Tree. Haiti.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Reforestation or Agroforestry?
Lately I've been noticing a problem with the terminology used to describe our program. I understand why it's easier to call our program reforestation because that's what the world wants to hear. People want to know that other people are reforesting land by simply planting trees and not ever cutting them down. Unfortunately, it's not that simple. The other day someone asked, "It sounds like your program is agroforestry and not reforestation, is that true?" I thought for a moment and said "yes."
Dictionary.com provides this enlightenment:
re·for·est: to replant (an area) with forest cover.
re'for·es·ta'tion: n. the restoration (replanting) of a forest that had been reduced by fire or cutting. v. (used with object) to replant trees on (land denuded by cutting or fire).
ag·ro·for·est·ry: a method and system of land management involving the simultaneous cultivation of farm crops and trees; agriculture incorporating the growing of trees. Agroforestry ensures a continuous food supply, some continuous economic return, and the avoidance of soil degradation.
And courtesy of Wikipedia, there's also
sustainable forest management (SFM): the stewardship and use of forests and forest lands in a way, and at a rate, that maintains their biodiversity, productivity, regeneration capacity, vitality and their potential to fulfill, now and in the future, relevant ecological, economic and social functions, at local, national, and global levels, and that does not cause damage to other ecosystems.
I think agroforestry fits us better than reforestation, and we're not yet at the whole-forest level of SFM. Maybe each of the definitions fit us in some way, but which one sounds sexier and which will get funding? Reforestation, of course.
I just feel sometimes like we are misleading people. Our supporters think we plant trees which hang out in the ground and grow, and everyone is happy. Most of the Haitians who plant MCC trees cut some of those trees every year to make money. They make charcoal, harvest firewood, mill lumber for building, etc. I get a little agitated (just a bit) when people think that we shouldn't let them cut trees. The people in our communities still need to make a living, and I think it's awesome and amazing that we have arrived at a program that both reforests the land and grants people a way to achieve some financial independence at the same time.
From now on we will have to reference this project as the KSM (Komite Santral Menonit) Reforestation, Agroforestry, and Sustainable Forestry Program. And in Haiti acronyms never make a pronounceable word so we can call it MCC/KSM RASFP. Easy, eh?
I guess that's it for now, even though now I feel like one of those people that are always trying to explain their very technical job to someone and eventually just say "I work with computers."
I plant trees.
Bryan
Dictionary.com provides this enlightenment:
re·for·est: to replant (an area) with forest cover.
re'for·es·ta'tion: n. the restoration (replanting) of a forest that had been reduced by fire or cutting. v. (used with object) to replant trees on (land denuded by cutting or fire).
ag·ro·for·est·ry: a method and system of land management involving the simultaneous cultivation of farm crops and trees; agriculture incorporating the growing of trees. Agroforestry ensures a continuous food supply, some continuous economic return, and the avoidance of soil degradation.
And courtesy of Wikipedia, there's also
sustainable forest management (SFM): the stewardship and use of forests and forest lands in a way, and at a rate, that maintains their biodiversity, productivity, regeneration capacity, vitality and their potential to fulfill, now and in the future, relevant ecological, economic and social functions, at local, national, and global levels, and that does not cause damage to other ecosystems.
I think agroforestry fits us better than reforestation, and we're not yet at the whole-forest level of SFM. Maybe each of the definitions fit us in some way, but which one sounds sexier and which will get funding? Reforestation, of course.
I just feel sometimes like we are misleading people. Our supporters think we plant trees which hang out in the ground and grow, and everyone is happy. Most of the Haitians who plant MCC trees cut some of those trees every year to make money. They make charcoal, harvest firewood, mill lumber for building, etc. I get a little agitated (just a bit) when people think that we shouldn't let them cut trees. The people in our communities still need to make a living, and I think it's awesome and amazing that we have arrived at a program that both reforests the land and grants people a way to achieve some financial independence at the same time.
From now on we will have to reference this project as the KSM (Komite Santral Menonit) Reforestation, Agroforestry, and Sustainable Forestry Program. And in Haiti acronyms never make a pronounceable word so we can call it MCC/KSM RASFP. Easy, eh?
