Thursday 27 February 2014

the haze of yesterday

The strangeness of each minute, every novel sound and arresting smell . . these have all receded.  Now I look through a familiar window, out onto English trees and green grass and watercolour skies and wonder was it all real, did it really happen, were those colours really there?  Where did I exaggerate - what did I corrupt?  I haven't slept for 29 hours and so my tired mind distorts certainty and my memory is blurry.  I know it all happened, though - was danger ever really snapping at our ankles?  The long flight home like caged animals - the strict conventions of flying; one seat, one corridor, one loo.  Contrasted by the infinite possibilities that came with each day in Haiti.

Images of bright colour and dry earth are all there in my mind when I summon them.  It's not that hazy.  I can see a shack on a crooked hill made of tin and timber.  The blue is flat with one cloud.  The heat is blistering and I am out of place.  They all stare at blanco and so I'll never fit in.

That strange and struggling place continues without me.  I just watched a performance, that's all, shuttled in and wheeled out, and now the show goes on every day and night, repeat performances and new productions.  I tried to make myself important by clapping loudly and cheering them on.  I tried to write some clever review but, really, I did precious little for them, they did much more for me.

And now I count the cost.  The things I take and give are odd concepts of what I think they lack and need.  And if I gave just my time, gave myself would that be meaningful to them?  What was it all for - would I do it all again?  There are vast treasures and profound simplicities in Haiti; do they really have precious little?  And my own motives and desires are too complex to know what I want from Haiti next time - I hope it will evolve and I hope it will mature.  Could I live there indefinitely and what for?  Is it enough that I love the place and love its people?  Need I ask any more?

Sunday 23 February 2014

last hours

The final day and a quick swim in the sea was a pleasant surprise.  A friend turned up out of the blue to transport us to a good beach near Port-au-Prince - about an hour's drive.  Before this we had been packing and preparing to leave early next day.

In twelve hours we leave the convent.  The bus will take us on a twelve hour journey to Santo Domingo, Dominican capitol.  This is a kind of re-entry that I have always found helpful.  The transition from Haiti to home is hard enough and if it were direct from Port-au-Prince to London it would be even more of a shock.  Instead we can transition first to DR then after a day's rest and travel to Punta Cana we can head-off home.  The overnight flight on Wednesday gets us into to Gatwick Thursday morning.

The biggest news is the container is still being held at the port.  The slow process required for tax exemption status means that the month this can take, there's a $22 per day charge that we incur while the container sit there, bathing in the sun. In addition, this means that the sisters will have the difficult task of sorting through everything, when it eventually arrives, the stuff being mostly unlabelled, and they'll have to determine precisely where things will go.  This task will not be easy and they have been dreading the thought that we would not be here to act as arbiters in this difficult process.  Plus certain items were obviously obtained with particular groups in mind.  It was personally tough for me to inform one orphanage that they would not now be getting their climbing frame and other items because we were able to ensure that all the parts would get to them.  They took it well but it still breaks my heart to break such a promise.  We visited them four weeks ago with pictures of the climbing frame and big promises.  And now to promise them that these things would get to them in a second container is also a risky promise given that there is no guarantee that we will be successful sending a second.  This is one of those risks that one has to take.

There are some arguments amongst the sisters - who is getting what? - and feelings can run high with the easiest of tasks.  It can be hard for them to remain dispassionate when they want the best for the particular children under their care.  And it is perfectly understandable that mild grievances and jealousy can get in the way - they can get to us all.  I feel sorry that there might be some upset in this process but that's life . . and some good will come of it all even if there are tears along the way.

I am obviously disappointed not to help put the stuff where it was intended.  There has already been some dispute about the laptops - which I had decided should go to the young students at the technical college.  I met all these lads about three years ago and promised the director that I'd try to help in this way.  A few of the sisters feel that the college is well-equipped and that there are more needy people for this valuable resource.  What they didn't grasp was that I had wanted to give the students the laptops for their personal use and ownership . . not as equipment for the college, which the sisters were arguing against.  It was all lost in translation and before I knew it the list of 18 laptops was being dissected amongst spurious names and questionable recipients.  I concurred too easily.

Enough of the negatives - this task for the sisters will be good for them even if it does cause grievances and upset along the way.

Personally, I want to continue this effort to bring stuff for the children of Haiti.  There will be struggles and obstructions along the way.  The sisters are an excellent means to reach thousands of poor children here.  And shoes seem to be the very best means to help them.  Although other items will always be offered at the same time.  I have met two new priests who each have serious projects under way and the diocese here are rebuilding 53 churches that were levelled during the earthquake.  I couldn't say what really drives my desire to help, but now I've seen so much of what they lack - seen how the youngest of them have so little - I can only ask those back home, that have arguably more than they need, to give to Haiti.  They are the generous - I'm glad to act as carrier.  Then there is being here, simply as an act of solidarity, which is perhaps more important than any action, than any campaign of persuasion or appeal of compassion.  I am still compelled to give stuff, material stuff.  But just being and being here, as I've heard in so many situations, is the best form support and compassion but of course it has to be supported by some positive action surely.  We want to bring about some kind of change - however slight or subtle.  As I am so often aware that may carry some arrogance and conceit which one has to simply accept as probably true, but together with impediment one must remember how insignificant we are.

Saturday 22 February 2014

grandeur and decay

To see the weathered grandeur of the crumbling buildings is somehow a fascinating picture.  Stage and film sets recreate this kind of worn and used authenticity.  It has much more character than the new.  The old and ramshackled seem more established, somehow; loved and treasured.

The building that housed the 32 orphan children was grand and epic in its day.  The view from the first floor reception room had striking views of the bay of Jérémie.  In front was a huge lawn that had suffered in recent years from an obvious lack of care.  There were high walls and occasional iron wrought gates that must have provided access in days past, and now this function replaced by the huge characteristic gates to the side of the property.

Staying here was an interesting experience and though the building is in serious decline, it still has a grand feel to it that could be one day restored to its former glory.  The decorative iron screens protected the residents from unwanted visitors whilst giving them a cool breeze at night.  The views are stunning, and the sea, with its electric blue hue, was strangely majestic and beautiful to watch.  Only slight movements of the distant ocean and the occasional clouds breaking the sprawling sky.  At night there is no light pollution and so the night sky we had already grown accustomed to was now an explosive array of light.  Pin pricks of intense shards of diamond lights enveloping the whole sky from one side to the other.

The journey back to Port-au-Prince started at 5am on Friday.  We stopped in Les Cayes for lunch and then this would get us comfortably back to the convent in the capitol early afternoon.  Highway construction - performed on a military scale, by the Dominican construction company Estrella - regular closes the narrow, inadequate track which is the only way to Jérémie from the east.  Vast pathways are being chiselled through the gorgeous hilltops, providing necessary and safe access to this coastal haven.  As the road peters out towards Les Cayes there are numerous villages along the way - market towns with roadside markets that bring the passing traffic to almost standstill as they crawl through the sellers and buyers.  The colour and din are magnificent; with exotic fruits and wild animals purchased for a few Gourds, the babel of trading and greeting in sounds as weird, as puzzling and unfamiliar, as the cackling live poultry, terrified goats and lines of fruits too kaleidoscopic and alien to name.  A clutch of yellow and green peppers - twelve or so - for fifty cents.  The smells are like soup and wood and hot coals . . intoxicating and mind numbing . . then the smiles and the calling out to us in the car.  Sellers flock to the open window like seagulls.  Women and children carrying colours from the earth and trees.  The sun bearing down on the car and our departure from this land in three days tugging at me.  The clouds are complicit in all this too.  The sky open and constant and will be here waiting when I come again.


