Let me tell you a little something about... water in Haiti

"Dlo se la vie". Water is life. This is an occasional phrase you’ll see scribbled on walls as graffiti, or painted on hand pumping stations attached to wells donated and dug by various governments or organizations. In Haiti, water certainly is life, or at least it is directly connected to the quality of one’s life. I am learning that day by day here, most recently as our direct pipe connection was cut by the town water department (I was shocked to learn there even was such a thing, with an official office even!) after a miscommunication regarding an unpaid bill. We are trying to work out the details of getting our pipe reconnected, but in the meantime (and the meantime might be a while- simple things take a long time here), we are living in a little more solidarity with our neighbors, having to collect water from communal pipes and springs.

I’ll start by explaining a bit about our situation, as it was upon arrival. Our house had the rare convenience of having a pipe delivering a pretty steady stream of water into our pipes. We have flush toilets, sinks, a kitchen tap, and a faucet outside. The faucet has become a communal water source, mostly for neighbors and church friends, but we never refused anyone as long as they complied with the system in place, waiting in line and not creating too much ruckus and noise while waiting to fill their buckets and used oil jugs. Mostly women, young boys, and children came to get water all day long. When we needed water in the house (the water pressure and volume was not enough to have multiple taps open at the same time), we would simply shut the valve to the faucet outside, quickly use what water we needed before turning it back on outside. It was a pretty good system, and it kept us very aware of the demand of water, what a precious resource it is.

It is hard to ignore the amount of strenuous, back breaking work associated with water use here. From the moment one arrives in Haiti, driving from the airport to their destination, one passes countless Haitians walking along the street carrying water. Sometimes on top of the head, sometimes in the hand, sometimes both. The more creative water carriers engineer easier ways to make their work easier. I’ve seen an old wheelchair re-purposed to carry a 5 gallon bucket, I’ve seen a stroller carrying gallons, and my favorite is when I see clever little boys pushing their hand crafted “ti machines” or little cars full of various jugs and buckets. The children start this work (as well as other household chores) at a very young age. A young neighbor girl, about 11 years old, came to get water here on a daily basis. Initially, she would always take along the family baby, who was about 2 when we moved in. He didn’t do anything, but it was part of his daily routine to come to the water spigot and observe what went on there. Now, he is almost 3, and he has his own little collection of mini gallons that he carries over on his own, asking me to help him open the pipe and fill them up. He mimics the behavior he has seen since he was a toddler, sometimes even perching one mini jug on his head. The volume he’s carrying is of course not much, but it is getting him in the habit, and also building strength in his tiny body so that he can be a useful worker as he grows. This tendency to make little worker bees out of young children begins at infancy. I was told many parents purposefully choose not to support their young babe’s neck, hoping it will develop the muscles on its own, muscles it will need later on to carry a 5 gallon bucket, or a sack of charcoal.

Now, with the change in our water situation, we are realizing what a gift and convenience running water is. Once or twice a day, Jon walks down the hill to the local “sous” or spring to bathe and fill up a 5 gallon water cooler jug that he then carries back up the hill. Around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, I have to quit work to go bathe in a local river with some women friends. Bathing is quite a community activity, as people are always passing by the stream, either to do laundry, bathe, or let their animals come to take a drink. After bathing, we continue a little further to a randomly placed communal pipe. We carry a variety of buckets and gallons. I did have a few days I successfully carried a 5 gallon bucket on my head for the 7 or 8 minute walk back to our house, however my head was indeed supported by my parents as an infant, and I fear my neck muscles aren’t quite up to the task. I can assure you: it is not easy work. I am even more blown away that young girls will do this over and over for several trips each day, often balancing a full bucket on their head, and perhaps 2 to 4 gallon jugs in their hands. The other day I was out getting water with a friend, and we came across her brother gathering firewood. He needed help carrying it, and as I was clumsily arranging wood in my arms along with the measly 2 gallons I was given to carry, I turned around to see my friend had somehow managed to balance the biggest branch on top of the bucket which was already on top of her head. She then proceeded to fill her arms with sticks and twigs too. And she does this all with the grace of a ballerina while I look on in awe, stumbling and slipping in the mud.

Knowing how much work it takes to get the water to the house, I am very careful to conserve each drop. I’ve disconnected the sink so that the waste water drips into a bucket which then is used to flush the toilets. Each time we wash hands, we do it over a basin to collect the grey water to give our thirsty plants a drink. The days we are blessed with rain (which thankfully is happening more and more in this season), we scramble to put out every bucket, basin, pot, and vessel we have, under the eaves to collect what we can. Some of the housemates have even taken to bathing directly in the rain showers. 

