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!”