I could fill up a blog complaining about how hot, tired and dusty I was today; about the eight mosquito bites I've sustained despite multiple applications of insect repellent; and about how walking in the Haitian sun was like setting my oven on broil and searing my flesh in it. However, all these would only prove how good my life is, because for the people here, these are common everyday events that do not deserve consideration. It is as sure as the rising and setting sun.
At 8a.m., Rev. Kara already had breakfast set out for us: cold oatmeal (it is slightly better than it sounds), cut-up mangoes and sliced bananas. Tree-ripened fruits here, more "organic" than anything you could get in the States, are also more flavorful and sweeter than the mangoes and bananas we get at home. She gave each of us a plastic Chinese soup container, with our name written on the bottom, and a plastic spoon. This would serve as our breakfast bowl and eating utensil while we are here. No napkins. She is doing her part to minimize our trash impact, as the entire landscape here is marred with plastics, styrofoam and discarded clothes. Lots of discarded clothes!
After breakfast, we began our 30-minute trek to the Haitian border. The sun is high, and within minutes of walking, I could feel my shirt dampening and sweat trickling down my body, and the trickle would continue the rest of the day. I was wearing a wide-brim hat and sandals I recently purchased for this trip. Our hotel is in Dominican Republic (DR), and is relatively cleaner than anything else in this border region: a clean bed, trickling hot water shower, a wobbly ceiling fan and AC that comes on after 8 p.m. (I later discovered most rooms do not have hot water or AC). The border is separated by a long 10-foot high metal fence, not unlike the fences between properties in the States, except there are hundreds of people on either side, some wanting to cross from one side to the other, some peddling water and food, but most seem to be there with no particular purpose. I carry my backpack with my water bottle, snacks, passport and pesos, though I have not seen any touristy souvenirs to buy. Gasoline in recycled beer bottles, charcoal, food and used clothing are what's for sale--another reminder that basic human needs are the primary focus here.
We showed our passports on both sides of the border, the DR agent stamped us out on one side and a Haitian agent manually filled out our entry visas on the other.
The landscape immediately changed on the Haitian side of the fence. Paved roads are replaced with brown dirt and gravel roads, and the air chokes with brown dust with every motorbike passing. Except for the two trucks packed full of donated clothes, presumably from the US, in a dry riverbed by the border fence, and a small pick-up truck we later rented to take us to the refugee camp, I do not recall seeing another car on the road. With the numerous dips and rises in the dirt roads, and treacherous potholes, motorbikes appear to be the only practical way of navigating this rough terrain. "The Wild Wild West" comes to mind.
We followed Rev Kara on unmarked roads and foot paths for about 45 minutes when a young man half-carrying, half-dragging a bag yelled out something unintelligible behind us. Rev Kara turned around and her face broke into a big smile. Hugs were exchanged and a conversation in Creole ensued. After he departed, Rev Kara proudly announced that her friend Jameson will arrange for transportation for us to the refugee camp at 11 a.m., which is 12 p.m. DR time.
We continued walking on the main road, lined with huts with pebbly stone walls and palm-leaf roofs. Occasionally an inhabitant or two would run out and greet Rev Kara, always with beaming, excited smiles and hugs. For Rev Kara, it seems like she was coming home, and for the people there, I imagine they are thrilled she has not forgotten them.
The road led to the ocean, and the water there was breathtaking: a baby blue strip in the shallow water which becomes deep turquoise farther from shore. Four young boys were splashing and laughing in the water, their very dark skin a startling contrast against the blue water. We were high five-ing and "Bonjour-ing" the children that came up to us, curious to see who these strangers are.
We continued walking on the main road, lined with huts with pebbly stone walls and palm-leaf roofs. Occasionally an inhabitant or two would run out and greet Rev Kara, always with beaming, excited smiles and hugs. For Rev Kara, it seems like she was coming home, and for the people there, I imagine they are thrilled she has not forgotten them.
The road led to the ocean, and the water there was breathtaking: a baby blue strip in the shallow water which becomes deep turquoise farther from shore. Four young boys were splashing and laughing in the water, their very dark skin a startling contrast against the blue water. We were high five-ing and "Bonjour-ing" the children that came up to us, curious to see who these strangers are.
First, we walked to Rev Kara's friend Santhonax's home. Santhonax is a 24-year-old man that has built two cinder block raised beds under a shade structure to grow cedar and mango seedlings he plans to later plant at the desolate refugee camp. He was not at home but his mother graciously offered us fresh coconuts, which we eagerly accepted and greedily devoured, juice and flesh.
Then we walked to the project site of another friend of Rev Kara, Colbert (does Rev Kara know everybody in Haiti?!) Colbert is a young man who currently lives in Brooklyn, NY, but has a non-profit in Haiti. He wants to build a structure that can process breadfruit into pasta and flour. Even though breadfruit trees are plentiful in Haiti, the fruits are sent to DR to be processed, then sold back to Haitians at a premium. If the breadfruits are processed in Haiti, the money would stay in Haiti to benefit its people. Colbert has the walls erected but lacks the funding to continue the building process.
