Thanks for visiting my blog site.

Friends,

In January of this year, I visited Haiti for the first time. This blog details my experience in the Western hemisphere's poorest country. It will make the most sense if you start with the earliest posts (December 2008, pre-trip) or with the January 6th post (Day 1).

Links that may be of interest...

www.oursoil.org

www.pih.org

Thanks so much.

Corinne

This is me at a future SOIL composting site in Milot, just outside of Cap-Haitien. SOIL already has a community garden adjacent to this site. Imagine piles and piles of rotting sugarcane and banana... I did and left feeling very inspired. This was my second to last day in Haiti.

The last three days.

So I am back home in San Francisco. I returned last Friday evening and have experienced a wide range of emotions since. I am glad to be home... I guess. And I am trying hard not to forget anything at all. But it fades so fast. It's hard to remember the feeling of dirt in my eyes while riding on the back of a moto through Cap-Haitien. It's difficult to remember the children's facial expressions as they painted and planted. It seems unreasonable-now, that simple things are not easy to acquire.

I want to write a lengthy piece about my first trip to Haiti. I am still working through my feelings about it, my politics about it, my love and my anger about it.

Sorry to not have written for long and to beg off again.

But I am thinking, working, feeling... and I am home safe and sound.

More to come... much more.

Day 8 Benick's Toilet

Day 8 Monday January 12

Benick is a handsome 16 year old who works after school at the SOIL office/house. He cleans and helps Tony with maintenance. SOIL pays Benick's school fees, for his uniform and books and gives him some cash each week. Benick is lucky to work for SOIL but he's also a teenager and on Monday, his first day of school this semester, he neither shows up for school or for work at SOIL. Today this is especially disconcerting for Sasha and the SOIL staff as we are headed to his house to build SOIL's first private (household) toilet. (All the other toilets are communal, even if they are kept locked, they are shared by many families).

We prepare the building materials on the SOIL roof. This includes cutting and sanding PVC pipe and building the wooden toilet box. We charter a private tap-tap easily and eight of us pile in. We stop and buy corrugated aluminum, a ring of thin wire and a 16 foot piece of rebar bent into a U shape which we drag from the bumper of the tap-tap. I am still not eating and not feeling well but I don't want to miss anything else. I am taking Imodium and Pepto Bismal but have not eaten since Saturday night.

Benick's neighborhood, Petit Anse, is across the water from where the SOIL office and "downtown" Cap, and to me, seems worse than Shada. The houses are farther apart for sure and the ocean is steps away (though it is visibly polluted); there are flowers and trees around Benick's small yard. But there is garbage and standing water everywhere. Everywhere there are foundations for homes never built. Most "windows" are concrete blocks with holes in them, in the shape of a heart or a sun perhaps; everyone sleeps locked in their homes at night. The memory of moonlight beheadings is not lost to the elders and the accounts surely stick with the youth. Everything about this country seems strange, if not outrageous, unless you know some history. Then, it's simply tragic. Or criminal, depending on your view. That Americans know little and care less about Haiti is disturbing to me, especially because the U.S. is not an innocent bystander in Haiti's history of violence, imperialist bullying, excessive (and truly inhumane) foreign debt accumulation and false democracy. Not even close. But back to my own story.

Benick's house is "stick-built" which means sticks of about 15 to 20 inches are woven together to form the walls (the patterning is delicate and beautiful), then concrete, or more often mud, is plastered on the exterior. It is a single room, about 15' x 15' and ten people live within. No one in Petit Anse has running water or a toilet. People bathe in the ocean, I suppose. They fish there, the children play. They reliev themselves wherever they can find a bit of privacy. There are skeletons of wooden boats there, rotting yet colorful, their names ring of hope or misery. These are the boats that "boat people" would try to reach America in- usually they drowned along the way or were refused entry to the U.S. and died on the return trip. You can't open one eye for a second in Haiti and not see one of its "flowers".

I feel I am getting off track. I want to write about the incredible and daunting work SOIL is doing and their many successes and my own small part. But the situation is past desperate (what is beyond desperate?) and it makes me angry. I cried the first three days here. Then I stayed strong and just tried to take it all in, watching, listening, smelling. Then I was sick. Now I am pissed.

