This past week-end I bumped into an old friend from high school at a counter. Funny seeing you here she said. I came back a month after the quake for 3 weeks and I am still here I replied. She laughed, the way we often laugh here, hard yet mischievous, "Haiti maré pie'w" entangled by Haiti.
Well
The nature of entanglement has many colors. Yes it is at times discouraging; sometimes it is down right scary. From time to time one catches glimpses of what may become; it renews. It is the nature of challenge isn't it?
Yes I am still here.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
waiting for a ride
Summer has come and gone and election season is upon us. I have been here longer than I thought I would be. So, in many ways, I am in a virgin self territory. Yes, you can scratch your head. I am still not settled. I am 'camping' in a 'yellow' house with an eccentric uncle in a past its 'fresh' time neighborhood. Houses that I have been evaluated by public works get one of 3 labels: red, yellow, and green. Not to hard to decode the meaning; although a red house does not necessarily mean that it should be destroyed. Mine is yellow and the uncle and I look at it from time to time and come to the same conclusion: the columns will hold; some walls may fall; heck we'll survive it.
Last Sunday, I went to a community meeting in my hood. Well..how do we start? Saturday morning i woke up to a commotion in front of the house. Folks, women really, had been, brooms in hand, cleaning the streets. The ring leader, a man, had entered my yard and was installing himself in front the gate to supervise. He was a guy of the neighborhood and the eccentric uncle after a few choice words gave him a chair. I followed 10 minutes later with an imaginary questionnaire in my head (I should confess at this point that I have been thinking about said neighborhood improvement plan and was looking for ways to enter the field so to speak). He had received some money (source still unknown) to do community work; we want our neighborhood clean for we are clean folks so we are doing it ourselves he said. One thing led to another and a day later after a strong downpour and literally walking on top on rubble, broken down car blocking the street and hoping over puddles of dubious water, i found myself surrounded by neighbors I would meet for the first time.
my ride has come...more later
Last Sunday, I went to a community meeting in my hood. Well..how do we start? Saturday morning i woke up to a commotion in front of the house. Folks, women really, had been, brooms in hand, cleaning the streets. The ring leader, a man, had entered my yard and was installing himself in front the gate to supervise. He was a guy of the neighborhood and the eccentric uncle after a few choice words gave him a chair. I followed 10 minutes later with an imaginary questionnaire in my head (I should confess at this point that I have been thinking about said neighborhood improvement plan and was looking for ways to enter the field so to speak). He had received some money (source still unknown) to do community work; we want our neighborhood clean for we are clean folks so we are doing it ourselves he said. One thing led to another and a day later after a strong downpour and literally walking on top on rubble, broken down car blocking the street and hoping over puddles of dubious water, i found myself surrounded by neighbors I would meet for the first time.
my ride has come...more later
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Alice in Wonderland
I fell the rabbit hole. It's been fast, too fast to write or think about it. Yes, I shrunk and I also grew taller and bigger.
I am dealing with the queen these days, and like in the story she says in a nice polite and French way "off with her head".
Life in the fast lane? not quite.
I am currently analyzing a policy proposal full of problems. I am making notes, highlighting, checking the data, calculating cost, percentage, and timeline. It makes no sense but it's written in an authoritative policy voice by policy wonks of a respectable agency who want all to know that THEY know best. The numbers do not make sense to me.
No one will read my notes though. I need to find a cheshire cat or a white rabbit or something...
I am dealing with the queen these days, and like in the story she says in a nice polite and French way "off with her head".
Life in the fast lane? not quite.
I am currently analyzing a policy proposal full of problems. I am making notes, highlighting, checking the data, calculating cost, percentage, and timeline. It makes no sense but it's written in an authoritative policy voice by policy wonks of a respectable agency who want all to know that THEY know best. The numbers do not make sense to me.
No one will read my notes though. I need to find a cheshire cat or a white rabbit or something...
Sunday, May 2, 2010
letting it out ..
I regret to inform you that
I am not going to work for $800.00/month doing community building and negotiating dubious land agreements for a foreign NGO.
I am not going to set up your monitoring and evaluation system and train your staff for $1000/month
I am not going to stay on and manage your clinic for a stipend and free shelter because we should help the poor Haitians.
no, hell no, i am not going on a pot run with you. I am not that cool!
