Morgan Dibble Has Become Unstuck in Time...

The title is an allusion to the protagonist Billy Pilgrim in the late Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. So it goes. Although Sunday morning marked the beginning of my final week in Bayonnais, you would think I was just arriving with the plethora of tasks we have yet to finish. Last week we purchased the lumber, rebar, and wiring for the construction of the bunk beds, the termination of the bridge, and the installation of the ceiling fans, respectively. The batteries arrived for the solar power system (for those of you keeping up with that saga) and this weekend I will perform my first “equalization”. A closer look revealed that the sponsor information was not collated correctly with the corresponding pictures and I have spent several hours chasing down very mobile elementary school students. The English classes continue to thrive and the students are anxious to perform a new song for the delegation from Charlotte whose arrival we have also been preparing for. Among the task performed by this group will be the installation of reading lights in all of the rooms of the guest house so that visitors may read in their spare time.

I am sure that many of you have plenty of your own “to-do-lists” and do not need to read another, no matter where it comes from, so I will highlight some of the eccentricities that make Haiti interesting. April marks the beginning of mango season and the people of Cathor are graciously devouring nature’s annual banquet. I was startled the first few times I caught a rustling out of the corner of my eye and realized that it was a young child scaling the high limbs of a tree but after a few weeks that has become commonplace. Contrary to the abundance of mangoes, the bottled water ran out a few weeks ago and I was left drinking soda and a syrupy artificial juice. Eventually, I buckled under pressure from the sweetness and began drinking the local tap water which I found is not only plentiful but more flavorful than boring American H20 (vitamin enriched?). With many of the OFCB staff out of town (or out of the country) and no visitors, our meals have been very unconventional. I used to think “breakfast for dinner” was such a novel idea when I was a child and we were served big sausage links, Belgian waffles, and scrambled eggs at 7:00pm. Waking up first thing in the morning to hot spaghetti and Coca-cola surprisingly does not have the same appeal. “Oatmeal only” and “Saltines for supper” evenings have proved that the Haitian weight-loss program puts Atkins, Weight-Watchers or any other American fad-diet program to shame. The only thing unhealthier than my eating habits may be may hygiene. The cleaning lady took my clothing to be washed and a suspicious rain cycle stifled any chance of drying. I ended up wearing the same t-shirt for several days in a row and I subsequently learned how to create a personal space for myself.

I am going to write about all of the friendships I have made and what an impact this experience has had on me but with five days of hard work and fellowship left, there is no need to get nostalgic yet…

Did Someone Say "Party"?

On Friday, April 27th SMPC will be hosting a "Will Party for Food" evening to raise awareness and support for the efforts of OFCB Ministries. Unlike traditional fundraisers that evoke sympathy and ask for pledges, this event promises to be entertaining, including music, slideshows, and testimonies from returning emissaries. The food is FREE (either mouth watering Caribbean chicken or authentic Haitian-style goat) and 100% of all donations will be used towards a children's food fund. Childcare will be provided.

More information about the event:

When: April 27th 6:30-9:30 P.M.

Where: South Mecklenburg Presbyerterian Church: 8601 Bryant Farms Rd, Charlotte, NC 28277


Who: Anyone who is interested in contributing to the education and nourishment of the students of ECB (Ecole Classique de Bayonnais)

Why: Because by showing interest you can make a difference


Spots are filling quickly! RSVP to:


Mrna Dibble: mrnadibble@aol.com

Judy Nichols: judy5cents@aol.com


**Please indicate how many will be attending and indicate if you would prefer chicken or goat


Merci d'avance!

