Chronicles of an Unplanned Return

Anchoring

2011-09-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

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.

waiting for a ride

2010-09-07T17:03:00.000-07:00

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

Alice in Wonderland

2010-07-06T13:22:00.000-07:00

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...

letting it out ..

2010-05-02T17:13:00.000-07:00

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

Dirty Words

2010-04-23T13:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Lull

2010-03-26T16:32:00.000-07:00

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.

On Movement

2010-03-22T12:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Fighting off the flu

2010-03-14T11:59:00.000-07:00

Fear is like a virus. You don't know when you get it. Except that you get it and it messes with you.

I am a firm believer in data gathered through aimless wandering -- flaner. There's no point of driving around and getting a sense of a place through quick glances removed from it all by the chassis of a car and air conditioning. There's something to be said for taking in a city on foot. Then, you sit and you observe.

This morning (Sunday) I went for an early morning walk (8:00 am) around some neighborhoods. I have been thinking about this walk for a while. I spoke to several people about it. Downtown (grand rue) I was told was off limit to all. Champ de Mars, I was warned that on foot by myself I would be hassled to death. My plan was marche salomon, the neighborhood around the Oloffson, and the street by the Faculté de Medicine (Med. School). I parked by the old American Consulate office and did a loop that barely touched marché salomon, stopping across the Faculté de Medecine (Med School) for street coffee, and back to my car. After 45 minutes, I took refuge at the Oloffson for more coffee, conversation, and wireless.

The first stop was a side street that leads to an old market of used construction materials. Creative reuse is not new here. For the past two weeks, I have taken delight in seeing then imagined the next life of mangled steel rods, old pipes, and used lumber that folks are hoarding all over the place. Several times, I have had the desire to buy a stack of those mangled rods, a baker's dozen let's say, and tie them in a bunch, put them on display in the backyard (almost certain that my uncle would ask me to go back to the U.S. after such a stint). My inner Richard Serra lives on in my desires. Today I was offered 4 gourdes (about 20 cents) for an old door at the old market (it was not good quality) and he would have given it to me for 2 gourdes. You do the math on the economy of hoarding and repurposing construction materials these days.

Next, I rounded the corner and headed back toward the Med school. This is a fascinating stretch of road. People have taken over the sidewalk in front of the Med school and you will find shelter, business, and bars. My initial goal was to walk it in its entire length taking notes of who and what was there. I failed the assignment. I picked a spot as Jean Philippe advised and hung out across the Main building of the Med school. I got a cup of coffee from a vendor (28 cents for a cup of overly sweet black coffee).

My barista set up shop right after the event. Her sleeping quarter is 4 2x4s covered with a blue tarp - wide enough for 2 twin beds. Her coffee shop is up front. You don't see it but you sense a clear line between public and private spaces. I thought that buying from her would make her open up. No siree. I had to drag the meager info out of her as I leaned over a car parked next to her space seeping sweet coffee as slow as I could (some of you know my legendary distaste for sweet coffee). She's an entrepreneur of sorts although she would never use those words. The coffee stand is a way for her to make some money; there are good days and bad days. she's had to throw away coffee more than once. She thinks that everyone here is like her. This settlement in her eyes is builder-occupied not rented as it is rumored (at $40/month for a shack).

I want to know the economy of those post-quake spaces as well as the social life that goes on; the culture that is emerging. I wonder about the label used by folks who live there. Many of us here refuse to label them camps. I want to learn of the formula for the shack's size, the choice of materials, the source of electricity (for I have seen a sign for a cyber-cafe). I know for sure, It's going to be a hell of a job to get them to move without the right incentives.

I am wandering if there's not something here we can work with. What if they stayed; what if we incorporate them in the visionary urbanscape of the new Port-au-Prince.

I've walked around the Tenderloin in San Francisco day and night; I've confronted West Oakland on foot; I got lost in LA's skid row (in the 90s) and remained fearless. Full disclosure here: I felt uneasy walking those roads. On a Sunday morning when folks on the streets are heading to church, I could not take a teeming, creative working class neighborhood in Port-au-Prince. It could be the gender/construction dynamic; it could be that I am no longer invisible, that I stand out in those streets; it could be that somehow all this fear of the other got to me when I was not paying attention. Must be a kind of flu. I am fighting it off.

I'll have to do this again - fearless this time.

Living Streets and the Art of Driving in Port-au-Prince

2010-02-28T10:35:00.000-08:00

A year or so ago, I read that several European cities were experimenting with streets without signs. Unsafe is safe. In theory once we are free of traffic rules, e.g., behaviors dictated by sidewalks, signs, rules, and driving conventions we will take responsibility for our own behavior. Responsible social behavior is a good thing. Cities experimenting with those ideas with great success include: Drachten, Ipswich, Makkinga, Ejby, and Ostende. I am adding Jacmel and Port-au-Prince to that list.

