New words for people in Bayonnais to explain their hunger and starvation – “Clorox and battery acid”
Since the destruction of common Haitians’ bank accounts (their pigs) in the late 70’s into the 80’s, an action which was undertaken by the Haitian government supported by the USA, Haiti in general has been facing lots of hardships in its environment and economy. Deforestation has become a means to survive by making charcoal to make money for food, clothes, sending kids to school and so forth. Erosion has become a major issue. The top soil has gone to the ocean, and therefore the agricultural system has become just a myth. People have started fleeing the land to the Dominican Republic, Canada, France and/or the United States and to anywhere else where life might smile to them. Haiti used to have an abundance of food. The country was an exporter of high quality rice. But now products such as food, clothes and other necessary goods have to be imported.
If we do not attempt to do things differently, then ten years from now the country may very well be in chaos. For the last several weeks, people all over the country, adults as well as children, have been shouting “CLOROX OR BATTERY ACID” in their stomach. When you first hear it, it will have no meaning to you until you inquire about it. And the answer is always like this, “Grangou a boule nan vant mwen tan kou se Klorox ou acid bateri kap koupe trip mwen” which means: “Hunger or starvation is as painful in my stomach as if some Clorox or battery acid is cutting my intestines into pieces”.
It is a country where people are living in poverty (In the mountains the poverty is much worse.). Gas is about H$36 per gallon, up from $25. A can of rice or sorghum is H$30, up from $10 or $7 respectively. Cooking oil Albertho costs H$65 per gallon, up from $45. (One US dollar equals seven Haitian dollars.)
How can anything be efficient in a country like that? Should we first preach, then think about what, where and when we are going to eat? Should we bring forth a message of resignation to the people, saying that we are not alone, and there are other countries that are much worse than we are? Should we expect the 90% of the Haitian population living in poverty to be taught of democracy and to live by it? Should we preach to and teach the people that no matter how awful it might be on this earth, we are the sons and daughter of the King, and there is a palace waiting for us in heaven? Should a dad or mom try to manage any kind of authority over their daughter who might choose to prostitute herself for food or other needs? There is no power without responsibility.
Now it is Clorox and battery acid to explain what is going on on a daily basis. But, what next? Haitians say, “A hungry dog does not play.” “Empty stomach has no ears.” “Empty bag does not stand.”
The Internet has been a little more friendly recently, following a period of much frustration: intermittent painfully-slow connections, difficulty uploading to Youtube, problems talking with my family via Skype. Once again, I have a lot of ground to cover.
The past few weeks have been good for soccer, potty humor, mission teams, and pastries while unfortunate for neighborhood deaths, hunger and my pride/coccyx, as I busted in front of a whole class of primary school students on my way back from Fort Bayonnais.
LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!
For my generation, the reference above probably just pressed the play button for the classic “Jock Jams” pump-up song that echoed through countless gyms on “Fitness Friday” or the like. Others will go back further to Bob Arum’s televised boxing introduction. Either way, the same sense of excitement was in the air every afternoon at 3 o’clock for two weeks in February during the 2008 ICB (Institution Classique de Bayonnais) Soccer Tournament. While we didn’t have Bob Arum, we did have Eddy St. Louis and others passionately engaging the microphone, offering play-by-plays and fueling the energy of hundreds of spectators surrounding the dusty field. Class pride was at stake, meaning lots of players fussing about the referee’s calls and many classmates–particularly female–impatiently waiting for a cue to flood the field with celebratory dances; I wish you could see them with their arms lifted in the air, their backs tilted forwards, their rears backwards, making short, quick, jerky movements amidst smiles and shouting to welcome the advent of a new goal.
ADVENT
Advent. I’m not sure why that word came to mind, but it leads us to the next subject, which is a difficult one, for arms have been raised to the sky for more than soccer goals recently, energetic cheers of excitement rivaled by exhausting wails of sorrow. Death arrived in Bayonnais and has insisted on making its presence known.
I will never forget the night news of Simon’s father’s death began to spread throughout the neighborhood, for you could hear it spreading. Cries erupted like pyres and rippled throughout the darkness of the landscape. I had to be still; I was stilled by them. A sniffling nose paused the dull moans of a child passing behind me. Flip-flops in hand, a weeping woman ran through the dim reach of a local flood-light before falling to roll on the earth. Rosena, my dear “sister” and Simon’s fiance, took the bitter words silently but broke down minutes later. I hope the simplicity of taking her hand and offering my silent presence amounts to some form of compassion.
Simon’s face, as he looked down upon his father’s grave, haunts me. I can’t explain how, for you’d have to know the regularity of his smile and daily expressions to discern the contrast, but I can say it had something to do with wisdom of the gravity of life, and I think I learned something in watching him.