You can count on me to tell you that
Your temporary shelter projects on borrowed lands have the hallmarks of the next land riot. I would like you to step up and put your names on them so when all hell break loose we can call you back to deal with them, or at least, CNN gets to say CHF temporary housing camps...fill in the blank (I am just picking on CHF; there is a long list of them).
You don't approach Haitians with the pre-set mind that they are lazy and good for nothing. Remember the old say, people live up to the expectations that you have of them.
You don't tell a Haitian - no matter how long she's been away - that Haitians are good people but they will steal from you.
This thing,mmh, this thing about the corrupt government and the most repugnant elite set you up for the 'white' savior. You need to check in with yourself; You don't get to act that way in the first black republic of the western world no matter how f!k it is...
'nuf said
I am not going to work for $800.00/month doing community building and negotiating dubious land agreements for a foreign NGO.
I am not going to set up your monitoring and evaluation system and train your staff for $1000/month
I am not going to stay on and manage your clinic for a stipend and free shelter because we should help the poor Haitians.
no, hell no, i am not going on a pot run with you. I am not that cool!
You can count on me to tell you that
Your temporary shelter projects on borrowed lands have the hallmarks of the next land riot. I would like you to step up and put your names on them so when all hell break loose we can call you back to deal with them, or at least, CNN gets to say CHF temporary housing camps...fill in the blank (I am just picking on CHF; there is a long list of them).
You don't approach Haitians with the pre-set mind that they are lazy and good for nothing. Remember the old say, people live up to the expectations that you have of them.
You don't tell a Haitian - no matter how long she's been away - that Haitians are good people but they will steal from you.
This thing,mmh, this thing about the corrupt government and the most repugnant elite set you up for the 'white' savior. You need to check in with yourself; You don't get to act that way in the first black republic of the western world no matter how f!k it is...
'nuf said
Friday, April 23, 2010
Dirty Words
I have not written in a while. In part, I was trying not to write from a place of anger. So I chilled out; it was Easter week-end and it was spent at Cocoyé Anglade, a gorgeous beach outside of Aquin. Then, a week and another passed. Before long, it became a month. I have all kinds of excuses: no wireless, no electricity, no gasoline, and too much heat. All are factors that influence my writing and heighten the anger – among other things. So, here it goes.
Normal is a trigger word in my personal dictionary. Filed under normalcy you will find (a) balm for cleavages (Nope, not that kind, I am referring to social cleavages); (b) will make the unfathomable palatable; (c) immutability; (d) put up and shut up. I am not trying to be clever with sounds and words. You know I am going somewhere right?
Schools are back in business. I am not sure what goes on under the tents, tôles, trees, and concrete ceilings. I can only tell what I see in the mornings in the ‘hood. It starts at 5:30 a.m., by 6:45 a.m. my street is bustling with traffic and the sounds of youngsters speaking way too loud that early in the morning. They come down Fontamara 27 of all ages, in freshly ironed, colorful uniforms, in groups of friends, groups of siblings, groups of neighbors, and the family unit with mom or dad or both setting the pace. The cutest ones are always the youngest ones; their uniforms too big. You can tell a seamstress thought that the child will grow into it. The cutest ones are never alone; sometimes with an older sibling, a parent, a neighbor. The cutest ones are often the most unwilling; their little bodies betraying, in all kinds of ways, a protest against the early time of the morning, the fast pace that early in the morning, and perhaps also, the churning of an empty morning stomach. Most have to be dragged; few lead. So the morning sounds are also protests, exhortations, encouragements, lots of ‘an alé ’ let’s go. Teenage girls walk around with lip gloss, too much powder on their necks, and all kind of experiments with their hair. Some of the sounds are the back and forth flirt talk between boys and girls. Not much has changed that way – it’s the same scene, different players.
Yet, much has changed, they have taken over the streets for some sidewalks are taken over by blocks, bricks, lumber, and steel rods; you will see them walking on top of rubble when the road fight with cars is lost. By the time they reach school, under the tree, tents, tôles, or concrete ceilings, their black shoes have acquired a film of dust, white socks are grayish; and a fine ribbon of sweat drapes a forehead and cuts in half powdered necks before disappearing under a shirt. The goulougoulou look?