I guess that's it for now, even though now I feel like one of those people that are always trying to explain their very technical job to someone and eventually just say "I work with computers."
I plant trees.
Bryan
School days
Ah, routine. Happens to the best of us.
Having this blog helpfully reminds us that our routine might still be of interest to those of you who are worlds away, and that sharing our experiences with you is a big part of the - well, experience.
Approximately four mornings a week, my routine sends me to visit a 4th or 5th grade classroom somewhere in the countryside around Dezam. I'm proud to say that after a mere 6 months, I am able to make some of these trips alone (yes, I am speaking Creole. or trying to, anyway). The farthest one is a 2-hour hike over a mountain range (haven't done that alone yet) and the closest is a 20-minute walk up the paved road (was just there by myself this morning).
Visiting schools is a completely polarized experience for me. I love the opportunity to get the Not-for-Tourists view of these communities, hang out with teachers, students, school directors, and the marchanns who are always ready to vend at recess. I enjoy feeling like the work I'm doing here might actually matter in someone's daily life. On the other hand, the unending curiosity the students have about foreigners can wear on me. (Yes, you've seen me before. Shouldn't you be in your own classroom instead of staring through the windows of this one?) And while I like kids, I wouldn't say I'm particularly talented when it comes to working with them.
From what I've experienced so far, I can tell you the following about the schools here:
- There are at least three kinds of schools: private, church-run, and national. Private and church-run schools require an attendance fee, while the national schools are technically free (students must still pay for books, uniforms, school supplies, etc.).
- Teachers in private and church-run schools speak of national schools as something close to a plague. When a national school opens, enrollment in nearby schools can plummet. One of the classes in MCC's program currently has 3 students, thanks to a national school that opened this year.
- School fees are usually paid monthly. These don't seem exorbitant, but are still enough to exclude many children from attending. I don't know how the schools feel about it, but we usually try to let any non-student hangers-around observe the MCC lessons.
- Months after the world has stopped paying attention to the tragedy of Gonaives, several schools in the Artibonite are still feeling the effects of the 2008 hurricanes. Families are unable to pay school fees because they're trying to replant their fields or rebuild their fences. One school had just finished constructing a new concrete block schoolhouse - only to have the building destroyed before the school year started.
- Teachers sometimes aren't paid for months at a time. I have no idea how they manage to keep these jobs at a seeming loss to themselves.
- While of course the levels vary, it seems that most directors and teachers genuinely care about the education of the children. They're working with highly limited resources (many are in one-room schoolhouses where students are fortunate to have a desk attached to the bench they share with others) and struggle with the legacy of decades of teaching by rote memorization (a tradition unfortunately still alive and well).
- Students care about the color of the uniform. All schools require them, and they all feature a gingham shirt with cotton skirts for girls and shorts for boys. Color combinations range widely: pink and khaki; yellow and brown; navy blue and white (the national colors). I would care too.
Having this blog helpfully reminds us that our routine might still be of interest to those of you who are worlds away, and that sharing our experiences with you is a big part of the - well, experience.
Approximately four mornings a week, my routine sends me to visit a 4th or 5th grade classroom somewhere in the countryside around Dezam. I'm proud to say that after a mere 6 months, I am able to make some of these trips alone (yes, I am speaking Creole. or trying to, anyway). The farthest one is a 2-hour hike over a mountain range (haven't done that alone yet) and the closest is a 20-minute walk up the paved road (was just there by myself this morning).
Visiting schools is a completely polarized experience for me. I love the opportunity to get the Not-for-Tourists view of these communities, hang out with teachers, students, school directors, and the marchanns who are always ready to vend at recess. I enjoy feeling like the work I'm doing here might actually matter in someone's daily life. On the other hand, the unending curiosity the students have about foreigners can wear on me. (Yes, you've seen me before. Shouldn't you be in your own classroom instead of staring through the windows of this one?) And while I like kids, I wouldn't say I'm particularly talented when it comes to working with them.
