PERSPECTIVE
An aid workers impressions as she travels the world building toilets.
Latest public adventure: to be determined.
Poems, photos and ramblings abound.


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August 27, 2010

Secondhand stories

I had another enjoyable day chatting in traffic with the driver. Today it was not the banalities of life, but rather the turning upside down of a regular day.

I heard stories about the earthquake.

I do not mean this post to be sentimental. Or sad. Or exploitative. Just simple. I mean to tell these stories as he told them.

* * *

"Everyone knows someone, near or far, who died in the earthquake."

* * *

Sometimes the ground vibrates. This time it did not vibrate, it rolled and rolled. My house rocked back and forth, back and forth. He showed me with his hands, tilting his vertical palm to and fro. A friend of mine was sitting in her car in traffic when the quake happened. She said that the earth looked like the giant snake in the movie Anaconda when it was under the soil.

* * *

This driver is often the driver of the big boss. He told me of the man who used to wash his windows everyday. He worked hard washing, quickly rubbing, clearing the glass for the boss and VIPs who visited. He fed his family this way. He eventually bought a motorbike. He kept on washing windows. The day of the quake, he went out to buy some food on his motorbike and never came back.

* * *

There was a man and a woman who had moved to the states from Haiti. They had 3 children there and made a good life. When it came to retirement age and their children were grown, they decided to return and enjoy their retirement here. They returned, all their children with them to help with the move. The day of the quake they were having a big party. All the neighbors and cousins and aunts enjoying and celebrating the retirement and the return of the family. They ran out of ice and so the father went out to get some. He returned to find them all dead. The old man walks the streets talking to his family who are all dead. It made him loose his mind.

August 24, 2010

Hobo's Lullaby

I am officially a hobo. I have spent about two months living out of my bag in the US, and have embarked on three more of the same in Haiti. I live on about thirty kilos (including my computer), and that is still too much stuff. 

* * *
The Van. Oh the van. I had so much fun and a great learning experience. Here I am, dressed up for a wedding.

At first I was a little apprehensive or nervous about living out of the van. It was a little claustrophobic. It is a little tricky to park over night. The radiator leaked. The solar system wasn't working perfectly. But there was water, shower, stove, toilet and a lot of dust.

So first I cleaned. I scrubbed. I used bleach.
Then I got three gallon jugs,  ready and waiting to add to the radiator at any moment. I got into a rhythm and knew how long I could go before needing a refill, and never even overheated.
Then I figured out that my old campus during the summer is a great, safe place to park over night where no one bothers you and you can pick up a great wireless signal.
Then I went camping on the coast. Parking was not as easy as on campus, and I ended up paying to camp in Butano state park - which is five minutes from the beach and five minutes from Duartes restaurant and the San Gregorio country store (with music in the mornings), and which facilitated the burning of my leftover firewood from my northern escapade.

Then I listened to my dad's advice.
I enjoyed days with the doors wide open in the Baylands nature area and my new set of binoculars and the birds. Cleared up that claustrophobia and made for good hikes.
I cooked. I visted with my dad. Two of us in our little RVs parked, in his cause it is bigger and has the satellite TV. We watched the news and old school sci-fi where Leonard Nemoi was an alien from the Stratosphere.
He showed me how to maintain the toilet (and I thought I was a toilet expert).
When I tripped the inverter on the solar panels, he guided me by phone to reset the panel controls (involved wires) and then I figured out how to reset the inverter on my own.

I told my dad that I wanted to paint the inside. He agreed that it needs a coat. I suggested flowers and some artsy stuff. He laughed and thought that might make it look like a closet homosexual case: blue and manly on the outside and all flaming girly on the inside. Sounds good to me.

Totally sweet.
Totally free.
Dug it.
Will do it again.

* * *

I had a window seat from Miami to Port au Prince. I have seen the photos and knew what to expect: rubble, tents and a city made of plastic sheeting, but - maybe because it is more impressive in real life or maybe because I am getting better at not having expectations - the view surprised me. It wasn't much more than the rubble, tents and cities of plastic sheeting... but there were people too. People who I can't describe yet, people who I have not met, people just the same.

The office is a bunch of air conditioned, pre-fabricated, plastic containers. I spent my first day bursting in and out of cold, dark offices into blinding sunshine on white rocks and back again. I visited each of the following departments more than once, usually 3 times: movement coordination, human resources, security, planning, finance, ICT (forget what that stands for, but it is the dudes who give you a phone, a radio and a computer, but no mouse) and of course my new boss. I didn't get too lost, thanks to the friendly people.

My role is to support the Government in the coordination of all things WASH, but I don't work for the government. Right now in Haiti is an interesting time of transition from the initial emergency phase of the response to the earthquake to more long term, stable and sustainable interventions.

Originally I was destined to support the regions south of the capital, but since we are under staffed, I will also liaise with several of the municipalities in the capital. That should be interesting because I will get to interact with other sectors. That should also be a little overwhelming because it used to be (and maybe soon in the future) one and a half or two people. I should also put the disclaimer that it is my second day, and all that may change or I may have misunderstood the expectations of my boss...

