Baby Jesus leaves Christianville

     It’s been a couple months since my departure from Haiti.  Since then, I have travelled to Colorado where I washed dishes for food, to Texas to visit family, to Florida to pack up the vestiges of my university life, and am now headed back to Texas for a job as an “environmental educator.”  I’d like to think there is some continuity between my endeavors in Christianville and this forthcoming employment.

     My second trip to Haiti was much like a condensed version of the first: hot and frustrating.  After initially overcoming the ennui of having all of my previous projects fall apart, it was determined by my superiors and myself that it would be best to focus on one task that might have a lasting influence.  As forecasted in my preceding post, this was accomplished by tying up fifty-two 2meter segments of bamboo in a single pond.  The idea is that algae (a.k.a. periphyton) will grow on the bamboo as a source of supplementary food for the tilapia.  The algae will use carbon from the bamboo and CO₂ from the water, along with nitrogen and other nutrients from fish waste, to grow.  Additionally, the bamboo/algae combination will provide some cover for the fish. The shading and protection will replicate a more natural environment, possibly contributing to stress reduction.  Perhaps that’s wishful thinking.  But one of the greatest benefits is that the system requires [edit: almost] no maintenance by the farm workers.

No, this is not a high school science project.
It is the month's work of a college graduate.

     The bamboo setup hardly consumed all of my time whilst there.  Over the course of the month, I spent less time on the farm than my previous visit.  I would otherwise chat with missionaries, take walks or runs in the local area, relax at the new Haiti Made Café, or spend time with the Christianville orphans.  One of the Americans had nicknamed me ‘Baby Jesus’ (much to my chagrin), which many of the Haitian staff members found to be highly comical.  I couldn’t wash a dish without people chiming out, “Thank you, Baby Jesus!”

     During my final week, several of the Christianville administers approached me with the possibility of a paid position.  My response was equal parts interested and hesitant.  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to commit to the year they were considering offering.  But the complications of developmental work prevailed, and I was never officially offered a job.  Perhaps that’s for the best.

     I very much intend to return to Haiti, especially the Gressier area where I made so many wonderful connections.  The Americans and Haitians who are together striving for a better existence are a testament to the profundity of human collaboration.  I have great hope for a better life, not only in Haiti but the world, due to the small successes and smiles I encountered as an intern at Christianville’s fish farm. 

     Devoted goodness has and will distribute justice in our international, ambivalent society.  I thank everyone who has had the patience to teach me a little more.

Tall Tale

May 21 – June 4

     Allow me to tell you a story.

     You work at a medium-sized company and it’s your job to make reports regarding the performance and finances of all the other departments.  The company is large enough that it warrants a fulltime, paid employee for this task (you), but it is small enough that you are the only one in this Evaluations department.

     You originally went to school to be an engineer, so this line of work is quite out of your area of experience.  Still, you had fantastic references, so the board of executives, who you report to directly, was eager to have you onboard.  As soon as you were hired you were pretty much left to your own devices.  With all the pressure of running your own department, you struggled to learn as much as you could as quickly as possible – you went to other companies to study their Evaluations departments, you did every kind of research possible, you worked enormous overtime hours without additional pay – all while still managing to do your job of collecting various kinds of information from each department of your company and compiling it comprehensively.  Not to mention that the board of executives is constantly implying that if you fail to do your job correctly, the whole company could fail (although this probably isn’t true). 

     After a couple months with your nose to the grindstone, you really get the hang of it.  In fact, the company starts to increase its efficiency due to your evaluations.  The board of executives, however, starts to push more than ever that you improve your reports.  This is due to the company losing customers, and thus losing profits.  Everyone is feeling the strain.  You indeed work harder in hopes that the board’s insinuation of a raise will come to fruition.  When this fails to come about, you establish a routine operation that is much less stressful and you continue working a status quo for many months.

