Brush with Haiti (7 page)

"I'm sorry," I told him, feeling as frustrated as he appeared.

"Do you speak Spanish?" he asked. His town was located very near the Dominican border and many Haitians in the area spoke Spanish.

"Yes, yes. My Spanish is much better than my French," I assured him.

"And my Spanish is better than my English," he said. So we proceeded in Spanish. It was one of the most memorable moments of my life. Still, when it comes to mind the memory is accompanied by a pang of guilt. In the conversation I promised to send him some books when I returned home. He was teaching English with no books, a common practice in Haiti, and he admitted he would use them himself to improve his own skills. I knew I would be able to gather some useful materials, including English-French, English-Spanish, and French-Spanish dictionaries.

It is not at all easy to ship books to a place like Haiti and here we were, far, far from Port-au-Prince. But I was told that Catholic Relief Services would deliver them for me on a future trip if I could just send them to their Baltimore office.

I never did. Once adjusted to the way of life back home, with all the demands of work and the rest that daily routines take from a person, it is too easy for the experiences of such a remote place to slip away. There is no excuse, but it happens. As months passed, I wondered if Catholic Relief Services would even remember or be able to find him. Procrastination had paralyzed me in the past, but this time I felt as if I had broken a promise. Even now, nearly ten years later.

The ride up
into the hills outside Fort Liberte made it apparent how Haiti earned its native name meaning "high land." The roads were steep and winding. It also became apparent what severe soil erosion looked like up close. Bare peaks, once covered with trees, were now home to thin, short grass barely strong enough to hold the earth in place, and where it was dislodged, huge pieces of hillside had fallen away. The extremities of drought and torrential rains were more than the hillsides could bear.

Trees had disappeared over the years, often used to make charcoal for cooking. Their removal made the land fragile and susceptible to erosion. In low-lying areas, goats devoured much of the remaining vegetation. Replacement through strategic planting had not been organized by the government in any systematic way, and it appeared on our visit that there were no such programs in sight. There had been a few smaller scale attempts by outsiders including ourselves at this point and they enjoyed varying degrees of success.

There are multiple advantages to strategic planting. First, adding roots, stems or trunks, and leaves at the soil's surface can significantly reduce the disappearance of earth, keeping the terrain intact. Second, given time, a future source of wood might be produced. This would require patience and long-term vision, but once established, cutting might be alternated with continual replanting introduced to maintain the supply. Third, the cultivation of vegetables and fruit producing trees could better feed the population. At the time of independence, Haiti had been the most agriculturally profitable of the island colonies, albeit with sugar. Clearly the land and climate made it possible to produce ample foodstuffs. And last, agricultural production might stimulate the economy by generating income, even on a small scale.

The project of the Gary Diocese was not the first attempt at soil conservation in the Department of the Nord-Est. Several years before, the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) had begun a planting program there. Well-intentioned perhaps, USAID was criticized for failed projects in Latin America and elsewhere. Policies and programs were developed in Washington, D.C. with little regard for ideas or input from the people of the underdeveloped world themselves. This was what happened in the Nord-Est. With funds from U.S. taxpayers, USAID officials decided which plant varieties would be grown and subsequently provided the seedlings to Haitians. But the plants were not cared for. Had the Haitians been included in the decision-making and planning processes in an authentic way, it is likely the project would have enjoyed greater success.

Learning from failed paternalistic undertakings, some non-governmental organizations (NGOs) working in the country have been careful to consider Haitians as equal partners or leaders in various projects. That was the case with this social conservation project, guided by the Global Solidarity Partnership. With funding from U.S. Catholics, the project was facilitated by Haitian agronomy experts educated in Port-au-Prince and formerly employed by the ministry of Agriculture. They held meetings with residents of the area who decided what they wanted to grow. Through micro-financing, they were able to purchase seeds, seedlings, fertilizer and farming equipment. Their grown vegetables would feed them and their families, and any surplus could be sold for profit, which would be used to repay the loans. From what we could see - and we were there only on a follow-up visit - after a couple years of operation things seemed to working well.