Simon’s mother apparently lost her sister the same day. A couple days later an ICB student’s mother died unexpectedly after returning from the market. Another woman I often passed on the way to the market also died unexpectedly yesterday afternoon, preceding an email to Actionnel that a student’s brother had died in the Dominican Republic.
I’m touched by the way Haitians mourn, for there is no holding back. If there are emotions to feel and own, they are lived–not repressed–in what seems to be a healthy way. (I think I would have more of a tendency to distance myself from such emotions than allow them their allotted time.)
PEANUT BUTTER
Peanut butter and pastries have been on my mind for some time now not just because I am a foodie but because I think they could lead to nutritional and economic benefits in Bayonnais. There are very few homemade cookies made in Gonaives, and not a single peanut butter cookie as far as I know. A couple of weeks ago I stayed up past midnight with a local baker making the first batch, albeit a small one, of Bayonnais peanut butter cookies; it was a modified recipe: more peanut (protein), less sugar. Last week we did another experiment with four small cinnamon rolls. Both have been a hit as far as taste-buds are concerned, but we have yet to see if the baker will alter his routine to accommodate the new products. I’m going to try banana bread this week, making it first in our oven and then offering a taste-test to the baker and others who may be interested in learning the recipe.
The season is dry and hunger is raw; “Clorox” and “battery acid” are common words these days, descriptors of hunger that frequents most people around me but that I have yet to know. A large supply of protein bars donated by Myers Park Methodist Church in Charlotte, NC are going quickly as I furtively distribute them to certain locals I know are suffering.
I often find myself giving a peanut butter schpeal, talking about the importance of protein and referencing a child’s distended abdomen as a lack thereof, how peanuts pack a very nutritional punch, how almost everyone likes it, how it can last a long time, how it is relatively easy and cheap to make, and–very importantly–how just a small amount can keep hunger at bay, for even a spoonful tricks the tummy into thinking it has indulged in much more. A student told me today that peanuts can be grown year-round in Bayonnais. Peanuts also contain a lot of resveratrol, a chemical which may lower the risk of cardiovascular disease. I’ve recommended to a couple families the option of substituting one gallon of cooking oil for a tub of peanut butter; they would cook rice/corn/etc. with water, enjoying their meal-a-day as they normally would, but snacking on spoonfuls of PB during the day to keep energy levels and attentiveness up (especially for students!) Cutting some of the grease from their diet would likely reduce hypertension, which is widespread in Bayonnais.
Peanut butter, or rather vitamin-and-powdered-milk-enhanced peanut butter is putting a huge dent in malnutrition in Malawi. If we could start a project here in Bayonnais in which foreign investors bought buckets of homemade Bayonnais peanut butter (for say, $15 per bucket) which normally cost roughly $7, we could support local PB merchants by offering them an inflated price in their favor and resell to locals at a reduced price, thus creating an incentive for producers, a steal for buyers, and a boost for nutrition. Furthermore, we could create a self-sustaining job for someone to oversee organization of the project!
. . . just thinking out loud. . .
POTTY HUMOR
I must admit that my mind, while it doesn’t frequent the gutter, may be enticed to venture there under certain circumstances, particularly if friends are waving me in that direction. It has been somewhat refreshing for my Creole to reach the potty humor milestone, and it has been fun to place maturity aside to laugh about silly things; the first batch of golden-brown PB cookies were offered to taste-testers as “poop biscuits,” which surprisingly people found a lot more funny than I had imagined, inviting me to harvest the joke for all its worth.
My readers already know about rice harvesting in Bayonnais; here’s to the beans (which have already been dried in the sun):
Following the request of friends for more pictures of myself:
(These children, many of whom are orphans, are students in a preschool up the mountain.)
MUD COOKIES
I must apologize to my readers for poor blogging discipline the past couple weeks. I am doing well in Bayonnais, still learning to embrace the rhythms that characterize living away from home. For my neighbors, the cost of living continues to rise, bringing hunger along with it. Rising oil prices frustrate everyone. For the victims of fragile economies, however, these frustrations translate to belly rumbles, for they often determine whether or not there will be food on the table. Many of you may have read the Associated Press article about “mud cookies” in Port-au-Prince. Told they were for pregnant women, I’d seen small quantities of the rubbing-stone-esque clay discs in our local market, but people around here are not eating them to ward off hunger as they are in the capital. Nonetheless, I and other OFCB staff have noticed a significant increase in genuine requests for food recently in our area. For the students investing in education at the Institution Classique de Bayonnais, the daily portion of rice and beans served Monday through Friday is critical. In Bayonnais, black beans are fortunately near ready to harvest, and for families dependent upon their fields for sustenance–that is, most families, this timely gospel means more food is coming. Sweet, juicy manna of mangoes will be plentiful in a couple months, and we’re all waiting in anticipation.