Over the River and Through the Woods

I must warn you, I now speak a dangerous amount of Creole: dangerous not in the sense that it could be used in any sort of intelligence capacity but because I can be handed the keys to the Toyota pick-up and entrusted to find my way home from the city. Such was the case on Friday morning, not long after our arduous trek to Port au Prince, when a few of the kitchen crew and I made a reconnaissance mission to Gonaives for some much needed groceries. While the girls shopped, “Mano” and I went to his one-room house and watched an antiquated version of The Passions of the Christ on an old portable television connected to a car battery. Anxious to depart for Cathor where I was expected in a conference with the engineers, I asked Mano, who spoke no English, when I could go, to which he kept pointing to his watch: the international sign for “soon”. After the crucifixion, I was told that the time had come, at which point I rendezvoused with Islen and we began our ramble home. Our trip to the market proved only partially successful as we returned with ketchup, Red Bull (for the Evangelists) and five dozen eggs but no ham or cheese. Despite having to navigate through the plentitude of Ra-Ra parades en route, not a single egg broke along the way (a testament to my off-roading prowess).

Where's Waldo for beginners

Although I could probably write a book on Evangelism after the grueling thirty-plus hours of service I endured this week, I would rather post a video and let you pass your own judgment. Highlights included an incitement from Pastor Travis to “stomp on the head of Satan” at which point the congregation became a frenzy; a cacophonous medley of clomping feet and clamorous applause. The worship probably reached its pinnacle Saturday evening when Morgan and the “Institut d’Amelioration Linguistique de Bayonnais” performed “Amazing Grace” in English in front of over two thousand patrons. Sunday morning witnessed a four hour service and there was no relenting that evening when the congregation (sans Morgan) endured another five hours. Comfortable that the parishioners were sated with the Gospel, Reverend James Brown and Pastor Travis Riley left early Monday morning.

The faces of intensity

The void left by the Evangelists was filled with a much needed relaxation. The cool brought on by the April showers provided the perfect setting for a day filled with books and light conversation with my peers as they prepared for their return to school. Outside my window eager children threw rocks at ripe mangoes, like milk bottles at a fair, and rewarded themselves with a well earned treat. Yesterday afternoon was particularly pleasant as Jacques Elies and I strolled down the road to the unfinished bridge where we met some 10-year old girls who had spent the better part of their day hauling sand and rock for the termination of the project. The smiling faces were happy for the reprieve from work and we sat on the ledge of the bridge throwing stones in the river and talking about our families. Today it is back to work as usual as we continue to work with the generator, the sponsor information, the drip irrigation, the evening English classes, and as we prepare a warm welcome for Tom Harman and Light of Christ United Methodist Church who will arrive a week from today.

It looks like I am dressed inversely

The Port au Prince and the Pauper

Extended stays in foreign countries occasionally avail themselves unique opportunities that would otherwise be impossible. On Wednesday evening, I found myself people-watching behind the iron bars of a window in an austere apartment in Port au Prince, the sliver of a white face hidden beneath a linen curtain. My inconspicuous vantage point allowed me an opportunity to witness unadulterated life in Haiti’s capital: children playing soccer amid the rubble of concrete and discarded plastic; women in rags peddling an indistinct stew on smoldering embers; colorful "tap taps" (overburdened pick-ups) weaving through the crowds and depositing passengers without stopping. The surrounding air was saturated with the smell of poverty: thick plumes of exhaust, smoke from burning charcoal, and stagnant water collected in trenches along the street. Equally ubiquitous were the boisterous noises that typify life in the city: the relentless honking of horns, the emaciated dogs fighting desperately for scraps, and the elevated Haitian voices unsuccessfully haggling over prices they cannot afford.

A Creole sign reads "No Vacancy"

Unlike previous trips to the capital that entailed an evening spent behind the well fortified walls of a missionary guest house (with a pool), I spent Wednesday night in a dormitory afoot the cinder block tenements that line the hills of the Carrefour Feuille district of Port au Prince. My hosts, mostly college students my age, asked that I remain out of sight, lest I solicit an uninvited visitor in the middle of the night; needless to say, I complied. Rather than spend the evening brooding on what could be described as mild discomfort, I stayed up late into the night talking to my roommates about the future of Haiti. The pupils studying "living languages" (French, Spanish and English) were eager to translate as the agronomists, biologists, information scientist and dentist shared the breadth of their vision over the dim light of an oil lamp. The consensus arrived at by the students was simple: "life in Haiti is difficult but we have the power to change that". Of course the ambience was not entirely somber; my friends could not hide their smiles when they began talking about their girlfriends or their favorite type of music.

