Still a city gal at heart

I'm still learning to look for nuance in the countryside, to recognize a dirt track as a legitimate thoroughfare, to spot a school in a slightly-larger-than-usual enclosure. (I have similar problems in the U.S. countryside. It's so hard to find things out there!)

In the meantime, one of our favorite things about Haiti is tap-tap decoration. (For those of you who need a refresher, tap-taps are trucks that provide public transportation throughout Haiti. They're often heavily loaded with people and goods--once we saw a woman riding with her refrigerator!--and have fixed routes and generally fixed prices.) For the most part, the tap-taps in the Artibonite Valley look like pickup trucks with extra seating in the back, but many of the ones in Port-au-Prince are one-truck parades.

On our most recent trip to the city, we spotted these beauts:

I'm still trying to figure out what that animal is on the side.

Che seems to be a popular figure: he makes not-infrequent appearances throughout the city.

More popular than Che.

Do those dollar signs count as second mudflaps?

Just amazing.

How can you not love these?

This is a long one, so go to the bathroom if you need to, and get a drink and a snack

I've been reading a book titled African Friends and Money Matters. A previous MCCer said it helped a lot with her cultural orientation to her work in Africa and Haiti. I've been reading it over the past week.

In the past I thought of culture as the type of art, architecture, food, etc. that a culture produces. In many places we've experienced "culture" by eating the food, visiting museums, walking the streets, and looking at homes, and people-watching. I've thought of myself as a fan of foreign culture. The energy conservation and bicycling culture in the Netherlands intrigues me, narrow cobblestone streets in Lyon draw me in, and open markets in China are great fun.

This new book has opened up a whole new world to the word culture. Haiti has a distinct art culture, architecture, and cuisine. The underlying pressure on each of these is that there is not a lot of support in the way of money or government infrastructure. That being said, it seems many cultural traditions evolved from this reality and colonialism (of course).

In Haiti there are almost no governmental services or infrastructure. For example: If you have a bad road that is in need of repair, you don't wait for the township to fix it. Instead, you gather everyone together in the morning by walking the streets with a megaphone; as you work on the street, you extract tolls from those who want to pass by. (Sharon experienced this firsthand Friday morning.) In the U.S. we pay taxes so the roads are taken care of, trash picked up, poor given food, police walk the streets, etc. If you have never known of these services - and think they will never work effectively - you live in a different economic reality.

At some point in life, everyone everywhere needs or wants more than they have. In the U.S., we use credit cards, buy cars on loan, finance our houses or lawn tractors, get TVs on a 0% interest credit card at Best Buy, pay for college with student loans, etc. You then owe all of these institutions a monthly payment for...forever. Here none of that exists: you may be able to get a loan from a bank, but it's not common.

So what is the normal Haitian to do? They borrow from whoever they think has more than they do. Friends, family, and wealthy strangers are all viable options. They borrow from others as we borrow from lending institutions in the U.S. (present economic conditions aside). They generally have no qualms in asking someone for money. If a stranger on the street asked me for money in the U.S., most likely I would say no and be on my way. Here they see me and see Wealthy American That Most Definitely Has More Money Than He Needs so they feel just fine asking. It seems that anyone that has money is almost obliged to give it to others.

Being asked for money in Port-au-Prince is very common, and as in most other cities in the world, people keep on walking and going about their business. Where we live in Desarmes, the people that ask for money are your neighbors, co-workers, and business associates. You will see them almost every day for the next few years.

This is my current struggle and culture clash. My knee-jerk reaction to being asked for money is NO, but their knee-jerk reaction is to ask for money. In the U.S. if you lend a friend money, the friendship becomes very fragile, and it just may be ruined if everything is not paid back. Here, it seems that friendships are made by lending money and helping out; it's seen as standing in solidarity with that person. As the book notes, when you lend money, the recipient is then somewhat obliged to come and visit, possibly pay some of the money back, and when you are in greater need than he/she in the future, come to your aid. Friends are your savings account to help you in the future.

Sound easy? Well, reading this book has been helpful. Before this, when I was asked for money I quickly bristled and wondered if I had BANK stamped on my forehead. Now at least I can see it as a valuable quality of the culture. The difficultly now is piloting this foreign financial reality without offending too many people and without destroying relationships along the way.

Some things we have been asked:

Bonjour, Give me five dollars.
Bonjour, What do you have to give me?
Blan, give me ten dollars.

I know Haiti has its own unique culture and is not simply a small African country in the Caribbean. But it does seem there are many things in Haitian culture that can be directly attributed to its African roots, and many things in this book seem to be reflected in Haitian life.

Some things to love

...about Haitian Creole.

Yes, language acquisition has been slow-going and difficult. This is despite the many times we heard that we could just "pick up Creole," which makes it sound as easy as buying a loaf of bread on the way home from work. Not so. However, I'm developing a fondness for the following:

The Bonjou Effect.
So there you are, walking along the road, and along comes a tough-looking fella on the left. He's muscular, wearing work clothes, and carrying a big machete over one shoulder. Face as impassable as the Schuylkill at rush hour. He's getting closer, still stoic, and you can almost see a fierce glint in his eyes. Just when you're about to pass each other, you say "Bonjou!" -- and he cracks the biggest smile you can image. "Bonjou, blan!" Totally transformed from Big Scary Guy to Guy Commuting to Work.

