gauches (Two left feet)

Jacque Elie: Morgan, I got you a woman. Go dance with her!
Morgan: (reluctantly) Ok... sure.
Haitian female: Oh, is that how they dance in America?
Morgan: (bashfully) No, I was trying to do what you're doing.

Unfortunately my Haitian dancing debut did not live up to expectations. Although it wasn't as gory as the St. Valentine's Day Massacre of Capone fame, I think many hearts were broken on the dance floor last night. In order to remedy the situation, I am collecting donations for a trip to the Dominican to perfect my bachata. Contributions welcome.
Overall, the Valentine's Day celebration was a success. Attendants contributed $0.25 each so that we could have the privilege of hooking up some tattered appliances to a portable generator under a mango tree. In addition to the dancing, we watched a movie about a Haitian that moved to Port-au-Prince and made it rich but I could not concentrate on the Creole dialogue over the half dozen children that climbed on me once the film started.
Today we went to "local" market and bought some produce and bread. Quite different from the neighborhood Harris Teeter, the vibrant clothing of the merchants, the women carrying bushels of charcoal on their heads and the goats trying to evade their masters because of the inevitable fate that awaits them is a sight to see. I asked someone why we could not find any eggs, to which they responded that the merchants come from the mountains and that the eggs would be more like an omelet after the trek to market. We settled for the cassava, a baked grain that has the texture of a triscuit and the taste of cardboard.
This weekend we are attempting to hike to the "Fort de Bayonnais", a looming colonial citadel in the distant mountains. Next week, upon approval from Actionnel, I may try to accompany some students to a more suitable location for the Carnival festivities.

L'ecole de Bayonnais

The OFCB mission statement reads “If you are planting for a year, plant grain; if you are planting for a decade, plant trees; and if you are planting for a lifetime, plant people.”

Today after class the students requested that I have a “practice conversation” with them if I was available. For those of you that have been here, you know that it is impossible to be “unavailable” with a dozen Haitians crowded around you. The conversation was done in a matrix form, translating the same sentence from English to Spanish to French and finally Creole, so it was a learning experience for me as well. I noticed that one of the students in the front row was the same man that teaches the kindergarteners outside of the guesthouse all morning. The student had worked in the Dominican Republic for four years and was excited at the idea of practicing his Spanish. Before me was a man who I had previously seen as an astonishingly patient and gentle elementary school teacher, transformed into one of his curious pupils, asking me if I could spare a moment to teach him.

Though I have seen only a fraction of the world, I find it hard to believe that there is another community with the same resolve as Cathor (Bayonnais). In addition to the typical high school subjects, the comprehensive curriculum includes three foreign languages; advanced physics, chemistry and biology; and philosophy, much of which is taught at a level comparable or superior to the education I received in the states. The children possess an impressive desire to learn, so much so that when a teacher is not present, the student with the best understanding of the material will lead the class. Many of the “classrooms” are no more than a few benches under a mango tree with a tattered blackboard; distractions such as inclement weather and hunger are omnipresent. Yet the students continue to perform exceedingly well on their exams. To those of you that support the students here or have donated your time and energy to OFCB in the past, I assure you that your contributions have gone towards an extraordinary cause. And to those of you that have yet to visit Bayonnais, I encourage you to come and witness with your own eyes what a remarkable difference you are making.

A Joyful Noise to the Lord?

Had I known that choir practice begins at 6:45 a.m. on Saturday mornings, I may have reconsidered my three month stay. That isn’t entirely true. The music actually begins in a neighboring community with the “tambus”, the voodoo drums, at sunset on Friday night. Perhaps the celebration marks the approaching “Carnaval”, though I traditionally understood “Carnaval” to be a Christian holiday originating in southern Spain. Literally translated, the “removal of meat (carne)” signifies the indulgence in all things improper before the beginning of Lent. Naturally the holiday would have incorporated traditional African practices during the period of slave trade to places like the Caribbean and Brazil; unfortunately those practices may happen to be the aforementioned drums. In any case, it appears that the women that sing just across the courtyard (and it is a small courtyard!) are here year-round. The music is saintly, and, if I had to choose a sound for my alarm clock it would be that one. Oh but the best is yet to come. Once the women finished their performance, I was sure that I could catch a couple hours of sleep, since it was the weekend and there was no class to teach and the generator seemed to be running well. Foolish me! As if I was on some sort of television program with a hidden camera, a young band, consisting mainly of brass, began practicing five feet from my window. “No no, Jean, try your trombone scales again…” I waited patiently for someone to roll a blackboard into my room and run their fingernails across it. But there was no blackboard and there was no camera. Later, children eager to learn English ran into my room, yelling “Wow, you sure sleep a lot!”

English Tudor

If there is anything in Haiti more scarce than natural resources, it is native English speakers. My English speaking ability has never been in higher demand, from the 7:00am "How do you say 'Did you sleep well last night?'" to the "Let's practice English before we go to sleep!", long after the sun has gone down. One student, determined to be the best English speaker in his class, has taken the initiative and rehearsed an "Easy English" tape in which two high pitched British women are having a dialogue. Thanks to his dedicated repitition of the conversation, the student now speaks like Queen Elizabeth. "Went to the cinema, did you? Reeeeally? Quite lovely!" It sounds like an old Monty Python skit where the men have taken on all the female roles. I am doing my best to correct the pitch but, as they say, old habits die hard.