A warm welcome from my loved ones

Thursday was unsurprisingly full of surprises. Pastor Travis arrived from Sanford, North Carolina sans luggage and we spent the better part of our morning tracking a suitcase and a garment bag. (Note: demanding a clothing allowance in Port au Prince’s primeval airport is futile.) Our countless necessary errands (and a few unnecessary ones) gave us an extensive tour of the city, from the Royal Palace and the National Cathedral, to Petionville and the infamous Cite Soleil. The day that began at 4:30 a.m. with quarreling merchants outside of my window ended with a double serving of Evangelism and perhaps the soundest sleep I have had in years.

(David DISCLAIMER: My trip to PAP was atypical of a routine mission trip to Bayonnais. PLEASE do not be frightened by the idea that you will spend any time in Port au Prince. If you do find yourself in Haiti's capital, make the best of your time there! The hardships found outside of one's comfort zone are ephemeral but the experiences endured last forever. You will not be endagered, I promise.)

Haiti's Got a Brand New Bag...

On Saturday night we received the Reverend James Brown of Orlando, Florida for what will be his seventh visit to Bayonnais. As Chief Officer and Overseer of the organization “Voice of Christ Worldwide Ministries & Missions, Inc.”, Mr. Brown travels around the world preaching the word of God to audiences from the most secluded tribes of southern India to the solemn shanty towns of western Africa. The aim of this week’s “Evangelical Crusade” will be to save the Christians of Bayonnais that have deviated from the righteous path and to expose those who still worship voodoo to the power of Jesus Christ. Reverend Brown’s style at the pulpit (and amid the pews) is characterized by an unprecedented fervor and conviction. His application of Biblical aphorisms coupled with anecdotes from his own personal adventures never fails to excite the crowd. The Reverend’s benediction is complimented by mellifluous performances by the mixed choir and an energetic participation from the congregation which reflect the true ethos of the Haitian people. On his first day, Brown was able to use his healing powers to cure four members of the community that had been suffering from involuntary aphasia, demonstrating to the people the will of God.

At the risk of sounding blasphemous (and I am not afraid to take that risk), I am somewhat skeptical of the authenticity of the new converts. To me, it is not enough to see people clapping and wailing the name of Jesus Christ when only weeks before it was a voodoo spirit they were venerating. Likewise, scare tactics such as “accept Jesus Christ or burn for eternity” will only win over the most craven of worshipers. True adoration should come from the principles of Christianity found in the Bible and in Bayonnais: compassion, equality, respect, integrity, and tolerance, to name a few. To a people that have no idea about the history of Abraham’s people and cannot identify Nazareth (let alone Israel) on a map, it is the aforementioned virtues which will lead to real change in Haiti.

Tidbits

For the past few days we have been experiencing some torrential downpours. The bad news is, everything is canceled. Or is that the good news? Lazy afternoons in the guesthouse consist of rehearsing languages, reading Animal Farm, Catch-22 or something by Shakespeare, and listening to Caribbean radio as the rain trickles off the tin roof. The picture above is of Rosena, the cook, and I. Because most Americans melt in the rain, Rosena came to summon me for lunch wearing a giant sheet-cloak to shelter me en route to the kitchen. The acronym on my shirt stands for our organization: "Organization de la Force Chretien de Bayonnais".





