It's Whit

The journey to base camp — all of about 20 miles away from Port Au Prince — was, indeed, a journey. It started with the usual chaos of the Toussaint airport, where an oversized garage serves as baggage claim. The tiny baggage carousels (two of them function) don’t list flight numbers, which encourages people to cluster around them and claw at any bag that resembles theirs. It can take an hour or more for your pack to show up. Or it can apparently fly out of there in rapid speed, only to be claimed by an airport staffer and stacked into a roped off area for unknown reasons. That’s where my duffel ended up. All was fine, I was just a bit nervous as there have been reports of stolen luggage over the last couple of months.

All remained fine until my driver, Aloise, hit the gas pedal in the parking lot of the airport. WHOMP. Flat tire, right there in the airport lot. He changed it out in rapid speed, installing a bald one that he kept in his trunk, but decided (thankfully) not to trek out to Leogane on that thing. As such, we spent the next 30 minutes driving around Port Au Prince, slowing at each street-side vendor we could find that had tires to sell. Somehow Aloise could apparently identify the quality and size of these tires from his window, so we didn’t actually step out until something like our fifth stop. Aloise talked the guy down to $12 US for a new-to-him (used) tire and a change. Something to keep in mind the next time you buy tires.

Our last hiccup was traffic. By the time we started to leave Port Au Prince, it was late and getting dark, which is not ideal. There have been a few manifestations in recent days, and white people (easily identified as foreigners, and therefore assumed to be wealthy) are occasionally targeted by gangs. As such, it’s recommended that white people don’t go out in PAP in the evenings. After hitting a second blokis, Aloise called Jolinda to see if I could overnight at a friendly NGO in PAP, which is where All Hands sends volunteers whose flights get in late in the evening. By the time Jolinda, the base manager, had made the arrangements, traffic had opened up and we were on the road to Leogane.

I arrived around 8 p.m. and unloaded a bag of supplies with Dylan, the manager: six cans of Gatorade and four giant bags of M&Ms. Before I could even pick a bunk, friends from the summer had found me and were coaxing me out to Joe’s next door to catch up. I was dirty and exhausted … and had no choice but to say yes.

It’s great to be back.

I have more to write and post, but that will have to wait.

Very early Sunday, hours before I left, there was a horrible accident on base.

Chris Zahuta, an international volunteer from California, fell from the roof living quarters of the base camp. He was transported to Miami but there was nothing they could do to save him or bring him back.

I remember I first met Chris when he bopped into the camp’s kitchen to steal vegetarian red sauce for his rice and beans — the meat version, served outside with the rest of the food, had run out.

I was lucky to work with Chris a few days. I say that I was lucky because Chris was a damn good worker. He worked hard.

On the school foundation pour, Chris served as the chef — that’s also Kreyol for boss or chief — of the cement mix for Team Dragon, which was the crew on which I worked. From my workstation on the foundation floor, where I was passing along half-filled buckets of mix, I watched in awe as Chris the mixmaster worked tirelessly to crank out loads of concrete needed for the floor. Almost every time he tossed buckets of sand, cement or gravel into the mixer, his face scrunched up. But that was the only sign that the grueling physical work had any effect on him. His pace certainly didn’t slow. Like I said, he was a hard worker.

On Saturday, Chris was at that same worksite, although we were on different work teams. (My group was removing the wooden frames for the recently-completed foundation, while Chris’ group was putting up walls.) He wasn’t feeling well, so his team leader ordered him into the nearly-completed school next door, to rest, away from the hot Haitian sun.

Through one of the school’s windows, he called me over to ask about the foundation. He was concerned that the floor wasn’t level in one corner of the building. Chris was supposed to be resting!

The All Hands community is heartbroken by Chris’ death.

I feel lucky to have known him even for just a couple of weeks. The poetry in his premature death is that as an organ donor, Chris and his family have given others life.

Please read All Hands’ tribute to Chris ….

“In an email Chris sent to his mother on the 8th of June, he said, “today was so much fun working…I love the people and the area is like nothing you could ever imagine! I love it! I’m going to make it and change someone’s life! I love you mom and I miss you!”

- Used a roofing nail to dig out about three pounds of dirt from under my fingernails.

- Hosed a shirtless friend’s back off using a backpack water sprayer (used to keep newly-rendered walls wet to prevent cracking) because he was plastered in tiny dead bugs.

- Had my skin turn green, the result of applying sunscreen to limbs that are splattered in concrete.