K1-12 is privatized in Haiti. So is college education in many ways. Haitian parents, of all economic classes, pay a small fortune to educate their children. So many were waiting to hear about free schools for the rest of the school year. The quake took the buildings not the system. So in many ways, in this post-quake environment where (I should go to the UN cluster site on education for the numbers, but the heat is making me lazy) x% (read significantly large percentage) has been destroyed, we (hell not me) are telling hard working parents, who are scraping by to get the money to send their kids to schools, in harsh physical conditions, unknown school safety, that we (again, hell not me) need to get back to normal; the normal of forking the money and getting a bad return on the investment; the normal of no penalty for underperforming schools. It has always been that way. Put up and shut up. Gouloulou has not changed that.
P.S. Not all schools are bad in Haiti. There’s a tiny percentage of high performing schools. I leave you to figure out about access.
Normal is a trigger word in my personal dictionary. Filed under normalcy you will find (a) balm for cleavages (Nope, not that kind, I am referring to social cleavages); (b) will make the unfathomable palatable; (c) immutability; (d) put up and shut up. I am not trying to be clever with sounds and words. You know I am going somewhere right?
Schools are back in business. I am not sure what goes on under the tents, tôles, trees, and concrete ceilings. I can only tell what I see in the mornings in the ‘hood. It starts at 5:30 a.m., by 6:45 a.m. my street is bustling with traffic and the sounds of youngsters speaking way too loud that early in the morning. They come down Fontamara 27 of all ages, in freshly ironed, colorful uniforms, in groups of friends, groups of siblings, groups of neighbors, and the family unit with mom or dad or both setting the pace. The cutest ones are always the youngest ones; their uniforms too big. You can tell a seamstress thought that the child will grow into it. The cutest ones are never alone; sometimes with an older sibling, a parent, a neighbor. The cutest ones are often the most unwilling; their little bodies betraying, in all kinds of ways, a protest against the early time of the morning, the fast pace that early in the morning, and perhaps also, the churning of an empty morning stomach. Most have to be dragged; few lead. So the morning sounds are also protests, exhortations, encouragements, lots of ‘an alé ’ let’s go. Teenage girls walk around with lip gloss, too much powder on their necks, and all kind of experiments with their hair. Some of the sounds are the back and forth flirt talk between boys and girls. Not much has changed that way – it’s the same scene, different players.
Yet, much has changed, they have taken over the streets for some sidewalks are taken over by blocks, bricks, lumber, and steel rods; you will see them walking on top of rubble when the road fight with cars is lost. By the time they reach school, under the tree, tents, tôles, or concrete ceilings, their black shoes have acquired a film of dust, white socks are grayish; and a fine ribbon of sweat drapes a forehead and cuts in half powdered necks before disappearing under a shirt. The goulougoulou look?
K1-12 is privatized in Haiti. So is college education in many ways. Haitian parents, of all economic classes, pay a small fortune to educate their children. So many were waiting to hear about free schools for the rest of the school year. The quake took the buildings not the system. So in many ways, in this post-quake environment where (I should go to the UN cluster site on education for the numbers, but the heat is making me lazy) x% (read significantly large percentage) has been destroyed, we (hell not me) are telling hard working parents, who are scraping by to get the money to send their kids to schools, in harsh physical conditions, unknown school safety, that we (again, hell not me) need to get back to normal; the normal of forking the money and getting a bad return on the investment; the normal of no penalty for underperforming schools. It has always been that way. Put up and shut up. Gouloulou has not changed that.
P.S. Not all schools are bad in Haiti. There’s a tiny percentage of high performing schools. I leave you to figure out about access.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Lull
Lull as break between storms; also as in don't let yourself be lulled into a false state of security.
After the summer of bliss in Portland and the enduring misery in the armpit of hell (Arlington, TX), I had succumbed to the feeling of I have seen it most, there’s nothing to discover here. I had begun to think that perhaps, maybe, I should consider a trip back. There were clues, my accent was getting worse instead of disappearing with time; I had begun to defend Haiti to others instead of the usual well you know; and then, came the dreams, the emissary, the quake. Looking back, the past three years have led me here now.
I will have been here for 6 weeks on Sunday. I had planned on 3. So, I am running out of everything and getting really tired of my 5 shirts, 3 jeans, that pair of chaco sandals (blasphemy!), and the closed-toe Keds worn on special occasions.
Some have said that I have done a lot in a short time; that I expect too much to arrive too soon; that I go ponder why we say in ‘due time’.