Bon.
Literally, "good." However, many Haitians use this as a transitional word, as in:
Me: Do you think we'll be back in time to go to the market?
Haitian: Bon. I think we might be able to go today.
I know it's roughly equivalent to "um," but I like to think of it as someone cheering me on. "You made sense in Creole! Good for you!"

M Renmen W.
"I love you." (Or "I like you," but let's not split hairs.) What I primarily like about this is the beautiful symmetry of the letters, and the fact that Creole lets you use single letters for all the pronouns. I suppose it's similar to writing "u" for "you" in English:
M: I
W: you
L: he, she, it
Y: they
N: we
It definitely livens up the alphabet! Speaking of which:

Alphabetization.
This is the word for literacy and literacy education. However, where this word is graffitied I like to read it as a person's fervent plea to arrange everything in alphabetical order. Forgive my inner librarian, but think of what a wonderful world that would be.

The Refrigerator is Walking.
In English, we say that things are running. The car. The fridge. The washer. (Although not the Internet, for whatever reason. That works but doesn't run.) In Creole, you can't say that machines kouri, run, but you can say that they mache, or walk. I don't know why, but walking sounds so much more physically specific to me. All these machines, getting around on their own two feet.

Ongoing Narration in Real Time.
When greeting someone, it's common to follow "hello" with a brief statement about what that person is doing.
Haitian: You're walking uphill!
Me: You're walking downhill!
And somehow it's much, much less annoying than reading billboards out loud on road trips.

Some Words That are so Useful, I Want to Bring Them Home With Me.
Degaje: Make it up as you go along.
Tet chaje: Total headache. What a hassle.
Nenpòt: It doesn't matter. Whatever's easiest. Not important.

Okay, back to degaje-ing just about everything...

Looking around

Okay, in response to those who want more pictures, here are a few. (As a side note, loading these photos reminds me of my childhood when my brother and I would saddle up to the Commodore 64, throw in the 5" floppy disk of our favorite game, and hit the LOAD key. The gears would start grinding and we would usually play a game outside while we waiting for the computer game to load. Today, I hit "Upload Photos" and walked away, checking in every 5 minutes to see how it was progressing; after 20 or 30 minutes it finally succeeded in this gargantuan task. So, be thankful for your DSL or other high-speed connection.) Enjoy!


These little guys come hopping in whenever there is a lot of rain -- apparently, we've been getting too much rain for them.


This sleepy-eyed frog was napping in the clothespin bag when he was disturbed by me and my laundry duties.


If you remember the tank of a truck I get to drive, this is our loaner as the other truck gets fixed (it's apparently not a flawless tank). I have yet to bathe with this truck. ;-)


Sharon spotted this moth last night when she was on the computer. (Get it?)


These are the shoes that everyone here wears when they know they will be walking in mud, puddles, etc. One guy calls them doublè, which is the word for 4x4s: very fitting. They are completely rubber/plastic except for the laces.

I really didn't want to see that.....

Last week, Sharon and I and a few members of our Desarmes team headed to Port-au-Prince for a few days of appointments and errands.

Desarmes and Port-au-Prince are only about 135 km (84 miles) apart but the trip takes about three hours. Some sections of the road are fine and you can clip along at 50-60 mph, then all of a sudden you slow and limp through in 1st gear going through potholes 4ft long and 1ft deep. As we approached Mouri (the town where an important bridge was destroyed in the hurricanes), we slowed because there was an accident: a smashed truck, a motorcycle in pieces, and a crowd of people.

We pull over and park. The crowd of people are looking at a body lying on the shoulder: the motorcycle driver, who is clearly dead. Our teammates hopped out; they explain to us that the dead man is from Desarmes and is on the Executive Committee of ODD (the committee that just had the elections). They asked, "Aren't you coming to look?!" I respond, "No, I don't want to, thanks."

As I sit and watch from the back of our truck for the next 45 minutes, pickup trucks full of people come racing to the scene to look at the body; tap-taps (public transportation) stop so people can look; everyone stops to look. One man hopped out to sell snacks and drinks to the growing crowd.

One of our team members came running back to the truck to get the camera so he could take close-up pictures of the body. We waited until the police showed up to remove the body, and then because we knew the man, we went to the local police station to give an accident report.

I'm still processing the whole event. Travelling on the road here is dangerous no matter how you go: trucks are always swerving to avoid potholes, goats, children, people, etc.; buses travel as fast as they want wherever they want no matter what's in their way. I guess it's sort of a stereotypical North-Americans-in-a-foreign-country story, but it's unavoidably startling to deal with a sudden, tragic death. Especially when our culture does not deal with bodies - when someone dies, we call Someone Else to come and deal with it. If someone dies in an accident, we cover the body with a sheet or a jacket or whatever we have.