- Took last place in team trivia at a volunteer-organized world trivia competition at Joe’s, the bar next to base camp. My team’s name was “Dave’s Dirty Down and Outs.”

- Met a pharmacist from Iowa and a first-year medical student from Grand Rapids, Michigan.

- Drank a can of diet coke!

- Visited a bar that had in it: four children; three adults; one kitten, which was attacked by one of the children; one plastic bag, which the boy who swatted at the dog put on his head (one of my friends pulled it off); one mangy dog; and one chicken bone, which was shared by the boy and mom … and very nearly the dog, too.

- Ate peanut butter and white bread for breakfast … every single day.

- Plucked my eyebrows for the first time in more than two weeks! It’s rare that I look in a mirror here. When I did, I discovered I looked like Brooke Shields.

- Passed a Haitian brothel named “Sensation +” The building’s pink, barbed wire-topped fence has a just hideous painting of a brown-skinned woman wearing a bikini. She’s been given a very round butt.

(Stop reading here, mom and dad)
- Got a cement burns on my arm, the result of my skin having too much contact with cement, a base. Apparently dousing vinegar, an acid, on skin can help combat this. Unfortunately, I learned of this too late. I’m fine, it’s just irritating. I’m hoping it makes me look tough.
(OK to start reading again, parents!)

- Found two playing cards on the ground.

- Made some Haitian children observing us at the school foundation pour giggle when I started dancing with two other female volunteers to some house music on the radio. At this point in the day, everything from our ankles to our shoulders were grey with cement.

- Found dirt in my sports bra. Found dirt in my underwear.

That same Sunday, I accompanied Dann on a quest for lunch. (I’m a little wary of eating out, thanks to my sick “incident” last year, and most Haitian places aren’t veg-friendly, so I was just in it for the scenery and conversation.)

We ended up at a rather new corner restaurant – a real rarity here.

“Ice cream!” was painted on each of the building’s three pillars, each in a different color of paint.

Inside, over the waitress’ station, there was a hand-written sign that announced: “Ice cream.”

But there was no ice cream on the menu. And it wasn’t provided off-menu, either.

“How come you have ice cream written outside?” Brian, another volunteer who was at the restaurant, asked in Kreyol.

The waitress just smiled and shrugged.

No answer. No ice cream. Haiti.

Two kinda unrelated blurbs about two Haitians I met this weekend.

Fritz

A new hotel opened in Leogane this weekend. In celebration, the owner held what was billed as a block party, no invitation needed. Word spread around the base quickly. Many were intrigued by the prospect of free beer.

Dann, a volunteer from the Chicago suburbs, and I headed over there after the beach Saturday to check it out. (We weren’t going for the beer, promise.) The party was supposed to start at 5 p.m. When we got there, at 6 p.m., it had yet to start — not exactly a surprise, given that everything in Haiti (with the exception of our workdays!) seems to run on “Haitian time.”

When we asked for clarification from the staff on the weekend’s events, we were introduced to the Hotel Arawak’s owner, Fritz.

Fritz was a real sweetie. He explained to us that he had pushed back the party until the evening out of respect for a funeral which was being held just a block away. (On our way to the hotel, we had walked by the church – a wooden-framed “building” next to an IDP camp that has a hodgepodge of tarps, including one from Chicago’s Shedd Aquarium, serving as its roof.) (Can you imagine something similar happening in the United States? I love Haiti’s sense of community.)

Postponing a celebration like his hotel’s grand opening out of respect for the deceased, Fritz explained, was something that he was still learning – even though he is Haitian and is from Leogane: Fritz has spent many years living in New York City and speaks English very well. (How lucky for us!) This led into a long conversation and private tour of the still-sparkling facility …. Which has flushing toilets! When Fritz inquired where we were from (coincidentally, the same area), he explained that he had been to Chicago before – and attended high school in Evanston! What a small world.

I was struck by Fritz’ kindness, even though I recognize it was a smart business decision on his part to talk up foreigners who can help spread the word. (A night’s stay won’t be affordable for most Haitians: Rooms start at $65 US.) Here was a man preparing for the official opening of his new business, taking the time to greet us, show us around, and invite us back for festivities, food and drink. (We did return Sunday afternoon, for complimentary cokes and sandwiches. Curiously, most of the attendees at that day’s ceremony were Latino. Fritz repeated his Kreyol welcome speech in French, English and Spanish.) I love Haitians’ sense of community.

