Haiti

Haiti is suffering from the massive Jan 12 earthquake and needs our help. Below I've posted some first-hand accounts of the quake from people in Haiti. Please consider a donation to an organization in Haiti. If you would like to give directly to a Haitian family, please contact me (anna.versluis@gmail.com).

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

More Photos!







A frilly purple umbrella


The spring rainy season in Haiti has begun. It is a bit of a shock to spend the day talking with people who have had friends and family swept away by flash flood and debris flows and then, on my way home in the evening, pass farmers looking approvingly at the gathering storm clouds and expressing their wish for a good rain. The onion seeds that were planted earlier this month and last are now being transplanted to cooler, higher ground in the mountains above Fond Verrettes. The seedlings, planted in one of Fond Verrettes' ravines, were painstakingly watered and weeded by hand each day. Now the transplants will have to depend on rainfall. Despite the risk of flood disaster, daily life in Fond Verrettes demands hope and gratitude for a good rain.
On Saturday I planned to finish the last seven interviews in the town of Fond Verrettes. Fleurimond and I walked across the ravines to the far side of Fond Verrettes at 7 am when the sun was just starting to get warm and the sky was a beautiful, clear blue. Once I settled into the first interview Fleurimond left to return to his own work with the peasant farmer cooperative. (A truckload of fertilizer in arrived this week and people are coming by to pick it up via mule.) I finished three interviews in the Bois Neuf quartier and then waited out the first big downpour of the morning on the porch of the third interviewee. When the rain slackened, I set out across the ravines for the quartier of Kornel (see photo). The sun soon returned and everything was fresh and humid, drops of water sparkling everywhere. As I was finishing the second interview in Kornel another downpour began and we took shelter in an abandoned house as the rain thundered down on the leaky tin roof so that we had to shout to be heard.

I didn't realize that it was as late in the day as it was—2 o'clock. I'd told Fleurimond that I'd be back for lunch at 1 o'clock. He got worried and came looking for me. Amazingly, he found us. He showed up, his coat drenched, a wild look on his face, and, over it all, a girl's small frilly purple umbrella, which he'd brought for me not knowing I had an umbrella along. I felt awful that I'd worried him but also had to laugh at how he looked, with the child's umbrella that was more of a hat than an umbrella since it hardly covered his shoulders. (Fleurimond is tall and strong, which amazes Ben and I since it appears he subsists on little more than french fries, which he makes with local potatoes, and lots of oil and salt.)

The empty house we took refuge in had whitewashed walls inside and kids had drawn pictures on them in blue crayon. One was a life-sized drawing of what looked to me like a female U.N. peacekeeper standing stiffly like one of those toy nutcracker soldiers. Fleurimond pointed out a drawing of a woman, a stick figure with an interesting protuberance out to one side. It took me a moment to realize she was a pregnant stick figure in profile. Next to the figure someone had written "Andrenie is pregnant" in an amalgam of mispelled Kreyol and French. It was such a funny drawing everyone laughed and the others tried to figure out who Andrenie is. It was such a funny drawing I should have taken a picture. . .

Houseguest that I am

Returning to Port-au-Prince today, I opened the door to my room and my first thought was, Look! They've put my favorite sheets on the bed! And my second thought was, Doesn't that mean I've overstayed my welcome here, when I actually have a favorite set of sheets?