Before we depart from the subject of economics, here are a few interesting figures and observations from an ongoing analysis of life in Bayonnais. (Approx. US$, inflation not taken into account, based on an exchange rate of 37.17 Gds per $1)
One can win up to $80 off a single cock fight.
I’ve been told a large bag of rice costs about $51 in Gonaives at the moment.
Apparently, a cement bag has risen from $2 to nearly $8 over the last decade.
A decent-sized tub (2-3 liters-ish) of homemade peanut butter costs a little less than $7.
A square of bread that could feed six people runs for a little more than $0.50 from a local baker.
According to my calculations and Haitian consultations, one could feed each member of a family of six a piece of bread slathered with peanut-butter each day for a month for between $28 and $41, depending on the time of year and demand for peanut-butter.
An honest friend tells me that one needs $81 a month to actually feed (properly nourish) a family of three.
To repeat, nearly every family has at least one field and is dependent upon their crops for sustenance and sometimes income. (Thus examining how much people “make” each month for their livelihood includes not only gourdes but crops.)
Some make money buying goats in one market and selling them in another literally 15 minutes away.
A pig is a piggy-bank, and when you cash out, you make it known to all around that its BBQ time (perhaps cleaning the pig near the road for example). Given the lack of electricity and refrigeration, meat only keeps for so long; it’s cooked well-done and well-greased, sold for quite a few “kob,” and is a luxury for taste buds but not for arteries.
I bought two medium bananas for $0.14 the other day.
When I’m at the market, I usually haggle a little bit to engage the culture and offset the ridiculous initial offer based on my skin color; it’s also fun to practice dissatisfied gestures and intonations.
HAITI FOUNDATION OF HOPE
I had the pleasure of spending the first week of February at the Haiti Foundation of Hope in Terre Blanche, located just north of Gonaives on the road to Port-au-Paix. (It’s a fine road too, by the way. The Dominicans have been doing a lot of construction work.) In addition to getting valuable experience working in a medical clinic, translating to the best of my ability, and enjoying the company of some phenomenal people, I had the opportunity to connect with another organization not unlike OFCB, catering to the physical, intellectual, and spiritual needs of the local poor. Both our ministries look forward to future exchanges, as we have a lot to share with each other.
Did you know that hospitals in Haiti require you to purchase all needed supplies for an operation beforehand? The doctors at HFH sent one poor young man to Gonaives with some money to have his leg x-rayed, for there was little we could do for him at the clinic. He returned later with the x-ray, revealing a fractured femur, obviously having endured excruciating pain to and from Gonaives; the hospital in Gonaives examined the x-ray and sent him away. Other cases that week included radical infections you’d only read about in a textbook; two men from a motorcycle accident; a small boy whose foot got caught in a horse’s rope and was dragged, resulting in severe lacerations to the head; and many women wanting Dr. Joe to take a peak in their uterus with his portable ultrasound machine.
(Healing comes in many forms.)
OTHER
Passions are flaring as an interclass soccer tournament dominates the scene in Cathor (the specific area where I live in Bayonnais). I’ll report all about it on my next post.
I never thought I’d have someone shake my hand like a long lost friend, saying as they go in for a man hug, “What’s up my nigger?” While locals say I’m becoming more and more Haitian every day, I’m looking forward to an English session with my students on idiomatic expressions and their cross-cultural translations.
Our church now has ushers, or should I say marshals, for dressed in uniform and pride from passing a voluntary ushering class, they maintain polite order in the temple. Woe unto you with sleepy eyes and bobbing heads during the sermon!
I must admit I’m becoming somewhat desensitized to Haitian generosity because it is so commonplace. Yesterday, I met with a bright-smiling old pastor whose name translates as “Deliverance.” His voice has served God in the same small church adjacent to his house since 1972. After I decided to use some discretionary funds from my sponsored budget to add some needed roofing on one side of the church, he proceeded to show me around his garden, talking to me about the different plants he was growing. When I asked about the “elephant ears” and whether or not they provided food, he proceeded to uproot most of them in order to give me a whole bag full of tubers to cook into a stew.
I’m so excited because having a Blog is getting to be a cool thing to do around here for high school students and others. Stay tuned for more blogs, but for now, take a look at Iverner’s Blog, or choose from a soon-to-be-updated list of others.
(My friend, Jacques-Elie introduces himself and talks about the difficulties following his father’s death in December.)