Our trip to Jérémie was planned by the sisters.  Their orphanage in the far reaches of this western district is arguably their most austere and remote location.  The orphanage houses 32 children - all girls - between the ages of 4 and 15.  Most are 4,5 and 6 years-old.  I hadn't been to Jérémie before although I had visited Cayes and Cavaillon - close by - in the west of Haiti.  There are two schools and another orphanage and these had received toys and clothes in previous visits from the UK.

The road to Jérémie is steep, rugged and broken, dangerous in parts and slow.  There are huge diggers and excavators on the highest reaches preparing a new road as part of Haiti's redevelopment.  Perhaps funded by the worldwide response to the earthquake.  We had three days in this part of Haiti.  

Jérémie is cut off from the rest of the country and can only be accessed by these mountain roads from Cavaillon just to the east, and the steep hills to the south.  They are difficult and treacherous in parts to pass but they provide the most stunning views of this fantastic country.  Multiple hills coloured with deep blues and purples as they recede away as far as the eye can see.  Deep caverns and gorges thick with rich tropical trees and bush.  The views were like fantasy; the depths and great sweeping valleys were like nothing I'd seen before.  Scenes that leave you feeling so insignificant.  God's country, God's blessing: God's creation.

The centre of Jérémie is dusty, tired and neglected.  I could see instantly Haiti's former ' glory' in the bleached woodwork. Jaded pastel colours and type - hand scripted logos and names.  The architecture is ornate.  Wooden and concrete balustrades and columns festoon almost all the shop and house entrances.  They are worn and weathered.  And have long-needed renewal and modernisation but the town's economy and meagre resources have prevented its upkeep and development.  Gentrification is absent here and everywhere.  There are few cars.  Gardener's trikes are the standard means for communal and cheap public transport.  And mopeds for personal and more comfortable hire.  As for most of Haiti, the people here live hand to mouth and know little else.  They live in the dirt.  And their houses are makeshift and rickety.  The earthquake didn't shake the ground here but refugees did make it as far as Jérémie, where the sick and injured did receive help and aid.  A big relief ship came here.  On the way into town there are four impressive, US army bridges meant, I'm sure, as a temporary measures.  They still stand after 4-5 years.  They are crucial for access.  Other bridges are being built.  Work is slow and, thankfully, professional and fit to withstand the strong winds and rain that leashes Haiti every season. The wide, almost empty, river beds are a meeting place for many who come to wash and dry clothes and collect drinking water.  Large and colourful pieces of fabric are spread-eagled across the ground, on rocks, gravel, drying in minutes in the relentless daytime heat and sunlight.
Our accommodation was basic at the orphanage.  But as ever, the sisters there - two of them - were tireless in their own work and their efforts to feed us and make us comfortable.  There was no running water in the house, and it 
was supplied in large buckets by young workers carrying them from the well.  One for the loo and one for washing.  You soon get accustomed to the routine and cold water is the least of the problems.  The bugs are noisy at night - sometimes close to the bed - and rapid on their feet just as you step into the shower area.

Seeing the authentic buildings, shop fronts and homes of this particular part of Haiti; experiencing this separate and different coastal locality completes my picture of Haiti somehow.  I love them for their profound simplicity and aptitude.  Their competence and endurance is striking, and I admire them for making a success of living harmoniously and happily despite the many things they lack.

Friday 14 February 2014

. . sampling a funeral

Today was a classic example of bad communication, but gesticulations and chest prodding won the day.  It wasn't pretty.  It was clumsy.  But I got the job done.

First I had to cadge a lift.  Then take a large case of clothes to an unsuspecting street seller.  It wasn't easy.  But I managed it!  Or at least I left them there in front of her on the sidewalk after some explanation and then hot-footed it away.  Why do I do it?  We had similar problems giving phones away to street vendors - figuring that it was a good way to help people conduct their trade.

I hate charades.  The type you're forced play at parties, and I have no problem in refusing to take part.  But when one doesn't speak the lingo there's a desperate inclination to start using hand movements and to replace the words you don't have with silly miming and hand gestures for things like sowing and washing and driving.  It's a universal habit in the absence of mutual language.  If you come here and don't speak Creole then you'll probably resort to this too in a vague desperation.  Bring a dictionary and try to learn the language as quickly as possible otherwise it simply will not do!   Besides how difficult can it be?  Well, seven weeks here and I really haven't tried hard enough - but there will plenty of time, I'm resolved to learning Creole and put it all into practice next visit.

Because of the limitations of language - i.e. not speaking theirs, and them not speaking ours - there's quite a bit of misunderstanding going - so its hard on occasion to make any concrete observations that require local knowledge and explanation - so we are a bit in the dark.  But it's not always a problem - in fact, sometimes, its more information than we need.

The car was an hour late.  We didn't know where we going.  I guess it didn't matter.  We trusted the driver, and one of the sisters was complicit in our voyage, so it was safe to go.  Woken abruptly from sleep at 4.50am by disembodied voices outside the tent - first the gardener then a sister - whispering that Father was on his way - or so we gathered. It was in French but it was pretty easy to guess what she meant.  Quickly dressed in a sleepy reluctance; we just needed the camera and a phone, some cash, and off we went.  Without the planned Mass, breakfast or the lie-in Saturday normally provides.  We headed into the dark.

It's not always easy to summarise what's going on.  On account of the multitude, magnitude and volume of it all - there's just so much to take in.  And the heat and the altitude and the indecipherable babble are the greatest limiters.  It's still fascinating but even Manhattan saturates the senses and in time one must switch to Woodstock.  When there's a mass of images, ideas, broken conversations, jagged notions, all coloured by novelty and cultural anomolies, and so, conclusions are dubious.  Faulty thinking or confused impressions abound - and this marvelling in my mind is matched by the mayhem on the street.   My curiosity with everything Haitian has become a constant occupation and so I'm noticing everything and remembering little.  I can go on for months but I'd like to digest it all in the quiet cold of Otley - eventually one needs to rest and experience the mundane again for a while. I guess most of us experience this barrage of the senses; the multitude of interactions and impulses, sounds and shapes that occur in our everyday without giving them much notice.  But when I'm in a foreign zone of novelty and anomaly I'm processing and observing all these things with equal importance.  There's often a bit of an overload - all these things competing.  Tastes collide with smells; noises and unfathomable gesticulations clash with greetings and fleeting smiles.

A young girl cross-legged on the sidewalk selling oranges from a plastic bowl.  Looks pensively at me - then after moments hesitation she smiles freely.

The intoxicating heat could kill me if were not for the twelve types of shade in the tropical garden and sweltering streets.  Trees with extending leaves give rich mottled beads of light to the roads and paths and scrub.  The hot haze mollifies or frustrates in extreme measures.