     One day, the board introduces an eager young guy to work alongside you.  You’re not sure if he is an intern or an independent contractor, but he seems nice enough.  He admits to you that his experience is with Human Resources, not Evaluations.  This becomes evident as you walk him step-by-step through the data collection process, which he knows very little about.  Turns out that he isn’t completely ignorant, though.  He shows you how to better format the reports and make them more presentable.  This may be somewhat superficial, but you recognize its value. 

     The young guy is full of ideas about how to improve the Evaluations department.  He seems to have a line of communication with the board of executives, so you’re happy to experiment.  He’s right there with you as the two of you try novel methods of data collection and analysis.  He realizes very quickly that the company is struggling due to the decline in customers and sales.  As he tries to develop standards for the new ways of data collection and analysis, which add significantly more work for you to do, he also begins his own project of marketing to gather more customers.  Initially the board of executives seems wary, but they begin to catch on as it shows promise.

     After a few months of slightly improving the Evaluations with a lot of additional work and gaining a whole new batch of customers, it is the young guy’s time to leave.  He writes down a set of standard operating procedures for the new methods the two of you developed.  The board seems quite pleased with his attraction of new customers and sales.  This happened to coincide with an exponentially larger increase of customers due to the company’s new product, but the small sales boost he brought helped tide the company over.  The guy promises to be back soon, encouraging you to maintain the boatload of work the two of you started.

     As the months pass on without his return, the board continues to vaguely pressure you to improve your reports, without mention of the young guy’s previous projects.  Since they are so labor intensive and you aren’t getting paid extra whether you do them or not, you slowly get out of the habit of maintaining them.  You return to your previous routine and the company continues to chug along doing well enough. 

     Oh, and the air conditioner was broken the whole time.

     The end.

     Not exactly an Aesop’s fable, is it?

Meh. 5 out of 10.

     I tell this story from the perspective of the workers at the fish farm.  You can guess what role I plaid in it.

     There’s a reason that work in development is difficult.  A lot of reasons, really.  The point being that it’s easy to go somewhere and do something and feel good about it, but it’s hard to make lasting improvements. 

     So I’m starting over, albeit a little older and more experienced.  This time I’m trying to focus on one solid objective: get a large pond (25ft x 100ft) filled with suspended bamboo.  The purpose of this is to use the nutrients in the pond to grow algae on the bamboo, which the fish can graze on.  Supposedly this can increase fish production by up to 30%.  While initially labor intensive to install, it requires no maintenance, making it ideal.  As long as no one cuts the chord that holds it in place, the bamboo will do just fine on its own.

     I’m also interested in helping a nearby ministry, Juniper Missions, plant some trees.  We have some extra moringa saplings that would do nicely on their hilltop.  There seems to me great potential for moringa.  Once established, it is drought-resistant, its leaves are highly nutritious, and its seeds can be pressed for a high quality oil.  In addition, planting moringa on the woodless mountains could help reestablish topsoil as the roots break up the rock and the trees’ litter decomposes to humus.

     Hypothetically speaking, of course.  But it’s worth a shot.

Kembel’s Letter

  

November 31 – December 10

            This will be my last post from Haiti in 2014.  The weather has been mild, almost cool in the morning.  As I write this, someone is throwing rocks into a nearby mango tree to knock loose a fruit.  Things have slowed down here at Christianville.  No more teams are arriving for the month and the American staff is returning home one by one.  The generator still blares.  Sound Check is still exalting.  I am told that December is a particularly dangerous month, as there are more robberies and manifestations (the latter being a synonym for riots).  I am flying back to the US in four days.

            This past week has been a bit reflective for me.  Mainly I have been asking myself if I have left any lasting positive impression here.  A lot of blans/Americans come in with a flurry of activity and the best intentions, but leave with meager results.  This blame is as much the foreigners’ as it is the locals’.  Despite the Haitians’ propensity for conversation, there is a serious lack of communication skills. 