The second picture features Mark Alcius, Eddy Saint Louis and I outside the market this morning (I am the one in the middle). Normally, I wouldn't be caught dead in a cowboy hat but, then again, normally I wouldn't find myself in a random Catholic church adjacent the market listening to the three hour inauguration of the new Mayor of Bayonnais (Artibonite, Haiti) spoken entirely in Creole. Mark and Eddy seem to think it is a good look on me but we'll see if it sticks when I get back to the states.

Help... Anyone?

I have been in Bayonnais almost two complete months and I continue to be baffled by the nuances of quotidian Haitian life. Yesterday evening, I asked my roommate where I could purchase a soda because I wanted to indulge in something other than bottled water. Jacques Elie told me that he was busy and that he would show me tomorrow, a response that I accepted, until he arrived at the office a few minutes later presenting me with a Nalgene bottle full of Coke. While this may appear to be a considerate gesture on the part of Jacques Elie, it does not solve the greater question: Where can I buy a Coke? I watch the school bus unload cases of Fanta, Sprite, and Coca-Cola everyday and I know that the dealer cannot be far. Yet the Haitians would rather keep me on my toes by not divulging the location of the mysterious soda vendor.

The confusion does not stop with procurement either. Despite the modest amount of Creole I have learned (“Morgan hungry”, “Morgan sleepy”, etc.) and the extensive amount of English taught in the afternoons and evenings, there is still a formidable language barrier. The Creole expression for “What are you doing?” is “Kisa wap fe?” and the answer, unlike the English “nothing” is “anye” (anything). Too often, the students will reply to me that at 5:00, they will be “anywhere… doing anything”. Thank you for your clarity. There also seems to be some misunderstanding with affirmation and negation. One of the student’s sponsorship forms reads, under the title of “favorite activities”: “I like to jump rope neither at home nor at the school.” Either this child has difficulty with “either” and “neither” or he wants to make it absolutely clear that he does not want jumping rope to be a stipulation for his sponsorship.

Real men jump rope.

La Buwi

With Actionnel busy entertaining our counterparts in the states and the students of ECB studying assiduously for this week’s exams, life in Bayonnais has been relatively calm. A biblical storm and the subsequent lack of sunlight yesterday left us without power for a few hours during the day but by applying the correct ratio of patience, caress and swearing (both in English and in Creole) we were able to get the generator started. The engineers even sent us some new fuses and an oil pressure sensor, but wouldn’t you know it, our beloved Generatrice was still unsatisfied. Next week’s list of tasks include an equalization of the batteries which I have been assured has a relatively low rate of electrocution.
It appears that the plea for sponsorship was a success: included in the parcel from the US was a healthy ration of granola bars and cereal snacks. As luck would have it, Wednesday evening’s dinner was the local favorite "La Buwi", a dish that consists of powdered milk, sugar, and flour. Don’t get me wrong, I love cookie dough as much as the next seven year old, but the fruit and grains sent by Tom were a much appreciated treat. The electricity loads were not the only thing that surged this morning when I ran the toaster, but my spirits were elated by the forgotten smell of Pop Tarts.
Today, Merilus and I constructed a ladder out of some mature lumber we found near the generator shed. Although it may not pass those pesky OSHA regulations, our ten-rung masterpiece would have been coveted by most any Haitian Home Depot. At lunch I asked my cook if she would like to come to the United States with me in April, to which she replied that she would probably have a more secure and stable life with her boyfriend who is studying dentistry in Port au Prince. Rosena, if you are reading this, I am not resentful.
Tonight Carolina plays USC in the Sweet 16 and our limited alumni association here will be watching: Go Heels. And, in exactly one month from today, I will be back in the United States ordering quarter-pounders and watching reality TV...