I want to finish my blog here in Haiti so it is fresh and not washed over by a hot shower, a cold glass of water and clean sheets. But my mind has been racing for a couple days now. The center for street children has closed suddenly (though not unexpectedly) and every day there are boys and young men in the street outside calling, Saaaa-cha! They are hungry. They want food, water, interaction, a smile, anything. That children have to fend for themselves, sleep on filthy stoops and go without eating sickens me. It doesn't have to be this way. That's the travesty. Participatory ignorance and holier-than-thou denial are modern American plagues, they eat the heart and the mind. I hope this trip has cured me forever.

I will come back to Benick's toilet- which turned out beautifully! And there is, of course, still more to tell. 

Working for peace and justice, if in the smallest way, is the only way I can go on living without dying inside.

Yours, 

Corinne

Day 6 & 7 Best & Worst

Day 6



Rosie arrived late Friday night from Nan Sab, a small ocean town near Borgne, to the west of us here in Cap. Rosie's mother was born in 1888. No joke! I didn't ask Rosie how old she is but she is as vibrant as anyone I know. Rosie lived in Aruba for many years working on a Naval base and her English is perfect. She loves to garden and knows so much about the local fauna. She has come just to meet us and help with a project in Shada. Rosie and I talked about many things. She is very wise and has a terrific sense of humor. "If you don't go looking for life, you'll never find it," she told me. In addition to crochet and gardening and basket-weaving, Rosie reads the Bible and goes to church everyday at 6am, except Sunday when church is at 8am. She takes care of her mother and brother and god-son and told me that she keeps busy so that she has no time to think. Rosie is amazing and she reminds me of someone very special back home.



Saturday we take a tap-tap to Shada. (I haven't introduced the "tap-tap", have I? Tap-taps and motos are the main form of transportation here, public transport, as very few people have cars. Tap-taps are pick-up trucks with a topper and an open back. They have a driver and a man hanging off the back who collects the fare and "tap-taps" the truck when a passenger needs to exit. It's more like bang-bang really. They usually include a huge speaker in back playing piercingly loud Haitian music. If there's one thing to say about Cap-Haitien {besides it's poverty-stricken}, it's that it's LOUD from about 5am until dark. Then the lights go out and it stays quiet until early morn. The tap-taps are all painted too and have names like "Tikka" and "God is Good").



So we pile into a tap-tap and head to Shada. It is our third visit and I am excited. I love the children there. We have two projects today. We are planting tomato seedlings grown on the SOIL roof and painting murals on the interior walls of the children's center. Madama Bwa meets us at the door and sends a few of the older boys to round up all the children. Sasha introduces Rosie and then Rosie takes over. All the little ones (and the teens, too) listen intently and wide-eyed. We pass out donated plastic hotel ice buckets and each child writes their name in their very best cursive on the outside of their bucket. Rosie helps each child fill the bucket with compost and then the planting begins. The children are so patient and listen so well. They are eating this up. The children in Shada have no toys save the ones they create themselves from garbage and found materials. They are starved for creative play and learning (not to mention... well, you know).



I took lots of pictures of the planting. Most of my photos are of children and are positive. I feel uncomfortable taking pictures of anyone without permission. As well, I neglected to photograph some of the most hideous places and situations I've seen as I don't want to make the people of Haiti feel bad about their homes and neighborhoods. I'm sure they feel bad enough without some tattooed white girl taking photos of their naked children playing in dirt and garbage. (Another thing, my tattoos are not at all interesting to people here. It's much more interesting and rare to see a "blan", as we are called).

The children are so tender with their little tomato plants and I am so proud of them. The older boys (who have an awesome rap group) take the newly planted seedlings to the balcony where they'll get morning sun.

Next, we start to paint. The older boys, one of whom is an artist (a one-armed artist at that), get to paint one wall and the others are divided into squares and each child gets a turn to paint whatever they like. I have lots of photos of their awesome work! Even the SOIL folks get a square. My says in red, Mwen renmen Ayiti! (I love Haiti). The paint brushes are old and frayed and we don't have many colors but still the children are thrilled at the work and it shows. We leave before the painting is finished to get ready for a birthday party at the SOIL house. Madame Bwa and the children at the center will all be there.

