Happy Monday, everyone! Today In History: In 1963, the first woman went into space! Russian astronaut Valentina Vladimirovna Tereshkova spent a total of 71 hours in space, more than any other astronaut combined at the time. Hooray for women and space exploration!
In other news, I had a very busy weekend. The CLO (Community Liaison Office) organizes trips periodically into areas of Port-au-Prince that are a little more restricted; that is to say, we're not allowed in these areas unless it's official business or maybe passing through on the way to a different and safer area. This time our trip was called a “Windshield Tour”. On Saturday morning, we stopped at five different places in Port-au-Prince that are further downtown than where we live.
We left the Embassy at nine am, and the heat was already stifling. Even early in the morning, the dust rolls over the mountains and leaves the air hazy, leaves every living being coated in a thin layer of dust. I, stupidly, was wearing a long sleeved button down. It’s hard to gauge what will be appropriate- we see Haitians wearing shorts or skirts all the time, but sometimes it’s preferable (for modesty reasons as well as safety) to wear longer clothing as well as to protect from mosquitos.
We drove for about twenty, twenty five minutes to our first stop: a statue in a center plaza, dedicated to the slave rebellion. Titled Neg Mawon (Le Negre Marron en Francais), it depicts a freed slave blowing into a conch shell.
We had a group of guards that stood around us while we snapped pictures of the statue and its surrounding area. They stood with their backs to us, shooing away vendors that approached us, eager to sell their paintings. We got a lot of stares from passersby, which is pretty routine.
Side Note: I’ve mentioned this before, I think, but it’s still relevant: the stares you get, as an American, are frequent. Often they are curious, sometimes apathetic, and sometimes hostile. Generally Americans are welcome here, but you will get the occasional Haitian who will perhaps resent our presence. This is not unique to Haiti, of course. It occurs in every country around the world including our own. There’s an underlying element of xenophobia that still shows up in every culture, even if it’s not the majority of the population. All part of what makes travel so interesting, I suppose.
As obvious as we were, we were completely safe. We piled back in the vans and took a short trip across the plaza – in other countries, perhaps, it would be possible to walk but not for us, not here – and visited a small museum that displayed a plethora of artifacts from Haitian history, from both before the revolution and after. Paintings and drawings of the French leaders, coins, swords, different tools, documents, even an ornate crown were all on display. The museum even possesses an anchor from one of Christopher Columbus’ ships, but I don't remember which one. It was massive and rusty, but an incredible sight to see.
Along one of the walls was a series of portraits and photographs depicting each leader of Haiti, from the beginning to the present. One of the museum guards approached me and pointed out Francois Duvalier and his son, Jean-Claude Duvalier, known as ‘Papa Doc’ and ‘Baby Doc’ respectively. The Duvalier administration was really more of a dictatorship, and they were known for their ruthless terrorization of the Haitian people. ‘Papa Doc’ ruled with the use of the TonTon Macoute, a rural military group. Together they were responsible for the death of approximately 30,000 Haitians and the exile of more. He used murder and exile to suppress his opponents, making the Duvalier government known as one of the most oppressive regimes in the Western hemisphere. His son, Jean-Claude or ‘Baby Doc’, who succeeded him, was not much better. He lived a lavish lifestyle and supposedly made money in the drug trade and other (rather dubious) activities. Eventually in 1986 he was overthrown in a military coup.
It goes without saying that the Duvalier family was not extremely well liked. The guard who pointed out their picture nodded when I recognized the name and called them ‘Papa Doc’ and ‘Baby Doc’. Making a face and shaking his head, he conveyed his distaste for the family. It was interesting to see the perspective of a Haitian, even if it was expressed merely by the shake of the head.
There was also a beautiful little gallery displaying paintings by a Haitian artist. Many of the paintings detailed those who had aided in the revolution several centuries ago, but others were more modern: Louis Armstrong and Frederick Douglass were among those painted (not sure why, I don’t believe either one was Haitian). My personal favorite was of a woman named Marie Laveau, the ‘Voodoo Queen of New Orleans’. In the painting she is in the process of helping a client, sitting at her dressing table and preparing to communicate with the spirits. In the painting’s caption it points out elements of Catholicism and voodoo in the painting: a rosary and a decorated gourd, among other things. The syncretism of Catholicism and religions from Western Africa resulted in voodoo, which is now one of the nationally recognized religions of Haiti.
Moving on through the tour, we journeyed to the Iron Market:
It is absolutely massive and smack in the middle of downtown. Two warehouse sized buildings stretch on either side of the entrance, crammed with stalls and hundreds of people. I’d heard about this market from people who had been there, but nothing compared with its size and absolutely cacophony of car horns, shouts, chickens clucking and above it all the sun beating down relentlessly on the hub of life flowing in and out of the market.