An example.  The last Christian mission that came here brought about fifteen people eager to make a difference.  They were told that one of the Christianville schools was in need of a paint job.  The Americans bought what must have been hundreds of dollar of paint to coat the outside of the building with white, so as to reflect sunlight and have a cooler building.  I traveled with the team up to the mountain school, happy as usual for an excuse to escape Christianville.  Upon arrival, the Americans popped open the tubs of paint and went to work.  It became immediately evident that there was a serious lack of coordination and experience.  The blans opened the tubs only to realize that the paint needed to be homogenized.  Instead of shaking the sealed containers, they found nearby sticks and began a frenzy of stirring, slopping paint over the concrete.  No one had thought to bring any protection for the floor.  They also hadn’t brought enough paintbrushes, so while most worked, some Americans sat around or prayed over the building.  One of the Haitian pastors approached me, remarking that if a job can’t be done right, then it shouldn’t be done at all.  The façade of the school had already been painted sheer white, but the paint the Americans were using was a cream color.  He commented on the mismatch of colors and the poor quality of the paint, which was watery and running down the walls.  I agreed, starting to get upset that the Americans were doing such shoddy work.  It would have been better if they had hired a Haitian – that way it would have been done correctly and given someone a paying job.  The pastor next to me shook his head sadly as he looked at the paint streaked across the floor.  Ashamed, I waited until the Americans had finished up, then went behind them with a rag and wiped the paint off the floor and where it was running on the walls. 

Not is all as it seems, though.  As it turns out, the pastor who spoke to me was the one who suggested that the Americans do the job.  He was also the one who had gone out, tested, and bought that particular paint (with the Americans’ money, of course).  In the end, no one is to blame for the meager results.  The Haitians received a needed improvement and the Americans left with a feeling of accomplishment.  I can’t tell if this example is better or worse than the other team that was here at the same time.  Those five Americans came to the schools with expensive equipment to take pictures of the students and their families.  Their argument was that by giving the Haitians pictures of themselves, they were instilling self-worth and empowering the locals.  In an era where every Haitian has a phone with a camera on it, I’m not sure how much worth the Americans were actually instilling.  As for the Haitians, well, who is going to turn down a free professional photograph?

So, dear reader, you might see why I am questioning the impact I have left here.  I have not revolutionized the fish farm.  Josue and I have played with some different methods and formed an idea of how to supplement the fish feed a bit.  Again, meager results. 

There is at least one thing, however, which makes me feel that I made a tangible difference.

When I first arrived in Haiti, I attended the grand opening of a school that one of the teams had built.  During the ribbon cutting, Jon, an American, showed me the work that they had done.  Concrete here, plumbing there.  He introduced me to Kembel, a young man who had dutifully showed up to volunteer.  Jon expressed how hard of a worker Kembel was and the talent with which he had been welding.  For the rest of the morning, Kembel followed me around asking questions about myself.  I gave him my phone number and wished him the best of luck.  The next day, he walked for hours to get to Christianville and sought me out.  With no language in common, he managed to express to me that he was no longer going to school and wanted some help.  I brought the issue to Jon, who was surprised that Kembel hadn't confided in him.  Jon promised to gain support from his home church, asking if I could be an intermediary on the ground to help Kembel go to school again. 

Kembel’s father had left him a year before, taking with him Kembel’s financing for school.  Kembel had already missed a year of school, and at 18 years old was having his window for highschool graduation close.  I did some research to find which school was closest, cheapest, and still willing to accept Kembel.  Jon sent down a few hundred dollars and the cash was shunted to me.  I was amazed at their faith in me.  I could have easily kept the money and never seen them again.  In fact, Jon never tried to contact me again, despite having my email. 

            Over the next months, I slowly meted out the money to Kembel.  I would give him just enough for a taptap (taxi) and his required textbooks, not giving him any more until he proved his purchase.  I was aware that I might create a dependency with this method, but I wanted to make sure he spent the money right. 