 I heard 'funeral' mentioned. And wondered if it was a place or an actual ceremony.  Then sure enough we were on our way again to Léogâne  . . and it was a funeral.  The funeral of a former teacher of his at the primary school.  We stopped en route at another church destroyed by the earthquake, replaced by a large 'wedding' marquee for services for the past four years.  Rebuilding of the new church is about to begin after a long campaign of fundraising.  The church bells and the marble altar had survived and were dumped at the side next to the main wall.  One bell had been raised on a eight foot, makeshift wooden construction so that the bell could be used, presumably on a Sunday, calling people to church.  The rope used to sound the bell was pathetically attached and somehow gave testament to the inventiveness and determination to adapt and improvise.  They do that a lot - recycling and making do.  We had a humble though delicious breakfast with two priests and two dogs - Darren and I conversing with our eyes.  Then after a short break  we continued in another car a short way to the funeral where hundreds of people were expected.  It was my first experience of a funeral in Haiti, but it didn't matter that we didn't know the deceased.  Being there was a simple act of solidarity for a good man that had clearly been very popular and had given his life to this valuable and exemplary profession.  Not unlike solidarity for all the people of Haiti - we don't anyone really.  I have no family here but a people caught up in personal tragedy or abject poverty requires some kind of response.  That's solidarity even though it's a term that can be overused or confused.  It's a show of support - a human and compassionate act - that seems to me to be the bear minimum, once one breaks through the practical obstacles of getting here and the inevitable uncertainty of one's usefulness.  When I got here, I was captivated by their goodness and quickly admired a simple beauty that was everywhere.

Wednesday 12 February 2014

populated peaks

Port-au-Prince is very hilly.  If you travel north or eastwards it is even more dramatic.  West, to the Dominican Republic, is flat and uneventful.

Travelling by car this morning, as soon as we left the gates of the convent, it struck me again how beautiful it is here.

I could see a long way into the distance through breaks in the palm trees.  The rich greens and yellows, the rich blue sky and the sea completing the view.  Houses are stacked precariously on every hillside - fascinating for their sheer impertinence.  Amazing: defying convention and reason.  And yet there's an order than seems to belong - no one will say, 'I told you so'! If they should all fall.  They were built there out of necessity and lived in for expedience.

Port-au-Prince is a series of basins interlocking.  A district of peaks and troughs.  Valleys and hills of trees and roads and thick forestation where I thought there were none.  All this has grown in a short, critical time of trauma; serial traumas and events - natural and political.  The boiling Haitian sun beats down regardless giving the place such drama and colour everywhere.  I surrender to the sweltering heat.

Clothes - yellow, orange and green: brilliant and radiant.

Walls whitewashed, brands, logos and slogans hand painted precisely.  Then weathered.  All the way out of town the pavements are dotted with

people sitting and selling, walking and carrying.  Everyone toots - especially the driver I am with.  I realised the horn means: 'caution - I am passing'.  And everyone seems grateful for the advance warning.  At home it's a rude outburst.  But everything is back to front at home.  Before, it was here.


The pace is picking up now.  With fourteen days to go - just twelve in Haiti - I am forced to acknowledge the departure that draws ever nearer.   Two weeks is a short time with lots to do - and yet it's still ample time to soak up all that I love about Haiti.  There's lots to cram in, yes!  But also the time feels ample to repeat visits to favourite places and meet again impressive people that might set me on course for the next year or so - I feel strangely committed to work for Haiti full time.  And yet, that realisation is somehow incomplete, slowly infiltrating me . . like tanning; it's a gradual process -  can I can be useful - can do a job of some value and meaning here?   I'll be at Sister Eveline's school from Monday to start and finish the mural in the playground.  Plus I'm working on three pictures for various people who've asked for them.

So the things I'm doing here are not any grand scale.  No big ego trip.  In fact, bringing material goods was only one aspect to the work that can be done by outsiders.  Being here as a simple act of solidarity for the poor or sick is worth a thousand containers or suitcases of stuff.  I knew that when I painted the mural in the technical college a year after the earthquake.  I sensed that those around me might wonder why I was here - why would I want to come to Haiti?  The tiny scratch marks I make by giving away dollars to drivers and cleaners, students and beggars - and shoes to parents or children - primitive and puny gestures of support, are far outweighed by walking alongside them in the street or standing with them in church.

The hourglass doesn't lie - we've had so much good fortune here and time is racing . . Despite this we still have ahead of us many moments of reflection and peace and pleasure . . the nights are easier now, my exhaustion defeats the night terrors of dogs and bikes; crashing out on the hard ground and the need for sleep blocks out the night din and the mechanical eruptions flooding in from busy road on the perimeter.  There's a digger two clicks north.  A party, loud voices and laughter to the south . . . all noises that haven't kept me from sleep.  Then the shrill alarm sounds tugging at me - and another full day in Port-au-Prince begins.

Sweeping out of the drive mid-morning, Fr Desca speeds downtown to Carrefour.  Taking one of the main roads out of Port-au-Prince to a school he needed to visit.  One of his cousins attends this school, and he wants to discuss a problem with the head.  When we arrive at the school everyone knows him, several people offer him handshakes and there are greeting noises and smiles exchanged all round.  "Kòman ou ye?" How are you, in Creole.  The school is vast.  Its concrete walls with primitive portholes for windows survived the earthquake.  There are over a thousand children here - and they were on their main morning break when we arrived.  Most of them we're seeking out areas of shade, drinking and eating, and talking in big groups - they all seem so playful and free.  If you entered a playground in Britain most of the children are mood and sultry - they'd spy strangers with suspicion and cynicism.  why are we like this.  The Haitien children are dirt poor - their parents all struggle to pay the expensive fees and the children are glad to be there, I'm sure.  Knowing so well that it is all so fragile.

Sunday 9 February 2014

.. then the car sweeps left for the hills

With fourteen days left I have lost all sense of urgency and yet there is so much to do and think about.  I'm still on track to get all I want to achieve - but I do wonder how quickly the next two weeks will race by.  I do want to meet a few more of Father's contacts.  A business women and two other priests have been mentioned by him.  Plus a visit to the orphanage at Jérémie (on the south east tip of Haiti - the only on I haven't been to), another home run by the sisters.  In addition I'm painting one mural at the big school in the playground and two canvases, one for the sisters and the other for parish of St Teresa. 

The parish of St Teresa in Petionville is a big parish run by Father Desca.  The building was destroyed by the earthquake.  And for four years there has been a campaign to raise money for its reconstruction.  A German charity and an American organisation have so far offered two thirds of the estimated cost.  In Father Desca's words, 'We're not ready to build . .'  It's a huge and tireless undertaking - and spoken of with real enthusiasm and conviction.   But many projects in Port-au-Prince are ready, and re-building is about to begin in many churches that were demolished that January day.  57 Catholic churches were destroyed.  There are about 300 Catholic priests in Port-au-Prince. The church here is strong and the bishop of Port-au-Prince was recently made a cardinal.  Pope Francis, I know, feels greatly concerned for countries like Haiti where the problem of poverty is in crisis.

Two visits to the mountain district of Léogâne and I love it.  I've decided I'd love to camp there on the next visit.  The trip is about two hours each way by car.  Down from Petionville, the road continues downtown flat and congested. The road narrows slightly and clears as you exit Port-au-Prince.  Then it's a clear run for the last forty minutes into the town of Léogâne.  Then the car sweeps left for the hills.  After a long climb with striking views down and across, Haiti looks beautiful.  The trees seem to growing with great urgency and potency.  There vast plains of green, great swathes of plantain and banana.  When one really gets into the hills the only traffic on the steep roads are bikes and walkers.  They all know Father and call out to him with smiles and waves.  He's helped build a small school on a hilltop that desperately needs support.