I was surprised that I wasn't scared on my drive from Jacmel to Port-au-Prince on a public bus specially when we passed a 5 trucks-long UN convoy (long story; public transport ain't that bad). I had been talking to the driver all along (surprise, surprise) and he reminded me he was not about to risk his investment and only source of income in foolish maneuvers.

On the surface, the streets appear as a wild wild west of sorts. No one stops at stop signs; no one puts a signal; someone will pass you on the right; someone will pass you in a blind curve; at any moment a motorcycle, a person, a bike, another motorcycle, a vendor full of merchandises will dart in front of you. Let’s not forget that life is taking place also on the streets - not solely on the sidewalks, on the streets - vendors, and tent dwellers alike. And it works. Sure there are accidents. Sure, it can take you a while to drive a few miles. But, overall, it works.

For the past week, I've observed the behaviors of other drivers as well as mine. The urgency in their maneuvers betrays perhaps the conditions of life here: scarcity that makes you want to hurry, push, shove, cut to get something otherwise you will not get anything; desires to be ahead, to be first, to be fast, to beat the clock, to lead, to be in charge, to mark, to control. There’s also an incredible amount of trust in the other for no one wants an accident. If there are rules here they are clarity of intention and responsibility. The minute you hesitate or you are too foolhardy you put the system at a standstill; you risk an accident.

I know that to both insiders and outsiders this city seems unruly. Perhaps it is. I prefer chaotic. Chaos is creative, productive, positive. The chaos we experience on the streets is that of a self-regulating system at work one looking for its own order; perhaps a system resisting preordained rules. A system in which we are all actors (not observers); thus it calls us to pay attention to our own responsible social behavior (I am looking at you UN SUVs) . Where each actor moves following his or her own trajectory, logic and where traffic follows.

Many industrialized cities are engineering artificial ways to bring life back on their streets. It’s happening here. So instead of qualifying Port-au-Prince as unruly let’s see how we can improve its experiment in shared space and street living. Let’s work with that. There’s beauty here.

Moving forward

2010-02-28T10:05:00.000-08:00

The dome is done! an administrator was hired! I imagine that on Monday the first clients will trickle in Bumi Sehat Sainte Helene Clinic. In the end, the timing was not right for us to stay together. I wanted to spent as much time in my hometown before making a decision. I was not ready to commit. They needed to put people in place right away.

After 10 days of observing the conditions under which pregnant Haitian women in Jacmel (Hopital St. Michel to be precise) give birth I am joyful for that clinic. The Bumi Sehat concept is solid, beautiful, and caring. My dream for them is to expand to at least all 10 departments of Haiti. My dream for them is to train midwives all over the country.

Before I left, MESS and Bumi Sehat met. There are talks of partnership in the area of health education and training. MESS will bring cultural competence and facilitation skills; Bumi Sehat will bring educational materials. I am glad that these two organizations will work together. It's a nice little bow for my brief stay in Jacmel. Fear not, I'll be back.

MESS #2

2010-02-26T11:10:00.000-08:00

The Jingletown possee gave me a grant with the advice to spend it anyway I want in Haiti. Well, I am happy to report that I invested part of that grant in MESS. This will allow them to register the organization. As a state-recognized organization they will be able to apply for grants at the regional and national level; if I have my way, they will tap into international funds.

Registering an organization in Haiti is not cheap. In addition to the actual registration fees, one needs a statement of good standing (Certificat de Bonne Vie et Moeurs) for each founding members. In addition to fees, photocopies, a trip to the capital is required. The joy of centralized government!

At our last meeting on Friday, we had a long talk on immediate needs. They are simple and easy. I am inviting my readers and their friends to chip in.
(1) Tent - to be used as an office; tent needs to offer protection from the sun and ability to store basic supplies.
(2) Office supplies - filing boxes, ram of paper, pencils, pens, files, notebooks, paper pads, staplers and staples.
(3) Laptops, Printers - I know. These two are biggies. Used laptops work well. bells and whistles not necessary here.

I said goodbye to MESS reassuring them that I am available as their free outside consultant. I am off to Port-au-Prince for a while.

MESS - DiY Rebuild Haiti

2010-02-24T18:25:00.002-08:00

I have been looking for a world beyond Bumi Sehat for a few days now. MESS did not deceive. At 8:30 A.M. under the tree in front of the library (now the site of City Hall), I met with members of the Mouvement des Etudiants du Sud-Est pour le Soutien (MESS)- Movement of South-Eastern Students to Rebuild Haiti. The literal translation does not come across the same way in English. Don't mess with this group. I could go on with silly word games. They made my day! Another example of self-organization. In this case, university students who have created programs in response to earthquake-related needs.