Eventually, I gave him all of the remaining cash to pay for his tuition.  He came back a few times to show me his grades and his study material as he began to have more and more work.  He is a year behind, after all.  I was satisfied that I’d helped a kid take a step towards a successful future.  This last week, he returned with letters for Jon and I that he had written in English.  Despite my doubts regarding the fish farm, this gesture showed me that I really have done something to improve lives.  I realize that this is blowing air up my own skirt, but I’d like to share that letter with you.  In a line of work that is full of frustration, it is nice to have a solid win.

Note that in Creole, the plural ‘you’ is the same as ‘us.’

“Thank you Alec

God is good

Hello! How are you man

I say you thank you

For all that you do for me

I don’t forget you and your family

I will pray for you and your family

I would like to take the contact with you

God alwaysing give you strength to work

I would like to see you a next time

For me you are my mother

I am happy you give the help with me

Jon and Alec God will bless you for all the time and your child

I say you thank you, thank you.

I say us thank you for the work you come to do in my zone

I would like God to give us the strength for next years

For we come in group-self way

I love us forever”

-Kembel

Glass-eyed Gaze

November 6 – November 30

            At about 6am the generator starts with a whir, rapidly crescendoing to a belligerent roar.  That is until an hour before midnight when, with all batteries charged so that we can use our electric fans through the night, the generator hums itself to sleep.  Since I am usually awake after the generator starts and in bed before 11, it would be easy to forget the prescence of our energy-provider if it weren't for its brief nap.  From 4-5pm, the generator cuts out to conserve fuel.  Within this hour of respite comes a hush over the machinations of Christianville.  Suddenly, I am cognizant of the wildlife calling from miles around, sometimes accompanied by a Haitian voice.  I can hear the wind move through the trees.  The cessation of the generator is akin to stepping out of a big party.  I become a bit more aware.

            This transition is enough for me to wonder what other things are subtly influencing our lives.  In our crazed coffee culture we plow ahead with ability, and sometimes purpose, having limited regard to our surroundings. 

            Last week I was asked by two of my fellow farm workers if I would like to visit their houses.  So, as the sun began to set, I mounted a moto(rcycle) and rode to the Reserve sandwiched between two Haitians as they passed rum back and forth.  The Reserve is a tract of government land that when viewed on Google Maps is colored in the green that indicates it to be a nature park.  In reality, it is the equivalent of suburban sprawl.  The property lines are usually designated with a barbed wire fence, while the houses can either be constructed with stylish cement, cinderblocks, woven wood, or canvas as a tent.  And there is trash everywhere.  I have seen in Christianville the Haitian habit of immediately throwing something on the ground as soon as its usefulness expires.  This is fine with organic matter, like mango skin, but isn’t so fine with plastics.  We take single-serving products for granted, be it crackers or soda, as well as the availability of waste receptacles.  Think of if every time you had a snack the only option was to throw its packaging on the ground.  The streets here aren't exactly paved with plastic, but you are stepping on trash as often as not.  I had given a bag of candy to my farm friend for them to pass out in their community – as soon as they had done so, they tossed the bag in the road.  I quickly picked it up and they began to laugh.  The driver of the moto, his eyes half open with inebriation, flung his arms out and gestured around him: this is our trash world, it doesn't make any difference.  Maybe not, but at least I don’t want to make it any worse. 

            We toured the first stop, meeting my friends’ girlfriends. 

“You like the Haitian girl?” they asked. 

“They’re ok,” I replied.

            Soon I was having to shyly fend off the approaches of many young ladies, much to the mirth of my companions.  We then hopped back on the moto, weaving through rocky paths and around tight corners, my friend behind me hooting, “He’s crazy!”  We stopped at the driver’s house and met his wife and children.  As it became dark, we rocketed back to Christianville, where they dropped me off just in time for dinner.  I entered the bright, white cafeteria and joined hands for prayer.

Haiti in a nutshell.

