Sharing this draft of another book in progress...
Introduction
Sa Bondye sere pou ou lavalas pa janm pote-l ale. What God has laid up for you, even the flood cannot carry it away.
Haitian Kreyol saying
Floods have carried away so much from those you will meet in this book: women of Gonaives, Haiti. They and their compatriots live in the pathway of hurricanes, near mountains too denuded to absorb heavy rains. Their government, chronically disabled by complex forces, struggles to rebuild following disasters. After the earthquake of 2010, these women welcomed and assisted refugees from Port-au-Prince, depleting their own meager resources even further. And yet they have carried on, drawing strength from their faith and from each other.
The 2013 book, In the Company of the Poor: Conversations with Dr. Paul Farmer and Fr. Gustavo Gutierrez, shares words on faith and fortitude written during the 1500s by Teresa of Avila. It happened to be a time when Teresa's countrymen were extracting riches from the island they’d named Hispaniola and importing diseases that nearly extinguished the indigenous Taino population, who called their home Ayiti, meaning "land of high mountains."
No stranger to suffering, Teresa aptly describes the women of Gonaives when she writes of a “...determined resolve not to halt...whatever may come, whatever may happen to them, however hard they may have to labor, whoever may complain of them, whether they reach their goal or die on the road...whether the very world dissolves before them.”
The women of Gonaives watched their world dissolve twice in the past decade. I began to know them just months following the first "dissolving"…the devastation caused by Hurricane Jeanne in 2004. I'd made earlier trips to Haiti, felt overwhelmed, and then--for awhile--resistant to having anything to do with the country. But the women of Gonaives drew me into their fellowship in a way that eventually changed the course of my own life.
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| Friends, Haiti, from L: Elisabeth, Sally, Miguelita, Joselia, Elmide, me, Examene |
Chapter One: June 1999: Can We Cope?
The sounds of lapping water upon a shore slap gently on my ear…an unfamiliar arousal. Rolling from side to back, I sink into a sagging mattress, squeaking the springs of my metal bed. Pale light filters through folds of mosquito netting while I puzzle--blinking, barely awake--at the presence of two women slumbering in nearby beds.
My eyes close again, but crowing cocks mock my desire for further sleep, and I remember with vague irritation that the lead rooster started up at 3:30 a.m. And then, soon afterwards…the screeching of an animal…a goat, perhaps, being slaughtered? Shuddering, I'd pulled the thin white sheet over my bare legs and shoulders, and dozed on.
Now, with sunlight warming the room, I sense the stickiness of sheets against my skin. Accustomed to the pleasant dryness of Colorado's heat, I kick off the cloying cover and remember…I'm in Haiti, within yards of the Caribbean Sea.
Last evening, sitting with friends under almond trees on a small terrace by the sea, watching an orange sun sink beyond the water's deep blue horizon and then later--in the darkening sky--a lightening display over distant Port-au-Prince, I began to understand the meaning of the moniker Magic Haiti. But now experiences of the past 24 hours crowd my mind, and I wonder if we can cope with this place.
My eyes close again, but crowing cocks mock my desire for further sleep, and I remember with vague irritation that the lead rooster started up at 3:30 a.m. And then, soon afterwards…the screeching of an animal…a goat, perhaps, being slaughtered? Shuddering, I'd pulled the thin white sheet over my bare legs and shoulders, and dozed on.
Now, with sunlight warming the room, I sense the stickiness of sheets against my skin. Accustomed to the pleasant dryness of Colorado's heat, I kick off the cloying cover and remember…I'm in Haiti, within yards of the Caribbean Sea.
Last evening, sitting with friends under almond trees on a small terrace by the sea, watching an orange sun sink beyond the water's deep blue horizon and then later--in the darkening sky--a lightening display over distant Port-au-Prince, I began to understand the meaning of the moniker Magic Haiti. But now experiences of the past 24 hours crowd my mind, and I wonder if we can cope with this place.
If last night is a predictor, we'll not be sleeping well. Prior to the animal noises, I and my roommates wakened at midnight to the sounds of sobbing on the other side of the cement block duplex where the women of our service team are staying.
"I'd better investigate," I said, embracing my role as resident nurse.
"I'd better investigate," I said, embracing my role as resident nurse.