Good Food

When I think of "market"—especially an outdoor market—I think of fresh produce. Thus I am always disappointed when I go to the weekly markets in the countryside. I might find some scraggly green onions, a few unhappy heads of cabbage, some potatoes and avocados, but other than that at this time of year it seems most people are selling dried beans, corn meal, plantains (which, I'm sorry, but I can hardly consider a real vegetable), and unperishables: canned tomato paste, oil, cubes of maggi, salt and seasonings, soap, toothpaste, cheap candy, notebooks. There is nothing I want to buy, and yet I want to buy. . .something. Even I have a hard time feeling right about life if I go more than a few days without spending any money. For breakfast, Fleurimond would boil me an egg, which I supplemented with bread from the Fond Verrettes bakery. It's not good bread, in my opinion, but it's fresh bread. The main meal of the day: french fries, or rice with pidgeon peas. In the evening: whatever french fries or rice I hadn't eaten at midday. But even though I was hungry I found I didn't want the same thing I'd had earlier (but now colder). I wanted hot cocoa, or pumpkin soup, or carrot cake. I didn't want a boiled egg and bad bread and water for breakfast. I wanted hot coffee with cream, orange juice and a crusty bagette with real butter.
Mostly, I spent a lot of the week craving saturated fat and fresh produce. It felt unnatural—even claustrophobic—to not be able to buy a candy bar or orange juice, to know that there just was none to be had in the area.
One of the interview questions asks people to select whether 1) they are a family in the area with some means, or 2) they don't have a lot but they eat each day, or 3) they are malere, the truly destitute. Many people choose category number two, but they correct the question: they do not truly eat each day but they do goute—the verb for taste, or snack. All day long I would be with people whose relationship to food couldn't really be called eating—simply tasting a bit of food—and I, with all the bread and eggs and rice and peas I could ever want, could do little but fixate on how in the world I might manage to procure some chocolate.
Walking through a crowded Port-au-Prince street on my way home today, I saw Caribbean cherries, mangos, tomatoes, grapefruit, custard apples, watercress. Even though I didn't buy any of it, it was enough to feast my eyes on it and know I could buy and eat. The produce was available and I have money. What a wonderful combination! And so like America! Is that not the essence of the American dream—variety, availibility and purchasing power?
This afternoon, back in Port-au-Prince, I made some coffee, my first coffee in nearly a week. (They grow and sell coffee in Fond Verrettes but tend to roast the beans with so much sugar it's like drinking coffee syrup.) Then Woni, bless her, said, wouldn't you like some of this delicious flan with rum raisin sauce to go with your coffee? Mmmm, it was heavenly!

Zombies!


Not far from where I've stayed in Fond Verrettes on past visits, in the quartier of Bois Neuf, a trail runs along the top of a ravine. Most everyone in Bois Neuf lives on the high terrace above the ravine, but there is one house on the other side of the trail, part way down into the ravine. I'd half assumed this house was abandonded until this past week when one of my interviews turned out to be at this house. Its occupant is an elderly woman, just widowed not more than a few days past. Perhaps I should have left her in peace, but it wasn't at first clear to me how recently she'd been widowed and I went ahead with the interview. As soon as I'd gone down the steep path leading to her house on a small ledge overlooking the ravine she began talking quickly. It became clear that one problem she had, among many, was that her house was currently occupied by zombies. Zombies? I questioned. Yes, she said. After someone dies there will be zombies around the house. Of course I'd heard of zombies but I didn't realize they were a consideration in a "normal" death. Or perhaps her husband's death wasn't normal, but I assume he also was elderly and died of age. She explained that people can be called upon to come to the house and, through prayer, exhort the zombies to leave. Her problem was that she hadn't been able to get anyone to come pray. Well, I asked, Why can't you yourself pray that the zombies leave? Ah, she said, I am an Evengelical. We can't exhort zombies. So far as I can understand, she was an Evangelic Protestant with a Catholic (or Voudun) problem on her hands. She couldn't deny there were zombies inhabiting the house, but as a good Evangelical Christian she also couldn't exhort that which her church didn't believe in.

In the interview, one of the questions is How many people live in your house? She shook her head and sadly said that she alone lived there. (Living alone in Haiti is rare and often considered almost tragic, a sort of poverty of spirit or community and something no one would ever desire.) With a gleam in my eye I followed up the question with another: And just how many zombies live here with you? She laughed good-naturedly and gave me a sly, knowing look.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Interview in Fond Verette

This is a video of Anna interviewing a woman near Fond Verette. Sorry the video is so grainy, I had to compress it to upload it to the web. In the video, you'll see how Ben's Kreyol stacks up to Samuel's english! Click here: http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=2016776056

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Guerline's Porch

Please click http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=2016265800 to see a video from Guerline's porch in Port Au Prince. The singing you hear is from Guerline's church visible in the video.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Vocabulary Words