Lights (sometimes)... plenty of camera and action

By now many of you have seen the video of the Florence delegation that was published on youtube.com a week ago. If you can get through the the elementary video editing and the shaky camera hand without a mild case of vertigo, you will see how much the group was able to accomplish during their nine days in Bayonnais. The background track is "Magdalena" by Sergio Mendes, and although it is Brazilian, I felt like it was suitable for the tone of the video. Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-W_Qjw1eFic


Although any production company would tell you that it is box-office suicide to release two blockbusters on the same weekend, I am going to take that chance. After all, New Line Cinema and Touchstone Pictures would have nothing to do with these independent endeavors. The second video features the advanced class of our "Institut d'Amelioration Linguistique de Bayonnais". Established by Rochenel Charles, Mislet St. Louis, and I in early February 2007, the nightly class teaches principles of grammar, conversational English and occasionally a song like the one you are about to witness: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y11jXf0C82o

Green, Blue... and Read?

Le Jour de Saint Patrice passed through Bayonnais without a glance. No one made an effort to wear green; no anxious patrons waited for the foam on their Guinness to settle; even the traditional Shephard’s Pie was replaced by, well, rice and beans. On the whole, Haitians and Irish have very little in common, save the occasional potato famine and a longing for the shores of Ellis Island, or as it is called today, "Miami".
Likewise, "March Madness" has not taken hold on the western third of Hispaniola. Upon relating the tragic first round upset of the Blue Devils (to Virginia Commonwealth!), my neighbors looked at me curiously and replied "What is a Duke?" (Avid Carolina fans, I presume.) I am able to catch an occasional score on ESPN.com and despite my inattentiveness to collegiate sports in the past six months, my bracket it not doing terribly.
So what is left, after the Irish pubs and Tarheel basketball have been taken out? Books. Hundreds of pages of Times New Roman-lined newsprint bound by glue and stained by highlighter. Over the past several weeks, I have made great friends with Marcel Proust, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Benjamin Franklin. Evenings consist of discussions with Flaubert about the scandalous behavior of Emma Bovary and conversations with Conrad about the captivating personality of Mr. Kurtz. I told Camus that I found his book a bit strange but I commended Herman Hesse on what I thought was a remarkable depiction of a young man’s spiritual journey. What a loser! I know. Holden Caulfield was disappointed when I told him I had departed a life of debauchery for an affair with literature but I assured him that my partying days were not over.

Sponsor a child!

Before Angelina Jolie and Madonna made adopting children from the third world trendy, OFCB was reaching out to communities around the globe to support its students. Because the Ecole Classique de Bayonnais receives absolutely zero funding from the Haitian government, the school is dependent on sponsors to provide children with a uniform, an education, and one meal daily. Hundreds of boys and girls are available for sponsorship, ranging from the irresistible pre-K toddlers to the mature young men and women in the high school. Please contact me if you or someone you know would be interest in helping put the future of Haiti through school:
modibble@gmail.com

**Consider sponsoring a child that is the same age as your children or a student that you can correspond with in English, French, Spanish or Creole!

A Tale of Two Haiti's

It seems that my last post, an allusion to Oliver Twist, was ill-received by a few readers. I admit that my writing can be sarcastic at times, in part because it is reflective of my personality, but also because I tend to use a sense of humor to cope with adversity. Haiti is the poorest nation in the Western hemisphere and with a GDP of $300/year its people are among the poorest in the world. Over eighty percent of Haitian professionals live abroad and, as a result, more than three-quarters of the very modest internal revenue is generated through remittances. The government is marked by instability and apathy and the only news that ever comes out of Port Au Prince revolves around coups, kidnappings, and corruption. Unlike America where private schools cater to the elite, Haitian communities must establish and fund their own education because the government seldom provides the essential civil services. The fact that I am able to use the internet to write this is an anomaly in a country where less than ten percent of the population has access to electricity. Flush toilets and fans are a great luxury; air conditioning and anything that resembles a grocery store are preposterous. And yet these factors should compel future groups to visit Bayonnais, not deter them.

