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| Photo from a writing workshop in L'Acul du Nord (a few days ago) |
My days are very full and I do not take
the time to jot down the special moments. I then forget them. Over
the past few weeks I've been translating for a writing workshop and
I've been reflecting on what a loss it is to not record these
moments. Here's a slice from today:
Today we were in Bas Duty for our sixth
writing workshop. The participants were a mixture of trainers,
committee members, and house-to-house volunteers from the Community
Health Evangelism programs in Bas Duty and its neighbor, Haut Duty.
As usual, the work that the participants did was remarkable, both in
content and style. Amelina, a trainer, wrote about a trip she took
to neighboring Dominican Republic and her thoughts on the two
countries. She wrote, “Our country is charged/loaded with riches,
but all those riches turn into nothing.” St. Hiloine Platiny
commented on how important it was to have written stories, not just
oral stories. “If we do not remember where we've come from, we
cannot have a future tomorrow.”
During the training I was reminded that
my job description includes the need to be physically strong. The
site only had a semi-latrine -- a hole low on the back wall extending
down to the sloping floor – for men to urinate. It was a huge leap
to get up to the latrine. One reached the latrine only after
navigating a slippery, muddy path. Thankfully they had loaned us a
bucket for the women to use. There were lots of mosquitoes, and I'd
only thought to put repellent on my lower legs, not on my behind.
Itchy.
We had to work to overcome the noise
from the soccer game during the second half of the workshop -- the
television for the community was right next door to the building in
which we were meeting. There were a lot of people watching the game
since Real Madrid, a favorite team, was playing. Some kids lounged in the
branches of a mango tree to better see the TV.
As at the conclusion of the other
trainings, after several of the participants commented on how much
they enjoyed the training and the effort of the facilitators, then it
was our job to thank the participants for their time and thank the
trainers for their preparations. Then the trainers and the committee
presidents spoke. (I'm very please that I'm finally getting better
at this sort of thing – I used to forget to do it but now these
formalities come naturally.) The
first part of the ride home was in the Hamilton's truck, with four
extra passengers who were at our training. Hitching a ride is called
a wou lib, or “free wheel.”
The
second
part of the trip home was in a taptap,
a small pickup that has the bed fitted with benches and a roof. It's
only 10 gourds, or 25 cents, for the 30- to 60-minute ride. I love
riding in taptaps.
Yes, it's true, the roofs aren't exactly rainproof. And everyone is
squished in, and one's head hits the roof or other body parts smash
painfully into things due to the bumpy roads. But, as my supervisor
once remarked, during the short time of the ride a small community is
formed. People discuss politics, yell at other passengers for
littering, provide laps for other people's children.
Traveling
here is never boring. Today, as we started out along National
Highway #1, a man was leading seven
cows home. They were tied to walk all seven abreast, taking up most
of the road. Then we passed a funeral procession – people slowly
marching in front of and behind the hearse. This procession included
a choir that was singing beautifully.
Across
from me was seated an older woman, wearing a mauve scrub top with the logo of an American homehealth agency and a leopard print skirt. After we passed the
procession she started singing the same song that we'd heard from the
choir. After a minute my co-worker, the other end of the taptap,
said, “You'll make me cry.” He said it several times, albeit
with a smile on his face, but she didn't stop. Someone else said,
“Madam, maybe he just had someone die, he says you'll make him
cry.” She kept singing the rest of the trip, different hymns in
Kreyol and French.
Soon
we see people streaming down the street, some laughing and shouting
and running. Someone in the taptap
says, “The soccer game must be over.”
I get off at the
end of the line in downtown Cap Haitien. I start to walk home since
it is only 30-some short blocks. I love walking, there is so much to
see. As usual, I pass by the Boy Chill Barbershop, its doors painted
with combs, a hairdryer, a razor, and also painted heads of men with
very neat haircuts and trimmed beards.
I love living here.