To the shock of the locals, I have been able to slip back as if I never left: I drive around; I haven’t complained about the dust, the noise, the bucket showers; I haven’t wished for a glass of red wine except for that one night. All of us wanted a drink after that day. I was told by a much older and wiser man though “everyone can see on your face that you haven’t gone through the stress that we’ve endured those past twenty plus years.” So, the open relaxed face and generous smile give me away as an unmistakable diaspo.
Week 6, on previous trips in other places, it is usually the time I am settled and about to leave. It’s usually the time I meet those people (oh let’s be frank, that person) who forever color the experience of time and space. I am looking, expecting … broad smile.
I cleaned today; with an old broom and a much older mop. I wanted to feel domestic and settled.
So what now, while I sip more coffee on the veranda of the Oloffson? I sit with a burst bubble, heart opened experiencing it all, all at once (with Chucho Valdes Live at the Village Vanguard playing full blast in my ears). Chucho, always my refuge; this version of Como Traigo la Yuca! Dios mio! I’ll play it once more.
On week 5 the bubble burst. I forgot I was also in the land of things are not always what they seem; and all utterances must be decoded. I call it the 45th gift - 45 is my own code. The gift of taking things (heck, people) with their many truths. The gift of seeing and remaining hopeful for the future of this place. There are so many bright people in the wrong places here. The dream team? many people could come up with a list of local names. Ain’t the team playing right now. The solutions are here, a bit evident. Yet, there are other processes at work, folks’ ego, sense of self-importance, attachment to their ideas, their place in history; not realizing that they are themselves the problem; perhaps the thing to do is to step aside; perhaps the thing to do is to bring others in; perhaps the thing to do is to get their hands dirty (no reference to Sartre here). Same old problem: Many thinkers, dreamers, speakers, not enough do-ers. Those in the position to do something go on ké popoze (unhurried) assured that their timeframe of urgent is correct; that things will happen when they will happen. Ké popoze while others wait not knowing of what’s next, of the plans, of any plans.
As I said, the 45th gift is about taking people with their truths and remaining hopeful.
The past couple of days I have been stuck in the craziest traffic standstills; I think it’s not an accident and it’s all part of the gift - to see things in their harshness, up close.
I am here now; not sure yet what this is all about; of the place; of the nature of the involvement from now on; of the length of the stay.
Kelly, from Bumi Sehat has just appeared on the veranda of the Oloffson; she’s back in Haiti after a 3 week break…greater processes.
After the summer of bliss in Portland and the enduring misery in the armpit of hell (Arlington, TX), I had succumbed to the feeling of I have seen it most, there’s nothing to discover here. I had begun to think that perhaps, maybe, I should consider a trip back. There were clues, my accent was getting worse instead of disappearing with time; I had begun to defend Haiti to others instead of the usual well you know; and then, came the dreams, the emissary, the quake. Looking back, the past three years have led me here now.
I will have been here for 6 weeks on Sunday. I had planned on 3. So, I am running out of everything and getting really tired of my 5 shirts, 3 jeans, that pair of chaco sandals (blasphemy!), and the closed-toe Keds worn on special occasions.
Some have said that I have done a lot in a short time; that I expect too much to arrive too soon; that I go ponder why we say in ‘due time’.
To the shock of the locals, I have been able to slip back as if I never left: I drive around; I haven’t complained about the dust, the noise, the bucket showers; I haven’t wished for a glass of red wine except for that one night. All of us wanted a drink after that day. I was told by a much older and wiser man though “everyone can see on your face that you haven’t gone through the stress that we’ve endured those past twenty plus years.” So, the open relaxed face and generous smile give me away as an unmistakable diaspo.
Week 6, on previous trips in other places, it is usually the time I am settled and about to leave. It’s usually the time I meet those people (oh let’s be frank, that person) who forever color the experience of time and space. I am looking, expecting … broad smile.
I cleaned today; with an old broom and a much older mop. I wanted to feel domestic and settled.
So what now, while I sip more coffee on the veranda of the Oloffson? I sit with a burst bubble, heart opened experiencing it all, all at once (with Chucho Valdes Live at the Village Vanguard playing full blast in my ears). Chucho, always my refuge; this version of Como Traigo la Yuca! Dios mio! I’ll play it once more.