After a shower I go upstairs to the main level of the house and the first person I see is Woodlyn. He is dress in a stiff black hat with dark sunglasses and a shirt with patches on the front and sides. He looks like a cop, a really cool tough cop and I hardly recognize him at first. I scream, "Woodlyn!" and give him a hug. More and more people show and there is dancing and a rap performance by the children and teenage boys. The boys write their own lyrics, mostly desperately sad, but still inventive and touching. They rock!

The party seems to last all night and after saying goodnight to Rosie I sneak out and go to bed. Best day yet.

At about 4am, I wake with alful stomach pains, the worst I've ever experienced. I think to wake someone but do not. All night I go from the bed (I'm in a bunk, one up, and it's ridiculously squeaky) to the toilet upstairs. Their are three toilets in the house but there is no power now so the one closest to me in pitch black. I use the dry (composting) toilet on the third floor deck. I am vomiting and shitting like never before. Finally, it's so hot in bed and I am tired of the stairs and the squeaky bed, so I lay down on the balcony next to the dry toilet. I truly felt like I was dying. It felt like there was a little iny goat in my stomache running around and kicking, so much kicking. What's funny is that I did not eat any of the goat we slaughtered the previous night!

Sunday we are supposed to go to Labadie to the beach! A day of fun- and learning along the way. I make it to the street outside the house and know it isn't going to happen. I beg out and go throw up. Then I sleep all day. I am able to catch Michael in the afternoon and we chat online. I do not leave the room until everyone returns. We go out to dinner but I cannot eat. I have a Coke and three bites of rice. Though I have slept all day I have no trouble falling asleep at 9pm.

Day 5

The electricity here is supplied in two ways. First from a gas-powered municipal plant, which shuts down around midnight but sometimes at 7 or 8 or 9pm and comes back on in the morning... sometime. (Things are very fluid in Haiti, I am learning, which in certain ways I appreciate). SOIL also has a generator for power after hours or whenever the municipal power goes down, which is frequently. Yesterday both were down. Such is life in the poorest nation in the western hemisphere. I wish I could write everyday, so the details are still fresh, but it is just not possible.

We spend the morning discussing liberation theology and liberation ecology, both wholly relevant in Haiti. The thing I appreciate most of all is the idea that heaven is here on earth and we can not simply sit back and wait for the afterlife and its glories. We must all live life fully engaged and with an attitude that all things are possible, change most of all. I think certain forms or notions of Christianity have had a negative effect on people because the church tells us that the afterlife is the goal, we must be good so we can get there and that this life is somehow secondary. Politically this can lead to apathy or a sense that change and growth here and now are not important.

We also go around the room and tell the story of our religious beliefs or lack thereof and our parents' religious background. Everyone has an interesting story to tell. I learn a lot right then about some folks in the room. Everyone here, SOIL staff and interns are wonderful, thoughtful people and I am so glad I came.

After lunch, we over to Wisnel and Rosemond's house. They are very involved with SOIL and help with many projects in their neighborhood and elsewhere. Today we are going to watch a slide show from a project called, "Looking through their eyes". Sixteen children were given digital cameras and asked to photograph things in their neighborhood that made them happy and things that made them sad. Fruit trees, flowers and large beautiful homes were some od the (few) things that made them happy {none of the children live in these large beautiful homes and they all boast tall iron gates}. Garbage was at the top of the list for things that made the children unhappy. Each child spoke to four or five of their photos, explaining the picture and how why they took it. The presentation was terrific and the children all listened well to their peers.

After the slideshow, candy was passed out to the children. Almost every child dropped the wrapper to the ground.

The Jolissaint's asked us to stayfor dinner and, though we had dinner plans, we obliged. The sharing of food is meaningful and uniquely important in Haiti. We are sitting in the front room talking to Wisnel when two of the younger boys come in, Alex and a boy who I think is his brother. They come up to me and whisper something in Kreyol. I ask them to ask Sasha and she tells us that they want to know if we are going to spend the night. I find this adorable and I want to grab the boys and kiss them and squeeze them with my whole body and whole heart. Though Haiti is not a large country, the roads are terrible and when friends and relatives travel to visit one another, they often spend the night.