On Saturday, after Ben had been in the country less than 12 hours, we drove the 2-plus hours to Fond Verrettes, met up with Fleurimond and then hiked just about straight up for 3 kilometers until we reached the settlement of Karobyo on a mountain overlooking Fond Verrettes. I had one—and only one—interview to do here. Ben walked around taking pictures while I did the interview. One guy who lived there and was sewing up his plastic sandal wanted to talk to Ben.
Ben's Kreyol is growing but still limited to things like good morning, good afternoon, how are you, I'm fine, thank you, can I speak with Anna please, and the food is good. I suggested they try talking in English. Except that the other guy's English was even more limited: he could say good morning, good afternoon, and yesterday. Yesterday??? Sometimes it's strange the vocabulary we learn. I once met a man from Argentina who only knew a few English phrases but one of them was "yellow cake." I never figured that one out. In high school, my French class used the Capretz method, which pretty much was based on the premise that people learn French in order to pick up girls while on spring break in Paris. I remember spending entire class periods perfecting a Parisien accent and disinterested demeanor for "Can I have a light?". I felt so proud of my nearly flawless execution of the phrase that I wondered if I'd have to take up smoking.

Everything's Related

My one month with the Trooper is over with as of today. There is a hole in the exhaust so I dropped the Trooper off at the garage and asked the mechanic to return the vehicle to the owners after he fixes it. (He is good friends with the owners, who also happen to be the same family that Janis' college roommate comes from.) The mechanic said he'd give me a ride home. Soon we were talking about friends we had in common, specifically three men who run a lodge I used to stay at high up in the mountains between Port-au-Prince and the south coast of Haiti. On the way down Delmas I realized I'd forgotten to pick up the questionnaires I'd had photocopied and asked the mechanic to drop me off there instead. He said, oh, that's my cousin's place; I'll just drop in to say hi to her. Last week I'd run into the photocopy lady at the grocery store and she'd told me the photocopier was working again if I had more things to copy. Then I'd gone to the other main grocery store in Port-au-Prince and run into the mechanic and his family. Also, the mechanic's father was the head of Haiti's forest service for over 30 years—this is the government branch that is charged with protecting the Pine Forest, which is part of my study area. It is such a small world here.

Sunday, March 04, 2007

Mt. Kat



There have been three fatal flood disasters in Fond Verrettes since 1994, each disaster worse than the one preceeding it. The first was with Hurricane Gordon, and second in 1998 with Hurrican Georges, and the third following an immense amount of rain in May 2004. The amount of rain that fell over several days in May 2004 must have been unbelievable. There are no records for Haiti, but even at the higher parts of the watershed where a group of houses is nestled in a shallow basin, people said the water came up to their chests. At lower parts of the watershed, the flood took the form of a fast and strong flow of water, mud and rocks. No family in the area was spared from loss. Throughout the watershed fields of potatoes, corn, beans, and onions were destroyed. Goats, chickens, horses, pigs and cows drowned. In Fond Verrettes and areas further downstream, thousands of people were killed and hundreds of houses swept away.
The sensational story is that of the floods. The lesser known story of the region also involves water—but instead of too much water, this story is one of not enough water. The area has no real rivers, only ephemeral streams that quickly dry up after a rain. There are a very few springs and these can dry up, too, in the dry season. People need water for drinking, washing, watering animals, and growing onion and cabbage seedlings. Most other farming—corn and sorghum and beans and the like—involves crops that rely soley on rainfall.
Cher-Frère and I were in an area called Mòn Kat (Mt. Kat) today, which is a good hour's walk+drive from Fond Verrettes. I was astounded to learn that most people living here get all their water from the Karetye ravine spring—the one that feeds the onion seed beds above Fond Verrettes. For people in Mt. Kat who don't have a resevoir to collect rainwater, or who can't afford to buy water from a neighbor with a resevoir—and this is most everyone we talked with—it takes 5 to 6 hours to make the trip to get water from the Karetye spring and then carry it back up the mountain. In years when the Karetye spring dries up people have to go even further. One couple told us their children complain of thirst even more than they complain of hunger.
Despite the poverty and the amazing difficulty of "mere survival," numerous people offered us gifts of potatoes and eggs and everyone graciously endured our survey questions.