We pass huts for homes along the way that are artfully constructed with precious materials.  Immaculate yards with red polished earth - dotted with urchins and washing bespangle - and the car engine children stand to attention.  Then cry out, 'mon père. . ' and mothers with wide grins and mules moving urgently away from motor.  The sky is blue, the sun is hot - ' . . these are peasants', Father tells me.  How that doesn't translate into my language!  The school was closed and we dropped off rice and beans for next week's school meals.  Then we shot off back down hill for a slightly easier return than the bouncy climb up.  The breeze through the now open window carries sweet and dry smells of hot soil and baking caramel . . from somewhere and no where.  I feel such a peace here mixed with a burning affection for such simplicity and plainness.  And humility.


surprise, delight, dislike, or pain

Sometimes it feels like riding the rapids, with such force and such velocity.  Sometimes I can hardly pause for  thought, at times there's such a rush of adrenaline, a surge of emotions as one simply tries to compute, to go along with it all, to understand the extremes that people know everyday.  Extremes, that for them, there's no escaping.

The rapids then give way to calm and warm; floating in reef pools in a dream-like oasis of crystal blue and stillness.  The noise of Haiti evaporates for a moment.  This place gives me such peace and contentment, the likes of which I've rarely experienced.  And how can that be amidst so many extremes, drifting from the din there's music, weird and irrational?   And there's been five weeks of it.  The comforts of staying here, the good food, the swims in crystal waters each strike a discord with each new picture of poverty we see from the air-conditioned safety of each trip.  The theatre and drama of Port-au-Prince never grows dull - I'm never going to acclimatise - I wish I could do something that eases this great 'lack'.

From the rich to the poor; the secure to the disappointed . . I want to understand and make some sense of the great diversity here.  And yet why should I stare and gawp and not just accept what is here and my position in it all?  Every country has great diversity, with a complex order of things - with so much variation one cannot hope to see things simply and consistently - and this is true especially in Britain - I travel that country with indifference and acceptance.  Though here I can't look at things with indifference, everything is upside down and inside out.  There are hilltop villas overlooking Port-au-Prince with jewels for eyes. White symmetry, sweeping opulence.  And downtown, close to the waterfront, the anachronistic splendour of festooned timber peeping out of concrete and corrugated metal work.  Industry and commerce now bullies its way through to its relentless goals.  At one end of the scale I see grime and sweat, firelight and filth.  They have their stress and comforts.  At the other extreme there's a bloated excess and great relief not to poor. I must stop looking for the harsh contrasts that exist . . just like only knowing Haiti for the earthquake is a rough approximation. There are harsh contrasts but there are great swathes of the unexceptional and acceptable.  Masses of normality and contentment.

I've seen empty river ways filled with rubbish.  Commonplace for them but horrible for me.  The market days are swarming with horrendous riot and energy.  For them its just a Saturday.

Thursday 6 February 2014

rich soil on a dirt track

It's remarkable how friendship can take shape almost by accident.  And also, so quickly.  Strangers one minute, hardly taking notice of that particular person . . then mysteriously common ground, like-minded views or kind consideration take root.  Then the person seems quite familiar.  I can't remember a time when I didn't know him.

The priest we met at breakfast ten days ago has been quite incredible in the past week. He has transformed our view of Haiti - at least geographically - by first taking us cross-country to Léogâne (a hill-top district, close to the epi-centre of the terrible tremblement de terre, and poor before and after that travesty) - showing us his 'school' project.  Prior to that, to the Justice and Peace meeting that we were so surprised by - when gay rights were high on the agenda which seemed strange . . but then when one thinks about it . . it shouldn't be all that surprising.  Of course, poverty is the number one issue but all aspects of human dignity should be considered together.  They are all as important as each other.  And then yesterday to the beach!  Going to the beach - like the pool - feels slightly self-indulgent for a trip of this kind.  Initially, at least. But you need days like this.  There is an fatigue associated with this kind of travel - the constant surprise and wonder of it all - so detached from my normal expectations of the world. Leisure time is crucial if we are to get through 45 days of astonishment and admiration in equal measure.  To be able to waste away a few hours eating, talking and swimming is a great leveller.  You certainly notice next day as you feel stronger and ready for the next challenge.

The car journey took us through a few small villages - flat and dry - and always thriving with Haitian 'commuters' and dawdlers . . gainful employment is scarce and so life seems to exist on a much more relaxed basis.  And I've seen a steadily more harmonious Haiti in the four visits since the earthquake.  Cooperation is much more evident here than back home.  When I see this kind of harmony and mutual accord I wonder what on earth caused us to be so individual and competitive in the UK.  But you don't find a Utopia anywhere.  And back home the problems and issues are just different.  When we travel we are confronted by aspects of life that are so much better than we know back home - never the whole package but elements like the weather the clean warm blue sea . . and we may over-idealize the life we are seeing here steeped in colour and filled with intoxicating smells; burning plastics, baking palms and parched earth; foods and pheromones.   Personally, I am counting the days with a healthy perspective that being here must come to an end and other responsibilities must resume.  I still love it here - and I think I always will, my desire to help them is not a white arrogance but a genuine response to help people that are worst off than myself! I appreciate and have come to love more and more the blend of brokenness and paradise that is Haiti.  It might even reflect my own life which has never been perfect but the challenges are there, amidst the triumphs, and I suppose we are judged by how we respond to the challenges all around us - personal and global.  And preferably, I believe, in a responsible and loving way.  The dark side, which we all have, grows stronger or weaker. Prominent or overpowered. And so it is with Haiti. 

The roads to Léogâne were the steepest I've ever travelled  . . anywhere.  Corsica was dramatic enough.  Here the steep ravines would have swallowed up the car.  The roads were strewn with deep craters far worse than Cap-Haïtien, in the north of Haiti, which I experienced in my first visit in 2010.  The road climbed and narrowed and eventually we reached the school - I was sure we'd have to stop the car and walk before the final summit but I'd forgotten we were carrying a dozen bags of cement, I couldn't lift one of these.  We arrived and got down from the car covered in dust and were given a quick tour of the school . . ramshackled and like four garden sheds housing small classes that were in session.  The children were immaculately dressed given their obvious hike to school every day.  The surrounding countryside was staggeringly beautiful.  I'd never seen this Haiti.  You could see the ocean on one side of the school and on the other was an endless sea of hills, a rich patchwork of greens and browns with borders all joining together without interruption.  And just in front of us a drop of thousand feet to the valley below.  It was a view from the window seat of a plane. I felt strangely detached and my memory of it now - four days later- is clearer than when I was there.  There was broken hutch and ramshackled stalls in the school garden that felt more like a ghost town were it not for the young children just inside . . they are Haiti's bright future. 

a place of great depth and anomaly . .

Sunday 2 February 2014

roads and rights

While I seize a moment on the vacant laptop there's a distant racket of female voices and laughter. It's a pleasant backdrop amidst the heat and comfort of the guest-house. The corridors echo. Distant voices - a mosaic of sounds - collide and bubble in a soup of reverberations.  Nuns in playful discourse, loud then soft, come and go, melodic and as though rehearsed. The afternoons quieten to a whisper after the lunchtime laughter.  All is well in the world within these Herculean walls.  The colossus of Rhodes guards the gates invisibly with youngsters at its feet like crabs with firearms and steely eyes. Two pairs of wide steel gates complete the fortress, possibly a thousand acres, with trees and immaculate walls and pathways and open views of a thousand hillside homes - stunning vistas night and day.

