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.

Dogs Get None

September 25 – October 5

            My usual Wednesday night post was stalled when my trip to the countryside was rushed upon me, then dragged out.  What I had anticipated to take two days turned out to be over four.  As educational as the experience was, I was antsy to get back to Christianville where my work waited for me.

            Earlier in the week, I had been tinkering with some trial techniques for the aquaculture system, which are intended to supplement the purchased fish feed.  My first test is with a semi-aquatic tuber (root vegetable) I found next to the pond outlet.  Having sent a picture of it to American scientists, they seem to think that it is some kind of arrowroot.  I had been placing various local plants in the ponds to see if the fish would eat any.  This particular plant seems to catch their fancy.  If it is arrowroot, it has about the same protein as the commercial fish feed we use.  So I began using it as food in a small, cubic meter basin.  The five fish in there have been consistently nibbling at it and seem healthy.  The arrowroot is thriving off of the nitrogen-rich effluent that exits the ponds, potentially serving a dual purpose of water remediation and feed supplement.

            The other trial was with something called periphyton.  Periphyton is the aquatic, largely autotrophic, microbial community that grows attached to substrates.  The periphyton grow using nutrients floating in the water, making the water cleaner for the fish and providing an additional food source.  Tilapia will eat just about any kind of organic matter that isn't wiggling (and plenty that are).  How do we foster periphyton in the nutrient-rich water?  Add substrate!  In our case, bamboo.  The idea is, administer some bamboo, the microorganism grow on it, and the tilapia graze on the microorganisms.  In fact, the fish farmers had already done this.  Their method of application was not optimal, however; they just threw in the bamboo.  This is not really good because whole bamboo floats, meaning (1) half of the bamboo is above the waterline and (2) the submerged half isn't getting sunlight.  To remedy this, Josue and I quartered the bamboo and strung it together with some fishing line.  Unfortunately, the fishing line was too weak and it broke as we put the bamboo back into the pond.  Now I am trying to find some twine or wire to tie it together.

            These trials (in every sense of the word) are an example of how work here is simple, yet slow.  Another hiccup came a few days later while we were collecting eggs from the breeders.  Most of the fish are treated with hormones to become males, which prevents overpopulation of the ponds, but the co-ed breeders are kept in a separate basin for (obviously) reproductive purposes.  Tilapia are especially easy to farm sustainably because they are mouth brooders: they keep their eggs and young safe in their mouth.  Other fish, like salmon, spawn in particular conditions, making collection more difficult.  With the tilapia, you just extract them with a net and empty the contents of their mouth into a container.  This container is then placed in a sterile hatchery, where the baby fish, called fry, are born.  Unfortunately, our aerator broke down once we had collected some fry and they all died.  Hopefully the eggs will be able to hatch after the lack of oxygen.

Please don't film me.

            While the fish have been undesirably rustling at death’s door, some undesirable people have been rustling at ours.  Just before midnight on one inauspicious nocturne, there struck three staccato reports that silenced the chorus of frogs and insects.  As it turned out, there were some would-be thieves who were trying to break into the one of the vacant houses on campus, upon whom the guards fired a triad of warning shots.  We in the guesthouse kept alert over the next two hours as another six rounds were unloaded.  Finally, one of the guards informed us that they would be posted at our front door to deter any ne’er-do-wellers.  I suppose the event had little effect on me, as I promptly fell asleep.

            It was about this time I welcomed a change of scenery.  The opportunity to travel was provided when I learned that Oscar, one of the Nicaraguan farm managers, would be going into the mountains as part of another nonprofit’s extension program.  Expecting to be gone Thursday and Friday, I was surprised at lunch on Wednesday when Oscar informed me that we were to depart immediately.  I hastily packed a tote and we were soon speeding to Port-au-Prince.  We entered the World Relief compound that Oscar does volunteer work for, and we spent the night.  Early the next morning we got into the "ambulance" (a Land Cruiser) and began our voyage outwards and upwards.  It wasn’t long before we left paved paths behind, bumping on rocky roads into the cool mountain clime.  The escarpments we skirted were unguarded, allowing for a full view of the dried riverbeds bellow.  One particularly steep segment was known as “chen jwenn okenn”; that is, ‘dogs get none’.  The ravine was so severe that only birds would be able to get at fallen bodies.