As soon as we saw it, we were impressed. After miles of slow and at times treacherous driving across a denuded landscape, the small farm emerged on the horizon, not unlike an oasis in the midst of a desert. It was green, beautifully varied, and carefully cultivated. The families that supported it, and in turn were supported by it, stood alongside their work with pride. Well organized plots of vegetable plants were thriving, due to produce a bountiful harvest in coming weeks. I could not help but notice the stark contrasts between Port-au-Prince and this place. It was quiet, calm, and spacious. The silence of the countryside is so deep, were it not for insects and other creatures one might even hear the vegetables grow. The differences were in many ways similar to those between Chicago and the rural Midwest that lay beyond its exurbs. The asphalt, concrete, and steel skyscrapers of urban centers feel noticeably detached from the natural earth from which they rise. In detachment from the land comes detachment from food. But here it was so close; within our reach. In this peaceful green valley there grew nutrition at their fingertips - fingertips that had been worked hard thus far and that would work hard again during harvest time.

Small houses had been constructed along the plantings' boundaries for the farmers and their families. One woman was gracious enough to welcome us into her home. This was one of the moments in which I imagined how different out visit might have been if not traveling with the bishop. She absolutely beamed as she guided us through the door. Many Americans let people into their homes only reluctantly, especially people they have never met. But that is not the case in Haiti, and it certainly was not the case with her. Perhaps she was happy to have any visitors at all in this hard-to-reach area, but she seemed particularly thrilled to play hostess to the bishop. She kindly led us to the living area where we sat on wooden ladder-back chairs. There seemed to be just two rooms and a dirt floor.

As I half listened to the conversation translated from Creole to English and then back again, I wondered how her family ate together and slept. She had eight children, she told us. I had heard of the high birth rate and realized I was seeing it firsthand. It seemed impossible that they could fit comfortably in this home. We were introduced to two of the older children, already in their late teens and more than six feet tall. Their labor was immeasurably valuable to the family enterprise, allowing them to produce more for market. But how did they sleep? For most of their lives, my children had their own rooms. This is admittedly a waste of space, considering the planet as a whole, but very common in the United States. Growing up I shared a room with two sisters, and then three when my baby sister came along, but our room was 15 feet by 15 feet, with an attached full bathroom. This house consisted of two rooms that could not have been more than 10 feet by 12 feet each. These living conditions illustrated what I had learned in earlier research and from previous drive-by visits to other underdeveloped regions, but this was the first time I sat in someone's own home for a heart-to-heart talk. It all became clearer. More real.

They had no electricity. I had lived without electricity due only to comparatively brief power outages caused by wind and ice storms, and for maybe three days while camping "to get away from it all." I even did it with kids. But I struggled to imagine doing it day in and day out and feeding eight growing children including teenage boys. It was dim inside on this overcast day and I imagined her working under the small window in the cooking area with few hours of daylight. Still, she could not have been more calm and pleased that we were there. We got up and said our goodbyes, and she continued to smile. As we drove away, I turned around and saw her sons going back to work. I remembered how I had found some of my own attempts at gardening just too difficult, and I was sorry for that. The vivid green surrounding her home became more distant. I turned back. Looking ahead, all I could see were bare hills.

Somewhere along
the road between the soil project and Fort Liberte we stopped at a women's artisan cooperative. It seemed to lie halfway between the middle of nowhere and the other side of eternity. We were tired from a long day of traveling, but eagerly got out of the trucks and stretched our legs. When we entered, it became clear that they had spent much time preparing for us. Several women sat neatly dressed, forming a large half circle against the wall and displaying the many colorful things they had made. Walking into their shop was like entering into a dimly lit wonderland. I speculated about where the women lived and how they got there. It had been such a difficult journey for us.