Outside this cool room the sun exterminates the foliage.  Only the tough survive.  The Haitians know to run for shade or sleep from two till four.

The days start slowly after breakfast without specific plans. Sister Gisele, displaying her customary smile, entered the room and said, Father would be here in twenty minutes to collect us.  I'm not sure if she meant twenty minutes because it was a long wait in eager anticipation.  We didn't mind - he might be running late for a whole host of reasons. He had a plan.  I welcomed it - getting out and about is why we're here - to meet the world and his wife and if we find some new purpose then great!  We watched and waited from the rooftop.

The car hurtled in to view with a cloud of chalk dust billowing in its wake, we hopped abroad and we were on our way in a flash with little explanation or greeting.  This was exciting.  Then he announced he was taking us to meet the Belgian priest.

After a twenty-minute drive through city streets and broken pathways we arrived at a cool yellow chalet at the end of a quiet street.  It was a clean, two-story building with lots of painted iron work, tropical greens and tidy paths.

By contrast, and en route, life in all its colour and chaos swarmed around us.  The car cut through fields of colour and swarms of bodies carrying on regardless of slow moving traffic. Horns pummelled the oblivious  and the deaf.  Wheelbarrows stacked with sugarcane, sharpened spears fit for battle.  Heads laden with goods - balancing acts - carriers with perfect pose.  Shoulders for balance: broad and adept. Countless people sitting and selling.  Each person, indigenous and in perfect belonging; all playing their parts as extras on a set governed by Equity and indifference.  No one is self-conscious or deviant: everyone is a collective.  Each playing their part: the consumer and supplier acting out their conviction with indifference and certainty.  A bus load of extras pass through the chalk dust on a dollar a day nonchalant and expectant.  Though this isn't a film set . . but the players walk their route cheerfully compliant.

As we passed through unguarded gates we could see an open reception area a little way ahead.  There sat a solitary figure - was this the priest, I wondered?  Our guide and chauffeur nodded and walked on through.  Then into another large 'L-shaped' room with twenty people, or so, gathered, as though in conference.  The presentation was about to begin.

Saturday 1 February 2014

out and about

After weeks of broken communication and lots of light-hearted misunderstandings it was refreshing to speak with someone that could speak English so precisely and have such insight.  I know I was enjoying the bubble of being abroad and living without the constant stream of language, but there comes a time when we long to have some explanation of the way of life here.  Some reasoning of the unique behaviour here; a reasoning of the patters and shortcomings of Haiti. Father Desca's friend, and remarkable man and a priest, with a great insight about Haiti, its personalty and problems.  He sat with us for about half an hour and I really hope we get chance to talk again.

Meanwhile, Father Desca took us around in his comfy pick-up truck with its formidable traction and air conditioning.  We visited Delmas - a great expanse of districts stretching to the airport.  Dusty roads, undulating with numerous obstructions and bends in the road.  Then onto to Cité Soleil which was our main destination.  Father agreed to take us to a school in this extremely impoverished district - an area well-know not least because Mary's Meals do some of their great work here.

fracture and splendour

The media drives home a particular message.  I can see how tempting it is to endorse the views of the press, to repeat them, reiterate and perpetuate ideas that are widely accepted.  Like rumours that have a long shelf life, ideas that are often quite pertinent and salient.  But these headlines don't always reflect the real character of a place or event.  Many died as a result of the earthquake, yes! Though many more - millions, in fact, survived the earthquake!

They get stronger each day.

And although I read everywhere that Haiti is the poorest country in the western hemisphere . . and true it may be quite the poorest . . but there is so much more to the place.  The headlines are shorthand but unless you can witness the longhand, the backstory and the detail, then one can miss the true meaning of the Haitian character.  Haiti is phenomenally rich in culture.  It has a complex history of turmoil, feuds and revolution.

The place has a deep and striking complexion.

I realised a few days ago how much we view Haiti through the devastation of the earthquake.  It's understandable but rather superficial.   I do it too; afterall, my first visit was itself a (crude and naive) response to that natural disaster and it was all I knew of Haiti.  The effects of the earthquake were the beginnings of my empathy for the place and its people - not sympathy, but a simple and human compassion .  I became personally 'drawn here' because of that event and subsequently 'captivated' once I'd experienced the place and spent some time here.  But to think of it now only in terms how the character of Haiti was altered after that awful event is only a fraction of Haiti's great story.  Its recovery since that January four years ago has been itself a remarkable episode but I am fascinated by the failings here and the endemic attitudes towards wealth, the white man, justice and corruption that is, at best, held in abeyance.  Reprisals are common towards the police and so they act with great caution, if at all.  The government operates in a way I'm only beginning to understand.    One story in particular, a shocking demise for a high ranking judge that questioned and tried to change the endemic nepotism or financial corruption here.  This despite the relatively positive reports one hears about the new leader.

Many people have followed the fortunes and failings of this 'lawless' place.  They have labelled it as a failed state: suspicious of the voodoo and the mystique of black Haiti with its slave origins, ignoring the cultural and historical foundations of these.  There is a western ambivalence about a black country that seizes (or steals) its independence from France or Britain or a civilised state.

Last Saturday Piere Desca talked to us across the breakfast table.  There were two Haitian priests joining the sisters for early morning breakfast - one was a priest that had said Mass earlier at the convent and Father Desca.  Fr Desca was warm and cheerful and we quickly got chatting about our visit and our interest for Haiti.  He quickly invited us to join him one day, out and about.  He is the parish priest at St Teresa's in Petionville and the Justice and Peace director for the diocese.

Tuesday 28 January 2014

painting rocks . .

Haiti is in the dry season at the moment.  So it's typically hot and arid, and hasn't rained for months.  There have been a few brief showers - one or two at night, that have reverberated on the tent walls - which have only lasted for a minute or two but that's all.  No real rainfall so the ground is hard and parched.  I was here in the rainy season once and it's common for dramatic bursts of rainfall several times a day - even during this time of year the ground can't cope with the sudden and torrential downpours and the streets turn to rivers of mud, rippling currents, carrying rubbish and anything else in its path.

The mosquitoes are out in abundance then too.  Breeding and biting.

January is the best month to be here to avoid the extreme heat of Summer and the biting mosquitoes.  The temperatures now are between 25°C - 32°C, dropping to about 20°C at night.

Earlier today the thick cloud seemed to promise heavy rain.  It was cooler.  And when a smattering of rain did come it didn't last long.

I realised today how nice it is to have a break from the constant flow of noise; my own mother tongue and the relentless sea of words and sound bites - which are normally a constant, so pervasive, and is hardly noticed until it has suddenly be silenced.  It has now been replaced with French that I hardly understand and yet the sounds and vowels aren't so alien to me after all.  I had French lessons from the age of about six yet it didn't stick.  I have French words in my vocabulary that I didn't know I had, like sacre coeur, notre dame, gauche and chauffeur.  I'm shrouded here in a kind of muffled, partial deafness.  Even at meal times as the constant, albeit pleasant, chatter bounces around the taverna walls I can opt out and wallow under the surface of the strings of vowels and semi-vowels that flow and undulate just above the crowded table top of soups and powders, crockery and elbows . . . punctuated with the international noises of approval.  Most of the sounds can't be decoded anyway so I let them pass me by dissolving and fading. Firing from mouths and rolling off tongues, if I do listen I'm left interpreting gist and mood from volume and cadence.  Often getting it wrong - someone sounds angry but then a final smirk and laughter from another betrays the playful bickering and the friendly jousting.