I hope, even when (or if) our water connection is re-established, that I can continue to have the same mentality of conserving this precious resource. It’s been a good experience, and I am happy to take another step towards living in solidarity with my Haitian neighbors. Plus, my recent attempts at local river bathing and water carrying have provided endless entertainment for those around me, so if nothing else, there’s that. J

"Dlo se la vie". Water is life. This is an occasional phrase you’ll see scribbled on walls as graffiti, or painted on hand pumping stations attached to wells donated and dug by various governments or organizations. In Haiti, water certainly is life, or at least it is directly connected to the quality of one’s life. I am learning that day by day here, most recently as our direct pipe connection was cut by the town water department (I was shocked to learn there even was such a thing, with an official office even!) after a miscommunication regarding an unpaid bill. We are trying to work out the details of getting our pipe reconnected, but in the meantime (and the meantime might be a while- simple things take a long time here), we are living in a little more solidarity with our neighbors, having to collect water from communal pipes and springs.

I’ll start by explaining a bit about our situation, as it was upon arrival. Our house had the rare convenience of having a pipe delivering a pretty steady stream of water into our pipes. We have flush toilets, sinks, a kitchen tap, and a faucet outside. The faucet has become a communal water source, mostly for neighbors and church friends, but we never refused anyone as long as they complied with the system in place, waiting in line and not creating too much ruckus and noise while waiting to fill their buckets and used oil jugs. Mostly women, young boys, and children came to get water all day long. When we needed water in the house (the water pressure and volume was not enough to have multiple taps open at the same time), we would simply shut the valve to the faucet outside, quickly use what water we needed before turning it back on outside. It was a pretty good system, and it kept us very aware of the demand of water, what a precious resource it is.

It is hard to ignore the amount of strenuous, back breaking work associated with water use here. From the moment one arrives in Haiti, driving from the airport to their destination, one passes countless Haitians walking along the street carrying water. Sometimes on top of the head, sometimes in the hand, sometimes both. The more creative water carriers engineer easier ways to make their work easier. I’ve seen an old wheelchair re-purposed to carry a 5 gallon bucket, I’ve seen a stroller carrying gallons, and my favorite is when I see clever little boys pushing their hand crafted “ti machines” or little cars full of various jugs and buckets. The children start this work (as well as other household chores) at a very young age. A young neighbor girl, about 11 years old, came to get water here on a daily basis. Initially, she would always take along the family baby, who was about 2 when we moved in. He didn’t do anything, but it was part of his daily routine to come to the water spigot and observe what went on there. Now, he is almost 3, and he has his own little collection of mini gallons that he carries over on his own, asking me to help him open the pipe and fill them up. He mimics the behavior he has seen since he was a toddler, sometimes even perching one mini jug on his head. The volume he’s carrying is of course not much, but it is getting him in the habit, and also building strength in his tiny body so that he can be a useful worker as he grows. This tendency to make little worker bees out of young children begins at infancy. I was told many parents purposefully choose not to support their young babe’s neck, hoping it will develop the muscles on its own, muscles it will need later on to carry a 5 gallon bucket, or a sack of charcoal.

Now, with the change in our water situation, we are realizing what a gift and convenience running water is. Once or twice a day, Jon walks down the hill to the local “sous” or spring to bathe and fill up a 5 gallon water cooler jug that he then carries back up the hill. Around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, I have to quit work to go bathe in a local river with some women friends. Bathing is quite a community activity, as people are always passing by the stream, either to do laundry, bathe, or let their animals come to take a drink. After bathing, we continue a little further to a randomly placed communal pipe. We carry a variety of buckets and gallons. I did have a few days I successfully carried a 5 gallon bucket on my head for the 7 or 8 minute walk back to our house, however my head was indeed supported by my parents as an infant, and I fear my neck muscles aren’t quite up to the task. I can assure you: it is not easy work. I am even more blown away that young girls will do this over and over for several trips each day, often balancing a full bucket on their head, and perhaps 2 to 4 gallon jugs in their hands. The other day I was out getting water with a friend, and we came across her brother gathering firewood. He needed help carrying it, and as I was clumsily arranging wood in my arms along with the measly 2 gallons I was given to carry, I turned around to see my friend had somehow managed to balance the biggest branch on top of the bucket which was already on top of her head. She then proceeded to fill her arms with sticks and twigs too. And she does this all with the grace of a ballerina while I look on in awe, stumbling and slipping in the mud.