The first building we went into housed mostly artwork and other handicrafts: paintings on canvas, metal work, wood work, clothes, dolls. Every aisle was the same and the vendors often held out their hands to slow us down and get us to look at their wares. ‘Madam, madam, see what I have? I have something you will like,’ they told me over and over. It was difficult to even look in the direction of a piece of art without them trying to sell it to you. If you’re anything like me and you hate confrontation, this was an uncomfortable experience. But all I had to do was smile and say ‘no, mesi, no thank you, not today’ and they would back off. Some vendors were more aggressive than others, and I was eventually convinced to buy a painted metal parrot to supplement my collection of animals. I now have…thirteen I think.
In one corner of this building were stalls that were a little more… formidable. The artwork started to shift to bottles upon bottles of coloured liquid, strings of beads and feathers, painted statues of the saints, sacks filled with coloured chalk or various powders and other more sinister items: baby dolls, brightly painted and clothed in sequins, mounted on crosses. Mummified skulls peering out from underneath hoods of fabric dulled by dust and sunlight. Black twisted horns and wooden swords mounted on the base of these statues. Voodoo paraphernalia, we were told.
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| The various bottles and statues of saints |
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| More of the same |
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| To name it or not to name it? |
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| Not sure what this is but it's interesting |
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| that is a real skull under there |
It was a little creepy and entirely fascinating. This whole section of the building was dedicated to items used in voodoo ceremonies, and I’ll be honest, I felt a little chill run up my spine when I turned by back on this:
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| double whammy |
Underfoot there were cats, tied to the legs of tables and chairs. I hated to imagine their fate, even though cats are often eaten here. My mom remembered being told that the cats are also sometimes used in voodoo ceremonies, though their purpose remains unclear. While voodoo often is put in a negative light (thanks, Hollywood) it actually doesn’t serve any sort of evil purpose. Nevertheless, the objects we saw in the Iron Market were, in a word, eerie.
The other building was mostly food products: sacks of rice and beans, small cages crammed with birds, buckets full of turtles, jars of mayonnaise sitting out in the heat. Again, every stall had practically the same products, probably all for the same prices. Everything was swarmed with flies, especially the fresh produce sitting out in the open. Without any form of refrigeration you can imagine that certain items didn’t last long in the sweltering temperatures.
After leaving the Iron Market we journeyed to a small art gallery. It was crammed with metal work and other Haitian crafts. I actually went there once last summer on a CLO trip to various art galleries. They have a great selection of the painted animals, so of course I picked up another one.
Finally was lunch at the Oloffson Hotel, which is a historic place. It's that 'gingerbread' style of architecture, and you can tell that it used to be really beautiful. Now it's rather unkempt, with only the shadow of its glory days peeking through the peeling paint and cracked wood. The steps creak and tremble, the cement path has weeds sprouting through the cracks and it is, of course, blisteringly hot anywhere you go. The food is simply mediocre, but you go there more for the atmosphere and the historical aspect than anything else.
Thus concluded our Windshield Tour! Overall a success, though I was feeling extremely carsick for several hours afterward. Driving here is definitely not as much of a challenge as it was when I was here last year, but I still suffer from upset stomachs every time I have to sit in the back seat. I have driven here already, several times, and it's funny how easily I fell back into the more aggressive pattern of being on the road.
On Sunday we traveled up the mountain, which was an adventure in and of itself. My dad had been asked to give a speech at the commencement ceremony for a local American school (go Dabes!) so my mom and I joined him. It took us a long time to get up the hill, and I of course was getting extremely carsick - the road has a million twists and turns, bumps and ditches - but the air up there was so worth it. Clean, clear and cool. It was another world from the air down here, which constantly tastes and smells of burning trash and dust. Eau d'Haiti, I call it, because it permeates my clothes and hair like an acrid perfume. Anyway, it was much nicer up the hill, perfect for a graduation ceremony so no one would be sweating through their robes. There were only 5 kids graduating, so it didn't take long. My dad's speech was really amazing. After 17 years as a high school teacher, he knows a lot about standing up in front of people and getting them to pay attention. He also knows a lot about the journey from high school to the rest of your life, and his skill, his passion for teaching and for working with young adults really showed through. It only solidified my own desire to become a high school teacher. It also brought back memories of my own high school graduation, which seems a lifetime ago.
After the ceremony each of the five kids lit one of those floating Chinese lanterns- they were bright green and huge, and it was a crazy thing to see these five paper lanterns floating off into the sky. I can only imagine what the locals thought!
Hope you all are having a good start to the week! I'll be watching the season finale of Game of Thrones tonight so don't spoil it for me, okay?
Cheers!