I'm left listening to the patterns of song, nasal interjections and throaty banter.  Processing the sing-song melodies of communication without the code to make sense of it all.  I feel so comfortable here, so relaxed at that table that it's heavenly to feel so accepted without needing to keep up and speak up.  I'm a mute member of the family - enjoying my food and accepting the extra helpings that the sisters take in turns to dish out.  Washing up and placing back on the table in complex configurations is fun too.

The singing in the church, too, is similarly emollient at 5am or 5pm.  The French is foreign yet the hymns they sing are immediately recognized but unknown.  Mass is understood and followed fairly precisely because of my own indelible mental map of the precise order I hear every day at home.  Each word or phrase can't be registered with the English words I know so well but there is an approximate registration that tells me where we are in my cognitive sequence and map of the Mass.  Precisely the same moments of extreme reverence, sorrow, hope and gratefulnesses that the Mass inspires are repeated now as I witness this great Sacrament translated in French.  It might easily be Creole or Swahili but French as it happens is beautiful and intrinsic.

There are few barriers where you might expect them.  And words of wisdom and gestures of kindness are in abundance: just when I least expected an easy time; prepared myself for a terrible ordeal of discomforts and hostility, as a reasonable cost of carrying and delivering to a hard place: this instead.  Still prepared for challenges and adversity; I wonder if this is some good fortune before bad . . or will we simply get things done and sail homewards, swiftly.  I hope so.

Monday 27 January 2014

after the earthquake, wind, and fire

For a moment the sun pauses on its arc across the sky; the heat is still searing but there's an imaginary pause all the same. The leaves, like palms outstretched in the light, listen too.  Clouds, continents in oceans of enamel blue - grand and morphing inventively, shifting shapes of symmetry - slows to still.  All these speak of His greatness.  There is Spirit.  Not one entity but a Spirit complicit in all.  The tiniest to the greatest.  A greatness pervading the least likely, the least expected, the least deserving.  A tiny germ vital to the greatest construct. A still, small voice of calm . .

We must be at the mid-way point now, half way through the trip - at least in terms of days.  Though productivity is not a constant; and we will achieve more as our departure nears.  The milestones of time I have plotted out are the 1st of the month (this coming Saturday - pretty random but feels significant), the tenth (around the time the container arrives at PAP from Miami), then, say, the 20th that gives time for potential haggling at the port to get the thing through with as little aggravation, and with the lowest costs, as possible.  Then on the 24th we take a bus to the Dominican Republic with, hopefully, every loose end tied and every challenge resolved as fairly as possible.  I have to say, I am looking forward to reaching this point: when we've resolved all, or most, of the objectives and can leave with a small bag of essentials and make our way home.

Right now I feel uneasy about the length of time we are grazing here - almost three weeks so far, and although it still feels like paradise, there's a kind of conditional joy attached to these comforts, that linger amidst the well-being and contentment, but they are my own imagined issues, I'm sure . . taking so much from the sisters causes me some guilt, its a kind of repressed state of being that lingers in the background - I want to give to them (and although we have determined between us to make a significant contribution to some of their projects) - their giving, and in abundance, is quite magnificent . . . and we're 'taking' it all: their privacy, their food and sharing in their community whilst they give it all freely I feel somehow in the way.  Of course, I realise that these concerns are self-made and we are helping the children in their care.  But I don't see that as any justification, but they give as freely as we are giving, admittedly, and this makes it an acceptable collaboration, I suppose.  There's an unhurried pace to life in the convent and the nuns are so kind and welcoming.  We are with them for three meals a day - unless we are out on the road - which from the start I have been trying to ease back from because I was worried it might be too much for them.  And yet I can see it must be my awkwardness in receiving so much kindness from relative strangers.  I have spoke to some of the nuns, and Gisele, in particular, and she is adamant that we are no trouble and that in fact the sisters feel we are the ones giving.  One couldn't buy this experience and we have got to know all the nuns that live in the guest house, about a dozen sisters.  And much to my shame, and to make matters worse in a way, we haven't been all that specific about when we are leaving.  The head sister has been unbelievably generous insisting we stay as long as we like.  And granted, she knows that the container has suffered from delays in getting here - and that originally our departure date was the 29th of January.  So there we are!

We retire early at night and we make as little disruption as possible and try to relax and enjoy the gift that the sisters are giving us so freely.  Darren and I were painting rocks today with one of the sisters . . honestly, it feels more like convalescence than any form of work.  But we accept it when things are slow and we try to be patient while we wait for things to arrive or take shape.  Sister Gisele is a delight - she painted a beautiful palm tree on the face of a smooth pebble.  We had something else planned for the first half of the day but things changed at the last moment.

At night - particularly those close to the weekend - there's loud music coming from the main road.  A loud DJ, music and bottles clashing.  It's hard sometimes to sleep with the sweltering heat, the hard ground, the competing animals barking and calling together with the mesmeric chorus of grasshoppers . . but one does block-out that nocturnal cacophony in-time as fatigue envelops the din and one soon wallows asleep.

Thursday 23 January 2014

around camp

Adoration . .

Darren's gone into town with two escorts to research a few things.  I've chosen instead to remain here at the convent where it's relatively quiet and peaceful.  My body feels a bit hammered today, fragile after the 5-mile hike yesterday around, up and down Petionville.  The sun is fierce so I'm in the shade.

As mass ended a Florence bell rang out from the darkness.  It was somehow comforting to think of a Tuscan haze, terracotta and cold beer.  It was coming from a solitary church some way off, amidst shanty and rubble. Over there the camp fires heat breakfast.  Parents ready their children for school and themselves for work.  Riding tap-tap or taksi.

In the church there's Exposition all day.  Long lines of children make there way from the school below into the church for a few minutes of fidgety contemplation.  I can hear them sing.

Back home this heat would be the height of Summer.  The view from the wall reminds me of a London park.  The sun is intense, and quickly burns - although this can be deceiving and one can easily sit too long in the brain-washing heat.  Shadows fall across swept paths and parched grass.  The contrast is complete.  The riot of colour invites me never to leave.

On the narrow path besides the wall there is a steady of flow of traffic.  Cars ferry sisters to work.  Open trucks laden with water for thirsty plants and blossoming flowers.  An elderly sister, I know from mealtimes, walks hurriedly passed on some mission.  She announces, "Adoration . ."  She's just come from the church.  She annunciates the French vowels beautifully with a broad smile. Prayers prompting some urgent fiat. And tired, too, in the mid-day sun.

The sky is baby blue.  Growing lighter just above the rooftops. A sharp blue.  The children can be heard playing out during their break, the generator keeps the power on, the trees stir, too, heralding the breeze.