Knowing how much work it takes to get the water to the house, I am very careful to conserve each drop. I’ve disconnected the sink so that the waste water drips into a bucket which then is used to flush the toilets. Each time we wash hands, we do it over a basin to collect the grey water to give our thirsty plants a drink. The days we are blessed with rain (which thankfully is happening more and more in this season), we scramble to put out every bucket, basin, pot, and vessel we have, under the eaves to collect what we can. Some of the housemates have even taken to bathing directly in the rain showers. 

I hope, even when (or if) our water connection is re-established, that I can continue to have the same mentality of conserving this precious resource. It’s been a good experience, and I am happy to take another step towards living in solidarity with my Haitian neighbors. Plus, my recent attempts at local river bathing and water carrying have provided endless entertainment for those around me, so if nothing else, there’s that. J

Let me tell you a little something about... Clothing in Haiti

I always apologize for my long absences between blog postings, but shoot, life can get pretty crazy around here. I also have a rule I only post when I’m in good spirits, as not to trouble the folks back home, and although I am in good spirits a fair amount of time, I also happen to be busy doing other things while in good spirits. So although I regret not having the chance to share more with you, I also know it will probably happen again, and it’s understandable, so I will avoid the feelings of guilt that come from apologizing, and just realize that’s how life goes sometimes.

Today, I will return to my ongoing series of descriptive posts about aspects of everyday life in Haiti. Without further ado…

Let me tell you a little something about… clothing in Haiti.

There are no malls in Haiti. Or at least not in the sense we’re used to. I have seen a few outdoor shopping complexes in Port Au Prince, but most of them offer only a restaurant or two, a bookstore, coffee shop, pharmacy, and perhaps a travel agency or airline office.  There are clothing stores, but nothing like a GAP, Old Navy, or American Eagle- well-stocked, well-staffed, and well-organized. No no.. If you are looking to buy new clothing in Port Au Prince, you often have to step down into a cramped, poorly lit, basement room and scout around for what it is you’re looking for. If you can’t find what you want, or perhaps your size, you can ask, and sometimes the merchant will have giant bags filled with individually wrapped shirts or skirts, that they personally toted probably from the Dominican Republic after buying wholesale, which you can then dig through until you find what you’re looking for or get tired trying. In Mirebalais, there are a few small shops on the main market street, and I have on occasion, splurged and bought a new item for, oh, maybe $10. However, there is a whole other side to the business. There is what we call, Rad Pepe.

Rad Pepe is the term used to describe the second hand clothing market in Haiti. Rad is the word for clothing, and I’m not sure what pepe is all about.  I suppose when I say  this clothing is second hand, it’s more accurately like 3^rd or 4^th hand. What happens to all the clothing Salvation Army or Goodwill can’t sell, or perhaps don’t have the time to sort through? That’s right- some of it gets shipped to Haiti in large bales which are sold to merchants willing to take a gamble on what might be inside. They then sort through their wares, pack it up, and head off to sell on the busy streets of Mirebalais (or I suppose other similar locations throughout Haiti).

When you are setting out to buy rad pepe, you will come across large heaps of clothing on tarps spread across the sidewalk or street. Each pile usually has a theme. Skirts, children’s clothes, men’s clothes, formal clothes, etc. Once you find the correct pile, you just have to start digging. You might find a winner right away, and you might not find one until the very bottom of the pile, so perseverance is key. Sometimes I’m not even planning on buying clothing, but some irresistible piece of used goodness catches my eye on the top of a pile, and I simply must stop and ask how much.

Which brings me to pricing. Oh boy, is pricing ever something else. It is entirely contingent on your race, your personality, your stubbornness, and your ability to make the merchant smile. When I first arrived here, merchants could swindle me quite easily. Start at 500 gourdes? Ok, I’ll work my way down to 400 patting myself on the back as I walk away. Little did I know the piece was only good for 50. But I’ve learned my lesson. You shoot low. Really, really low, and you have to be willing to walk away.  There are always more clothing heaps to sort through.