The story goes three friends from Universite Autonome de Port-au-Prince (UNAP), Jacob, Charles, and Cothias, decided to put their education to work after they found themselves back in their hometown, Jacmel, following the destruction of their university. They reached out to other friends and sought out representatives from each university. A month into it, the membership grew to 300. They are organized in four committees: Health, economy, education, and environment. They are aiming for a nationwide network of university students engaged in rebuilding efforts. I spent most of the day with a group working on PTSD in young adult population.

We walked from the library on Place Geffrard to Montchile on the outskirt of the city. We stopped at the site of the new city hall, wondered about the sprawl it will likely create and the lack of access roads. My groups wanted to know how land use choices are made in other countries. I was happy to oblige with examples of good and bad: Portland, Houston. At the site we met with Foyer Culturel des Jeunes (FCJ) and observed four classrooms for children aged K-12. They offered english, math, Haitian history, dance, and other recreational activities. I attended a healing circle with teenagers. Imagine that! A member of MESS designed and facilitated a healing circle to help teenagers talk about their earthquake experience. At the end of the session they asked me all kinds of questions: how was Haiti seen from abroad? How did the rest of the world react? What are my solutions for rampant abuse of position and power? How can they be better when the elders set such dismal example? what was I going to do for them? To the last question I said I had no clue; I was hoping that they would have ideas and I would show them how to make them come true. They were all hurt to some degree; but they were supporting each other. By two o'clock our team broke bread together, watched the rehearsal of the ballroom class, and headed back to town.

MESS is an initiative worth of support. They've written proposals to the local NGOs, City Hall, and UN. Of course, there's no reply. They don't ask for much. Enough money to cover the costs of paper, photocopies, notebooks, cheap snacks to give away when they go visit students or run mobile health clinic (yes they do with the support of Cuban doctors). Perhaps, some technical assistance when it comes to specific projects (vaccination campaigns, AIDS outreach, psychosocial survey of displaced people) When they are prodded further they hope for internships in those new projects with those new actors. They hope that the new Haiti will include them as partners, as able, thinking, engaged citizens and servants. They hope they'll find a way, a scholarship to finish their degree.

We ended our day with conversations on competence, meritocracy, leadership and lack thereof; on the fondness for theory and an inability for action that seem endemic around us. I would have wanted to invite them all for the proverbial beer. But no bars in sight and certainly not a coffee shop. We walked in the heat, in dusty streets, weaving through moto taxis, cars, Canadian army trucks, NGOs landcruisers and parted way until the next meeting under the tree in front of the library.

Food for the Soul

2010-02-23T19:17:00.000-08:00

I have lost count of days. I have been here for nine or ten days. My world is very small: the compound, the hospital, a trip to the beach; I see the same people over and over except for maternity clients. It's always changing there except for two patients who need longer term care.

I wanted one post to be about beauty and the good things. Food is good, available, and expensive. A local chicken - read not imported (Poule Pays) costs as much as an organic, free range, grass fed chicken at Whole Foods. I guess the math is right for the local chicken is also all that. I've enjoyed the smell, taste, and color of local eggs: Orange yolks and grass taste. I spent the week-end with seafood of all kinds: oysters, fish, conch, fresh from the ocean. My special treat has been fruits: Mangoes fresh from the trees in the yard; mandarines in season; corrosol (soursop), caymans (cherimoya) from the neighbor's tree; and cayemite. If you can afford it there's food; good locally grown, most likely organic food.

Today, a dear friend noted an important analytical distinction. The earthquake affected the infrastructure of a number of cities and that impacted the economy of those places (read access to jobs primarily). The agricultural sector was not destroyed. It's somewhat absurd to see the aid food flooding the market. The problem is not lack of food. It's lack of money. Put people to work. It cannot be very difficult in cities full of rubble. Pay them enough to live. Pay them enough to support the local economy. Pay them enough to eat good local food.

I spent the week-end in a tiny beach hamlet. On Sunday, I saw old women coming out of churches wearing their Sunday best. I remember the style of clothes and their colors from my childhood: indigo, pale yellow, sky baby blue with rick rack and embroidered collars. They shuffled quietly and slowly in the afternoon sun. It occurs to me that they've been wearing similar clothes and shuffling in similar ways in those streets for perhaps centuries. Pockets of this little country are enshrouded in a time capsule; their pace slow; their mood enduring. People go on living around here. Haiti is not destroyed.

