Pink is for girls...

Conversations with my male co-workers

Stuck in traffic- talking to the driver

-In Colombia do girls wear pants?

Me: Yes, why?

-Because under the good governments in Haiti women had to dress well

Me: You mean they had to wear skirts? By law?

-Yes, there was a type of police that would make sure women didn’t wear pants

Me: That’s crazy. What’s wrong with wearing pants?

-Well, it must get really hot when they wear such clothes ~as he points to a girl on the street wearing tight jeans-

At the bakery buying birthday sweets for a male co-worker

Me: Let’s get chocolate cake!

-Tania, chocolate cakes are for girls

Me: Really? What do men like?

-They like square cakes, and they have to be simple

On cooking

Me: Is it true that Haitians eat cats?

-Yes, some people do.

Me: Have you eaten cats?

-Yes, sometimes when I drink with my friends. It’s really good

Me: How do you cook them?

-Cooking them? I don’t know. I don’t know how to cook anything. But once last year I made coffee.

Fragility tested

A girl ties her hair next to her tent after it fell down due to heavy rain at a camp
for earthquake survivors in Port-au-Prince, Haiti - AP

The hurricane season has been an active one this year and yet Haiti continues to be spared. NGOs have assisted the government in setting up 48 hour warning systems by SMS and radio. Plans have been drawn up to attempt to evacuate certain areas if necessary.

Unfortunately, the unusual storm that hit Port au Prince Friday night was not a hurricane and came with no warning. At about 4pm, dark clouds descended on the city and within a matter of minutes tornado-like winds and heavy rains were lashing the fragile city. Trees toppled, streets flooded and the several camps were shredded.

The residual shock from the earthquake was evident: people panicked. Reports said people started running through the streets. Traffic came to a gridlock. The Haitian staff members of Tania’s organization were visibly frightened – for themselves in the warehouse and for friends and family that might be outside. In my building, we had to secure all the shutters except for one where we helplessly looked up on the flapping tarps of one of the precarious mountainside camps above Petionville.

International estimates say that over 5,000 tents were either damaged or destroyed. Power lines went down all over the city, forcing the utility to shut off electricity. Many of those most affected by the winds and the rain were forced to spend the night in the dark. In the end, five people are said to have lost their lives.

All this was created with winds of up to 100km/h – definitely a violent storm, but far less than a hurricane would generate. This is our first glimpse of what another natural disaster could do to this structurally and psychologically fragile area. Despite the construction of temporary shelters, early warning systems, and better storm drainage it is difficult to imagine how the over 1M still living in tents would be sufficiently protected.

Erase una vez...

Once upon a time in a land full of mangoes, SUVs, potholes and enchanted waterfalls, there lived a boy and a girl lost in the kingdom of NGOs and development aid...

He wore Italian jackets and fancy shoes to work. He spent his days having meetings with Ministers and deputies, high representatives, Commissioners, NGO directors and one or two famous people. His week included business lunches, and conferences at sophisticated conference rooms where diplomats and international aid decision makers used fancy translation devices much like the ones we see in movies that show the United Nations- whether the actual UN headquarters actually have them, he did not know...

She did her paperwork at a dusty office. Her work involved visiting sites and thus entailed spending countless hours under the sweltering sun of the Caribbean trying to convey logistics procedures to the locals in tongues she could not speak. Alas she did not have fancy translations booths that could rescue her (but she is not bitter). She often resorted to drawings and hand gestures instead. She wore logo-ed t-shirts and baseball hats that every day collected almost as much dust as her old Bologna apartment....almost. Her lunch came in styrofoam and was purchased on the side of the road.

Will they get tired of eating mangos and avocados? Will she finally find gainful employment? Will he get another haircut from the local barber? Will she lose some pounds
on her gelato-less dietary regime or gain some because of her repeated consumption of du riz avec poids?

Stay tuned for the next episode....

Haitian Barbers: It’s all in the edging

Some barber shops fare better than others

It seems colourful barber shops pop out at you from every street in Port-au-Prince. With a low start up cost, constant demand and little training involved, it’s a very popular business to run. But as in any business, many simply don't cut it (excuse the pun) and fall into disrepair. The question is how to make your barber shop stand out amongst the rest? After all, virtually all Haitian men get the same buzz cut from an electric clipper. No price wars either – it seems to be a standard 70 gds (about $1.80). The skill, it turns out, is not in the scissors (or the clipper), but in the razor. Neat and crisp lines are paramount –it’s really all in the edging.

No need to look elsewhere for a haircut
and t-shirt printing combination

A few weeks ago I decided to try my local barber (which, like every “local” barber is no less than 50 meters away from any given house). This is an adventure rarely braved by foreigners who chose to get haircuts while on vacation in Santo Domingo or Miami (“at least they’re used to straight hair”, says a colleague). But as a reckless risk-taker in matters of appearance and grooming, I decided I would try my luck anyway. I entered the hot little cement room and expectedly got a surprised stare from the man sitting inside. I politely said I would like a haircut in my best Creole (backed up by a gesture of my index and middle fingers chopping away at my head).  He then shouted something and a few moments later “Carli” came in towards me with the look of a rarely used pinch hitter sizing up an unknown pitcher. It seemed I was a special case after all. Skipping the small-talk, we went straight to the strategy. I gestured to him a shortish length on the side, and a little longer up top. Other than that, I said he could do what he liked – after all, he’s the pro. Carli nodded and got to work.

