Haitian bourgeoise and fast food cravings

I lived one night like a Haitian bourgeoisie. It was an interesting opportunity to experience Haiti’s frightening rift between the rich and poor.

It’s the difference between mud and mansions.

We drove into Port-au-Prince Saturday night with Sister Glady to her deceased mother’s home, up in the mountains overlooking a portion of the earthquake-desecrated residential areas.

As we passed through Port, every wall and building is splashed with ugly political graffiti from the recent election, bearing candidates’ names and ballot numbers. The rich residential area was also violated by spray paint, but all the ugly melted away as we pulled the truck behind barbed yellow gates.

The house was gargantuan and stately, two-stories surrounded by curling flowers and bushes. It had elegant windows covered in ornate metalwork, scrolling hearts and crosses painted a lovely shade of yellow.

The stairs and floor was covered in colorful glazed stone with the same smooth texture as bathroom tiles. Every room (the rooms seemed endless, with multiple bedrooms and bathrooms and parlors) was decorated in Haitian paintings, hammered metal artwork, and tight woven baskets and vases. The furniture was inviting and cozy under the towering ceiling.

Two of Sister Gladys’ brothers were fixing up the house and were there to greet us. They have been adding bunk beds and accommodations for large missionary groups that come to Port-au-Prince to do relief work and construction.

Like most Haitian households, the windows were carefully positioned around the house to maximize ventilation and airflow. There was a constant breeze that chilled the house in the absence of AC. I love how careful construction can eliminate the need for AC and conserve a ton of energy, especially in a place with notoriously hot weather.

Sunday transformed the city. Port-au-Prince was tamed to easy traffic, well-dressed churchgoers, and crows strolling lazily to the market. There was less honking, less chaos, and a colorful city at ease. Besides a man jumping in the bed of our truck and attempting to steal Katie’s suitcase (VERY unsuccessfully… we had that sucker bound right under a tarp!), the drive was much more peaceful than my past ventures.

We dropped Katie and decided to take advantage of the vacant streets and tour Port-au-Prince by truck. We passed the rubble of downtown, and Sister Gladys pointed out a collapsed third story of a school, where more than 300 children perished to falling cement and earthquake tremors. We drove by the presidential palace, still in ruins and surrounded by matchbox-shaped tents and shacks where the most beautiful park in Port used to flourish.

I remembered a conversation I had with Sister Gladys’ brother, Jean, who was born and met his wife in Port. His wife came back to Haiti after spending 40 years in the U.S., and cried as she walked the streets of her childhood. Cherished memories were replaced by pain and ugliness.

I visualized her tears mingling with the trash and filth of tent city and wished they were enough to make it go away, to heal this broken community.

The English church, Port-au-Prince Fellowship, was a solid reminder that faith can bridge cultural differences. For every foreign missionary, there was a Haitian dancing, clapping and joining in the worship. The band was led by an American man playing guitar, but backed up by an all-Haitian band: 4 women on vocals, a man on keyboard, a man on drums, a woman on saxophone.

I felt at home. The sound of English swelling out the open windows to mingle with the Creole voices at the Haitian churches in service next door made me feel united. I was reminded that Christians bridge the gap between Haiti and home, in this culture different in so many ways from my own.

We ate Haitian fast food after church and met up with Shirley and Alex, a young couple and friends of Sister Gladys who opened a young boys’ orphanage in Port-au-Prince last year. The sandwich, French fries and vanilla cupcake was delicious, but loaded with Mayonnaise and other condiments. Epi d’Or is an extremely popular fast food joint in Port, and offers everything from bacon cheeseburgers and ice cream to traditional Haitian food and cakes. Like the grocery store we visited in Port, the building was huge, packed with people of all nationalities and walks of life, and guarded heavily by security officials carrying impressive guns.

But I’m back to reality now, listening to someone’s donkey braying and the soft whack of a machete in the garden.

I’ll be up late tonight typing a clinic report for the organization overhaul I hope to finish soon. It’s looking fantastic, and we have a huge donation of surplus supplies, including Lactated Ringer’s for cholera, for the hospital in Petit Gôave. Montrouis is not well equipped by any means, but it’s great to see medical supplies pooled where they’re most needed.

Tonight, I have had education on my mind. For a Haitian family to put their child in kindergarten, the cost is around 1500 Haitian dollars a month – a sum out of reach for most families. Education is not free here like it is in the U.S. Many of the schools are pumping money directly into the pockets of corrupt government leaders. Without education, these kids will not be equipped to move Haiti forward. Please pray with me for available primary education and an end to government corruption.

Petit Gôave, kerosene lamps and culture shock

The blanc, white girl with glasses and eyes that squint in the unforgiving Haitian sun. A source of comedy. I watch, numb and awkward, as an old woman seizes my hand and pumps it up and down, shouting a mocking “Bonswa, blanc!” and calling out to her neighbors, forming a tight circle around me and the Canaan kids I have been walking with through the tent city of Petit Gôave, a coastal city south of Port hit hard by the earthquake.  

Singled out, shouted at, grabbed and jostled. It was culture shock Friday. Temporary paralysis and humiliation followed.