Rommel

After saying goodbye to Fritz, Dann and I headed across the street to grab glass bottle drinks from a local vendor. Many Haitian vendors sell Cokes, Sprites and some other beverages in glass bottles, which are then collected by the distributor, cleaned and rebottled. For a country that doesn’t have a waste management system, so no way to properly dispose or recycle plastic bottles, it’s great. We try to use glass bottles when we can, but the catch is that you have to drink the 1/2 liter drink at the vendor. (Sellers lose money if they don’t return the bottle to their distributors, so most don’t let their bottles go for walks with customers.)

We grabbed limonade – a slightly fizzy, sugary lemonade-type drink – for the low, low price of 15 goude (about 40 cents) and sat down on a bench. We were quickly approached by a very large, dreadlocked Haitian man who looked to be in his late 40s: Rommel.

He had pegged us for journalists: We were the only two white people on the block, and I was carrying a SLR camera. After we explained we were volunteers, the conversation got rolling: Rommel spoke English (trust me, this is uncommon among Haitians) and was very interested to learn about our work and backgrounds. Many members of Rommel’s family live in the United States, including a son in the Army who currently is serving in Afghanistan. Rommel himself frequently travels to NYC, although he lives in Leogane on the street where we met him, where he owns a dry cleaning business.

He pointed out the business and then pointed out his house: It’s the building behind that home there, he said pointing to a structure we could barely make out. It was hidden behind a collapsed building. That collapsed building, Rommel explained, was his family’s, too, but it was lost in the earthquake.

Three of his family members died in the earthquake, Rommel said without emotion. He kept on talking, over the sympathetic yet awkward, muttered apologies of myself and Dann. There was no pause. That was just the way things were.

Just before Rommel had introduced himself, I had remarked to Dann about a beautiful, half-collapsed building on the corner. I asked
Rommel if he knew what that building was. Sure, he explained – that’s my grandmother’s. It got hit in the earthquake, too. She survived and now lives with Rommel next door.

On our walk back to base camp, Dann told me a Haitian saying he once heard: “If Haitians cried every time something bad happened to them, the whole country would be flooded.”

With an hour left in the workday and our rendering completed, a group of three volunteers — including yours truly — set out to build some scaffolding to help our team reach the high parts of the school’s walls later in the week.

We set up shop at the back of the building, away from the dirt road that serves as its only access route. Armed with some plywood, a circular saw, a hammer and nails, the brains of the crew (Brioney and Brian, an architecture student from England and a construction worker from Atlanta, respectively) began laying out the skeletal frame on the ground.

During the deliberations, a 20-something-year-old Haitian man and slightly older Haitian woman moseyed back to our worksite to observe. Standing silently, they watched as we assembled two sides of the platform.

Our progress began to slow when it was time to join those pieces together. We grabbed some spare wood pieces to prop up the components, but getting those in place turned out to be rather tricky.

As we struggled to keep the frame level, the silent (male) observer walked up to Brioney’s side and grabbed onto the frame.

He was wearing a black T-shirt with some geometric pattern with X’s, coupled with brown dress pants that looked like they belonged in the closet of an 80-year-old man. On his feet were ripped, blue sandals.

Without any instruction — he did not speak English so could not have followed our deliberations — he helped hold the piece level long enough for Brian to hammer it into place.

I realize this was a little thing, but the man’s silent, unrequested help struck me. I tried to imagine something similar happening in the States — a passer-by stopping to check out someone’s construction or home repair project … and then, without invitation, stepping in to help — and I couldn’t.

On Tuesday, volunteer teams worked on constructing four schools, each in various stages of formation. I joined the workteam of School 11, a structure which is nearing completion.

Our task for that day, and probably the rest of the week, is rendering the outside walls with a smooth coat of cement. It’s a labor-intensive, time-sensitive task that requires workers to spend all day at the site — no time for a lunch break at home and reprieve from the sun. It also is the kinda work that leaves you with cement in your hair.

School 11 is nowhere near downtown Leogane. It’s located off a dirt road, near a Japanese NGO-installed water pump, in the middle of sugar cane and banana tree fields.

Here are a few snaps:

(Almost) Completed front wall. That’s my buddy Dave, a teacher from Cocoa Beach and rendering ace, on the ladder.

For comparison, this is the unfinished back wall.

The interior of the school (and where we stash some of our gear while working). It’s a modest but functional structure: three classrooms with fixed windows to allow for air flow. The walls/the building is designed to be earthquake resistant, so in the event of another powerful quake, the walls won’t collapse.

Our bodyguard.