The author apologizes that this is long and meandering and possibly offensive and only loosely about Makarios, but thinks this is how being rich among the poor feels a lot.
The author dislikes bad emo music, but is a hemophiliac and sometimes bleeds all over the paper.
The author thinks you should see Haiti.
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This taptap is annoyingly proud -- the word OMNIPOTENCE painted all bright and broad and African and blazing across the back of the rusty pickup, packed with people and bouncing through the sickly dirt streets of Cap Haitien -- and I'm not buying it. Omnipotence means nothing for the taptap when the tire popped a minute earlier. It means little for this city that just
feels like disease and darkness. And it's meaning is sure lost on me when I'm in Haiti and it's a thousand times more desperate than anything I've ever seen and all I'm thinking about is the camera I lost the night before.
Nothing about the people. No struggle with truth.
Why, then, are we here?
Because Makarios works with Haitians in the Dominican Republic. Because those Haitians, quite apparently, prefer living in small impoverished sugarcane villages in the DR campo to what they left behind here on the other side of the island. Because we came to Haiti to see why, and to gain perspective and understanding for our ministry back at home.
Here’s a more accurate list of reasons we came to Haiti:
-- Because we, as people, are drawn to extremes.
-- Because we, as people, are drawn to exotic passport stamps.
-- Because we, as people, are lacking startling photos.
-- Because we, as people lacking perspective and longing for enlightenment and in need of a plan, ask the poor to deliver us.
I speak only for myself.
We cross from the Dominican town of Dajabon, where twice a week Dominicans flock seeking unfairly underpriced goods and where Haitian vendors flood to provide them, where there are trees and some of the streets are paved and the buses air conditioned and not at all ridiculously uncomfortable, into the Haitian border town of something I couldn’t pronounce where none of the above were true.
It’s decidedly hotter, and there’s a UN tank.
Within minutes we’re on motos, zipping off into town. The group gets split up. Ben, who grew up in Haiti and speaks fluent Creole hops off. We don’t know why and drive off into some town without him. It’s raining and we don’t speak Creole and this just got fun.
Ben is the best tour guide possible. Ben is a test of faith.
Ben reappears and puts us on a bus called
conviction. All the buses are called
patience or
immaculee conception or
divine or all sorts of things about
dieu – voodoo twists on scripture, charms painted bright. An older woman and I trade glances. I'm thankful she looks away. It’s crowded and there are cocks ready to fight and I stick my head out the window to breathe and see Haiti. While hanging out a bus in Haiti everyone –
everyone – makes eye contact with you, including the cop who chases down the bus looking for passports and bribes. Ben charms the cop; we don’t pay. The man with the roosters doesn’t have permits; he complies.
This article didn’t mention a thing about chickens. There are people on the roof, illegal roosters hanging off the sides.
We go to Cap Haitien, and it’s not pretty. We see a soccer game. The streets are dirt and there a trenches full of congealing trash and we see clouds of disease. Haitian men on taptaps flick us off. UN man flashes a peace sign.
Here are some things I think while walking/driving/existing in a place like Cap Haitien:
They all want to rob me.
They all want to befriend me.
They are not thinking about me as much as I am thinking about me.
Who is blan?
It sort of looks like Vancouver. No it doesn’t. No really, it does.. just with trash. Mountains, and water, and stuff. Pointed peaks. Neat shapes.
The soccer is relieving.. something pure.. distracting.. clean..
Haiti is: Black and Frenchish and out of place in Latin America.
Maybe we can move everyone for a bit -- someplace huge and empty, like the Astrodome, or New Mexico -- and just start over. Clear everything out. Give it a good scrubbing. Make the sewage go into underground pipes, pave one or two roads. We’ll need tractors.. lots of sponges. I know a guy..
This should challenge sovereignty.
I hope this challenges sovereignty.
Why isn’t this challenging sovereignty?
The poverty does not challenge my belief in sovereignty, but it’s easy to forget about it where there’s nothing beautiful.I don’t know how to understand this.We stay at in a missionary house. Safe. Sane. On the wall a sheet describes Haiti for guests, and tells me it’s the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere and third poorest in the world. I didn’t realize this because saving Haiti is not trendy. Today was madness so I appreciate the ranking. I cannot wrap my mind around the place without a ranking. The subconscious of charity and understanding needs rankings. I do not know what to do with Haiti, but rankings are a good place to start.
Haiti is: less poor than Darfur; worse than Bolivia.
Haiti is: still easier not to deal with.Chris, Ben and I take off through the dark streets to find food. It’s shadowy and people seem surprised to see three blan on a stroll through their fair city. We are stubborn and confident and not at all concerned for our safety, or their ranking.