GAGUE
By no means do I endorse cock fighting; in fact I think it is terrible to force two roosters into a small, wooden colosseum, manipulating their competitive drive for breeding rights to have one kill or maim the other. However, it is a very popular sport here in Bayonnais, and I do admire the sense of community it fosters, how it brings many men together so that they can forget the difficulties of their lives for a few hours. Women set up a small market around the perimeter, selling various foods and quantities of clairin, a potent liquor made from distilled sugar-cane syrup infused with items such as cedar chips, lemon, and a certain kind of root. (Curiosity coaxed me to try a sip of this Haitian moonshine; I appreciate grappa, but clairin is a little much for me.)
MEDICAL CLINIC
Last week was a busy one. A mission team including four Engineers Without Borders began a survey of the land as well as the people, continuing medical work that began in October of 2007 and paving the way for Bayonnais’ first medical clinic. Sick Bayonnaisiens have always had to go to Gonaives for healthcare–over an hour, if you have access to a vehicle, down a bumpy dirt “something” we probably wouldn’t consider a road in many places. Sponsored by OFCB to go to medical school, Samuel Mondelus will be Bayonnais’ first physician in 2011, shortly followed by reinforcements in various disciplines. It’s hard to communicate exactly how revolutionary this clinic will be. Today, I saw a 24-year-old woman, who, following two operations, once again has a severe abdominal (umbilical) hernia; I am by no means a physician, and my EMT knowledge is rusty, but the source of this problem is likely related to the common improper cutting and treatment of the umbilical cord. According to a Haitian physician, approximately 80% of births in Haiti occur outside the walls of a hospital or medical clinic, and consequently too many mothers and children are lost due to lack of education and resources. Change occurs one step at a time–small or large–and this is going to be a big one for many thousands of people in Bayonnais. (If you would like to help, please contact me, as we will need many hands to make this a reality. The picture below shows the rice fields of part of the site.)
HAITIAN HOSPITALITY
Jacques-Elie and his mother, who is in the process of grieving her late husband, invited me over for a meal of petit-mil upon hearing that I had yet to try this Haitian staple. They served me a heaping portion with traditional sauce, fried meat, and a Coca-Cola. It is still hard to receive Haitian hospitality–especially when you gain an awareness of the sacrifices that go on behind the scenes–because it is so liberal. It is another one of those beautiful paradoxes that we serve others in allowing them to serve us. I have to be careful with my words when visiting the locals, for if I admire that whopper of a papaya they’ve been watching for the past month, it may well be on my table the following morning.
MWEN RENMEN W (I LOVE YOU)
Yes, you should know by now that you’re likely to come across a sappy theological reflection at some point while reading my blog. Here is a portion of text from an email to a friend; it talks of two very meaningful experiences:
“Yesterday was a rough day. It was one of those days where a series of situations team up on you unexpectedly, and for some reason it is difficult to humbly turn to God, for you’re in the mood of trying to fix it yourself, though experience has taught you otherwise. I went down by the river–my favorite place around sunset–and was simply sitting, being. I then felt the presence of someone to my left, turning to see that this one little girl, whom I consider the cutest in Bayonnais, or at least the most mysterious. . . she, of all children, had walked up beside me. She had a book in her mouth–a small, blue Gideon Bible. You must remember that I recently started Eugene Peterson’s Eat this Book, searching a helping hand in approaching Scripture in newness through the lens of Grace, acknowledging my biases but not clinging to them. . . So here is this girl, eating the book with a shy smile on her face, her chin tucked to the side as she sways back and forth. . . eating a book she can’t even read, eating the little scroll offered to John by the angel.
“Children. Whenever I am down by the river, they all come up to me, fascinated by the Blan. I may read–or attempt to at least–for an hour, and they are quite content just to be there with me, sometimes completely silent if they have a few more years on them. Today, several kids, some naked, others not, took turns running up the bank, one by one, to where I was sitting; they each stopped short of me by about six feet with a great big smile as they said, as if it were the most important declaration, as if instead of running up the bank they had just run all the way from Marathon, “I love you!” My smile affirmed the reception of their gospel, and they ran giggling back down the bank to the company of their peers. It would have been one thing if just one had done it, but they decided to repeat the message, uniquely carried and expressed by a different child each time. I think there were 4 of them, and one little naked boy came up twice, just in case I didn’t get it the first time. Repetition. It is one of the principles of design, valuable in any form of art. I’m reminded of C.S. Lewis, “The real job of every moral teacher is to keep on bringing us back, time after time, to the old simple principles which we are all so anxious not to see.” We often forget, and are sometimes anxious not to see, that we are loved in this way. God sometimes has a delightfully funny way of choosing His teachers.”
DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION
Education and the medical clinic are not the only revolutions moving in Bayonnais. Perhaps a local witch doctor cast a pre-Carnival musical spell the other day, because I crossed the paths of several people (of all ages) who simply needed to shake it, get down with their bad selves, and have the Blan’s camera’s attention.
Felicitations d’avoir bien trouve la page correcte!
Maintenant, je veux que vous fassiez quatre choses:
1.) Creez un dossier dans “My Documents” titre avec votre propre nom.
2.) Copiez tout le texte que vous voyez ici qui est en francais.
3.) Collez-le dans un document de Microsoft Word.
4.) Sauvegardez le fichier avec le titre, “l’examen de l’informatique” dans votre propre dossier que vous vennez de creer dans “My Documents.”
Quand vous aurez termine avec ca, vous pourrez faire un “speed test” dans le program, Mavis Beacon pour continuer avec l’examen.
Bien fait jusqu’ici!
(For my blog readers who are wondering what is going on, the directions above refer to a portion of the first computer exam, which will take place on Thursday. My students must visit this specific page, given a specific address, and follow the directions before moving onto the next step–the Mavis Beacon typing test.)
PHOENIX
School is off to a good start, with the exception of some unfortunate news: all of the girls in my computer class who retook the national exam, which requires a passing grade in order to move forward to the next grade level, failed. For many of them, this was their third attempt, and for several this is not the first time they’ve had to take a national exam multiple times before passing. It hurt to hear their tears the morning the news arrived, especially those of two sisters who are close friends of mine. Because I didn’t feel any inspiring words were appropriate, I simply stayed with them, gave a couple American hugs, and eventually offered some dark chocolate.
The following evening I was with them on a house-call, for Yvolene had come down with quite a fever, likely due to stress. (You see, these sisters are members of a Haitian-poor family for which it is difficult to pay for the national exam. Yvolene is 26, the oldest of three girls and two boys, one of whom has severe epilepsy, which is big strain upon her mother. As Yvolene grows older and her hopes of continuing education are deflated by such test results, she asks herself what she will have to offer her parents, who have invested so much in her and her siblings. She feels ashamed that they cannot afford a decent chair to offer visitors, a token of Haitian hospitality offered upon arriving at anyone’s house. I later reminded her that if she spends disciplined time with Mavis Beacon, making it her job to spend one to two hours five days a week on the program, that this summer her typing skills will be such that she could make some decent freelance money doing secretarial work; she could buy a few chairs and the next pair of exams, whose cost–as well as any other exams–I told her would be covered.)
That evening we had a very meaningful conversation about growth out of failure, of how certain plants sow sleeping seeds that grow best following a forest fire, of how countless success stories involve trials of adversity and failure (we later enjoyed a special screening of the film, Rudy in my room), of how failure often testifies to one’s success in taking a real risk, of how we usually learn more from our failures, of how successes can become competitive obstacles in receiving the grace of God, and of how this failed and failing country may rise from its ashes, its feathers–perhaps–more beautiful for them; somehow, though, I sense the Phoenix already in my midst. . . and I think its presence has something to do with sweeping dirt, a morning activity for many women. It is a profound act, if you think about it in context, revealing one of the most impressive forms of integrity I’ve ever witnessed. (Recently, I’ve stumbled over words trying to assemble a definition of Beauty. . . I don’t know how to define it, and Webster’s help goes only as far as a lowercase “b.” All I know is that the meaning I’m after avoids the label, “pretty,” that it is exemplified when Haitian women sweep dirt in the early hours of the morning, and that perhaps it is best said in silence.)
GIRLS ONLY
Soccer is the sport in Haiti. Of all the questions–or rather imperatives–I hear, including “give me money” and “give me something to eat,” the most common is “give me ballon,” phonetically something like “geev me bawl-lo.” I’ve seen the most creative soccer balls, from an empty water bottle (the kids inflate it in the middle of the game by unscrewing the cap) to homemade balls involving cloth, plastic bags, and a network of string tightly wrapped around a condom bladder. (Condoms are, by the way, available for free at a clinic by the market due to government sponsorship.) Relations between the UN force and Haitians are far better than they may be otherwise because Brazil is Haiti’s favorite soccer team.
Following in the steps of the first Bayonnais Blan, Morgan Dibble, Monday was the first “girls only” soccer match of this academic year. Several guys sported disappointed smirks on their faces and contested that girls can’t play soccer. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the girls having a blast on our newly renovated field. From now on, Monday to Wednesday the girls will receive the ballon during recess, while Thursday, Friday, and the weekend will remain with the guys.