I have also learned to buy articles of clothing based almost entirely on function. I am proud of this, and I hope this is something I take back to the states (although I don’t want to be dressing in burlap sacks as a weird outcast of normal society). When I look at an item, I think first if it will serve the purpose that I need. For example, I unfortunately left my favorite Boston hooded sweatshirt up on a mountain, in a small town where I attended a wedding, the trek of which takes a good 3 hours and is quite cumbersome. Needless to say, I left my hoodie there as a gift to whoever found it, and decided to go in search of a new one.  Sidenote- it can get “chilly” enough for me to wear a hoodie on occasion, although I’m quite sure my body’s tolerance to colder temperatures isn’t what it used to be. Somewhere in the mid-70s can now send a chill through my bones. Anyways, I happened to be with a band of helpers- Jon’s dad and grandfather was here, along with Jon and my best friend Nicole. Everybody pitched in to the pile digging party, holding up various items for me to examine. Each piece had a reason it wouldn’t fulfill the purpose- too dirty, too short, too huge, until finally I found the one that fit, that was originally meant for a woman, and that didn’t have any obvious flaws. Sure, it’s ugly, but who cares? It works. And I was so glad to be done digging, I decided to go for it. I went up to ask the price. 200 gourdes. Nope. No dice. I offered 50 (about $1.25). She said 100. I stood my ground. She kind of sighed. She looked tired and she’s seen me around before. She knows I’m not easily swindled, and when she looked at me, I knew this was going to be an easy one. She told me to buy it for 50. Victory. Now I own a fully functional, cozy, but ugly hoodie for those chilly mornings around here and my hikes into the high mountains.

Some might think it’s cheap to bargain when heaven knows people like me can afford to pay a little extra, however, bargaining is a huge part of the culture here. If they give me a ridiculous price and I just agree to it upfront and shell out the money, it’s kind of a bummer to them. Merchants offer high prices, partly to see if they can get them, but also as kind of a test. How well does this blan chick know Haiti? In a way, I am easy entertainment. Not only is the merchant selling to me watching, but also others nearby. They glance at each other, knowing they will either get a hefty profit out of the deal, or a good show. Why disappoint? If I can get their price down, and get them to laugh, I think we all walk away happy.

Because of the variety of clothing available from the rad pepe market, people watching can be a hoot. I’m always on the lookout for T-shirts that have come from closed to home. I know a girl who has a “Petoskey Michigan” baseball shirt, and I have seen a random stranger with an “Aquinas College” (closed to my home in Grand Rapids, MI) shirt. People wear all sorts of slogans that are super inappropriate for them and they often make me laugh. A little boy proudly wearing a pink shirt proudly saying “I’m a big sister”, or crass words emblazoned across the chest of a sweet, innocent old church lady. There are misspelled shirts that after the mistake was found, were shipped to Haiti and perhaps other countries who wouldn’t know the difference. I’ve heard from a friend here, there are many folks walking around with “Vote for Perdo” shirts, from the movie “Napolean Dynamite”- Vote for Pedro campaign. The point is, the words don’t matter. The clothes work. They function and that’s all that matters to these folks, and really it’s all that should matter to everyone, everywhere.

The other thing that cracks me up is clothes that are way out of context. I know a guy with a really vintage track jacket from some high school. He’s really rockin it as a moto taxi driver when he combines the shiny maroon jacket with his 80’s era tinted glasses, something similar to what my mother wore before my birth. I’ve seen bowling shoes as everyday shoes. I once saw a merchant using a pointed, brimmed, black witch’s hat from a former life as a Halloween costume, to keep the sun out of her eyes.  I’ve seen men in shirts that have survived since the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s. One person might be donning pieces from 3 different decades of fashion fads, but as long as they are all laundered, neatly pressed, and in good repair, you’re good to go.

The beautiful thing to take away from this is what I’ve already alluded to before. Clothes are meant to serve a function. They keep us warm, protect us from the sun, and allow for modesty. Sure, they also let us express ourselves, and show the world who we are, but we shouldn’t be who we are because of what our clothes say. Take pride in your appearance, sure, but don’t let it control you. All my Haitian friends are dressed to the nines for Sunday church services and you’d never know they come from shacks with no power or running water. Everything is washed, pressed, and ready to go. They make do with what they got, and even make the most of the little that is. I hope to continue to do the same in my life as I soon begin the transition back to my homeland.

Thanks for reading.

Annie

Happy (but simple) Holidays!

Just having passed the 5 month mark, and coming up on the half way point (which happens to coincide with my birthday on the 27th), I feel it is time for some sort of update and/or reflection. Not sure where this blog entry is headed, but I’ll play it by ear, just as I do in my daily life here in Marouge.

