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.