REALITY
According to Myers Briggs, I’m an INFP, and part of the package is sensitivity–though God may have cut a “20% more for free” deal with my parents. It took me a long time to realize how very sensitive I really am, for I have an almost unhealthy ability retain composure and strength in the face of emotional difficulties, distancing myself in some way I don’t quite understand. I used to think something was wrong with me because I rarely cried; I wanted to, because it is so cathartic, but just couldn’t–the activation energy was often just too high. (Ha, I’m still a Bio geek!) By listening to several close friends, I’ve realized that I don’t have the same form of compassion they do; I don’t feel the pain of others as readily because of this strange distance. . . Again, I don’t understand any of this. . . but I do believe some of it is connected to my gifts as an artist, to my sometimes intense vulnerability, to my ability to be with and listen to people in difficult situations, and to the relative fullness of my presence here in Bayonnais.
I mention the above because something closed the gap recently, and its been weighing on me. One of my best friends here revealed to me the other day that he only eats one meal a day, and it is not uncommon for him not to eat at all. He very rarely eats two meals a day.
. . . . . . .
His kind and smiling face would never show it, and neither would his energetic joking nor his physique. It’s taken me three months in Bayonnais for this conversation to take place. Unfortunately, this is not uncommon here, and while I guess I knew this was the case during a certain time of the year for the very poor people up the mountain, I didn’t realize it was this bad on a day-to-day basis for many, many people here in this area. Remember when your parents told you to eat your broccoli because some poor child in China would do anything to have it? Well, for me that poor child is now my close friend, and he is Haitian.
Don’t take your food for granted, please.
(I’m going to work with him personally on managing his money. Tomorrow, I plan to go with him to the market to begin an economic analysis of what life actually costs here in Bayonnais.)
DIEU A CREE LE MONDE
On a lighter note, please enjoy a peek into children’s choir practice. I wish you could hear them in church, for the large audience fuels a powerful gusto.
Thank you to all who took time meet with me during my stay in Charlotte and Savannah; I apologize to those with whom I was not able to catch up, whether on the phone or in person. Armed with a mosquito net and bug spray (30% Deet), I am now back in Haiti. I came back on December 30th in order to celebrate New Years and Independence Day with Actionnel’s family in Gonaives. I am now back in Bayonnais, and school starts tomorrow.
SOUP!!!
I had heard a lot about this soup, the national dish enjoyed by Haitians all around the world on January 1st, Haitian Independence Day. During the French occupation, the Haitian slaves were fed only “mais moulin,” essentially ground corn (not unlike grits), while the French enjoyed a hearty, savory soup. Upon claiming national independence in 1804, the Haitians cooked this soup as a symbolic backhand to their former slave-masters and more importantly as a token of their freedom and equality. What a tradition, and what a pleasure it was for me (and my taste-buds) to participate in the celebration!
The soup has many, many ingredients, depending upon the means of the Haitian preparing it; if one can only afford a meatless vegetable bouillon, it is no less meaningful. Primary ingredients in our soup included cabbage, celery, beef, plantains, carrots, potatoes, many spices, all mixed into a squash base. It was delicious!
(I just missed the cut for the Campbell Soup Boy.)
The night before we drove around Gonaives to see the New Years party. People flooded the streets, making it difficult for us drive, and much music and dancing created a very festive environment. I vividly remember one massive dump-truck with a sound system set up in the back, two extremely bright lights–one at each end–shining down from the top, slowly weaving through a mass of dancing bodies while blaring upbeat rhythms.
Haitians save a lot of money for these couple of days, and in addition to soup, expenses go towards soft drinks, rum, and preparing homemade “cremas,” a delicious spiced coconut liqueur. There is an emphasis on community with much visitation of extended family and friends, which involves bringing soup, for the giving and receiving of soup is often part of the exchange. (One of the first questions I asked a new acquaintance, during a somewhat awkward conversation, was how he was going to celebrate the night of the 31st; he responded that he didn’t have the money to celebrate but that he was looking forward to being with his family the following day. I will not forget his response.)
PREVAL
Only someone who has driven on Haiti’s “Route 1″ could appreciate my excitement in traveling smoothly from St. Marc almost all the way to Lestere, all the pot-holes filled and unpaved stretches laced with new gravel. My spirits rose upon seeing the tangible presence of positive governmental action. . . that is, until I learned that the only reason such repairs had been made was to pave the way for the president’s arrival in Gonaives.
Well, I guess we’ll take what we can get.