I shared a few more precious moments with Sister Gisele.  Sitting by the door.  She speaks softly, her French lovingly articulated; we chatted about the Annunciation - I guessed rightly that the word might be the same in French.  Though her pronunciation gave the word much more opulence.   She showed me the picture from her wall.  A faded monochrome print - redrawn in parts by her own hand, but clearly the Annunciation.  Mary holds her heart.  Gabriel elucidates unambiguously.  Few words were needed between us - despite our limited communication, we could still convey our appreciation of this event  - we each love the poignancy of this magnificent occasion.

Tuesday 21 January 2014

middle of the night

Day 14: I can hardly believe it.

I'm up at 4.30am which for most of us is the middle of the night.

It's a bit of a struggle dressing whilst contorted in a limited space, like being below deck, with my back taking a few seconds more to adjust after a night's sleep on the hard ground.  But within minutes all is well and I take the short walk over to the convent for a freezing shower, a cold shave and clean clothes.  My head full of the dreams of the night before only add to the surreal stupor I'm in at this hour.  Then into the church where the sisters are gathering for their morning prayers.  I follow their lead in standing and sitting through alternating psalms in a sleepy haze.  They sing with such fidelity - their demeanour is serene - voices sharp and arresting.  Through the open window the hill still sleeps.  The church is dimly lit and has a comforting, prayerful ambience that offers the best antidote for a rude awakening.

Darren and I have a great routine going.  I return the key the usual spot and he gets up soon after.  We compliment each other quite well - and work great as a team.  It was quite random how we came together to share this adventure - or so we think - yet, we also acknowledge that other higher things are at work too.  And by our own strength we are nothing.

After prayers we sit and breathe in the soft electric light.  The arrival of the priest is signalled by headlights and a noisy diesel engine . . then he sweeps through to the sacristy - its early for him too.  The mass is swift and in French.  I can easily keep pace of the order but certain sitting and standing is out of the sync with the ebb and flow of the English Mass.  It's wonderful all the same.

After breakfast I'm standing on the edge of the road watching thick traffic and waiting for Jude.  We agreed 7.30am.  But I didn't hear back from my text yesterday checking if we were all the set for today.  I met Jude two years ago, he's the proprietor of a guest-house in downtown Port-au-Prince (PAP).  Delmas is a busy, run-down district close to the airport.  His house is large with balconies and balustrades, tiled floors and ceiling fans with no shortage of plasma screens and wifi.  The house completely survived the earthquake, Jude was out in his car at the time.  He's a rich bloke by Haitian standards.   His dad lives in very different surroundings, an hour north of PAP and runs an orphanage which we were due to visit today.  After some time, while I was standing watching the road, Jude cancelled by phone - Friday instead.  The orphanage is a desperately poor place - you'd think they'd receive plenty of help from other quarters but sadly not.  And so regardless of the reasons or criticisms I recognised their need and wanted to help somehow.  There are about 25 children there, situated in Arcahaie, mainly boys; rough and resilient.  And ever since my first visit two years ago I've wanted to try and help bring some stuff for them - especially play equipment for the boys.  There's a huge climbing frame in the container for them and a few beds.

While watching the morning rush I was impressed by the smiles from everyone - the warm summer stream of bodies and buses.  Bikes arriving and braking, immaculately dressed children sandwiched between driver and parent.  The innocence of it all . . and the parent's strict determination to get the child through the gate in time.  And the child, with sleepy complacence, oblivious to it all.

Monday 20 January 2014

many parts

Looking forward, looking back; the gap is narrowing and I am getting closer to being in the moment without the burdens of what and when and why.

However, two weeks ago I left my little, honest market town of Otley embarking on the final stages of this complicated and protracted endeavour.  The idea was born on my last visit but has been achieved by the cooperation of hundreds of people who shared the responsibility of these aims: to assist the people of Haiti with a few material goods to help them in their time of serious need.

Beds, play equipment, shoes and clothes, food, tools, computers and phones.  Some items inspired more giving than others.  Laptops are interesting, for example.  I have seen with certainty that the youngsters need them - like phones - but our perceptions of poverty make clothes and shoes and food more important than computers - but I know the kids need them like MP3s and smart phones - but we question this need.  One lovely old sister here endorsed shoes as her particular plea.  These do capture peoples sense of a very legitimate need - how can they lack something we all take so much for granted! . . . and I immediately wanted to bring these from home more than anything, though we didn't raise nearly as many as I was desperate for.

Giving at this end is quite hazardous as I have mentioned.  Adults are sometimes insulted or undermined by too much free help.  They can feel stubbornly embarrassed by handouts preferring the independence of self-determination by their own merit . . .   It's quite reasonable, the ego is made up of a complex package of self-worth, knowledge of weaknesses and strengths.  Also, measures of justice and merit, righteousness and altruism.  The ego drives personal ambition and sacrifice.  And possibly in an inconsistent way but hopefully evolving for the better of others in time and with wisdom.

And so the endeavour has been made possible on so many levels by so many willing to share the goals without personal gain or self-interest.  My own involvement was exposed and apparent, whereas many gave and sacrificed for the success of the project quietly and discretely.  A few resolved issues of great importance.  And many made small sacrifices that were vital too for the overall success.  Resulting in a 'whole' that is greater than the sum of its parts.  Team work has many fruits and many constraints but again the outcome is far better as a consequence of a joint effort with each offering unique strengths.  Interestingly, there always seemed to be some gravitational pull preventing us from succeeding.  Was this the enemy?  The final hurdle might be getting the container through customs - I've heard it can take up to a year in the worst cases.  I felt a huge release when we arrived in the grounds of this convent - it felt like suddenly the great resistance that had been pulling on us for two years was broken.  The long journey of team work requires so many compromises, concessions and flexibility to hold it together for the overall mission.  Knowing when to yield and when to intervene is a fragile occupation too.  The tireless efforts of others can be overlooked or taken for granted.  Some have just a little to offer - some carry the success of the project in one finite act that only they can give.  Building on these successes, learning from the set-backs and triumphs graciously - selflessly, and all importantly, keeping in mind the help we want to give others less fortunate than ourselves.  Each stage of life's journey contributes to the next.  Disparate concerns running through your life - whether they are many or few - are still made up of stages, improving in time one's sense of caring more for others than for ourselves.

Sunday 19 January 2014

highway to Les Cayes

With each day I seem to understand a little more about this place and the people who roam the main street.  The nuns continue to amaze us with their absolute generosity and hospitality.  And as we relax more and more into this culture of the strange and beautiful; the eye-watering colours of day and the piercing house lights on the hill calling us from the ink black night; all we see and hear are holding us, changing us and keeping us captive.

The sun is burning but we are settling into a very different climate to home and my heart swells when I count the days we still have to enjoy all of this.  Thirty-six days, but I know I shouldn't be counting.  There are still echoes of concern and worry fading from my mind; vestiges of my impending visit which promised all the discomforts I experienced three times before.  And the risks that rarely bear out.  But one never can tell.  We try to anticipate, as part of the human condition - but I couldn't have anticipated this unique ambiance.  I could never have predicted such beautiful surroundings.  Haiti has improved too, certainty; still shocking and feral - all that we see seems inadequate.  And the corruption, that is worth trying to change - but most of the complexion, the interaction, the messy street life and the gritty character seen everywhere seems acceptable and indigenous.  It belongs and there is no reason to want this to end.