Later in the evening, we are waiting for Tony who works for SOIL and lives at the SOIL house. We are going to slaughter a small goat for a party tomorrow night. There is a lot of waiting in Haiti. When I moved to New Orleans, I thought at times I had found the slowest place on earth- now I see, not by a long shot. Being in Haiti requires a lot of patience. Too, I think, it is helpful to let go and not try too much to control situations. Fluidity and flexibility are key. Finally Tony arrives and he is irritated that no one has started to boil water and otherwise prepare for the slaughter. Sasha and Gillian walk over to pet and say good bye to the goat. I know this is not a good idea. They return looking sad and thinking aloud 'why did we did that'?

It seems like hours pass but finally all is set for the slaughtering of the kid (it really is a little goat). I wasn't sure I would want to watch but I do and I'm not as freaked as I expect to be. I shudder with the first cut but then watch with cal m curiousity. I have never seen an animal killed before. The slaughter happens outside next to the house by candlelight using a large knife, two metal bowls and a metal tray under a nearly full moon. Someone plays guitar and sings on the porch as the goat bleeds out and dies.

There is much more to say but we are about to have lunch. I will write again as soon as I can. I was sick yesterday (Sunday) and have not eaten. We have no water, the pump is broken, so I cannot bathe. This morning I turned the rooftop compost pile, though I was still very weak, so I'm a little dirty and should try to clean up as best I can before we eat.

Peace.

Days 3 & 4 Connectivity

We've been having electricity and internet issues for a couple of days. I've been trying and wanting to write but have been unable.

Day 3

We wake and have breakfast then head back to Shada for the first weekly health clinic at the Children's Community Center. Two Haitian doctors have offered their services for free. Sasha tells us that rare is the Haitian doctor who will even step foot in Shada. The clinic will be open each Wednesday from 8am until 1pm. Madame Bwa will chose 40 people, based on the severity of the medical need, to be seen each week. This is amazing for Shada; there are many, many sick and malnourished  children in Shada. There have been free health clinics before in Shada but none ongoing and  with Haitian doctors. This means that in a matter of months, all the sick children in Shada will receive the medical attention they so desperately need.

We arrive late in the morning and the small room (which still smells of paint, the sunny golden yellow put on the concrete walls by the children only the day before) is full of people. The doctor is surrounded by mothers and fathers, many of them talking, even shouting, at once. Madame Bwa had to leave briefly and the crowd had taken over. Sasha gets between the crowd the doctor and somehow he is perfectly calm. He is dressed in a shirt and tie and doctor's coat and the room is at least 90'f. He smiles at us and says hello. Madame Bwa returns and she and Sasha manage the patients and I hold a sweet little baby girl only about 4 months old.

After the doctor sees all the patients for the day, there is a meeting to discuss the day's work. How can next week be more efficient? more controlled? The meeting is about an hour and in Kreyol. It is certainly more important to straighten out the details than translate everything for us; so most of the meeting passes me by. Madame Bwa is happy to see us again. Everyone here kisses hello and I love this. When Sasha asks the doctor who will come next week, him or the other doctor, he answers, "I hope it's me."

Next we visit one of three dry composting toilets in Shada. It is built with two waste receptacles and the first is now full. We move the "toilet" (a concrete cast in the shape of a toilet but not plumbed) from the full side, to the empty. It will take about a year to fill at which time the second hole will be fully composted, emptied and ready for use! The design is wonderful and indefinitely sustainable. And the maintenance is surprisingly low.

We get a tag-along on the way home, Woodlyn. He is developmentally disabled and maybe about 18 years old. We have seen him each day since we arrived. He is very sweet. As the four of us are getting on our motos to return home, Woodlyn hops on the back with Allison and I. We are four on a scooter! Not unusual in Cap. Woodlyn lives in Shada but spends a lot of time hanging around the SOIL house and a street children's program run by two Americans (more about that later perhaps). Sasha tells him no, no. But he is stubborn. I am behind the driver, Allison behind me and I am sure though that Woodlyn is hanging off the moto, so I grab his thigh and hold on to him with all of my strength as we ride through the anarchy called traffic in Cap. We all make it home unharmed.