Today I needed a mouse. I mean needed one, bad. I can not deal with the little touch button thingy on the IBM laptop they have given me. So, I tagged along in a car to find one. I found a mouse, but driving around was better than the mouse itself.

Graffiti: The shape is a map of Haiti, not a penis.
The artist, "Jerry" apearently, has done many of the best.
We went up high, low, through tiny streets with more potholes than concrete. The roads are lined with rubble. Tent cities are on every corner and open space, save the cemeteries. The graffiti is the best part. There are simple messages "votez pour" X candidate for Y post, and, in a country known for its artists, there are fabulous caricatures of Haitian faces: children, women and old men. Some hold signs that say "I (heart) Haiti." And there are other signs as well, in sloppy hand writing and not as optimistic: "We need help. Food. Water. Doctors."

I chatted with the driver, always a good source of information on the banalities of life in the place you are. Where to buy what, the hours what kind of shops are open, why those hours, how to get the cheap charges for international phone calls. I learned a lot in a few hours.

I am a little timid to take photos yet, but stay tuned.

Pretty sweet so far.
Although not free in any sense of the word.
Whether I dig this or do it again needs more than two days to figure out.

* * * 

Also, my friend Jesse from Peace Corps is here in Haiti and he has a blog too. It is quite cool. It gives an interesting first impression of the country from his perspective.

* * *
*This blog is only an expression of me and in no way represents any other agency mentioned herein.

August 23, 2010

Shifting stances

I'll try to keep it short, but the stream is moving and I am going with it.

* * * 

Business first.

So on the contest front, I was 3/5, awaiting the results of two contests. Now I am 4/5, awaiting 1.
Contest #3 results are in and, as I predicted, I didn't win. This does not break my heart because this was a high level competition. Students in professional writing programs are nominated. You can't see the poems on the site yet, but I am sure one or two of the poems will blow my (your) mind.

During my off-time I have gotten to see so many old friends, and with some I have had the pleasure of chatting about this adventure in writing contests or writing in general. I am blessed to be friends with poets, editors, dreamers like me and my mom. I was hesitant in all this. Professionals confirm it is hella competitive. Friends are honest.  Moms are always encouraging.

I said: I don't want to say my goal is to write a book, because - what if I don't or I can't?
Friend: But by saying it, you might be more motivated. And your friends will care and encourage you.
Mom: And if you don't that's okay too, just do what god makes/lets/encourages you to do. 

That's pretty paraphrased, but I kind of agree with all of that.

* * * 

Breathe out.
I am headed out.
New country.
New adventure. New organisation. New role.
Same me.
How will it all combine and entwine and rewind?
To become my life?

* * *

More to come about the past two weeks which have indeed been learning for me in a small van, with fog, with sunshine, with micro climates and with...

August 3, 2010

All I ever wanted

Adventure: a new and exciting experience.
Adventrue: a known and exciting experience.

My vacation is ending and a new adventure will begin (stay tuned). I am lucky. I have had many adventrues, but none so sweet as getting back. And within that adventrue are many. The poem in my last post came from home, an island and its memories. Here are some new ones mixed with old, because you can’t really separate them.

* * *
the incredibility of tidal standing waves washes over
cradled kelp heads green pink anemones speckled seals
these sound straight channels are never full never empty
twice a day they still rise fall whip around steady rocks
discreet violence that harbors flotsam memories

* * *
* * *
I am still seven inside and slept only three hours the night before, excited for the journey. But things do change. I am not seven, but seven times five; and while the child was eager to go, I am eager to come home.

Welded steel rattles, strains and pushes its mass against cormorant laden pilings and the rocky mainland; the same old rusty ferry sliding deep into the early mist caught between the islands. Breathe deep, exhale and let the salt spray drizzle muck up your glasses or you won’t make the transition in smoothly.

Sleepy legs under heavy bags push up the tarpaper boardwalk and find a spot for me to wait; the cold stone wall where I lean back on my warmed pack above the fuel stained creosote dock. I take in the busy view. I know the boat when it rounds the point. I rest, watching her come in.

I am the only passenger back. After hellos, we settle into comfortable silence and skirt the shores before crossing the channel. The waves are small, constant and graceful; dancing with bull kelp among familiar carved conglomerate; lifting then dropping sea birds just a foot; slapping the metal bow just hard enough that my knees bend and straighten in time.

But things do change. The dock is taller but the dockhouse is the same, although shifted to where you can not leap, and so the resulting difference in jumping height is similar. The water seems colder and trees seem smaller, although they’ve grown. Cell phones work, making logistics simpler, but not simple.

By three boats I landed on three islands, each dock smaller until none, just a gravel beach in a protected rocky bay. The second run brings friends, flowers and spiced beans; the beginning of festivities no one can dispute. I smile, breathe, exhale and clean my glasses.

* * *

I am alone and quiet, snuggled into the orchard, thankful for the clearing. Cassiopeia rises, her W matching the jagged tree line. Breathe, exhale, my glasses were already off so I stretch and lay back. I spy a shooting star and watch its long fall. It burned, lit and then exploded in the atmosphere. Alone in the silence I whoop, hands up in appreciation, and wonder who else saw it.


* * *

Many good hugs hello don’t make up for one goodbye.