Brush with Haiti (8 page)

He rode past a house where a woman worked to push mud across the threshold of her home with a broom. Mud-soaked belongings rested on the patch of grass leading to the road. Her sandals did nothing to keep her feet protected, and the brown cascaded up her calves, growing lighter as it thinned and dried on her skin. After more miles of silence the isolation of the woman and the boy and the distance from the last village became more noticeable. Then we came upon the cooperative.

We tried carefully to keep our shoes clean as we walked across a piece of wood positioned between the truck and the entrance. The sun was setting quickly. A woman who appeared to be a manager eagerly turned on a bare light bulb to combat the darkness. We wiped our feet the best we could as we entered. A rainbow of handcrafted items graced the walls, behind the artisans sitting shyly in folding chairs. I wondered how close by they lived and how difficult it must be for them to return home in the dark. As much as I was taken by their work, my eyes turned to their faces. We listened attentively as our guide described the process of production.

"There has been some interest in distributing their goods in the U.S.," she noted, commenting on the need to teach the women what was actually more marketable there. Some discussion of the goods continued, as if they were things separate from the women sitting before us. Distinct. But I could almost see threads of light connecting the creations with the women. It is rare that we see creator and creation in one place at one time, and I wanted to see what had come from whom. There were similarities, bringing to mind a bit of mass production. Either one woman had produced many placemats, for example, with slight differences in decoration, or many women were taught to follow a pattern, producing a supply of each with her own special touches. And many of the items were completely unique.

There were household objects, decorative and functional, similar to some fair trade pieces available in other regions of underdeveloped Latin America. The paintings and sculptures were beautiful. But I was drawn to the items that reflected the essentials of living. They provided a sense of connection that transcended borders, class divisions, and races. I decided on an apron made of bright pink, soft, cotton broadcloth with calico accents. It had a bib and straps, and was gathered at the waist, reminding me of a childhood pinafore once given to me by my grandmother's sister, minus the ruffles at the shoulders. An embroidered "Haiti" graced the chest. I knew that I would wear it to cook. The universality of women and food preparation would bring the importance of family and nourishment to mind once back home. When I pointed to the apron and it was taken from the wall, one of the women beamed with delight. She swelled with a humble satisfaction and I knew then that she had made it.

We were reminded that dinner at the bishop's house awaited us, so we paid for our selections and were on our way. John took a photo of the women, a copy of which I have resting on the window ledge of my office at the university. It is a gentle reminder to me that women are women and work is work. I create course syllabi for my classes and they create aprons. And we all create meals. And I am grateful to have met them.

The apron hangs in my closet, and I do wear it from time to time. The holiday at home with the most elaborate family meal is Thanksgiving and wearing the apron invokes recognition of the abundance we have, as well as the waste and excess consumption that is so much a part of our lives. I prefer to wear it on not so special days as a reminder of the everyday fundamental need to feed oneself and one's children. I try not to think about how out of place the pink looks in a subdued beige suburban kitchen, or that tying it too snugly makes my hips look big. Rather, I try to wear it when making something "a la the Islands" such as beans and rice, or the occasional pumpkin dish. Pumpkin pie always goes down more sweetly when my pink apron is on especially knowing the distinctive place pumpkins hold for Haitians.

On the first of January, their Independence Day, Haitians traditionally eat pumpkin soup. The most important annual holiday, marking the beginning of a new nation and of a new year, it overshadows even Christmas, as there is little chance of splurging on gifts for friends and family. Under the colonial plantation system, pumpkins (indigenous to the Americas) were restricted to the elite class. The vast majority of land was used to cultivate sugar for export and there was little concern for providing variety in the slaves' diets. Upon independence, the coveted pumpkin became a symbol of independence and freedom and pumpkin soup a traditional dish of commemoration. Wearing a pink apron while making pumpkin soup is a personal act of liberation perhaps meaningful only to me. Sometimes I am tempted to give history lessons to my friends and family, but I was fine keeping this one to myself.