Woodlyn picks up a book written in English and leads me to the patio. He is pointing at the book and saying something in Kreyol that I cannot quite decifer but I have this feeling he wants to learn some English. To me, it is more beautiful than anything I can think of, that this young man sits with a book written in English when I have no doubt that he cannot read in any language at all. He wants to do the things that the people he loves do, the people who treat him kindly- because many people do not, do. He wants to read. I grab my Kreyol dictionary and we repeat the English and Kreyol words for the things we can see. Balkon, balcony.  Fanm, woman. Nonm, man.

Sasha told me earlier that Woodlyn is often mistreated. People shout at him, call him "trash" because he is disabled. People on the street ask 'why do you walk with him? he is worthless.' This hurts me to my core. He is hungry, he is dressed in rags, and he is as full of love as he is loneliness.

Woodlyn tells me he is hungry and a moment later, lunch is served. SOIL is in the difficult position of trying to reach out to the community, to help the children in any and every way but it is not possible to feed every child that drops in- there are simply too many and not enough food or money. Without fail, about once an hour, you'll hear a child scream from the street, "Sa-cha!" (Sometimes Cha-cha, which is so funny and cute). They want in, they want food, they want a place to be inside. But Woodlyn eats with us. He eats two huge plates of food and this makes me so happy. Then I go downstairs to my bunk and cry and cry and try to catch my breath and keep my heart inside my chest. It is breaking. Everyday that I am here, it breaks a little more, but not enough to kill me. Just enough to scar my little pump forever. I love Woodlyn. I love him for everything that he is and everything that is not.

We have an afternoon discussion- Haiti 101 and much of it is about Jean-Bertrand Aristide. The evening was mellow. We were scheduled to watch a documentary about the beloved ex-president but the DVD cannot be found. Sasha jokes that her friend Stef stole it and burned it. He is of French descent, born and raised in Haiti. He is white, wealthy (by Haitian standards anyway), part of the elite. He is wonderful, really; we have spent some evenings with him and while he may not share Sasha's politics (and I guarantee she'll keep working on him), the joke about him stealing the video is exactly that,  but perhaps it provides a bit of insight into the class system here.

So far, I am 3 for 3 as far as tears shed each day I am here. I fall asleep easily and, though I miss Michael almost desperately, I do not miss my organic cotton sheets, my window screens, my piles of clothes, my nice car, and on and on and on...

Day 4

Day 4 was butt-kicking but I did not cry! Hooray! We wake early and travel again to Milot. This time to the Citadel. A fort built by slaves, construction began in 1804 and was completed in 1820. The walk is 7 kilometers (help me out here...?) and entirely up hill. It is a monstrous climb but somehow I am bursting with energy and Tony and I beat everyone to the top by about 15 minutes. The hike takes about 2 hours.

It is Sasha's birthday so after some rest and some food we all head to the Mon Jolie hotel up on a hill in Cap. It is the opposite of Shada. Nearly all of the young people I have met here are present: Wisnel, Rosemond, Stef, Steve, Gary, Allison, Gillian, Leah, Nick, Jessica and, of course, Sasha. We drink Prestige, the Haitian beer- is it an odd name? I think so. We munch on fried salty plantains and enjoy conversation and music. There is a live band below us (at the bar) next to the pool and the main dining area. One man plays a banjo, which Rosemond has heard but never had the chance to play. He goes and talks to the band, who surely know of him- he really is a celebrity (which has it's downfalls I am learning). He plays the banjo for a while and when he returns he tells us it's hard. I tell Rose that the banjo is very popular in the US, which he knows; Sasha took him to what sound like an old-timey bluegrass show in San Francisco last year. But he doesn't know that the instrument is African and was brought to the States by slaves. He is pleased.

I was told before coming to Haiti that it is full of constant drama. "Island fever," Allison calls it. She is one of the U of Miami students here and is from St. Maarten, east of Puerto Rico and only slightly larger, geographically, than San Francisco. On the morning of Day 5, I tend to agree. I don't mind at all. Sometimes it's tense, sometimes sad, bizarre, passionate... but drama is indeed all around.

Mwen renmen ou! (I love you!) Thanks for reading.

Peace.