On week 5 the bubble burst. I forgot I was also in the land of things are not always what they seem; and all utterances must be decoded. I call it the 45th gift - 45 is my own code. The gift of taking things (heck, people) with their many truths. The gift of seeing and remaining hopeful for the future of this place. There are so many bright people in the wrong places here. The dream team? many people could come up with a list of local names. Ain’t the team playing right now. The solutions are here, a bit evident. Yet, there are other processes at work, folks’ ego, sense of self-importance, attachment to their ideas, their place in history; not realizing that they are themselves the problem; perhaps the thing to do is to step aside; perhaps the thing to do is to bring others in; perhaps the thing to do is to get their hands dirty (no reference to Sartre here). Same old problem: Many thinkers, dreamers, speakers, not enough do-ers. Those in the position to do something go on ké popoze (unhurried) assured that their timeframe of urgent is correct; that things will happen when they will happen. Ké popoze while others wait not knowing of what’s next, of the plans, of any plans.
As I said, the 45th gift is about taking people with their truths and remaining hopeful.
The past couple of days I have been stuck in the craziest traffic standstills; I think it’s not an accident and it’s all part of the gift - to see things in their harshness, up close.
I am here now; not sure yet what this is all about; of the place; of the nature of the involvement from now on; of the length of the stay.
Kelly, from Bumi Sehat has just appeared on the veranda of the Oloffson; she’s back in Haiti after a 3 week break…greater processes.
Monday, March 22, 2010
On Movement
Dear readers:
So many things to write about: The dual labor market, the framing of the State; the thing with the good guys and the opportunists; the storm gathering for 2012 and after; cultural competence; a tribute to the Oloffson. So many things for this little country and its people. So much to carry in my little head and my little heart. What follows is a bit of an unfocused lightweight sharing of what I've seen…
For the past week, I have started to engage Haiti in a different manner. I am no longer doing relief work, nor wondering the streets (ahem, attempting to), nor hanging out on the veranda of the Oloffson for free wireless. Every day except for one this week, I have taken the road from Fontamara to Pétion-Ville to discuss planning policy with the local urban planners. We’ll get to that in a later post.
I’ve noticed movement; things are happening here. I will not say improvement.
Rubble is being taken away by trucks. At times, blocks by blocks by cash-for-work teams. I’ve seen some teams, brooms in hands, sweeping the streets and I’ve wondered exactly what kind of work they are doing: what is the assignment; is there a clean up plan? Does someone measure progress at the end of the day? It seems that there’s a different team each day at the same place (I know so for they all wear colored shirts with insignia. (USAID’s yellow shirts working around Sacré Coeur and Ruelle Alerte seem to be the most organized); what’s the strategy here?
There is movement. Some streets are gaining back their width; some sites are completely cleared: Canado and St. Jean L’Evangeliste are both empty fields. Ecole Sacré-Coeur has used their old blue and white louver doors (jalousies) to mark one stretch of their periphery. It's very whimsical; it's downright clever and pretty. I’ve smiled and now look forward to driving up that road just for the sight. I hope others follow them in spirit.
In the evenings, on my side of the city, there’s usually an eerie blackout with ghostly human silhouettes wafting through dust, exhaust, and the glare of other cars. Sometimes, I think of the dust as the fog on Bay Bridge on some mornings; I imagine it’s cool outside. Everyone here should have reflective clothes on. Here’s an idea for those still intent on sending clothes to Haiti (by the way, you know that they are being sold right? and in the process destroying the cottage industries of seamstresses, cobblers, and tailors? I got a first hand account from the next door tailor-neighbor who finished his tale with Kennedy is killing me -- Non-Haitians, I can't explain right now; this parenthesis is long enough; but if you ask, i'll post something). So back to what I was saying. Yes, if you must discard your used clothes to Haiti, please send reflective clothing. Reflective bands, patches, anything reflective that can be given to pedestrians. Use Digicel’s PapPadap staff to hand them out for free. Better yet, pay them a little extra to hand them out to folks walking around wearing dark clothes at night. I am grateful that I haven’t gotten too close to one of those ghostly apparitions. I have had close calls.
On a few late nights, I’ve seen new, shiny, big dump trucks picking up trash along the streets of Bolosse and Martissant. Movement. I’ve been calling them the Clinton trucks – I am probably wrong; I read on the logistic cluster newsletter that they are going to selected NGOs.
With all the heavy equipment driving around, some roads have gotten worse. I have noticed the daily deepening of some potholes around town. Pretty soon I’ll have to find and alternate road to my house. I am expecting that little bridge to my section of the neighborhood to collapse at any time.