This Catholic priest prepares moringa leaves for organic fertilizer.

Almost all of the old-growth forest has been chopped down for firewood.

            After passing through one of the country’s two nature preserves, the ‘pine forest’, we eventually ended our journey at the town of Thiotte (pronounced ‘chott’).  This area was safer than any others we had been to yet, allowing Oscar and I to walk around freely at night as we ordered a beer and some fried street food.  The next day, we took an exciting moto ride into the jungle to speak to small farmers about using moringa, a local leguminous tree, as an organic fertilizer.  While in the sparse woodlands I saw how destitute some of the Haitians were living.  It was barely a step removed from tribal conditions.  The people were all friendly and interested in the improved agronomic methods that Oscar was teaching.  The lessons were long, and I did my best to stay my patience and take in the landscape.  Back at the hotel, I also met people from two different nonprofits – talking to them helped clarify what employment in community development is like.   After two days of education, we prepared to return home.  Unexpectedly, our driver was 5 hours late in picking us up.  During the return, we stopped in the pine forest at an enormous market, where I tried a few Haitian snacks.  It was then becoming late, so we spent another night in Port-au-Prince before ultimately returning to Christianville on Sunday.

Market in the Pine Forest.

            It is almost a month since I arrived in Haiti.  A large part of me is chastising myself for not having achieved any tangible results in that amount of time.  Another part of me, softly encouraging, is reminding myself that I have been learning something entirely new and that I’ve been taking steady steps towards making a change.  There is no point in rushing my work, but I need to keep in mind my December date of departure.  While not a waste, it would be a shame if I had not brought anything to fruition.  This next week I hope to begin germinating moringa seedlings.  Turns out this plant is not only useful in improving soil quality, but also the tilapia love it.  The plan is to plant some alongside the ponds, using the fish waste as a fertilizer.  Josue is also excited about developing a fish garden.  He is an excellent friend and coworker.  I think the two of us can accomplish something to be proud of, even in this relatively small amount of time.

Edit: it turns out that moringa is not leguminous, just remarkably hardy

Fish are friends. And food.

September 18-24

These buildings previously charged money for clean water, but the Haitians figured out how to rig the system. Now it's free.

            My second week began with a trip to one of Christianville’s satellite schools to deliver a nutritious meal of goat chili.  I sought to understand more of the food production chain.  Most of the diet in Haiti is grain-based, so it is crucial to get protein to the children.  Even after doling out 200 servings not all of the children were fed.  The arrival of the “blan” (foreign) missionaries halted classes while we played with the kids.  I broke the ice by handing out gum and was soon making fun of them as much as they were me.  The drive there and back was rocky on unpaved roads; bouncing around in the van, the missionaries and I waved at passing villagers.

The schoolchildren line up for a bowl of rice and goat chili.

"Blan! Blan!"

My attempt at saying 'Smile!'

          My own diet has seen a dramatic shift since arriving here.  While I am certainly being fed enough, the meals have a high concentration of carbohydrates, sugar, and oil.  Protein is a scarce commodity in Haiti.  My body has weathered a bit of an adjustment period… I may just now be getting over a spiteful canker.   

            This is part of the reason I am working at the fish farm.  We are trying to provide the orphanage and schools of Christianville with sufficient protein and nutrients.  Our current stock of 22,000 fish is not really enough to feed close to 1,000 kids once per week.  Fish is not the only animal protein they eat, though.  They also get eggs, chicken, and the aforementioned occasional goat.  Even a meal of each once a week is meager.  There are surprisingly few legumes to pair with rice for vegetable proteins. 