The long day of traveling in two separate Land Rovers had posed one muddy challenge after another. The landscape had consisted of endless fields dotted with goats and an occasional small block house. Where there were houses there were children, but they were few and far between. Shades of green against a gray sky swiftly growing darker had offered an eerie beauty. The road ahead, behind, and underneath was nothing but mud. The area had gone months with very little rainfall, but in the few days before had been deluged with several inches. Dirt had turned to thick muck and the roads were barely passable. When dry, the drive would have taken three and a half hours, but due to the poor conditions, it was taking six or seven. We lost track of the time and became a bit delirious. The drivers were incredibly adept at dodging ruts and holes and working diligently to avoid skidding off the road altogether. It was exhausting just to maintain a grip on the handle inside the vehicle to avoid hitting the ceiling and each other.

Hours into the ride, our driver stopped where a group of boys were playing. He spoke to one of them in Creole, and I wanted so much to know what they were saying. They seemed to be negotiating something. Then the older of the boys walked ahead, as we followed. The group waded slowly down, deeper and deeper, until the muddy water reached their waists. I turned around and looked out the back window to see that the other vehicle was close behind.

"I offered them a little, about a dollar, to see how deep the water is," the driver said. It seemed like a dangerous proposition to me, but the boys smiled and eagerly took on the task. We were careful not to give money to the children who begged at the airport, but this somehow seemed money well-spent and well-earned. The driver was Haitian, and we trusted him to do what was best. Eventually we came out on the other side without stalling the engine. The boys jumped and laughed, and took their pay. The depth and breadth of poverty and the dismal chances of finding ways to exchange money for goods and services was becoming more apparent.

After some miles of silence Fran and I joked and wondered aloud how the residents of the area might develop a market for mud. We considered the money spent on mud baths in the U.S. and thought about how we might draw well-to-do world travelers to rural Haiti for spa treatments. Time on the road permits wild unfolding of imagination and in no time I envisioned a Vegas-type opulent stone and glass resort with mud fountains pouring into pools lit ever so subtly and self-absorbed Americans sitting in them, up to their necks in brown goo. Haitian women would bring an endless supply of towels and men would bring and endless supply of rum punches. The perfect match of supply and demand, an intricately balanced economy. After some contemplation, I wondered whether it would differ much from the thousands of other lavish constructions situated among the poor in the "more successful" Caribbean islands.

Better yet, they might just bottle their mud for export without the risk of outsiders transplanting themselves in ways that might disrupt nature and the lives of locals. Yes. Just package millions of small portions of this endless supply in jars of 4.7 ounces or some such random amount. A special formula might be developed for soaking one's feet as an essential first step to one's pedicure. Just the right addition of natural ingredients could soften the cuticles and cracked heels, especially after too many days at the beach.

And there would be different scents - however that might be done - and then unscented for ever so sensitive and delicate white skin. And it would have anti-aging properties, of course, for who would buy anything these days that does not have anti-aging properties? And some doctor or other credentialed specialist would test it in an elaborate, well-equipped lab, to confirm its anti-aging properties for just a commission or consulting fee. We would recommend the customer add the 62.4 ounce purified and enhanced spring water for rinsing, as the natural chemical reaction of the two combined could double or triple the anti-aging effects, as verified in laboratory tests. This would be a must-have on top of a must-have on top of a must-have. The driver turned with a jerk, trying to miss a sudden dip, and my head banged into the window next to me. My daydream came to an abrupt end. "Look," Fran said, pointing. I looked at the side of the road.

A young boy, maybe six or seven-years-old at the most, was riding a bike much too big for him. He carefully maneuvered around puddles, carrying four or more empty plastic milk jugs in each hand without letting go of the handlebars. Perhaps the recent rain had presented a new source of drinking water. Or perhaps he was simply carrying out a daily chore. In any case, the chances of finding any clean water nearby seemed small. The spinning back tire had already splattered a thick trail of mud up his legs, the length of his back, and into his hair. As it dried, it became gradually lighter, the color of coffee with a heavy dose of cream. What I had pictured as three shades darker than the skin of my imaginary customers was suddenly three shades lighter than the skin of this young water bearer. The contrast of browns was striking.