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.
Saturday, 22 February 2014
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.
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.
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.
schools
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.
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.
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.
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