I wanted one post to be about beauty, lightness, and good things for there are good things.

Day Six: on the need to bite the hand that feeds you

2010-02-20T04:13:00.002-08:00

Care varies around here. I hear great stories of Cayes Jacmel. In the universe of Hopital St. Michel's Maternity ward life is still a trip. Last night, I attended a delivery with a head lamp. Got to love LED lights! We always bring water and power bars to distribute to patients. I have heard a story of a patient asking for water. The foreign attending asked if there was water for her. The answer was no. Elle n'a pas de chance (she's unlucky) she replied and proceeded to grab a bottle for herself in the pile reserved for doctors.

I suppose it is a time of crisis and we will not have a patient evaluation of care. I suppose that plenty will say that people get what they get and should not complain about it. I have already been asked if I want them to leave. You are not supposed to bite the hands that feed you.

In preparing for this trip I kept reminding myself to be kind to the locals, to take people where they are, to be mindful of local practices and understand them as part of a larger system of local practices. I expected the hardest work to be local culture. Not so! The hardest thing this past week has been watching the comings and goings of the international NGOs. There is a lot of talk on the absence and the corruption of Haitian elected leaders and public institutions. I am not about to stand for them. However, however, it is time to ask the who, what, and how of international actors.

Day Five: Glimpses of Possibilities

2010-02-20T04:13:00.001-08:00

I stopped by the site of the new clinic at the end of the day and hung out with the workers. This turns into an impromptu conversation on what Haiti needs now. I am inside the dome; eight or nine of them stay around but outside the dome. Several older gentlemen come by to check out the dome and eavesdrop on the conversation. I start with a friendly jab: Now that you've built one I am sure you'll be able to build another, perhaps, copy it. P (the rapper) says Haitians are not dumb (sot); They only need scaffolding - structure (encadrement); That's all; you'll be surprised what we can do with a bit of scaffolding. Of course we'll copy it. L adds that no one wants a handout; all we need is a chance to work; a fair chance at taking care of oneself. That's all; no one minds working hard in the heat. They proceed to school me on their version of Haitian history which include of profound analysis of local and international structures of power and institutions. Brothers are deep. Their proposed solution: a massive popular education campaign on the radio that would include not only the ABCs, but also information on the efforts of governments and the expectations of citizens.

On this project, we hire locally and include training as part of the whole effort. Our folks work alongside the locals and we eat together. I wonder who else is going about it the same way.

The First Four Days

2010-02-18T10:25:00.000-08:00

Day 1: Provo
Small flights stop in Provo for fuel. This is the last stop before getting in - the point of no return. Today, everyone here is on its way to or back from Haiti. This is a trading post of sort. The returnees are eager to share their experiences. The message and its vocabulary are the same: unbelievable, changed for life, disease, fear. Those who are going in listen eagerly, shaking their heads, trying not to absorb those fears. We are one of two planes heading to Jacmel this morning. The other plane has a nurse and someone who makes prosthetics. They are on a recon mission. Assess the situation; identify who else is doing similar work here and in Port-au-Prince; assemble a local team for a massive prosthetics fitting event. I look around the desolate sandy brown landscape - ain't Pembroke Gardens, FL nor Provo, Utah. Welcome to Provinciales, Turks & Caicos where fuel costs more on Sundays.

Day 1: Welcome Committee
In the end, it's a good thing that we are in Jacmel. Airport is low key we don't have to worry about shuffling our cargo. Everyone here looks so young. Once, they realize I speak creole faces open up. We are so happy you have returned. I meet Rousseau at our house. He is a 13 year old boy from Seguin, in Jacmel for school and now homeless. He is more direct. I am happy you are here for 3 weeks. I will be happier if you decide to stay.

Our house has all the charms of one built in 1877 - wood frame, tin roof, 2-story, and resident mice with a particular fondness for Luna bars. The bathroom and kitchen are outside. We have water and electricity most of the time. We hang out outside in the yard 'anba tonel' surrounded by fruit trees: coconut, mango, avocados, and plantains. I am not experiencing the culture shock that everyone warned me about. I am in awe of the intricate weaving of motorcycles, cars, and pedestrians that come within a few inches of each other; I am well aware that I am in the midst of a non linear dynamic system in motion. I don't remember that it used to be so loud and I know when I left eons ago the same song was playing on the radio. It looks like that my neighbors to the left and to the right are competing for best sound system. I am grateful for earplugs.