I have never seen the president of the United States in person, but I did see Renee Preval, Haiti’s current president, give a national address on January 1st. Surprisingly, my “Kreyol” understood about 50% of the speech, allowing me to keep up with most of its content. (I verified the following information with Haitians.) Preval began by applauding the national police force and UN troops for increased national security, and for good reason too, for this has been a great step forward. His administration cracked down big time on kidnappings and drug trafficking, and some note that its timing immediately followed a conversation in the White House. (It was funny to hear my name over the radio just before leaving the country on December 3rd, “Pierre Daniel, the notorious kidnapper, has been arrested. . .” Someone’s giving a good name a bad reputation, and I’m going to do my best to balance the tables.)
The political issue of the day concerns “la vie chere,” or the high cost of living. While lack of national production and exported goods is a big problem, the bulk of the trail leads back to the APN (National Port Authority), an organization responsible for setting taxes on imported goods–these taxes are ridiculous and have been increasing for some time now. (Remember a somewhat tongue-in-cheek quotation from a previous post, “Life in Haiti is expensive. We import everything but rain, sunshine, and babies.”) There is also a scarcity of fixed prices on certain goods, most being sold in a black market of sorts lacking in competition. (I just bought a pair of Adidas Sambas in the US for $30, marked down from $50. Yolande saw the exact same pair of shoes being sold for over $100 in Haiti. (You can consider the implicit invitation to haggle, but still. . .) Natural gas costs more in Haiti than it does in the US, which is not helpful in lessening domestic charcoal production and combating deforestation.) Preval addressed the need to pressure the APN, but did little more than that, not talking about how or when it may take place. While disproportionate amounts of talk and action characterize the politics of many countries, Haitians’ frustrations in this arena are unfortunately disproportionately large and old (not to discount the improvement in national security).
(It’s also worth considering the enormity of the tasks that confront a Haitian president–tasks not only large in scale but also tangled in complex poverty and corruption.)
SCHOOL BUS
Thank you to Light of Christ United Methodist Church in Charlotte for donating a refurbished, labeled school bus filled with goodies.
PIERRE
Unfortunately, I must begin this post on a sombre note; Jacques-Elie’s father died a few days ago. Pierre, the “referee” of local cock fights, was a dear and generous man with a ready smile–perhaps my favorite in Bayonnais, which says a lot. (He died unexpectedly for medical reasons I do not know.) Our short exchanges grew from my friendship with his son, Jacques-Elie, and while my elementary Creole limited our verbal communication, he nevertheless always expressed much warmth through is grace-filled eyes and genuine embrace. I will miss him. Please pray, or offer stillness, for Jacques-Elie and his family during this difficult time of mourning.
HOME
It is good to be home. In addition to the company of family and friends, I have enjoyed warm-water showers of steady pressure, smooth roads, quick Internet connection, a droopy-eared slobberpuss (that would be Winnie, our bloodhound), and many warm-mugged coffee conversations. I recently finished my non-stop, six-day Charlotte/Davidson tour, encouraged by words and hugs from phenomenal friends and fueled by a surprising post-malarial endurance. (Something during this extraordinary past week reminded me of a comment following my high school graduation. Having been accepted into Davidson College, having helped lead the soccer team to an undefeated state title, and having received numerous academic and social honors, I heard, “Soak it up, Peter. Life may not get much better than this.” Time and experience beg to disagree, my friend, for in a strange way the richness of this opportunity to live in Haiti meets or surpasses the highs of 2002.)
I feel a peculiar peace with my station in life. Two vocations, to be an artist and a pastor, occupy the forefront of my mind and heart. (I use the word, “pastor” as one who provides an open space in which to exchange vulnerability for guidance and direction, even if it’s found in the silence of listening.) I need to be accountable to both, and they meet at this time in my life among the people of Bayonnais, Haiti.
INDIRECT APPROACH
(Poverty)
I have sometimes struggled with a self-imposed American guilt trip–an initial response to the vast injustice of this world and citizenship in its wealthiest nation. While Paul Farmer may applaud guilt for its inherent call to action, and while I agree it may have its time and place, I suggest replacing it with gratitude. As pride is the sneaky partner that may accompany recognition and affirmation, so generosity is the hidden attachment that comes with genuine gratitude and a cultivated awareness of blessings: generosity of time, energy, and means, a reaching out to those who go without. If you go out for a nice meal, enjoy it thoroughly, for you are investing in the culinary passion of the head chef while also helping sustain jobs for many individuals. Recognize that you enjoy it for others as well–others who may never have the opportunity to enjoy such an artful combination of flavors. My hope is that each like meal would nourish some action, even if seemingly very small, to help alleviate the weight of poverty. It is not that nice things in life are bad; they are wonderful and testify to the beauty of creation; they should be enjoyed to the fullest, and often they cost nothing. However, next to any fine, purchased thing you may place a cost calculation of how many malnourished children you could have helped feed and/or educate in a developing country (though there are often many factors that unfortunately complicate getting help directly to these children) . . . Honestly, I’m not sure what to do with this. . . the vital necessities of food and water should be a basic, universal human right. . . (If you have thoughts on this subject, please send them to me, as this line of questioning has become more personal recently and I don’t know how to approach it.)