From what I've experienced so far, I can tell you the following about the schools here:
- There are at least three kinds of schools: private, church-run, and national. Private and church-run schools require an attendance fee, while the national schools are technically free (students must still pay for books, uniforms, school supplies, etc.).
- Teachers in private and church-run schools speak of national schools as something close to a plague. When a national school opens, enrollment in nearby schools can plummet. One of the classes in MCC's program currently has 3 students, thanks to a national school that opened this year.
- School fees are usually paid monthly. These don't seem exorbitant, but are still enough to exclude many children from attending. I don't know how the schools feel about it, but we usually try to let any non-student hangers-around observe the MCC lessons.
- Months after the world has stopped paying attention to the tragedy of Gonaives, several schools in the Artibonite are still feeling the effects of the 2008 hurricanes. Families are unable to pay school fees because they're trying to replant their fields or rebuild their fences. One school had just finished constructing a new concrete block schoolhouse - only to have the building destroyed before the school year started.
- Teachers sometimes aren't paid for months at a time. I have no idea how they manage to keep these jobs at a seeming loss to themselves.
- While of course the levels vary, it seems that most directors and teachers genuinely care about the education of the children. They're working with highly limited resources (many are in one-room schoolhouses where students are fortunate to have a desk attached to the bench they share with others) and struggle with the legacy of decades of teaching by rote memorization (a tradition unfortunately still alive and well).
- Students care about the color of the uniform. All schools require them, and they all feature a gingham shirt with cotton skirts for girls and shorts for boys. Color combinations range widely: pink and khaki; yellow and brown; navy blue and white (the national colors). I would care too.
 |
| From Haiti |
Saturday, March 7, 2009
What's normal?
Both Kurt and Alexis have commented on their blogs about how after you live in Haiti (or any new place) for a little while, the things that at first blew your mind and inspired blog posts are now totally normal. I started thinking about what I've gotten used to so far, the things that don't surprise me at all:
1. Kids/adults shouting "BLAN!" I still get annoyed, but now I can ignore it 95% of the time.
2. Naked people - they're everywhere. They're not always 100% nude, but they're pretty close.
3. People on horseback, just like the wild west. Almost.
4. Farm animals: goats, pigs, chickens, turkeys, cows, donkeys. They roam freely: you name it; they're walking around.
5. Trash. Plastic bottles, bags, etc. There is nobody here to take it "away" so it stays on the ground or is burnt.
6. Fires. These are usually for cooking, but people also burn trash, leaves, farm fields, and tires. Sometimes at night we can see fires on the sides of the mountains surrounding Desarmes, and sometimes we get a nice chemically whiff of burning plastic. Ah, fresh air.
7. Toyota trucks. If Toyota ever thought their trucks were not invincible, they should look at the trucks here. If you remember commercials from a long time ago, they showed odometers of 200/300/400/500,000 miles and still running. Now, imagine these same trucks being shipped to Haiti, where almost every aspect of preventative maintenance is ignored, they get overloaded so that their bumpers are almost dragging on the ground, and they drive over roads that should be called trails. These trucks are unstoppable. (Toyota, you can send a check for this ad to MCC Akron.)
8. Stars. No infrastructure means no lights, and no lights means no light pollution, which means STARS!!! everywhere! We've seen a few spectacular meteor showers - but really, most nights are spectacular.
9. Vodou drumming at 2am, almost every night.
10. Home church services at 3am, not every night but often. These are louder than the drumming.
11. People walking through the streets shouting news through a megaphone. They usually start between 4-5am.
12. Little animals. Lizards, inside and outside. Tree frogs in the house, hiding in hats, behind curtains, or wherever it is dark.
13. People everywhere (really, everywhere). It is impossible to do anything without being watched. Who needs Big Brother when you have 8 million of his younger siblings?
1. Kids/adults shouting "BLAN!" I still get annoyed, but now I can ignore it 95% of the time.
2. Naked people - they're everywhere. They're not always 100% nude, but they're pretty close.
3. People on horseback, just like the wild west. Almost.
4. Farm animals: goats, pigs, chickens, turkeys, cows, donkeys. They roam freely: you name it; they're walking around.
5. Trash. Plastic bottles, bags, etc. There is nobody here to take it "away" so it stays on the ground or is burnt.
6. Fires. These are usually for cooking, but people also burn trash, leaves, farm fields, and tires. Sometimes at night we can see fires on the sides of the mountains surrounding Desarmes, and sometimes we get a nice chemically whiff of burning plastic. Ah, fresh air.