The next day we climb to
The Citadelle. Ben gets in an animated argument with a man on the bus; they end up shaking hands, smiling. It’s like a billion feet up the mountain and we’re wearing flip flops and men want us to pay to ride their horses. It’d be a fine way to support the struggling Haitian tourism industry, but we decline because we’re stubborn and confident.. and
blan! The men join us for a third of the way up the mountain, saying they’d follow us in case we got tired. They were smart. The trail was steep and we were overconfident and wearing flip flops. One assigned himself to me, called me friend, made it personal – he’s smart. He told me my horse’s name was Suzuki, making it personal – he’s foolish – I’d never ride a Japanese horse. This fort is ridiculous – a work of paranoia. It guards nothing. More mountains. Against the horse guides, maybe -- no wonder they eventually turn around. Ben knows 137 people on the way to the top, some of whom tell stories about him as a kid. A white kid in tie-dye in Haiti is like a purple man in a pope hat in the states -- I’d remember him too. Kids along the trail ask for dollars; I wonder if city Haitians envy their meager but unpolluted existence this high up. An elderly man finishes the hike with us, and gives Ben a flute. The top is relieving -- above the clouds of TB, perfect views, something finally unspoiled.
There are cannons everywhere and Ben knows a restaurateur from Cap Haitian --
blan!, up from the city to cater a meeting for the something something Minister of Tourism and Culture. They offer us drinks and dominoes. We hitch a ride down the mountain with the driver something something Minister of Tourism and Culture.
He takes us off the mountain, into town, to the restaurant where there are white people – USAID workers, OXFAM maybe, or UNESCO. We’d seen signs for projects by all of them. At the restaurant we eat shrimp and goat, and decide that Haitian food is the best on the island. Sensing that we are poverty tourists, the driver wants to show us the worst slum in Cap Haitien. Shadowy. People everywhere on doorsteps, one candle each. He rolls up the windows, and we decide that Haitian music is the best on the island.
He takes us to the house and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. I’m thrilled for the small bond with this Haitian. I get distracted trying to thank him in the Creole I don’t speak and leave my camera and 65 pictures of Haiti in his car. The next morning we are in Haiti and I’m missing my camera. We’re riding on an omnipotent taptap with Haitians who speak English and are delighted to meet us and want to talk, and I wonder how much it will cost for a new one.
I want to look up everything about this place on wikipedia when I get home. I want to read everything ever written by Paul Farmer and hear Jared Diamond’s explanation. I want to know why the trees are gone, what the UN troops do all day, and whether or not the people know they desperately, inconceivably and unnecessarily poor. Haiti is worse – a thousand times worse – than any place I’ve ever seen, but I’m only sort of engaging with the people here. My heart never breaks.
Nothing for the people. Someday later I'll read about truth. Now it's my camera, because anything more is hard.
I shake it off. A UN helicopter swoops low. I begin to wonder.
Here’s a list of possible reasons why:
-- We don’t speak Creole/ empathy requires communication.
-- It’s too exotic -- almost not human.
-- The poverty is impossible. Not worth trying. `
-- The poverty is cyclical, cultural, a tradition, ancient. Not for me to change.
-- I don’t
know these Haitians like I do those from I pray daily in the DR.
-- We are essentially poverty tourists. We observe, but don’t touch. We’re here for perspective – no time for a plan. We’re not ashamed of it because we’re worldly and want to know about earth’s plagues, and also because were working waist-deep in it on the other side of the island. As worldly and seeking travelers, we struggle for understanding. We know stats and discuss politics, but we need it to be human. We need to see the denial of need. We need them to be friends. Without connection we’re stuck in history books.
-- We are here for three days. It's just not enough.
But could this have been enough?
Is perspective enough?
When’s it enough?
WHAT, THEN, WAS THE POINT IF IT’S NOT ENOUGH?
It’s easy to miss when nothing’s beautiful.
It’s just three days.The omnipotent taptap blows out, so we hop into taxi that will take us three hours back to the border. The taxi is made of rust and drags along the ground, and a line breaks half an hour in, leaving a trail of gasoline melting into the dirt for 29 steps down the highway. The driver disappears into a village, and comes back planning to fix it with soap. We decide it’d be better to hitchhike. We hope for a UN tank, but settle on this:
… and these kind of days, I decide, are the best in my life.
We go and it’s dusty and hilarious. The driver unloads after an hour, and we fly the rest of the way down the dirt highway, past chickens and NGO water sanitation projects and an army checkpoint and cops looking for bribes all the way to the border. When hanging off the back of a truck in Haiti, everyone –
everyone – makes eye contact with the
blan, but their eyes are glazed. I look back. I nod back. I wave back. I tell God to tell them I’m trying.
Everyone sees me. It's blurry. I’m still dying for a connection.