(Salvation–WARNING: PETER’S THEOLOGICAL MEANDERINGS–read at your own risk)
Salvation: isn’t that the kicker. Questions of eternal salvation strike the very center of human experience, for they address mortality, the vanitas skull haunting the picture plane, or Paul Coelho’s beautiful woman waiting to offer a simple kiss, to whom he responds, “Not now, please. . .” Salvation is part of the reason misguided extremists become suicide bombers, and it is also the reason Jesus stepped down to die upon a cross. Salvation approaches death–both literally and metaphorically–with respect, for without her life would be worthless. As a Christian, I believe in the centrality of Christ, that his actions, representing God’s infinite love and grace, are the means of the salvation of all. I was “saved” a long time ago when a humble man allowed himself to be unjustly crucified, yet this salvation is also a “here and now” thing, eternal as it relates to the present moment. (C.S. Lewis explores this theme in The Great Divorce.)
“Win souls for Christ” is an expression I’ve often heard with respect to a “spiritual battleground” characterizing mission work, yet it makes me cringe inwardly, for it references a theology which places the weight of eternal life upon a simple “yes” or “no” to the story of Jesus, upon whether or not one has “accepted Jesus into one’s heart,” without considering the infinite number of variables–often unknown–that influence such an acceptance. My passionate hope in the infinite grace of God eclipses any possibility of me espousing such a black and white theological stance–one that categorizes “saved” and “unsaved” individuals. I cringe because I, and many others, have been painfully wounded by these silent categories, and I’ve seen the ways in which they keep people from truly loving each other. However, a recent revelation has humbled me, for the silent bitterness I’ve harbored as a response is equally divisive and perhaps even more obstructive.
One of my favorite lines in Lewis’ Mere Christianity: “We do know that no man can be saved except through Christ; we do not know that only those who know Him can be saved through Him.” My torn heart finds much peace in this statement. It creates an open space with the reminder of what we do not know, offering an invitation to once again trust God. St. John of the Cross suggests we be “willingly satisfied” not with what we understand of God but with that which we do not understand. I hope that in some way Christ’s salvation may be appropriated in my life, that in some way my life may be a “living mystery,” and that in some way it may testify to a “truth” that will hopefully make me “odd” (Flannery O’Connor). As a response to grace, love deeply, and may this be an invitation for others to ask why you do so.
(Believe it or not, these thoughts are quite selective and tame. I appreciate those of you who have stuck with me this far, for I feel a sort of catharsis in having articulated some of these feelings and insights. Sorry to those of you who were expecting more information pertaining to Haiti; my experience there is greatly informed by my spiritual journey and vice versa. I share the vulnerable words above because they may resonate with others, and it may be comforting to know one isn’t the only one examining these tensions. They will also be interesting to look back on later, reminding me of where I’ve been. Again, please email me if you have any reflections on this subject.)
I’m sorry to have left everyone hanging with such an unnecessarily concise post about my malaria diagnosis. (The behind-the-scene context is that after having finished a paragraph, WordPress and a faulty Internet connection teamed up to delete my post. Frustrated and feverish, I communicated the bare-bones minimum and went to bed.) The chills started in earnest on Thanksgiving, preventing me from enjoying the delicious spread Rosena had prepared. Following up-and-down fevers and a thorough reading of the CDC website malaria pages, I called my dad for advice. We waited a couple days, and then I went to Gonaives to get blood work that would testify to the nasty little parasites destroying my red blood cells. Because the treatment is simple–a series of intense Chloroquine doses, I stayed in Gonaives with Actionnel’s family where I did a lot of sleeping and not much eating; one of the side effects of the medicine is loss of appetite, and the most uncomfortable episodes were trying to force food in past waves of nausea. My mom made my day when she offered to buy me an early ticket home. I arrived home Monday evening, and each day I seem to be regaining more strength. I’m waiting to hear the results of yesterday’s blood work–don’t want to have any chronic relapses. Thank you to all who have offered their support. I’m getting the full Haitian experience!
(Also, for anyone who is concerned about future trips to Haiti and getting malaria, please understand this: the reason I got this disease is two-fold: I think I may have forgotten to take one week’s dose of Chloroquine, which may have happened to coincide with my first evening in Gonaives when I was ruthlessly attacked by mosquitoes–we’re talking about hundreds of bites, even on my lips! Know that there are very few mosquitoes in Bayonnais, and if one goes to Gonaives, simply bring some good bug spray.)