Rooster


I came back from Fond Verrettes yesterday evening to find this fine-looking red rooster in the yard. He was tied to a piece of wood by a string around his leg. With little sympathy for the rooster, whose days were surely numbered, I knew it was going to be a long night for me. The only thing worse than a rooster outside your bedroom window is a donkey: "bray" just doesn't convey the awful, cut-to-the-bone noise a donkey makes at all hours of night.
At 1:30 am the rooster began to crow. The sun was nowhere in sight. I resent anyone who says roosters begin to crow in the early morning. Even a dairy farmer doesn't consider 1:30 am to be early morning.
Both the rooster and I made it through the night, and the red rooster is to be butchered this afternoon. I can't say I'm unhappy.
I asked Genese if she'd be able to wash my clothes today. She said she wouldn't be able to because she had to wash the floors and then kill the rooster. When is the last time someone told you they were too busy, they had to kill a rooster?

Morne Catte DieuSeul Paul


People are often surprised to seeing me walking through the area, especially if I'm a ways from the road. Today I left Cher-Frère at the top of a mountain and carefully made my way down the very steep slope to get one of my infamous "GPS points" that I use to validate land-cover data from satellite images. This extremely steep and rocky slope also happened to be the bean field of a spirited and graceful woman of 80-some years of age. Barefoot, she was clearing the field by hand to plant later this month. Somehow she managed to maintain her balance with no apparent effort. I was having a hard time imagining anyone walking down this slope much less planting on it. She looked up, saw me and said in wonder and with a laugh, "My! If it isn't a foreigner come walking right here!" Then, as if to no one in particular she said, "But why should I be surprised to see her, a foreign girl, here? Am I not, afterall, waiting for the day when Jesus himself will walk down this field to greet me? And should I be surprised then?"

Religous Leadership

I did not endear myself to a certain local religious leader today. Moïse and I had stopped by his house last night and asked to talk to him. He was playing cards with some friends and told us to come back the next morning. When we showed up again he said he only had 10 minutes for me, would that be enough? No, I said, but I'll take the 10 minutes and return at another time to finish the interview. Then we waited for some time (during which one of his friends from the night before who'd several times had the maid refix her drink to get it just right sneered at me, "You should be preparing your questions for the clergyman, shouldn't you?) and finally he was ready to talk to us. I asked him if he was from the area and, if not, how long he'd lived there. He answered, "I'm not from Fond Verrettes," and then added a big "thank God!" I saw Moïse, who is from Fond Verrettes, startle when he said that. I asked about the flood disasters and he mentioned that he's on most every committee in Fond Verrettes and has been influential in getting some aid. I mentioned that many people were still living in harm's way and he agreed and talked on about that. Then I asked him if it did not present a problem that he was building such a grand church and presbytery while so many others, members in the church even, were still living in the flood zone with no possibility of rebuilding elsewhere. He immediately became cold and said there was no relationship between the two; they'd begun the church buildings before the 2004 flood. After that he refused to answer any more of my questions. Suddenly he knew very little about the area. On my way out I was looking for Moïse who'd gone off with a friend. The sneering lady said in a mean voice, "You can't go look for him.
When you come with someone you have to wait for him." I decided to just ignore her and soon found Moïse.

When you come with someone you have to wait for him." I decided to just ignore her and soon found Moïse.

Maps and Hens

Most people here have very little experience reading maps, so my love of maps and aerial photos of the area usually finds no shared interest. (Years ago when I lived in Port-au-Prince I had a topographic map of Haiti on the dining room table. A very good friend of mine saw it and said, "I've seen people using maps in movies, but I've never understood how they can be used to get you from one place to another." That is just to say that map skills apparently are not taught in schools here and most people never use paper maps.) Today, however, I spent the day with a man whose family owns a lot of land in one portion of the Fond Verrettes watershed. He was interested in the air photos and helped me find the GPS reference points I needed. After we'd spent an hour walking up and down a mountain and through people's patio gardens he asked, "Which is harder: boot camp or Anna's dissertation research?" J
This same man lives alone and is rather endearingly called "crazy"—in the eccentric sense—by some others in the area. Most of his family lives in the U.S. and he'll probably give up his gentleman's farming one day to join them. He raises chickens and also has a fighting cock. He mentioned several times how much he loves his birds. I asked if I could take his picture and he said yes, if I'd also take a picture of his favorite hen. She was a beautiful creature, fat and round and brown with lovely speckles. Unfortunately she wasn't much interested in posing for the camera. I heard him say under his breath, "I love my hens so much, I don't know what I'll do when they die."