Paris, meets downtown Kingston. This is Petion-ville; one of Haiti’s capital Port au Prince’s, suburbs.
The soul that this nation exudes is by no means a reflection of its devastated exterior. As one of our [GVN] volunteers said recently of her experience there, ‘you don’t choose Haiti, Haiti chooses you.’
Six months ago, little did I imagine that it would have, could have captured me to the extent that it has.
A lifelong humanitarian with emergency response and logistics background who reigns from the Caribbean region, supporting Haiti’s recovery wasn’t a luxurious choice I had. Rather it was a clear and humbling call to service.
For a long time, I thought that Jamaica, my birthplace, was the nation that had the capacity to swing me from one emotional pendulum to the next. With Haiti, if I’m not mindful I could develop and perhaps display schizophrenic tendencies. There are those raw moments where the depths of emotion I feel are so strong mere words evade adequate articulation – like walking into the Jacmel Community Centre compound one blazingly hot sultry afternoon and to bear witness to a group of adult men completely engaged in an adult English class being led by one of our volunteers. Though devoid of material wealth, Haitians remain abundant with hope.
Yet there are those other instances where one wants to move so far away from the place, you might liken it to fearing a highly contagious disease. Upon reflection, that which I wish to discard as dis-ease may in fact be an awakening grander than anything I’ve ever experienced. Perhaps the best place to observe this is at Port au Prince airport as weary ‘do gooders’ anxiously check-in for their flights that will return them to the safe, the comfortable, the clean, the familiar, only to realize upon their return to ALL of this that a restless void now lives within them.
My first [social] night out in Haiti last week Friday at a local spot called ‘Half Time’ remains etched in my memories and one I know that I will treasure for a very long time. I was reminded that most certainly, all work and no play makes for a very dull and exhausted Nadine. The immense responsibilities of my professional position within Haiti had threatened me to starve my soul. Thankfully, neither of my colleagues Samuel nor Jessica were having it, and insisted that I come out for a drink.
Rum Sour #1: shoulders drop, laughter emerges and she starts to relax.
Rum Sour #2: about halfway through, a dancer at heart, no longer can I remain contained in my seat. As my newly acquired Haitian dance partner starts to sashay me across the concrete floor with the dense night heat pelting down upon us, I notice where unlike in Jamaica where our hips are in full throttle when dancing, Haitians tend to take it down a notch. Haitian music, I experience, is a melting pot of African and Latin music that rhythmically translates to rich subtleties in the dance movements. As I share my observation with Samuel, his only comment, which exquisitely encapsulates the distinction, is this:
‘In Jamaica [dance], y’all dance to say ‘it’s here.’ In Haiti when we dance, we say, it’s coming.’ ‘NUFF SAID.
With rum sour #2 complete and refusing to engage in #3, as we unwind we continue to be swept up in the hedonistic magic of the moment – the sweltering heat, the rum, the peanuts, the dance, the laughter and not least of all, the love.
Given that we’d dutifully promised not be out too late – I had a flight to catch early the next morning – we left shortly after midnight, with not a care in the world. As we approach our vehicle, we notice that it has a flat tire. While one of the guys expeditiously pumps it up, I continue to dance in the streets, while discreetly eyeing the very handsome police officer charged with maintaining law and order. We exchange a few pleasantries in Creole/French and tout suite, we’re on our way!
The nighttime darkness that looms over Haiti is like none I’ve experienced before, only to be accented by candlelit stalls that line the streets. Samuel takes us to a spot where they supposedly sell the best road-side chicken in Haiti which brings back memories of the vendor near *‘Topsy,’ back in the day. *You may need to be Jamaican and born in the sixties to perhaps appreciate this one!
As we await this succulent chicken that slowly roasts, we’re STILL dancing in the streets. Across from the chicken vendor is a stall that boasts some cocktails that I’d dare not even inquire as to their composition. The one I taste echoes rum, passion fruit, ginger, cloves and several other things.
Eventually we leave to return to our place of abode in Croix des Bouquets, the area that is renowned for its metal art in Haiti. As we depart from this street corner, Samuel brings to my attention the graffiti that adorns the wall; paintings of Marley, Guevera, MLK Jr and Aristide!
Not wishing to share the tears that are streaming down my face, I hang my head out the window, ruminating on the week that it has been and the emotionally intense night I’ve had. Sentimental yet melancholic, I am as humbled as I am proud of the tremendous feat of efforts and success stories of the GVN volunteers; past and present.
In barely 3 months, from absolute ground zero, we have succeeded in building a community centre, treating over 300 patients in temporary health clinics that we’ve run at both our locations; Jacmel and Croix des Bouquets, we’ve taught hundreds of Haitians everything from art to yoga, we’ve collaborated with existing NGOs on the ground; both large and small and we’ve run feeding programmes. We’ve shared everything we have and have received – from teddy bears to medicines.
ALL of that shared and said, nothing compares to the humility, love, gratitude and sheer joy that we’ve received in return.
Perhaps it was our Australian pastor volunteer who said it best:
‘Thank you Haiti for reminding us of who we truly are’ – heart-filled human beings.
And so it is.
Namaste!