And it's not that human life isn't valued here; death is definitely not taken lightly. However, it seems that Haitians are more up-front about death than Americans. Maybe it's too light to say that death is more a part of life here, but accepting death and grieving within one's community is an important part of processing loss.

On the other hand, the fact that over 700 people died in the floods in Gonaives seems to make people feel angry and wonder why more help wasn't given. Accepting death doesn't mean accepting the factors that contribute to people dying, or excusing those who may share responsibility. And maybe a crowd of people stopping to look at a body is an effective and sad reminder to drive safely and (for a totally cheesy ending) treasure relationships while we have them.

Mo' money

Okay, forgive me if I wax a little financial here.

On Thursday, MCC Dezam's Pwogram Edukasyon Anviwonmental (PEA) hosted a first-annual student conference to get them pumped about all things environmental. I think the conference went relatively well, but the thing that most impressed me was the food preparation. We were serving a morning snack and gwo manje for about 150 people, so there was quite a to-do.

We spent an entire day at the Dezam market securing provisions, which is always an expedition in and of itself. By the way, here's a brief explanation of Haitian money:
The current exchange rate of gourdes to U.S. dollars is currently about 39 to 1. However, back when the U.S. Marines were openly occupying Haiti in the first part of the 20th century, the exchange rate was 5 to 1. The 5-gourde note became known as the Haitian Dollar, and - you guessed it - things are still sold in Haitian dolas. So a fairly straightforward answer to my "How much is this?" - "37 dola" - produces a long pause from me as I frantically try to run the numbers. Thirty-seven times five divided by 39... So is that a good price? I can't ever tell.

Anyway, back to the konferans. They slaughtered three goats [hey, meat-eaters: is slaughter the technical term, or is there a more neutral word?] and prepared steaming vats of coffee and rice and bean sauce and a pickled-cabbage relish and juice.

I peeled shallots and washed dishes and tried to generally help out, but the whole time I was nearly bursting open, I was so impressed. In my brief Summer of Food Service, I discovered that cooking mass quantities of food in the U.S. generally involves opening a lot of cans. Here, it involved:
- Buying, roasting, and grinding coffee beans
- Shaving heads and heads of cabbage by hand, with a knife
- Sorting out tiny stones in the rice and then winnowing it
- As mentioned, preparing three goats from the ultimate scratch
- Making peanut butter
- Picking pecks of citrus fruit and hand-squeezing each and every one

That level of freshness qualifies this as gourmet, right?

Now imagine doing all of this at a primitive campsite without running water or electricity and over an open wood fire. Wow.

Here's where the money comes in. Maybe I'm coming into my honeymoon with Haitian culture a little later than expected, but I feel like I'm so impressed by their hard work and used-to-it-ness that I don't think of this lifestyle as a poverty situation. Like:
- You're more well-off if you have a concrete house than a tin-and-wood house.
- Having access to a faucet is pretty lux.
- Being able to take a bucket bath is better than having to bathe in public in the river.
- Who really needs constant electricity anyway?
- Gas stoves are almost over-the-top compared to charcoal and wood fires.
I know that poverty can be defined in relative terms, but I do feel like my perception about what qualifies a person as "poor" will change, courtesy of Dezam.

In fact, I am often uncomfortable with the idea of The Poor or Serving the Poor, because in a way it's an objectification that can dehumanize (or deify) individuals just as much as anything else. And I can even confess that, as far as Serving the Poor goes, it was easier for me to come to Haiti than to really engage with poor people in Philadelphia. Maybe that extra layer of cultural differences makes it easier for me to relativize poverty and see it less as something to which I - as part of the dominant culture - am personally connected.

Even here, it's easier for me to play peasant ("Washing clothes by hand! How fun!") than to own up to the fact that I still have far more resources than many people around me. In Philadelphia I was conditioned to not give money to people on the street (perpetuating dependency, there are so many social systems in place, enabling drug abuse, etc.), even though it seems like an easy fix, an easy way to feel better about having resources and sharing them.

The drawback is that giving money to people who ask for handouts does not feel good at all. I'm not opposed to sharing or helping people in need, but it feels ten times more awkward and self-demeaning to do that than to give money to someone in need who doesn't just ask for money because of my skin color.

On the other hand: given the legacy of colonialism that has long-favored people of European descent, should I just count mandatory giving as a white-privilege tax?

I still believe that one important way to responsibly use money is to seek out locally-grown and handmade items as a way to support the people around me who are part of our local economy. And of course, to make responsible choices about consumption.

The truck.

Okay, so the boy in me is still impressed by large vehicles.

Aside from Jean Remy, I think Sharon and I are the only other people on our team that know how to drive vehicles other than motorcycles. Lately I've been doing a lot of driving--maybe Jean is tired of driving, or he thinks it's the one thing I can do, so he lets me do it.

Here's the machine, as it's called in kreyol. This thing really is a tank.

From Bryan & Sharon in Haiti