Yesterday I noticed the national palace had been completely removed.  The pictures of a collapsed white dome featuring repeatedly on the BBC and in the press days and months after the earthquake.  Now, its absence speaks of recovery - albeit slow and frustrated.

Saturday - yesterday - was earmarked by Sister Evelyn and me as an acceptable day to start the mural at the school.  She thought it would be better to start on a day when there wouldn't be the 700 children in noisy attendance . . I didn't mind this, and actually think it would be a novelty for them.  I was reluctant about this day for her sake, much more because it was her day off as the head of the school.  She's a wonderful person and perfect for her job. Her explosive effervescence, sing-song voice and broad smile are all in evidence in the character of the school.  The children are all a bit wild and free-spirited - and the potential of an over-bearing discipline is replaced by freedom and self-expression, much better for a school, I think.  Though there's a place for the other kind too.

The day was earmarked too by Sister Marie-Carmel for a trip to Cavaillon and one of the orphanages there.  Something had to give, and there is plenty of time for both so we opted for the road trip.

They have a new 4X4 that speeds along the Caribbean highway - a straight, tree-lined freeway skirting the coast westwards, moderately busy with trucks, buses and bikes.  We passed through many small towns and settlements, where vehicles are slowed to a crawl making way for the crowds of shoppers and sellers. Containers double as stores and shop fronts.  Painted in dark colours or left to rust.  And signed with bright letters of yellow and orange.  When the car slows hoards of sellers swarm to the open window: cakes, mangos, bananas, bread, up-turned live chickens, phone charges and windscreen wipers.  We buy something then we're off again.  Through tropical trees, bends in the roads, rough and smooth, skirting the rocky beach and white surf then under trees again and mottled shards of light and stark shadows.  We moved with great speed with nothing in our way.  The views of the sea mirroring those we watched passively from the first bus in DR as we entered Santo Domingo.

The children in the orphanage were excited and welcoming.  They live in basic surroundings but one can see that they are well cared for and safe.  To see see their joy and unconditional love was quite unique.  We'll visit again after the container arrives.

Friday 17 January 2014

over the wall

I prepared for months for this trip.

Many more gave time, money, vocal support, a listening ear, advice and prayers (prayers most important of all as it happens) to get us here now.  And to arrange that twenty foot box full of random stuff that will hopefully make a difference somewhere.  I was almost spent before I got here.  With packed bags the money was absurdly inadequate given the cost of this sleepless city.  How can a shoddy hotel room with very basic facilities cost a minimum of $70 or $80 a night?  Many American aid workers come here on full expenses might be part of the answer, as well as an over exuberant business mentality that is everywhere from the sugar cane seller to the hotelier.  But that's just part of it - the discomfort, the pain comes to mind first.  But there's also the joy, the joy which exceeds many of the experiences I have ever had.  I prepared myself for a difficult trip - for two years.  And now I am here I am shocked by the good fortune that has washed in around us - yes, the suffering and poverty and filth is still in abundance - but we are living in exclusive comfort in the convent.  And I feel guilty most of the time that this is not what I prepared myself for - I am secure and comfortable, yes -  but it's still unfair given what exists out there, over the wall!

This is where many fell.  But without doubt the people seem stronger than before.  My last visit was two years ago.  There was residual rubble and occasional scars from the earthquake were still visible in places.  Most of the blue plastic sheets for roofs had been cleared and sheltering frightened people coerced to move elsewhere out of sight.  Or told to return to their precariously built houses and repair them.  Perhaps help was available to them in various forms and the road to recovery - at least to a level pre-quake - was slow and frustrating.  Life certainly has its struggles - life here certainly has a dark side.  But they all shine too with a boundless brilliance. Every moment I spend here it changes who I am.  Get close enough to experience the Haitian temperament, their soul, the love and laughter they give freely . .  their smile shining freely and generously.

The president is doing a good job - he is a good man - one of the sisters tells me with a calm conviction . . " . I pray for him!" Sister Gisele disclosed, as we chatted, mixing colours together on the convent rooftop, painting the mountain.  The summit, way up high in the bleaching renewing sun! A summit way too far to reach.

Thursday 16 January 2014

garden of dreams

The mess

Mid afternoon I travelled by car to the food store - driven there by some of the workers at the convent.  Safe in the front seat and everything in full view.  It's always a great experience travelling through the streets in congestion like you've never seen in Britain.  The streets are chocker.  Walking is quicker, though hazardous, on foot you're vulnerable, and you need to be acutely aware of all that is going on around you, whereas in car you are cocooned and it's safe to watch in wonder taking in the full panorama.   Cars, vans, pick-ups in all conditions and hoards of people too line these streets selling, buying and weaving through one another.  The colours mixed with grime and rubbish are mesmeric and kaleidoscopic.  One scene morphs in to another, shapes overlap, entwined and underpinned, people and bikes and barrows weaving rapidly through unfolding scenes of chaos and heat  - these are the world's poor but they have as much pride and dignity as anyone regardless of what they lack.  As I become more and more familiar with this place I am less shocked by the obvious disparity between here and home.  I am desperate to appreciate what I know to be true, and know is hidden from first sight; they grapple with such poverty with the greatest resilience and acceptance.  Of course all of them hate the discomfort, the injustice of poverty - and they know it what they lack and know what they have lost as a nation - but there is an acceptance and a peace also, and their great character shines through the grime and the squalor and the pain of it all.  Adversity has this effect on human nature - and extreme conditions bring people together with welded solidarity.  Patience must prevail in these circumstances otherwise the misery becomes overpowering and all-consuming - and might finish you off.  This must be true for all kinds of suffering - it requires a positive response.  Of course it hurts.  But to see that all is not lost and that endurance must prevail for the immediate is a survival instinct.  And there must always be hope, whatever we are faced with.  A knowledge or belief that things will get better - however long it takes.

beautiful Haiti

Monday 13 January 2014

God’s mountain

The highest hill in Petionville fills the sky and greets us each morning - it's been here forever and has seen so much.  Solid earth – with some patches of scree and full, full of houses embedded in the earth, houses that might slide away at the slightest tremor if it were not for the massive, stolid determination I can see now.  The highest hill - protective and overwhelming - stretches one way undulating from the peak at roughly the same soaring altitude eastwards.  And west, it plummets down to earth in full view.  Gollum might have been here.  And the Mines of Moria beneath.   There’s a clean descent westwards interrupted only by a few solitary trees breaking an otherwise solid blue sky.  The colours tessellate like ceramic tiles, azure joins earth.
It’s more than a hill to the ten thousand families here.  And to anyone that can see it: it’s God’s mountain – because these souls that live here so simply – perched incorrigibly - have more than you can imagine.

Each home has grey breeze-block walls and fifteen feet of real estate.  In daylight and from a distance the windows are black pin holes and at night pierce one’s soul like a hundred Jerusalem stars.  It breathes at night.  And accommodates the camp fires providing supper and supports the sleep of tired workers on a few dollars a day.

In the daytime, the cool concrete is somehow camouflaged with subtle colours, faded, though still hewn out of the bed rock of Port-au-Prince.

On this trip I can see Haiti is happy again – though I’ve only known her a short while – when I first saw her she was sick.  Now she is standing and singing with full voice.

Haiti really is happy again – I can see it in the hilltop houses. In the streets of vibrant colour, determination and patience!

Don’t want for anything, Haiti! Then you won’t feel the world’s indifference.