            Sitting on the guesthouse balcony, I now realize that the sound of the wind in the trees is entirely audible over the generator.  But still, I am more aware of the engine’s monotonous blare than I am of my own thoughts.  How much of my noggin’s computing capacity is being used up transmitting unnecessary information regarding the bombardment of unnatural noise?  I imagine myself mimicking the vapid, vacant look of a gaping fish, which I so often see upon harvests.

            I don’t anticipate being a very different person upon my return to the U.S.  I don’t expect to be calmer or more impassioned, more focused or skilled, or even more cynical and hopeless.  That’s not to say I won’t actually have earned any of these traits – maybe any change has been so gradual that I've taken no notice – but I hesitate to declare that any great transformation has occurred. 

            How often the image of the confident, enlightened individual taking charge of a situation has been constructed, and how often is that construction actualized or desirable?  We proclaim someone a visionary if we agree with their ideals, and delusional if we don’t.  It’s a turbulent crystal ball, the whole thing, and I’m waiting for the roaring beast to go to sleep so that I might make sense of it.

The Ponds are for Fish Only, Please

October 31 – November 5

            Halloween was a treat.  Over the past month I’d had various visitors gift me large bags of candy, mostly chocolate.  I’d saved them up for this very occasion.  Putting on a black, spider-webbed shirt and drawing a black spider on my face with marker, I played games with the orphans until dinner.  Afterwards, we sat down to watch “The Secret of NIMH” while I passed out the candy (saving the best for myself, of course).  It was a soothing Friday evening, which I followed up with a lazy Saturday.

            As the workweek started anew, I began by pursuing a new strategy to feed the fish.  There is a retention pond below the chicken house, which the farm staff flush the poultry manure into.  This has resulted in a large bloom of aquatic plants.  Of interest is duckweed, a microplant that floats on the surface of stagnant water bodies and forms a continuous “mat.”  Perfect though the pond is for duckweed production, it’s not easily accessible.  I spent a couple days trudging down to the chickenshit pond with a net to haul back buckets of duckweed.  The fish took to it readily and follow-up research informed me that duckweed is an ideal aquaculture feed.  Getting the duckweed was somewhat of a hassle, so I decided to use one of our empty concrete ponds to grow some that would be easily within reach.  We filled up the pond with water, dumped in a couple buckets of said plant, added a wheelbarrow or two of poultry manure, and… Presto! Our very own lagoon.

            In addition to dragging buckets of weeds around, I’ve also been delegated the task of taking oxygen readings from the pond.  This is a slow and menial process, entailing dropping a probe into a pond and waiting some minutes before it decides on a reading.  Repeat multiple times per pond, for all of the ponds.  Twice each day.  That means for nearly 3 hours a day I am standing by the ponds, waiting.  Actually, it is kind of nice to have a bit of alone time, which can be scarce in Christianville.  I have spent some of this time gazing over my piscine dominion in search of tranquility, which, also, can be quite scarce here.

            During one of these meditative spells, I found my reverie accosted by a sharp yipping.  I took this to be one of the stray dogs barking just beyond the compound’s fence.  As I plodded along taking measurements, I suddenly saw a dark shape peaking above the lip of a pond.  I dropped my probe and rushed to the scene, thinking that one of the goats had fallen into the water.  In actuality, it was a stray dog that had fallen into one of our empty ponds.  His shrill cries stopped when he saw me, his breast heaving with the exertion of trying to jump out of the concrete prison.  He was a handsome, if skinny, mutt with a hint of German Shepard in his mix.  Seeing that he was in no immediate danger, I walked to the far of the pond, wondering how I might get him out.  Perhaps I could lift him out if he was friendly.  I chose to enter the pond 30 yards away, on the opposite side of where the dog was located, so as not to frighten him.  I eased myself downwards, thinking that I would probably be able to jump high enough to grab the lip of the pond and get out again.  I wasn’t thinking entirely through my plan, I was simply focused on helping the stray.  Once in the pond, I crouched low in an unassuming position and began to call softly to the dog to show that I was no threat.  Having watched me the whole time, he began to trot over with ears erect and tail wagging.  When he came within 10 yards, he suddenly bared his fangs with a vicious snarl and hurled towards me.  Without hesitation, I sprang backwards and yanked myself out of the pond, never taking my eyes off of the feral hound.  In that moment I felt very much like a gladiator thrown into the pit.  Looking down at my would-be attacker, he resumed his tail wagging.  Cursing the animal for eschewing the only help he would have in this world, I shakily lowed an upside-down bucket into the pond in the chance that he could use it to jump out.