It’s an area wrought with cholera and parasites. I pulled my face into an awkward smile and fought the urge to pull out my hand sanitizer. The kids I escorted stared at the dirt as the people hurled insults at me and the three other American women I walked with. It started out as a harmless greeting – white people are a rarity in this area and blanc is more to identify someone as non-Haitian than a charged racial comment.

Two boys who lived at an orphanage in Petit Gôave were leading us to see the new houses their Christian alliance has provided for the broken community. I imagine we looked like a mismatched parade. I held some of the younger girls’ hands as we walked through shacks bearing USAID tarps and the. Men and women clad in clothing castaways from the U.S. (graphic Ts from every forgotten Middle School team to College fandom, cheerleader uniforms, even torn Barbie ballgowns) would occasionally shout blanc and point a finger our way, mouths gaping and then erupting in laughter.

One of the older girls instructed me in succinct English to keep my eyes low and ignore their Bonswas. We were now attracting a large crowd. Anxiety bloomed with the lush banana trees and mimosas. I saw a man walking our way heft his machete in our direction—the tool of a worker, used to slash through the thick stems of banana trees and not an uncommon sight—to point us out to his children. I felt a lurch or fear as we finally stopped and turned around. No one wanted to see the rest of the houses anymore. We were already to get away.

I was exhausted, and what had started out as a day promising the beach and relaxation had somehow brought us here: in the midst of rural Chaos and unsettling poverty, walking through the slums of Port Gôave and trying not to stare at the tattered clothing and stink og feces. Six hours in the back of a bouncing truck, south past the traffic of Port-au-Prince, simultaneous dehydrated and needing to pee, and finally arriving at Sister Gladys’ city of birth alongside 20 Canaan kids, all coated in smoke and dust.

Then, the climax. The old woman who had put my handshake and glasses on display had followed us. Now, she straddled the dirt path, blocking us from passing. As she balanced a large aluminum tub on top her head, she gave me a toothless grin and started shouted to another woman nearby. She shouted back, and they started gesturing one another aggressively.

Still clinging onto the hand of a little girl, I felt myself pushed around the shouting woman and running down the path alongside 20 others. Through closed teeth, the older Canaan girl told me the woman was saying she wanted to fight us – to fight the blancs who had arrived in their part of town. She said if we crossed her path and touched her or any of her neighbors, she would fight us.

We half walked, half ran from the tent city, past a dried up river where some cattle and goats were tied, through sludgy green sewer run off, and down crusty streets to the safety of Sister Gladys and the orphanage.

Later, when we told Sister Gladys what had happened, she tutted her tongue in disbelief. "The people of Petit Gôave are warm and welcoming people. They must be getting restless." She said it was doubtful any harm would come to us, but we all felt uneasy at the display, the drama.

Could it be boredom? Or is there something brewing in Petit Gôave. It's been two years since the earthquake, and still half the city is leveled and confined to tent city. Nothing has been done for these people. They are another sad story, buried in rubble as deep as Port-au-Prince.

We ate Haitian food at a long table accommodating pastors and their wives. I found it interesting that while they all spoke Creole as their langue maternalle, their meeting was conducted only in French -- the language of elite education. It was ironic that a group dedicated to building homes, providing medical care and food for earthquake survivors, many illiterate and Creole speaking, chose to express themselves with the golden tongue of the Haitian bourgeoisie.

Sister Gladys herded us to the steaming bowls of rice, stewed greens in a flavorful sauce, and a small dish of tender meat. It was the most delicious meal I have had here. We washed it down with Coke in glass bottles, made from real sugar and not high fructose corn syrup. It reminded me of my trips to Mexico in high school, and lugging our glass bottles back to the small shops for a few pesos refund. I finally felt the life creep back into my legs, and it was already time to make the drive back to Montrouis and Canaan.

The drive back was even more jarring, but just as long—hours of retracing the grime and alternating scenes of towering mountains, glaring ocean and bustling commerce. The church bench we had put in the back of the truck collapsed from all the jolts, so Katie and I sat on the floor where the dust from the road slapped our tired faces.

Port-au-Prince is sensational at night. The women, crouched next to their market stalls since early in the morning, light kerosene lanterns to display their wares into the evening. Stereos boom like thunder. The flames burn high and seem to lap at their faces, mysterious and reminding me of the gypsies and fortune tellers in New Orleans’ Jackson Square. I wondered how easy it would be for one overturned lantern to burn down the entire tent city—people and booths and their dwellings and the trash are so packed together they’re sometimes indistinguishable.

As we rumbled over the last stretch of highway to Montrouis, I looked out behind me. The city lights bobbed and hovered like stars – an arm of cosmos molded in the arm of mountainside stretching to the coast.

The crowds did not seem to thin, but less children walked the streets at night. Men strolled loudly on the sidewalks and swerved through the streets on loud mopeds. Police men with rifles strapped to their chests and pistols in their fist stood stoically on intersections. Waiting.

I hastily rinsed off and collapsed in my bed. I felt like I’d never wake up, but rose with the sun (and the barking dogs) at 5:30 this morning.

It’s nice and breezy this afternoon, although I’m dripping sweat. I just hung up my laundry to dry, and I’m so glad I packed few items of clothing. It took me hardly 20 min to scrub finish. I read while the other missionaries labored at least an hour over their clothing. We might be heading with Sister Gladys to Port again this afternoon. I’m praying for some more rain and a safe and less painful ride.