Despite the aforementioned hardships that plague Haiti, OFCB is a testament of triumph. Every morning close to fifteen hundred children put on matching uniforms, participate in a comprehensive curriculum taught by well-selected professors, and receive, what is to many, their only meal of the day. The future of the community is enrolled in universities from Limbe to Port au Prince, studying everything from medicine and agronomy to business and information science. The new church is teeming with eager worshippers not only at the all-day Sunday service but on Wednesday evenings and at the infamous 6:00am Saturday morning worship. With each day that passes I feel less like a visitor and more like a member the community. Although no amount of sun could give my skin the same tone as my colleagues in Bayonnais, a handful of Creole phrases has opened a lot of doors and formed many friendships. I recognize the names of close to a hundred Haitians and the infamous “blanc” is now being phased out for the more affectionate moniker of “Morgan” (or sometimes “Mo-den” or “Morgens”). I consider the sweltering heat and the occasional absence of food to be yet another right of passage, one more hardship that I can overcome. I am an advocate of the idea that confidence is conceived outside of one’s comfort zone; that through adversity, character is formed. So, when I say that I do not have any condiments to flavor my rice and beans, it should be taken with a grain of salt.

Please sir, may I have some more...

In Haiti, sorghum is often the last line of defense against hunger; for this reason, it is appropriate that the Creole word for millet is “pitimi” (pronounced pity me). After an unsuccessful attempt to forage for dinner last night, Jacques Elie and I could find neither a grain of sorghum to suppress our hunger nor an ounce pity to uplift our spirits. Recent mix ups regarding meal duty have left our supply of Power Bars dangerously low and just yesterday we finished off the last of the beef jerky. The situation has become so dire that last night I was forced to break my abstinence from alcohol during Lent because I needed the bottle of wine to supplement the fruit and vegetable food group that was severely lacking in my diet. Coupled with the saltine crackers that I found in a cupboard, I felt like I had come to Mass for brunch.
If my efforts to evoke sympathy have failed thus far: the generator refuses to acknowledge my demands (ergo no power); the water is temporarily off, so the toilets do not flush (good thing we have been eating lightly); and the bus that carries the teachers from Gonaives will not start (don’t worry, Morgan can teach it). I cut my hair, or rather I had it cut, and I look like a dog that had part of his fur shaved off in order to undergo an operation; my pride was removed without an anesthetic. My clothes were taken to be washed while I was out and the shirt I have had on for days would probably be described by Homeland Security as “biological terrorism”.
In reality, I have nothing to complain about. The children are always beaming with smiles when I exit the guest house; English classes proceed without obstacle (four exams written this weekend); I have had ample help with the agronomic endeavors; and even the generator cooperates occasionally if I caress her enough. There is also that Chapel Hill basketball team that recently won a tournament…

The Magic School Bus

On Wednesday morning, I gratefully accepted Actionnel's invitation to accompany the Florence delegation to Port Au Prince to bid them farewell at the airport. Although the flight was not until Thursday morning, we left a day in advance just in case of any unforeseen obstacles. The guesthouse where we stayed on Wednesday night was symbolic for two reasons: one, it had been run by Chris's (the pastor's) mother many years ago; and two, I had stayed there on my first trip to Haiti nearly eight years ago. Around 8:30am the next morning, we dropped the seven passengers off next to a heavily armed UN tank (we were not allowed to enter the airport in the school bus) to give hugs and say goodbyes. I did not realize how much I had enjoyed their company until returning to the compound this weekend sans Anglos.


The ride home was anything but direct! After what seemed like forty years of driving around a deserted part of Port Au Prince, our driver, Moses, finally led us towards the promised land. I was left alone aboard the old Charlotte-Mecklenburg school bus for what seemed like hours at a time, contemplating which would be a worse fate, heat exhaustion or kidnapping. In the end, I suffered no injuries (except for a minor case of whiplash) and we got on the road around 1:30pm. The return voyage saw us stop multiple times to check the internal pressure (to urinate) and to pick up some necessary provisions at the one supermarket. I spent Thursday night at Actionnel's house (spaghetti for dinner again) and rode to Bayonnais with the teachers on Friday. After 36 hours of travel I was glad to be home! There are no broken springs like the broken springs of your own bed!