*Beep beep*

           The week before I left for Haiti, I ran into a friend who is an animal rights activist.  She found my affiliation with fish farming distasteful.  But the fact is there's not sufficient agriculture in Haiti to support a (human) vegetarian diet.  Milk would be a great dietary supplement, but I have yet to consume anything besides the powdered variety.  Animals can consume nutrients in forms we cannot, making them prime mediators in the food chain, especially in developing areas where people need all they help they can get.  The tilapia at the fish farm will eat rotten animals and plants, detritus, algae, and microorganisms.  Plus, they have omega-3 fatty acids without the detriment of increasing cholesterol.  The precious nutritional value and resource efficiency of aquaculture are essential here.  I inspected the agricultural fields at Christianville, orchestrated by two Nicaraguan non-profit workers – watermelon, mango, papaya – all crops that contain much sugar.  It seems that the crops that provide nutrients are not very profitable, and the crops that provide profit are not very nutritious.

            Not that I aim to become a flamboyant commercial aquaculture activist, myself.  There does seem to be something more humane about taking a couple home-reared fish out of the backyard pond to put on the grill for dinner, as opposed to scooping out buckets of bleeding tilapia.  Still, I will be doing all I can to increase production.

Oscar walks me through the mango mangrove.  There are too many weeds.

A papaya tree.  An Oscar man.

            Gasping gills are a minor qualm compared to my concern regarding the financial sustainability of this operation.  The majority of the harvest goes to feed the schools and orphanage, while the biggest fish are sold at market.  Even though over 500 pounds of tilapia were sold this month, it is not enough to pay for all the fish food.  I can only guess that this religiously affiliated organization is powered largely by donations.  So far the books have been closed to me, but I will soon need to pry open the ledger for affiliated projects. 

            And Christ is never far away in Christianville.  I attended another service on Sunday, held at a church on a small, scenic mountaintop where an American ministry is to build a compound (mentioned in my last post).  The bishop there, Odel, is a half-blind janitor at Christianville... actually, I can't tell if his name is Odel or Odin, like the one-eyed figure he resembles.  I saw him again later in the week at an art market where he tried to sell me goods at twice the price of the neighboring vendors.  I did not purchase anything there, but later in the day I received a Bible from Danette as she departed to the United States for a few weeks.  Prodding from the staff seems to have indicated I do not consider myself a Christian.  Most of the Christians here have revealed an ignorance concerning any other belief (including a discussion about Catholics not being Christians) that causes me trepidation in discussing spirituality.

            Definitively speaking, I have yet to do much.  A short report to my supervisors has helped me to crystallize my objectives.  I aim to begin transitioning away from solely observing to initiating projects.  Productivity works at a different pace in Haiti, so I shall have to put my nose to the slow grindstone.  If I sound wry, don’t take it too seriously.  The people are friendly, the culture is interesting, and the scenery has moments of unique beauty.  I am where I want to be right now.

Mwen pale kreyól piti biti.

September 10-17

            My flights to Haiti might have been the easiest I’ve ever taken.  After saying goodbye to my wonderful friends in Gainesville, I left the ground at 7:30am and arrived in Port-au-Prince at noon.  Having to arrange my collection of luggage, I was assisted by an airport staff member who would have been happier with more than my $3 tip.  Bags in tow, I fortunately encountered my liaison, Danette, immediately.  Danette is a vocational agriculture director from Florida with fingers and toes in many Haitian pies.  We had to wait for another arrival, so we met up with some non-profiters at a local hotel for lunch.  This was my first taste of the international community present in development projects, as two of them were Dutch.

            Back at the airport we picked up an American couple and their German friend.  Though the drive to Gressier was shorter than I expected, there was plenty to behold along the way – not the least of which was an openly burning garbage dump.  Driving through that toxic cloud was unpleasant. 

            With the sea to our right, the landscape along Highway 2 was a contrast of colorful decorations and austere living conditions.  Before too long, we turned off the paved road, heading towards the hills.  A few turns, passage through a gate, and I had arrived.  They immediately put me to work.

            Christianville is a secure mission that has projects in religion, education, and food production.  Their buildings are charmingly constructed and the compound is well maintained.  It is my purpose to work with the Fish Ministries non-profit to increase Christianville’s aquaculture (fish farming) production.  They have 10 large ponds for growing tilapia and 20 smaller basins for nurturing the fingerlings (immature fish).  It was the next morning that I took a tour of Christianville with Danette and was introduced to Josue (joze-WEE-(uh)), the fish farm manager.  He claims to have doubled production since he started working in March, while Danette mentioned that he had quadrupled production.  Though the Haitians tend to be humble with foreigners, I am inclined to believe Josue’s numbers.