Leaving Fort Liberté
was not easy as we had made friends there. In my earlier years of travel I assumed I would make return trips to places that made a mark on me. By this time I knew that happens rarely, and only with intentional effort. As much as I wanted to see the area and its people again, I admitted I might never return.

Following our experiences with country life, Port-au-Prince seemed even more crowded and bustling than before. It was like any urban area, but with considerably more people per block out on the streets, doing whatever it is they have to do. With little electricity, even in the capital, they live mainly with the rhythm of the earth's rotation, activity substantially subsiding when the sun goes down, making the neighborhoods far quieter.

One evening, Jennifer, a Catholic Relief Services worker who had organized and led a number of our meetings in the city, asked if we would like to go for drink at a local bar. A few of us agreed. I was still not accustomed to the night in Haiti, and it was very dark. We had generally continued conversations following late dinners, and then retired to our rooms. Maneuvering through the streets of Port-au-Prince was a very different story. The level of electricity consumption in the United States becomes more palpable in contrast when visiting the less developed world. Hotel rooms and other types of accommodations are more dimly lit, as are the hallways leading up to them. The streets outside are as well. Sometimes it is a matter of using fewer bulbs, most often low-wattage fluorescents, which cast a gray tint on the walls, fixtures, furniture, and Caucasian skin. Where infrastructure is lacking and municipal funding short, streets often go unlit. That was the case in front of this corner bar.

Looking forward to a locally brewed beer or yet another version of rum punch, we carefully stepped over broken pieces of concrete and avoided holes on our way from the truck to the entrance. Glancing ahead to make sure I was keeping up with the others, I noticed a young woman approaching. She was carrying various sculptures wrapped gently in newspaper and lined neatly in a cardboard box. Considering her size, they must have weighed heavily on her forearms and hips. A very young girl, presumably her daughter, accompanied her. I had wanted to buy some art, preparing for a search sometime midweek, and here it was coming to me. The woman held up what looked like a soft stone carving of a mother and child. It was simple and graceful. She wanted 20 dollars. Before I could open my purse, Jennifer intervened, saying something in Creole. It took a moment to figure out what was happening. Then I nodded. The haggling had begun.

I have never been good at haggling. The only time I did it even close to effectively was in once in Cancun. It was more of a game there, with shop owners selling virtually the same thing in store after store. My kids looked on as I laughed along with my fellow hagglers, ending up with souvenirs that we certainly could have done without. Here, on a dark, empty street in Port-au-Prince I was more than willing to pay 20 dollars for this work of art from a frail craftswoman on my way into a bar. The statue began to take on some special significance as a Madonna, representing the woman and daughter herself, as well as the many others who populated the country. I looked at it more closely. It really was beautiful.

My Great Aunt Jeannette gave me a Madonna statue as a gift on the day I made my First Communion. It stood about ten inches tall and resembled the larger representations that adorned churches. To have something like it of my own made me feel even holier than I already did that day. I gave her a special place on my dresser and have since moved it with me wherever life has led.

Aunt Jeannette never had children and I later learned that she had very much wanted to. Knowing that about her made her own collection of Madonnas more fascinating to me. Having lost her husband many years before, she moved in with my grandmother when I was a young girl. She was very particular and her room was off-limits, except by personal invitation, making it somehow more mysterious and magical. Madonnas in various forms - statues, cards, small paintings - graced her room, as did a stemmed, cut-glass candy dish perpetually filled with lemon drops. Her walls and bed covering were of medium blues, as if she were veiled in the very colors of Mary herself. I imagined one day being old like her, still putting on lipstick every day, and having a blue room of my own with a jar filled with lemon drops.