La Dolce Vita

Now that last week's entourage is comfortably in the states enjoying television, refrigeration and transportation, I think it would be appropriate to discuss my daily routine. I wake up around 6:30 a.m., exercise, and open a book before breakfast. At 8:00, I am summoned by Actionnel's sister, who has kindly taken on the role of my cook, for a breakfast that consists of cereal or hot oatmeal and a hot coffee. I occupy the mornings by providing private English tutoring to the older students and researching electronic education resources. The isolation is not lonely; on the contrary, the ability to be alone to read and write, to the sound of laughing children and indistinguishable Caribbean radio under the tropical sun is invigorating. Lunch is always delicious and lately I have been supplied Coke and Sprite in addition to the water I requested. I have tried to reinstate the "siesta" into my schedule but I am almost guaranteed to be awoken by the excited student, shouting "Mo'gan, I found you. Now we can make an English practice!" I teach English in the afternoon and collect information on OFCB. With the exception of a handful of nursing homes, I am probably the only person that eats dinner between 4:30 p.m and 5:00. I have taken to reading fervidly during the evenings and I have recently finished "The Stranger" by Camus and "Heart of Darkness" by Conrad; the latter of which I highly recommend as a depiction of life in the tropics. My "assistant", a graduated student, has moved into my room and we spend the late hours speaking in tongues (a mixture of French, Kreyol, English and Spanish).
Once I have acclimated and have learned more Kreyol, I intend on moving into the hills to get a more enriching perspective than the somewhat pampered lifestyle I lead now. At the moment, however, I could not be happier.
**I have modified the comments so that they can be made anonymously without any kind of registration. Feel free to contribute.

Fin de Semaine

To say that my crash course in solar power mechanics and diesel generators was the highlight of my weekend would be stretching the truth a bit. I hope that the engineers are correct in their decision to trust me with troubleshooting technical problems that may arise; if not, OFCB may very well become an Amish community. Jokes aside, Sunday morning began with an angelic choral performance by the church congregation. Actionnel Fleurisma, the venerable pastor, continues to inspire as he preaches ardently the message of God. Our group was introduced before the congregation and it was clear that after a week’s work, both the Haitians and the Americans alike had been truly moved by their interaction with another.


Following church, the engineers and I hiked into the hills in order that we get an elevated perspective of the OFCB compound, both literally and figuratively. The trails were narrow and rocky, interrupted by streams flowing from above. Although Haiti has become a victim of deforestation in the past few decades, the verdant ecology of these particular hills is that which could be expected of the Caribbean. The pinnacle of the trek was scaling a rocky peak atop which we were provided a 360 degree panoramic view of the valley. As mentioned above, the Engineers Without Borders, and often without sleep, spent the rest of the evening putting the final touches on their week’s work.

Gonaives

On Wednesday, David, Kent, Actionnel and I traveled to Gonaives to handle financial matters and purchase hardware. Our half day excursion into one of Haiti’s biggest cities provided us a brief look at life outside Bayonnais. The road into town is representative of the underdevelopment of the nation, requiring motorists nearly an hour to travel 17 miles; the one national highway, “Highway 1”, is at times little more than gravel. The city itself is daunting. I would not suggest that comfort cannot be found in Gonaives, because Actionnel and Lucner both reside there; however, the absence of development, the concrete and sheet metal dwellings, and the absolute deprivation were unlike anything I had ever seen. The presence of UN convoys, multi-national outfits sent with the impossible task of maintaining peace without force, is indicative of the despair. Perhaps this is too pessimistic; or, perhaps, the sordid streets of Gonaives represent the past while communities like Bayonnais, encouraged by the spirit of goodwill and the idea of empowerment through education suggest a changing trend.

Mad Science

Our convoy consists of six engineers from the San Francisco chapter of"Engineers Without Borders"; Kay Dano, David Nichols and myself from South Mecklenburg Presbyterian Church, Charlotte, North Carolina; and Kent Shell from Houston, Texas. The primary responsibility of the engineers is to correct any problems which may have arisen in the"solar system" and it's counterpart, the diesel generator. When I refer to the solar system, I do not mean the sun and the nine (now eight) revolving planets, but the intricate system of solar panels that provides a significant amount of electricity to the community. Additionally, the engineers will be rewiring the compound, using underground wires and fuseboxes as an alternative to the power lines strung across avocado trees that now exist. Although the engineers come from diverse backgrounds--there are self-employed researchers,multi-lingual travelers, and PhD physicists among them--they are all brilliant individuals. To the extent that this isn't "rocket science", one of the engineers has a degree in aerospace engineering. Sadly, over the past week, I have come to realize that I speak even less "Engineer" than I do Kreyol (and my Kreyol is extremely limited). Our repertoire of tools ranges from the most high-tech (e.g. PV cells, solar modules, inverters, gps devices, and remote monitoring laptops) to the most basic pick-axes and machetes, used to dig trenches and cut out roots, respectively. The engineers work from dawn to dusk without complaining and it was truly our pleasure (the non-scientists) to bring back a few beers from town to reward them for all of their hard work.


David has been busy as usual with tasks that have included completing financial requirements for a micro-credit grant, interviewing past graduates (and providing needed reassurance) and exploring the possibility for a future drip irrigation project. Kay and Kent (her brother) have spent a lot of their time overseeing the construction of an orphanage down the road to which they have contributed generously. They also spend their time catching up with old friends and making new ones. Eventually I will embark on a plethora of tasks, including monitoring the microcredit program,networking new laptops and of course, teaching English, but I have taken this week to acclimate myself. I offer my modest services to the engineers but more often than not, I am assigned to distract the children playing near the wire trenches or utility shack. There is no difficulty attracting the children to the giant, white man with the soccer ball they affectionately call "Blanc."