7. Toyota trucks. If Toyota ever thought their trucks were not invincible, they should look at the trucks here. If you remember commercials from a long time ago, they showed odometers of 200/300/400/500,000 miles and still running. Now, imagine these same trucks being shipped to Haiti, where almost every aspect of preventative maintenance is ignored, they get overloaded so that their bumpers are almost dragging on the ground, and they drive over roads that should be called trails. These trucks are unstoppable. (Toyota, you can send a check for this ad to MCC Akron.)
8. Stars. No infrastructure means no lights, and no lights means no light pollution, which means STARS!!! everywhere! We've seen a few spectacular meteor showers - but really, most nights are spectacular.
9. Vodou drumming at 2am, almost every night.
10. Home church services at 3am, not every night but often. These are louder than the drumming.
11. People walking through the streets shouting news through a megaphone. They usually start between 4-5am.
12. Little animals. Lizards, inside and outside. Tree frogs in the house, hiding in hats, behind curtains, or wherever it is dark.
13. People everywhere (really, everywhere). It is impossible to do anything without being watched. Who needs Big Brother when you have 8 million of his younger siblings?
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Sojourning in a Lent time
Always a meaningful time of year for me, the forty days of Lent are a period in which to experience the starless night that comes before the Easter dawn. Fasting provides an impetus to identify and forgo distracting habits in favor of meditation on the divine, to mirror the sacrifice Christ embodied on the cross. Lenten fasting is beyond the level of a New Year’s resolution; temporarily denying a physical desire symbolizes our yearning for the redemption of the world. It exacts flesh from flesh, the very nature of the thing. As Christ set his face toward Jerusalem, we too look forward to the moment of salvation. We wait. We wait.
Now, during our first Lent in Haiti, during such a defined period in my life (how often do we see 3 years so clearly?), I find myself thinking about the nature of sacrifice. What does one ever hope to get out of voluntary sacrifice? Pride in being able to say, I did it? A heightened appreciation for what is later restored? I’m torn between saying that I haven’t sacrificed anything in coming to Haiti (living here is much easier than I thought it would be; all our basic needs are met, I go through most days with an unflappable sense of physical security, and we have the opportunity to do something wildly interesting) and in voicing my loneliness, the personal sacrifice of giving up ready friends, visits with family, and the security of a familiar home culture. The things I’m missing cut close.
Somewhere in my soul is the conviction that sacrifice will teach me something I couldn’t learn otherwise, the hope that pushing through temporary discomfort will make me a stronger person. Sacrifice in search of the unexpected, a growth period that will allow me to shoot off in a new direction. Just as rules make a game possible, sacrifice is essential to abundance. I choose to see Lent as time given with expectation, balancing now and soon. Not lightly present. Borrowed time.
Now, during our first Lent in Haiti, during such a defined period in my life (how often do we see 3 years so clearly?), I find myself thinking about the nature of sacrifice. What does one ever hope to get out of voluntary sacrifice? Pride in being able to say, I did it? A heightened appreciation for what is later restored? I’m torn between saying that I haven’t sacrificed anything in coming to Haiti (living here is much easier than I thought it would be; all our basic needs are met, I go through most days with an unflappable sense of physical security, and we have the opportunity to do something wildly interesting) and in voicing my loneliness, the personal sacrifice of giving up ready friends, visits with family, and the security of a familiar home culture. The things I’m missing cut close.
Somewhere in my soul is the conviction that sacrifice will teach me something I couldn’t learn otherwise, the hope that pushing through temporary discomfort will make me a stronger person. Sacrifice in search of the unexpected, a growth period that will allow me to shoot off in a new direction. Just as rules make a game possible, sacrifice is essential to abundance. I choose to see Lent as time given with expectation, balancing now and soon. Not lightly present. Borrowed time.
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