Once as a young mother, when Katie was around 2-years-old, I spent an August day strolling through the Indian Market in Santa Fe. I was studying the American West, and the marvels of New Mexico had inspired a visit. Determined to purchase a remembrance on a graduate student's budget, I found a very small, hand-sewn doll made of cotton and deerskin. She wore a blue shawl and a red head scarf, and carried a baby. Katie did show interest in her for a time, but as is the case with most toys in our culture, she was eventually cast aside. Admitting she meant more to me than to my daughter, I decided to find a special place for safekeeping. I put her on my dresser, leaning against my Madonna. They could not have been more different in material and design, but I saw the connection instantly. There is something incredibly universal about a three-dimensional depiction of a mother and child. I saw it again quite vividly in the hands of the Haitian woman on that dark night.

"Would you pay 10 dollars?" Jennifer asked.

"Ten is fine," I told her.

"Nine," she told the woman. The woman agreed. I fished nine dollars from my wallet; she wrapped the statue in tissue and carefully handed it to me. We continued into the bar. I wanted to ask why Jennifer insisted on paying only nine, but figured she was much more experienced with this than I was. It was her third or fourth year living and working in Port-au-Prince.

On our way out that night we had met at Jennifer's home, where I was a bit taken aback by her situation. She lived in a compound of sorts, protected by a locked gate the width of the driveway and a security guard. I was surprised to learn that a worker for Catholic Relief Services would feel the need to be so protected. But she was a young woman living alone, so I suppose it made sense. The house was good-sized, even by U.S. standards, and posh by Haitian standards. It was the kind of house I wanted to have, and I am not one who covets much of anything. It was filled with art, unusual and striking. Absolutely filled. White outside and in, its walls were covered with paintings of every imaginable color, clearly by the same artist. She said he was a friend. They were busy and abstract, swirling in ways that words cannot describe, and just perfect.

In that moment, my Midwestern suburban life seemed more mundane than ever. I was in the middle of gutting my own house, cleansing and minimalizing everything about it in an effort to begin anew, post-divorce. I vowed to paint my own walls white when I returned home. I did. But I had very little art to hang, at least comparatively so, and it became as minimalist as minimalist could be. Still, I kept vivid memories of what she had done for her home.

The vestibule of the bar we visited was dark, but through a door draped with a grass curtain, a more well-lit and well-populated space lay inside. It was one of those indoor-outdoor structures common in warmer parts of the world. Once seated on stools, we saw that we were in fact outdoors, or in some sort of atrium. Atria are my favorite kinds of spaces, especially where plants abound. Not in malls and such, but in unexpected places. Libraries, for example.

In this Haitian pub, actually more a club, the sense was different. It was night time, making the whole idea of an atrium null. The sun did not drip in, rather the dim electric light escaped upward into the night sky. I have never understood much about the physics of light, but it seems that light flows out through spaces, much like liquid does, thinning and dispersing what is left behind. The club appeared darker than it might have if there were a proper ceiling. And artificial light, however little there is, obscures starlight and moonlight, so any effects they might have had were lost on us. We were left with a grayness that was neither inviting nor imposing. It was just there. Some young men came by to introduce themselves. They were friends of Jennifer, or friends of friends. I ordered a rum punch.

Two men in particular seemed so very muscular. White, American, and muscular. Bulked. I was told they had been Marines and were now working as security guards for Aristide. He had been elected again and was serving his second term in office. I heard more than one person comment in the days before that he was spending an astronomical amount of money on security. Once actually in the country I had hoped to learn more about Aristide from Haitians living in Haiti. But when I raised the topic, no matter how carefully, I felt a sense of tension and a lack of willingness to talk openly. That was the case here, as well. There did not seem to be room for a free exchange of ideas about the nuances or extremes in political ideology or practices, or anything in between. What was said I did not understand, making me realize there was far more to the situation than I could have imagined. I did not push for information.

I took the Madonna from the paper wrapping and showed the others. Her arms were smooth and cool and cradled an infant at her breast. They liked it very much. And I knew she would look just right in her own special place on my dresser.