I hope folks sleeping on the streets in front of their houses have a plan. Note that I I did not say the truly internally displaced and home-less. I’ve slept in the front yard for two weeks. Then, foot traffic started to get to loud too early in the morning (At the house, we see as an indicator that people have started to move back to the city). Then, I got that fear flu and felt that i needed more than a whistle with me in the tent, in case of.. Then, the rain came; although lovely at night it also meant stepping in a puddle first thing in the morning. So, I’ve gotten back in my grandmother’s old bedroom. Two nights ago, we had a strong one. I was out driving around, I didn’t feel a thing. I was told by my uncle that the house gently swayed like a boat; it is chosing not to move. We like that.
So many things to write about: The dual labor market, the framing of the State; the thing with the good guys and the opportunists; the storm gathering for 2012 and after; cultural competence; a tribute to the Oloffson. So many things for this little country and its people. So much to carry in my little head and my little heart. What follows is a bit of an unfocused lightweight sharing of what I've seen…
For the past week, I have started to engage Haiti in a different manner. I am no longer doing relief work, nor wondering the streets (ahem, attempting to), nor hanging out on the veranda of the Oloffson for free wireless. Every day except for one this week, I have taken the road from Fontamara to Pétion-Ville to discuss planning policy with the local urban planners. We’ll get to that in a later post.
I’ve noticed movement; things are happening here. I will not say improvement.
Rubble is being taken away by trucks. At times, blocks by blocks by cash-for-work teams. I’ve seen some teams, brooms in hands, sweeping the streets and I’ve wondered exactly what kind of work they are doing: what is the assignment; is there a clean up plan? Does someone measure progress at the end of the day? It seems that there’s a different team each day at the same place (I know so for they all wear colored shirts with insignia. (USAID’s yellow shirts working around Sacré Coeur and Ruelle Alerte seem to be the most organized); what’s the strategy here?
There is movement. Some streets are gaining back their width; some sites are completely cleared: Canado and St. Jean L’Evangeliste are both empty fields. Ecole Sacré-Coeur has used their old blue and white louver doors (jalousies) to mark one stretch of their periphery. It's very whimsical; it's downright clever and pretty. I’ve smiled and now look forward to driving up that road just for the sight. I hope others follow them in spirit.
In the evenings, on my side of the city, there’s usually an eerie blackout with ghostly human silhouettes wafting through dust, exhaust, and the glare of other cars. Sometimes, I think of the dust as the fog on Bay Bridge on some mornings; I imagine it’s cool outside. Everyone here should have reflective clothes on. Here’s an idea for those still intent on sending clothes to Haiti (by the way, you know that they are being sold right? and in the process destroying the cottage industries of seamstresses, cobblers, and tailors? I got a first hand account from the next door tailor-neighbor who finished his tale with Kennedy is killing me -- Non-Haitians, I can't explain right now; this parenthesis is long enough; but if you ask, i'll post something). So back to what I was saying. Yes, if you must discard your used clothes to Haiti, please send reflective clothing. Reflective bands, patches, anything reflective that can be given to pedestrians. Use Digicel’s PapPadap staff to hand them out for free. Better yet, pay them a little extra to hand them out to folks walking around wearing dark clothes at night. I am grateful that I haven’t gotten too close to one of those ghostly apparitions. I have had close calls.
On a few late nights, I’ve seen new, shiny, big dump trucks picking up trash along the streets of Bolosse and Martissant. Movement. I’ve been calling them the Clinton trucks – I am probably wrong; I read on the logistic cluster newsletter that they are going to selected NGOs.
With all the heavy equipment driving around, some roads have gotten worse. I have noticed the daily deepening of some potholes around town. Pretty soon I’ll have to find and alternate road to my house. I am expecting that little bridge to my section of the neighborhood to collapse at any time.
I hope folks sleeping on the streets in front of their houses have a plan. Note that I I did not say the truly internally displaced and home-less. I’ve slept in the front yard for two weeks. Then, foot traffic started to get to loud too early in the morning (At the house, we see as an indicator that people have started to move back to the city). Then, I got that fear flu and felt that i needed more than a whistle with me in the tent, in case of.. Then, the rain came; although lovely at night it also meant stepping in a puddle first thing in the morning. So, I’ve gotten back in my grandmother’s old bedroom. Two nights ago, we had a strong one. I was out driving around, I didn’t feel a thing. I was told by my uncle that the house gently swayed like a boat; it is chosing not to move. We like that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