            Several hours later, I was collecting duckweed when the two oldest orphans, CJ and Peter, found me and inquired all about what I was up to.  These two brothers often run away from their studies at the orphanage and are usually momentarily entertained by my activities.  They were in fact interested by my new fish-feeding tactic and endeavored to help me.  As we ascended from the chickenshit pond, we passed by the empty concrete pond to see the dog still there, crouching in the shade.  The boys began to throw handfuls of duckweed at the animal, yelling at it in Creole.  The dog made a most hideous yell: half of it that vicious snarl, half a whimpering howl.  With a bounding leap, it vaulted off the upturned bucket and caught its paws on the lip of the pond.  Kicking its legs up, it finally crested the wall and quickly ran off with the boys in pursuit.

            The next evening I was out at the pond again, taking my second set of readings for the day.  Off in the distance I could hear the echoes of a man I think of as ‘Sound Check.’  I call him this because I often hear him in the evenings repeatedly exclaiming “Hallelujah!” into an amplified sound system – I will usually listen for a while in dumbfounded astonishment at his relentlessness before turning back to the task at hand.  Since I had nowhere to go to escape Sound Check’s incessant exaltations, I could only try to focus on taking the oxygen readings.

“Hallelujah!”

“HalleLUjah!”

“HalleLUUUUUUUUjah!”

            Suddenly, I noticed vigorous ripples in one of the ponds I’d yet to check.  I ran over, and this time it was one of the goats that had fallen in.  Goats are terrible swimmers and this one was floating sideways with his head underwater, twitching terribly.  I stripped off my clothes and dived in.  Having reached him, I pull his head above the surface; he gurgled and spat out some water as I paddled back to the edge of the pond.  Heaving him upwards, I shoved him onto land.  I pulled myself up and considered a moment whether I would have to perform CPR.  His chest no longer moving, I put my finger to his mouth and felt no breath.  I cupped my hands around his lips and blew two long breathes into his lungs, then knelt over him and began rhythmically pounding his chest, one hand atop the other just as I’d been taught.  Again, another two breathes in, more pounding.  His insides gurgled as air and water moved around.  I stopped for a second to observe whether he had resumed breathing.  His eyes had a milky, glazed look.  I went back at it, pushing harder than before as his chest began to crack beneath my fingers.  I remembered hearing that proper CPR often results in broken ribs, so on and on I went, thumping and cracking.  After some time I stopped.  There was no movement.  Gasping from the exertion, I knelt in my wet boxers over a dead goat.

“Hallelujah!”

Gettin real tired of your shit, Sound Check

            Needless to say, I wasn’t anxious this morning to go out and take more oxygen readings.  The usually smothering climate, however, was in favor of a cool, refreshing breeze.  I actually began to enjoy the method of my activity.  Taking a deep breath, I looked out over the ponds to see the light wind playing over the grasses of a nearby field.  It was a peaceful scene and brought a feeling of serenity.  Thankfully, there were no extraneous creatures in the ponds today.  The duckweed seems to be dying off, unfortunately, which makes me wonder if only tilapia can live in these ponds.  I’ll have to remain diligent and vigilant.

Just the Facts

October 24 - 30

            I awake in the middle of the night to the sound of my clock, unable to return to slumber as I fixate on the monotonous, boring ticking.  Boring, boring into my head, despite all the whisperings of midnight, the only thing I hear.  Having no intent of its own, it frightens me with the reminder of things done and not done.  A feverish onslaught of thought stirs, and I turn to fantasy as a distraction.  Conjurations of dragons and long roads and fame and old friends sweep me back into the hushed multitude of sleep.