            For the next week I shadowed Josue to learn all I could about aquaculture production in CV.  As I took notes, I became friendly with the other farm workers: Sonson, Makenson, Jean Remel, and Nene.  They are a cheerful bunch, who have made me feel wonderfully welcome.  Talking with them has allowed me to learn some Creole.  The language has been described to me as “French with all the nonsense removed.”

Sonson.  He did not like this picture.

Makenson.  He probably doesn't care about how he looks in this picture.
Josue on the right.

            This assessment was issued by Maha, an Egyptian finishing her studies at the UF Emerging Pathology lab here in CV, who, along with the other ‘blan’ (Creole for ‘white’, a.k.a. ‘foreigners’) staff members, I converse with at meal times.  Also on the roster: Laura, the guesthouse manager who kindly keeps everything functioning.  Sue, the grandmotherly operator of the orphanage.  Oscar and Rafael, the Nicaraguan agricultural workers from World Relief.  Kan, another lab UF researcher from Bangladesh.  Elizabeth, a Texas A&M student who is developing a community garden.  Finally, Pastors Harold and Raymond, Haitian ministers who have a strong English lexicon.  All of them are intelligent, caring people.

            Having comfortably settled into CV, I am taking part in both the Haitian and Christian cultures.  On Sunday, I rode with the American couple (Gabby and Abe), their German friend (Sarah), a Haitian tutor (Lele), and the driver (Juliom) to a church in Leogane, about one hour to the west of Gressier.  Our carriage was a taptap, a pickup truck with a roof welded over the bed, though they can be any kind of converted vehicle.  The taptaps are used as taxis, distinguished by vibrant paint designs. When someone wants to get off, they bang on the metal roof – hence, the name taptap.  The ride to and from Leogane had thrilling moments, as there are no real rules of the road.  Imagine looking out the unsecured back of a taxi as a Mack truck taptap careens towards you, weaving through lanes, horn blaring.  Imagine Mad Max meets a Fanta commercial and you have an idea of what it’s like driving in Haiti.

            The church was a cinderblock building with a tin roof and gravel floor.  It had no electricity for the new sound system that Gabby and Abe’s church had bought.

            After church and lunch, we went to another orphanage near CV.  It is unlike anything that most Americans are used to.  The orphans wash their clothes by hand with dirty water that flows in the ditch by the street.  The classroom is little more than plywood walls, a tin roof, bench desks, and a chalkboard.  The Madame who runs the orphanage gathered the children in front of us to recite Bible verses and sing while I squirmed in my church clothes.  We then went up the small mountain that overlooks Gressier to reach a spot where a third American ministry will build a third orphanage (there are at least 5 in the area).  Besides a nice vista to the sea, the location makes little conventional sense as a building site.  There are no roads to get to the location, only dried stream beds which the locals use to ride their motorcycles to and from town.  Our taptap took us most of the way before we had to hike the rest.  The ministry that will be building there will buy a fleet of ATVs to transport cinderblocks and supplies up the mountain.  It is their aspiration to dig a well for fresh water, though the soilless terrain means food crops can only be grown in raised beds with dirt carried up from the lowlands.

            Development is a struggle in Haiti. On the one hand are the locals who have been dealt blow after devastating blow and have almost no incentive to exert themselves; the other, fanatic and idealistic foreigners who have more work ethic than experience (myself included).  The unemployment rate in Haiti is 40-80%, depending on sources.  While it seems straightforward to hire locals to install infrastructure and teach them a skill, crumbling structures throughout the countryside serve as proof that Haitians are often incapable of following through with projects after foreigners leave.  That is not to say there is no hope.  CV has established a strong community with a success that has begun to permeate the local culture. 

The feed storage room, fish food on the left and chicken food on the right.
As you can see, there is currently no fish food.

            On the whole, my first week in Haiti has been enjoyable, thanks to the people and comforts of Christianville.  I won’t be getting too comfortable, though.  There is plenty of honest, hard work to be done.

What is that boy doing?

  

          And no air conditioning. 

Squirrelly.