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.