            As a situation becomes dull, repetitious, and unappealing, my mind wanders afar.  Who is so different from this?  How should I let this affect my writing?  Should I subject my audience to variations of my routine in confined circumstances?  Should I exaggerate some drama or boast philosophical musings?  If my description each post is to be novel, I shall have to become increasingly subtle in elaboration.  As important as objectivity is in investigation, I am willing to sacrifice accuracy in this account in favor of interest.

            I raise the question of representativeness.  While I enjoy diplomacy and mediation, in no way do I wish to be a politician.  Certainly, I am not fond of being told to hold my tongue.  And there lies a conflict; wanting to be fully expressive, yet also respectful.  To want to be part of a larger whole whilst retaining individual character is a curious dilemma.  It is uncouth to express frustration of my surrounding situation, and subversively pretentious to do so of my own person.  Perhaps if I deprecate myself enough, I will be thought humble.  If I criticize myself, I might be wise.

            All of this to say that I lack the righteous fortitude of marble and limestone that so many others seem to espouse.  I am unsure.  It is implied that I should find assurance in worldly happenings; that if I keep good enough records understanding will unfold before me.  Yet I find that it is impractical to develop a full comprehension based on my personal empiricism.  Unfortunately, I also find that many of my communications have been muddled, due in no small part to my own doubt.  How true is the presumption that conviction assures achievement? 

            I wish I had more to tell about what I have been doing here.  I could glorify playing with algae and chicken shit.  That approach could get old, quick.  I do a little day by day and see incremental differences.  Nothing I am doing is difficult or revolutionary, but it wasn’t being done before I arrived, so at least I am a minor conduit for improvement.  The days are largely the same within the fences of Christianville.  On a couple of occasions I have been allowed to venture off of the campus.  It is always a delight to ascend the hills towards the heart of the country, even if it is only for less than a full hour.  The freedom to go where I please is sorely missing, as are other, lesser freedoms.  Small sacrifices are to be expected in this kind of work, right? 

            No, dear reader, I am no paragon of resolution.  Perhaps you can relate to the feeling of unknowing.  I am not taking any of it overly seriously, however – simply put, I’m still in pursuit of consistency while entertaining a comfort of imagination.

Don’t break a leaf

it’s much too fragile

and could have been of value

Don’t breathe too much

you’ll waste the air

a thing so very dear

Don’t look upon

a still lake, perfect

lest your gaze disturb it

Do naught ever

let all happen

and you might be forgiven

The worms are drying! The worms are drying!

The Seasons Never Change

October 6 – 23

            October has been an intensive month.  The weather is surely not as grueling as it is during the summer, but it is almost always hot.   I have had a lot of help from people visiting from the States, implementing trials that may help supplement the fish feed. 

            One way in which we seek to achieve this is by growing our own feed.  The most interesting of these plant prospects is moringa, a leguminous tree [edit: not leguminous, just hardy].  Called the “miracle tree” by the Americans, moringa is resilient and packed with nutrients.  Just as important, the fish like the taste of its leaves.  We have also started growing worms.  The red wrigglers will consume the cafeteria’s food waste and provide a nutritious snack for the fish. 

            There is not much glamour in feeding banana peels to worms, goat manure to algae, and fish waste to plants… but recycling these nutrients into a food web should please any supporter of environment and efficiency.  Working with nature has a steadiness to it that can be lacking in human interaction. 

            I hope you will forgive me for the short post, dear reader, especially after over two weeks without report.  My engagement here in Haiti is a full-time commitment and I have not paced myself as I should have, perhaps.  In other words, at this moment, the blog is a slog. My mind is slow and the words don’t flow. 

            Maybe my lack of expression is a good thing.  It gives me a chance to listen.