Jameson came back with a small, rickety truck as promised with the driver and another of Rev Kara's friend, Wood. Seven of us and Wood climbed into the back. The pickup bed has wooden planks on either side for passengers. The driver, Rev Kara and Jameson sat in the front, Rev Kara being squeezed in the middle on top of the parking brakes. I felt like a migrant worker riding into the fields, the hard seat and metal back unforgiving with every bump. The brown dust rose and formed a mini-dust storm around us as we jostled and bumped against each other. There does not seem to be any soil anywhere, only dust, gravel and rocks.
Eventually we came to the refugee camp. Tents were erected in haphazard fashion with stripped tree branches for its frame and bed sheets, cardboard, sewn-together clothes or plastic tarps of all colors to cover. The refugees are there because DR forced all Haitians to leave DR, even those that were born in DR. However, the Haitian government does not recognize those born in DR as Haitians. Thus, they are without documentation and without a country. These refugees want to build their houses at the refugee site, the land donated by a Jesuit. These refugees receive no financial support or services.
The refugee camp has a church tent, with 5 rows of 4-inch wide planks nailed on 14-inch high wooden stakes, which are the pews, and a small wooden table in the front which serves as an altar. The pastor was not there but his father was. As Rev Kara tried to explain to him why we were there, he interrupted her, parted the canvas tarp entrance and said "This is God's house. You should come in."
We brought coloring books and crayons for the children. Initially they were bathing in the canal but eventually came, hesitatingly standing at the door until we waved them in. Soon all the pews were filled, everyone was coloring, even the teenage boys and an elderly woman. Rev Kara's father, Sterling, sang and held a baby so his mother could color. We put bunny, butterfly and flower stickers on the children's hands. Even though we were there for only an hour, in that hour, it seems their troubles were forgotten as they concentrate on making a beautiful picture.
We piled back into the truck and drove to the border to begin our 30-minute walk back to our hotel in DR. Glenda, Jacob and Sarah still had energy to go swimming. At dinner, Heidi led us in our daily devotion, quoting Mark Twain, "Travel is fatal to prejudice." How true!
As I drifted off to sleep,my last thoughts were of Santhonax and Colbert, marveling at their love and commitment to their fellow Haitians. Even though they have little themselves, they are determined to plant the seed of hope here, one mango or breadfruit tree at a time.
Then we walked to the project site of another friend of Rev Kara, Colbert (does Rev Kara know everybody in Haiti?!) Colbert is a young man who currently lives in Brooklyn, NY, but has a non-profit in Haiti. He wants to build a structure that can process breadfruit into pasta and flour. Even though breadfruit trees are plentiful in Haiti, the fruits are sent to DR to be processed, then sold back to Haitians at a premium. If the breadfruits are processed in Haiti, the money would stay in Haiti to benefit its people. Colbert has the walls erected but lacks the funding to continue the building process.
Jameson came back with a small, rickety truck as promised with the driver and another of Rev Kara's friend, Wood. Seven of us and Wood climbed into the back. The pickup bed has wooden planks on either side for passengers. The driver, Rev Kara and Jameson sat in the front, Rev Kara being squeezed in the middle on top of the parking brakes. I felt like a migrant worker riding into the fields, the hard seat and metal back unforgiving with every bump. The brown dust rose and formed a mini-dust storm around us as we jostled and bumped against each other. There does not seem to be any soil anywhere, only dust, gravel and rocks.
Eventually we came to the refugee camp. Tents were erected in haphazard fashion with stripped tree branches for its frame and bed sheets, cardboard, sewn-together clothes or plastic tarps of all colors to cover. The refugees are there because DR forced all Haitians to leave DR, even those that were born in DR. However, the Haitian government does not recognize those born in DR as Haitians. Thus, they are without documentation and without a country. These refugees want to build their houses at the refugee site, the land donated by a Jesuit. These refugees receive no financial support or services.
The refugee camp has a church tent, with 5 rows of 4-inch wide planks nailed on 14-inch high wooden stakes, which are the pews, and a small wooden table in the front which serves as an altar. The pastor was not there but his father was. As Rev Kara tried to explain to him why we were there, he interrupted her, parted the canvas tarp entrance and said "This is God's house. You should come in."
We brought coloring books and crayons for the children. Initially they were bathing in the canal but eventually came, hesitatingly standing at the door until we waved them in. Soon all the pews were filled, everyone was coloring, even the teenage boys and an elderly woman. Rev Kara's father, Sterling, sang and held a baby so his mother could color. We put bunny, butterfly and flower stickers on the children's hands. Even though we were there for only an hour, in that hour, it seems their troubles were forgotten as they concentrate on making a beautiful picture.
We piled back into the truck and drove to the border to begin our 30-minute walk back to our hotel in DR. Glenda, Jacob and Sarah still had energy to go swimming. At dinner, Heidi led us in our daily devotion, quoting Mark Twain, "Travel is fatal to prejudice." How true!
As I drifted off to sleep,my last thoughts were of Santhonax and Colbert, marveling at their love and commitment to their fellow Haitians. Even though they have little themselves, they are determined to plant the seed of hope here, one mango or breadfruit tree at a time.
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