Carli and the shop

He started by running the clipper over the back of my head. His strokes quickly gained speed and he began to furiously whittle down my hair. He moved from the back, to the sides, and back again – misting tiny bits of hair down onto my stylish nylon bib (I couldn’t help but notice the odd tinge of grey that seems to be in the mix these days).  And so the clipping went on – for 10, 20, 30 minutes –buzzing around and around my scalp with the air of an unsatisfied artist. As sweat beaded on my forehead, I began to wonder if the unbelievably cheap price painted on the wall behind me was in fact being charged per minute. I attempted to read it, but the faded mirror failed my straining eyes.  

Finally, the machine stopped. My scalp, and the hairs that had been spared, were relieved. Carli then reached for a new razor blade to put on the final touches. I briefly considered stopping the man, but I thought it unwise to opt-out of the raison-d’être of the whole experience. So Carli then spent another quarter of an hour cutting a crisp line as the border of my hair and dabbing me with cotton soaked alcohol.

My razor edges - with the tan
lines to prove it

Almost an hour after he started, Carli flashed a huge smile to show that his masterpiece was complete. I thanked him and paid the 70 gourds (it turned out it was a flat fee). I then happily emerged into the sunlight of the street drenched in sweat, but with an immaculately even, expertly edged marine buzz cut. Close enough to what I wanted, I suppose. And well worth the experience!

You're in our thoughts...

Today we learned that four of Graham's Bologna classmates were involved in a car accident in DC. An intoxicated driver crashed her car into the two girls as they were waiting to cross the street at an intersection. Both of them sustained very serious injuries, and one is still in critical condition. Luckily the two guys were not injured.

Our thoughts are with Melissa, Julia, Teddy and Moran in this difficult moment. May family and friends bring you strength, comfort, and support to fully recover and get well soon.

With much love, all the way from the Caribbean,

G&T

Nou Jacmel...

Last month we visited Jacmel, one of the most tourist visited cities in Haiti. Since I work on Saturdays we were only able to leave in the afternoon, and knowing Port-au-Prince traffic, especially on the weekends, it was anybody's guess how long the drive was going to take. 

Our friend Ian had looked it up on google maps: 1 hour and 26 minutes! he said. Having had a couple of misleading driving times in Colombia, Graham and I calculated it would be 2-3 times as long. Boy were we wrong. The traffic was so much worse than expected. It took 6 hours but it felt like much longer. The good thing is that it provided us with the opportunity to see parts of the city we hadn't visited before.

As we sat in traffic, we passed endless markets that brought a relief of colour to the otherwise bleak environment of garbage and rubble. 

Once we neared the edge of the city, we also saw  UN presence. We expect to see more of this as we near the elections in November.

   

Once out in the countryside, the drive to Jacmel is absolutely beautiful. You have to go over the mountains that separate the north coast from the Caribbean, and it makes for wonderful views on both sides. The road is not in such a bad shape compared to the streets we take everyday to go to work. And a very good driver made it very comfortable.

Graham had made a reservation online at what he thought was a nice hotel. It ended up being a classic Jacmel house, truly representative of the architecture and details that made this city famous in the Caribbean. It was built towards the end of the 19th century, and although it suffered some damage after the earthquake, it was repaired and reopened a few months ago.

The style resembles that of the French quarter in New Orleans, with adorned balconies in every room, rooms that open onto another room, courtyards, more balconies and beautifully decorated bathrooms. There was Haitian art in every wall, and 19th century furniture carefully restored and well-kept. We slept in four post beds with giant mosquito nets, and our balcony looked over a quiet street from where we could see the neighbours gardens and shaded patios.

The restaurant of Hotel La Florita where we enjoyed some of the best coffee we have had in the country

The next morning we learned that Jacmel has been a famous destination dating back to the early 1800s. Their most famous visitor of that era was none other than Simon Bolivar. Even though it was hot and we were looking forward to enjoying the beach, we walked around the historic quarter looking for the house where he stayed at. It turns out there isn't much to see at the site except for a plaque that indicates Bolivar's place of residence during his visit. There, in 1818, the leaders of Haiti allowed him to stay and plan the triumphant revolution against the Spaniards, provided that upon winning he would abolish slavery throughout the Americas.

Though it bears the scars of decades of neglect and the recent earthquake,
the town still retains a certain vibrancy of its past.

We walked around a bit more, and visited the main plaza, and a few of the sites. Soon it was too hot to not be at the beach so we packed up and drove for 10 minutes.... and then cut to one of those scenes you see in postcards and travel brochures. A nice, clean, quiet and almost empty beach....bliss! 

Thanks to our travel companions, Stacey and Ian, for waiting until I finished work, providing snacks for the trip, bringing Ipods full of worldly music and one or two Spanish lessons, buying and wearing ridiculous sombreros and being fantastic Simon Bolivar house hunters.  We miss you guys!

 For an interesting stories on Jacmel and post-earthquake projects going on, check out the Project Jacmel blog with the Globe and Mail: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/world/project-jacmel/