Thursday, 6 February 2014
Tuesday, 4 February 2014
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, 31 January 2014
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.
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.
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