Day 2: Getting a lay of the land
This is my first hospital visit with Robin. It's a quick walk to Hopital St. Michel. I see buildings down but my mind is not processing. The hospital is rough. Tents everywhere, patients and families hanging around; the foreign medical staff section seems cordoned off. I am know I am overly sensitive; but those barriers reinforce an us and them attitude; working for them not with them. I make a point to smile and to touch mothers and children. I refuse to take part in this fear of the other - fear of their diseases; I trust that I am healthy enough to fight off what is going around. On the way back home, we stop by street vendors and pick up corrosol (soursop), mandarines, tomatoes; we buy 5 patés hareng saur - Think of them as deep fried empanadas filled with onion, tomatoes, and smoked herrings. I am convinced that this paté will strengthen my immunity. I end the day with 2 cachimans (cherimoya) picked from the tree. I remind myself I am here to work not on vacation.

Day 3: Trust and what not
Early in the morning we go to the main market. It's a beautiful ecosystem of trash, rubbles, flies, and food. I imagine that this market has not changed in the past 100 years. Bargaining skills flow back easily. Ti cherie, wap tuye mwen ak prix ca. Little darling, your prices are killing me. We joked and laughed together. I protest when they call me blanc (foreigner). I catch a glimpse of the ocean below, perfectly framed by a row of 18th century wooden houses - they are still standing. I allow myself to think all that is needed is a bit of a clean up. Of course it's deeper. Indeed, food is expensive in this town. 'They' can trust the cooks.

Day 4: You have to ask
Our morning cook shows up every day at 7:00 am. I am an early riser so i am the one who opens the gate for her. She is always on time and comes in looking prim and proper. I ask about her house today. She lost it and she sleeps in the street with her kids. She does not have a tent. Tents are given during work hours when she is with us. They will not give out tents to the kids. She comes in prim and proper every morning. You would not know if you did not ask.

Turns out that our staff is homeless and tent-less. It is the same at the maternity ward. Most the nurses and midwives are also homeless and tent-less. We have a list of 22 names. I notice that there is also a doctor on that list.

I feel confident enough to explore another street on my way to the hospital today. This one is lined with red-fly Coleman tents set up as a row of plastic bulbs in front of decrepid houses. There's a perverse beauty i want to capture. A little old lady comes out of a tin roof house grabs my hand, pulls me toward her and says there are better pictures to be taken at her house. If you are documenting you have to come see this she says forcefully. I think Charisia Losin wants to show me the beautiful credenza. "What are you doing?" by now she is annoyed at my foolishness and gives me the look. Walls have caved into her roof; rocks and concrete blocks are on her bed. "I have nowhere to sleep, no one is helping, why won't you do something for me. You have to do something for me." On my way back home she runs after me. "Hey don't you forget me, don't you forget, please do something for me, I am an old woman, I can not live like this."

I return to the hospital this afternoon taking care to avoid Charisia's street. I need to bring clothes, water, and food to Judith and her newborn. I find the baby alone at the corner of a cot. Mom is receiving care somewhere else. I take her in my arms and reality rushes in. Later, Robin sits with me while tears stream down my face, quietly. I am here to work.

2010-02-16T12:39:00.000-08:00

Who, What, and How?
I am volunteering with a team of midwives who are building a maternity ward and a children clinic in Jacmel. It is a permanent project. The emphasis is on alternative medicine, healthy eating, and gentle birth. Bumi Sehat hold three principles very dear. Nature (respect for nature in everything we do), culture (culturally appropriate practices), and science (medical science). They are here to stay and plan to train midwives and if the Jacmel site works well and the funding is right they could be in other cities.

The timing of my involvement with them was fast. Monday afternoon (2/8) I got a phone call from Burners without Borders asking if I was still interested in volunteering with them. Tuesday, I met with the project lead and a couple hours later I said yes to flying to Haiti on Sunday. I had four days to get vaccinated and in Florida with camping gear and food. I heard of Bumi Sehat on Thursday. My main role is to help with language, culture and administrative structures.

Advice to others: Don't be a spectator be a participant; there are no structures or processes to channel your wonderful energy and talents. so, identify your main skills; identify an organization; take on a do-able task; deliver.

The Eve

2010-02-13T06:32:00.000-08:00

It was clear from day one that I would return. It took a whole month. Here I am, all packed up and ready to go. My first trip back in eons will be with a group of volunteers from Burners without Borders (BWB). Yes, they are the burners of Burning Man. They are my people - although I have never been to the Playa myself (ironic smile). In Haiti, I will be working with Bumi Sehat in Jacmel. At some point, I will make my way to Port-au-Prince. I have planned to be self-sustainable (food, shelter, etc..). I anticipate that my first visit will for about three weeks. There are no fears only the clarity that I need to be there right now. And this is all good!