Florence

I have been unable to write until now due to the immense volume of initiatives underway this week. The principle project of the Florence delegation—Chris, Robert, Doug, Allan, Lisa and Gray—is the construction and implementation of twenty drip irrigation systems that will help local farmers increase their crop yields during the dry season. Additionally, the group has generously contributed to the continuing construction of the new school and they are actively overseeing the (hopeful) completion of the walls of the first floor of the building. During the mid-day sun, the group can be found inside assembling personal hygiene kits and assisting in the installation of the new computer lab. As if all of this weren’t taxing enough, five of the seven missionaries hiked for three hours to the Fort de Bayonnais on Saturday! The church service on Sunday was led by Pastor Chris and it was well received by the Americans and Haitians alike. I must say that I am impressed by how hardworking, jovial, and all-around enjoyable the company has been.

Last night was particularly exciting for me. Actionnel was worn out from translating church in the morning and then hosting a slew of community meetings so he asked me if I would drive his children home in the late afternoon. In addition to his wife, four children and various extended family members, I must have picked up half a dozen random passengers who jumped in the truck as it crossed their path including a baby that was passed through a window! The road out of Bayonnais has more craters than the surface of the moon and the one highway isn’t much better. I almost tipped the car on a few occasions and the only time I went over thirty miles an hour was when I accidentally flew (literally flew) over a speed bump. When the children finally stopped gritting their teeth and jumped out of the truck, I could tell that they were a little more excited than usual to be home.

Extended Cab?

Our Wednesday morning adventure to Port au Prince was as conventional as can be expected of any trip to the Haitian capital. Despite the ubiquitous potholes on Haiti's sole highway, the air conditioning and the clear radio reception of the double-cab Toyota Hillux seemed a little too "first world". The shanty towns constructed of sheet metal and the burning piles of trash in the street suggested the country's difficult circumstance but as we drove along the coastline between St. Marc and Cabaret, the crystal clear water and lush ecology reiterated to us that Haiti, too, was once a Caribbean paradise. Not long before we reached the airport, we received word that the bus, which was to transport the Florence delegation, was irreparable and that we would have to find an alternative. Actionnel, who has earned the "Action" in his name, proceeded to the airport, assuring Jacques Elie and I that we would find a way to fit six more passengers and 20-plus pieces of luggage in the truck. Most Haitians wait outside the airport packed into what looks like an iron cage but thanks to a bit of sidestepping and the harmless appearance of my whiteness, we were able to clear security and receive the passengers without any hassle. Fortunately, were able to catch a ride back with an old friend who was in the area; unfortunately, however, we were still two seats short (with one already straddling the gear shift in the front). Never able to turn down an adventure, Jacques Elie and I rode home from Port au Prince to Bayonnais (a journey of at least 3.5 hours) in the back of the truck, sitting on all of the luggage. Although the airport is on the outskirts of Port au Prince, I still found myself tense up a few times when we stopped in the middle of a town and a passerby would look at me as if I might make good bait. The dust and exhaust was omnipresent and with the help of the sun, it is a surprise that my skin did not actually look Haitian upon our arrival. Following the suggestion of a fellow traveler, I wrapped a bandanna around my face, in Billy-the-Kid fashion, which drew many looks from the heavily armed Brazilian UN convoys until they realized that the idea of a white gangster in Haiti is laughable. Guns were a reoccuring theme throughout the trip, whether it was the M-16s of the UN "peacekeepers", the mK5 sub-machine guns of the Haitian police or the sawed off shotguns of the grocery store security. I wasn't concerned with making any friends but I certainly did not want to make any enemies. We arrived to the community unscathed at 5:30pm and the children were waiting for us anxiously.

I promise I will post pictures soon...

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.