Unlocking a solid wooden door, I pushed open a flimsy outer screen door--screen detached--and with flashlight, followed a narrow path around the building. Gravel and small seashells crunched noisily under my flip-flops, sending several hermit crabs scurrying sideways into the darkness.
The next-door room was just as airless as our own. Beneath a heavy, army-issued mosquito net on a lower bunk, one of the women had become claustrophobic.
The next-door room was just as airless as our own. Beneath a heavy, army-issued mosquito net on a lower bunk, one of the women had become claustrophobic.
“She said she couldn’t breathe,” reported a helper supporting her whimpering friend under a cooling shower. “We’ll move her to an upper bunk closer to a window.”
The Episcopal Church retreat center in Montrouis, a small, palm-fringed coastal town an hour's drive north of Port-au-Prince, revealed its challenges soon after our arrival. Electricity and water supply will be intermittent. But these seem like trifles compared to what we saw driving around the capital yesterday.
Not far from the airport, along the waterfront, hundreds of shacks made of flattened tin cans and cardboard stood cheek to jowl in one of few open spaces remaining in a city of (then) 2 million, originally built to accommodate 500,000. During storms, as the water rises, inhabitants of those "shelters" stand, holding their few possessions--and small children--on their shoulders until the water subsides.
Not far from the airport, along the waterfront, hundreds of shacks made of flattened tin cans and cardboard stood cheek to jowl in one of few open spaces remaining in a city of (then) 2 million, originally built to accommodate 500,000. During storms, as the water rises, inhabitants of those "shelters" stand, holding their few possessions--and small children--on their shoulders until the water subsides.
Through the half open windows of our van wafted the acrid smell of burning refuse…gathered in pot-holed streets along which women crouched in the dirt selling vegetables and used clothing. Clusters of barefoot children with stick legs picked at piles of garbage.
Families have flocked to Port-au-Prince from the countryside and the mountains in recent decades…seeking sustenance, hoping their leaders--or other sources--will deliver what they need: jobs, food, and access to healthcare. Even following the 2010 earthquake that took 300,000 lives and injured another 300,000, many Haitians apparently still believe it best to be close to the places of power and delivery points for foreign aid.
Of all we saw in the capital, the cart men seemed most symbolic of the struggles of Haiti…sinewy, barefoot, straining and sweating under the weight of concrete block-laden carts, climbing impossibly steep hills, step by steady step. Their life expectancy is about 40 years.
A few days after arrival, we take a break from painting and carpentry work and travel to the northern port city of Gonaives to visit another Episcopal church and school. Just beyond Montrouis, thick groves of banana trees press so close to the road that an outstretched passenger's hand could brush a huge leaf. And then a yielding to wide landscape of rice planting and harvesting, dotted with muscled black bodies bending to their work, and white egrets winging through azure sky or resting on a far-flung patchwork blanket of green.
These fertile fields of the Plaine de L’Arbonite supported the small-scale agricultural efforts of 50,000 Haitians up until the beginning of the U.S. occupation of Haiti in 1915, when the land was expropriated and handed over to American businesses. Displaced Haitians were forced to make a living elsewhere. Some farmers of the plains moved into Haiti’s northern mountains while others migrated to the Dominican Republic to earn a pittance on sugarcane plantations…brutal work that for many would eventually turn deadly. Just two decades later, in 1937, an estimated 15,000 to 20,000 Haitian migrants—men, women, and children—were systematically slaughtered by direct order of President Rafael Trujillo of the Dominican Republic. Haitian writer Edwidge Danticat’s award-winning novel, The Farming of Bones, offers a haunting vision of a massacre fueled by ethnic hatred.
The vibrant colors of the rice fields fade away as we approach what must be one of the most desolate parts of Haiti, aptly named Savane Desolee (desolate savanna). It's like a moonscape…bare, rocky hills, speckled here and there with the remains of dead trees and bushes. Only the occasional wiry cactus plant relieves the brown monotony.
"How can a tropical island look like this?" I implore our Haitian guide.
"The French colonizers felled and shipped tons of mahogany to Europe," he says, "so the mountainsides were exposed, and over many decades the heavy rains we get here have washed away the topsoil."
Continued degradation of the land, he explains, is largely due to non-stop cultivation by Haiti’s subsistence farmers (70% of the population), and to the use of trees for making charcoal—Haiti’s primary energy source.