Obviously, Christmas in any other culture would be different than back home, but here, my church doesn’t even celebrate Christmas. Because December 25^th is not the actual, exact date of the birth of Christ, the church leadership here has decided it is inappropriate and unbiblical to recognize the day. I find this a little strange given that they do celebrate new years in the church with a worship service lasting long into the night, but I don’t seem to remember December 31^st mentioned in the Bible either… They didn’t even give a hint of holiday spirit during the month, and the sermon on the Sunday before the holiday was about the end times. Cheery indeed.

We found our own ways to celebrate and make the season special and bright. The local pastor held a small party in our honor knowing that Christmas is a big deal back home. It was a nice gesture of our friends to come together on our behalf, but it felt a little empty knowing that they were not celebrating the birth of Christ as we have been brought up to do. I happened to find a single strand of colored, blinking Christmas lights at the market. It was a lucky buy, and really helped to brighten up the house. I also downloaded my favorite holiday album to have some nice background music. It helped, but of course, it wasn’t the same as being home.

It was all an interesting time to reflect on what Christmas really is, and if it is possible to authentically celebrate without all the tradition, family, consumerism, and snow that I have always associated with it. On the actual day that all my friends and family back home were exchanging gifts and drinking cocoa around the fire, I walked to my friend Nikol’s house to get out of the house for a bit. I was a bit exhausted from a bought of holiday blues, and so I lay down to take a nap with her 2 year old son. As I was laying in her house (or rather her small shack), I looked around at the crumbling walls of mud and stick, I listened to chickens and kittens scurrying underfoot, and I was poked by the scratchy stuffing coming out of the makeshift mattress I was laying on. As I snuggled with this tiny, vulnerable child, I reflected on my current surroundings and how similar they were to that first night of Christ on earth. Mind you, when and where Jesus was born was a bit colder, and he was surrounded by human onlookers instead of just chickens. And of course, Jesus didn’t come into the world as a two year old. But to think that the Creator of the universe, the Lord of all living things decided to send his son into the world in such a humble setting- it really hit me what that meant for humankind. Especially the humankind that still live in such conditions. It was a unique way to celebrate the day. No presents, no feasts, no hubbub. Just a tiny baby, a humble shelter, and a peaceful rest.

New Years was a much bigger deal. We had a lengthy service at church, lasting from 8pm until the turn of the year. The service included singing, dancing, boisterous prayer (none of this is too abnormal for our church services), and towards the end, a small talent show. Apparently, people wrote the name of their acts down on slips of paper that were too be drawn at random to decide who would have a chance to perform. There was one small skit and perhaps a mini sermon or two, but most of it was singing. I was surprised to find my name had been chosen, as I hadn’t written my own name down, but I didn’t mind. I just insisted the guilty party who slipped my name into the basket come to join me in singing a hymn in harmony. The actual moment of midnight wasn’t recognized, but as I took a break from dancing my heart out, I checked to find 2012 was officially over and 2013 had begun. It was a good way to usher in the new year.

I have to say that my favorite holiday moment came a while after the holidays, when Jon’s (Jon is my co-SALTer here) Mom and Grandma came for a visit. I was only expecting them to carry a few small goodies that I had my own mother send to their house before they came. We cannot receive packages through the mail here due to exorbitant customs costs, so we rely on visitors or workers traveling back and forth to carry care packages for us. I did receive the goodies, but I was so very surprised and delighted when Jon asked me to come into his room to have a little mini Christmas with his family members on the night of their arrival. They had wrapped a handful of gifts for each of us, complete with the little “to:” and ” from:” tags with our names printed on them. It felt just like home and I couldn’t stop smiling as I opened a small set of hand tools for gardening, various Trader Joe’s treats, and nice soaps and shampoos. I then was given two full (reusable!) shopping bags of craft paper, candy, pencils, books, and magazines from my own family. Later, while in Port Au Prince, I was able to collect all of my Christmas mail as well, and I must have had upwards of 15 cards and letters. So the point of telling you all this is to say thank you to my support community. Little gestures go a long way, a very long way and I really appreciate everyone who has sent me a card, written me an email, or offered up a prayer for me during this experience.

Life has pretty much settled down back to normal after the holidays, Jon’s family visit, and hosting a few groups from MCC here. It’s back to gardening, trying to navigate the tricky system of getting money, materials, and workers all in the same place in order to get work done, but mostly just hanging out with kids, being present in the community, and building meaningful relationships. I’ll try to be better at blogging in the next few weeks and return to my “Let me tell you a little something about…” series. Until then, I hope this finds you all well, and I hope you have had a promising start to this near year. May it be filled with new opportunities, challenges, discoveries, and love for us all!

Peace.

Annie.