Our van bounces and shakes over a tortured ribbon of dirt and rocks, and we see--through a haze of dust--the rusted, mangled remains of vehicles whose usefulness ended here, along with, no doubt, the lives of passengers. Did anyone mark their passing in this no-man's-land?
Our drivers, and others--some behind the wheels of new Toyota vans sporting spiffy non-governmental organization logos--careen from one side of the road to the other, seeking uncommon stretches of level ground. Choking on billowing clouds of pale dust raised by the heavy traffic, we roll up windows, but the dust seeps in through the floorboards.
We barely miss a run-in with a large, lumbering truck carrying men, women and children---sitting atop crates and over-stuffed bags of food and charcoal. With shirts and blouses pulled up around their mouths and noses against the dust, they appear as ghosts, in a lifeless landscape. I struggle with a rising anger that anyone should have to travel under under such conditions...as though they were a commodity.
A little history: The road to Gonaives was once a good road (and will be again following the 2010 earthquake when money will come to Haiti for a variety of projects). Haiti had 1200 miles of well-constructed, all-weather highways by the end of the U.S. occupation (1915-1934). Railways also connected north to south, and serviced other areas, but were dismantled and sold by "Papa Doc" Duvalier, the iron-fisted physician/voodou priest who ruled from 1957 to 1971, aided by his secret "police," the Ton-Ton Macoutes, whose deeds were as dark as their signature sunglasses.
During a spurt of international aid following Papa Doc’s death, roads were repaired, improved. But not so the road to Gonaives. Some Haitians expressed the belief --during the early 2000s--that their leaders had purposely allowed the road to deteriorate, as a deterrent to political dissidents traveling from the north to Port-au-Prince. Gonaives—Haiti’s second largest city by 1999 estimates (population then around 200,000)—was the seat of the slave revolt that spawned independent Haiti in 1804, and continues to be a place of political foment where demonstrations are common.
The streets of Gonaives are shared by pedestrians, cart men, motorcycle taxis bearing women with shopping bags, a few donkeys, and Haiti's famous tap-taps…canopied trucks colorfully embellished with painted mottos, flowers, and religious symbols. The tap-taps are crammed with passengers…some of whom literally hang out the open backs--secured by the hands of fellow riders.
Honking horns, the whine of traffic, and hundreds of street voices shouting greetings or curses--we know not which--rumble around us.
“Keep your doors locked and windows at least halfway closed,” warns our Haitian driver.
Near the city center, we pull into a walled compound housing the Episcopal church and school. Stepping out onto a large, rubbled courtyard, we dust off our cloths and stretch legs and arms stiffened by the journey. A older man with a gap-toothed smile closes the tall metal gate. This place feels like sanctuary.
A middle-aged, balding man wearing a black clerical collar with a short-sleeved grey shirt, approaches with a smile.
"Welcome to Gonaives. I am Pere (Father) Simpson."
The local priest and administrator of the school seems reserved, perhaps a little sad, but he shakes our hands with firm grasp and then introduces us to the school principal--a tall young man impeccably garbed in suit and tie.
"I'll show you the bathroom," offers Pere Simpson, "and then we can take a tour of the school."
Located just off Independence Square, the school--formerly a jail—is a dark, depressing, two-story structure with uneven cement floors and bare walls. Some 200 students (pre-school through 8th grade) brighten the place with their blue uniforms and ready smiles. As we peek inside their classrooms, adorned only with old blackboards, they stand--some shyly, some smartly--behind rickety wooden desks, at the behest of their teachers, to say good morning.
"Churches and other humanitarian groups run most schools in Haiti," says Pere Simpson, " but only about half of Haiti’s children attend school. Many families can’t afford fees and uniforms."
Most of the teachers are men, but I notice a few women around the school. One sits at a desk just off the principal's office, busy with paperwork. She looks up and smiles as we pass the office. Five years down the road, this woman will become my friend and invite me to collaborative work in Haiti.
A couple other women prepare food in the school's kitchen, a 3-sided cinder block shelter adjacent to the school. Charcoal fires add to the heat in the airless enclosure where they sit on low stools between two huge aluminum pots, stirring rice and beans--midday sustenance for students, and likely the only meal of the day for many. These women will become members of a group that will work to improve the future in tangible ways for themselves and their children.
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