This post is over two weeks overdue. I’m back home in the States, but I wanted to share my trip to Haiti.
The day of my official close of service, four girlfriends and I embarked on a journey to the other side of Hispaniola. Throughout my service in the Dominican Republic, I heard legends about the “other side.” Many people made racist comments, saying that Haitians eat cats during voodoo rituals and such. Yet, I only knew the Haitians that came to the DR to labor in order to eek out a living for themselves and their loved ones. They were always reserved and stayed out of trouble.
The D.R. and Haiti have a long history of conflict. After Haiti earned its independence from the French in 1804, they sought to reunify the island under their rule until the Dominicans gained their independence in 1844. Though the D.R. has since been occupied by Spain and then the United States (2 times), Dominicans still maintain their resentment toward the Haitians. Part of the Peace Corps mission in the D.R. is to facilitate understanding between the Haitians and Dominicans.
Therefore, I felt in order to get a more complete picture of Hispaniola, I had to go to Haiti and see for myself how it really is.
Our friend, Stephanie, was moving there to join her American boyfriend who had been living in Port-au-Prince for a year at a microfinance NGO. We agreed to help her move all of her stuff, including a mini semi-automatic washing machine. So at 8 in the morning, we went to the bus station in Santo Domingo with Stephanie’s stuff and bought our tickets to Port-au-Prince. About two hours into the journey, our bus broke down and we had to wait on the side of the road for a replacement—except the replacement already had people on it and couldn’t fit all the passengers from the previous bus. After much negotiating and arguing (and being laughed at because we wanted a refund for this inconvenience), we got on the bus and sat on the floor for the next six hours. At the border, we noticed a lot of chaos--water from a nearby lake seeping through the government buildings, honking trucks, people peddling snacks, phone cards and currency exchanges. We stood in line to stamp our passports and then we were on our way. At sunset, we crossed the border, and the bus took us to the unknown by way of a thin stretch of dirt road bordering a rising lake.
After a 12-hour journey, we arrived in Port-au-Prince and unloaded all of Stephanie’s stuff. Her boyfriend, David, came to meet us and all at once, we knew we were in a different world. Boys came up to us asking if they could flag down a taxi; David responded in fluent Creole that we would all fit in his Toyota Corolla. Not understanding the exchange, the rest of us felt muzzled and realized our second-language abilities wouldn’t serve us in this land. I didn’t even know how to say the standard, “Hi. How are you?” I felt so ashamed that I couldn’t be polite and greet people.
The first day of our stay in Haiti we drove through the hills surrounding Port-au-Prince. In the hills, over looking the city, are vast, majestic mansions. It is unbelievable how many rich people there are in direct contrast to the poverty of the city below. After our drive, we came to the trailhead of a path into the mountains. We hiked thirty minutes uphill, past a few villagers, and came to a breathtaking view of a few distant Haitian communities.
Afterward, we went to a café in Petionville, a town outside of Port-au-Prince where most of the international aid agencies are based, and had some burgers and Cokes. That evening, we went to an expat party at a ritzy apartment complex. After speaking with some of the guests about their jobs in Haiti (journalism, prosthetic limbs organization, Salvation Army), we realized that our Peace Corps experience was significantly different. Whereas many expats aren’t required to learn Creole because they have their own drivers and/or translators, we lived at the level of the Dominican people. We spoke their language, we complained about the same things (there’s no luz!), we struggled like they did. Many international aid workers live in luxurious (by Haitian standards) housing separated from the people. We felt strange that we couldn’t speak Creole and that we were attending a classy party.
The next day we took a driving tour of Port-au-Prince. We visited an artisan village where they specialize in metal art. After spending a lot of time admiring the artwork and observing the artisans creating it, we drove to downtown Port-au-Prince. We drove past the largest open area park in the Caribbean—now a tent city—and then we saw the Presidential Palace, still in shambles. Though we’ve all seen the devastating photos of the palace, seeing it in real life was something quite different. It was sobering and symbolic of the struggles of the Haitian people under a broken government. The palace was an incredible site.
The city of Port-au-Prince wasn’t our concept of a city with only one tall building (maybe 10 or 15 stories?) and two- or four-lane streets, instead of an impressive metropolitan freeway. The buildings were modest and made of concrete, just like in the DR, but there were still several collapsed buildings from the earthquake and thousands of tents.
That afternoon, we had lunch at the Oloffson Hotel, a famous wooden hotel built as a private mansion in the late 19th century. We sampled some Haitian food and reflected on our trip of the last two days.
That evening, a Haitian friend came to visit us at David’s and Stephanie’s apartment. He was a translator at a hospital on the Dominican-Haitian border right after the earthquake. He had a brilliant smile, an inspiring attitude, and spoke perfect English. We knew he and his family had been through so much, more than any of us could ever comprehend, but he was still proud of his country, his Haiti.
On the last day of my trip, a few of the girls left for Santo Domingo, while Ruth and I hung out at Stephanie’s apartment. Since David was working, we had to fend for ourselves that afternoon. We went out to buy food at the nearest supermarket and then we bought vegetables from the local women merchants on the street. Most goods are bought and sold on the street by ti machan, or “little merchants,” mostly women who set up their wares outside. None of us knew Creole so we let Ruth serve as semi-translator with her broken French. After using hand signals and French numbers, we were able to purchase what we wanted.
I feel so privileged that I had the chance to go to Haiti. It has such a negative stigma—from the Dominicans’ prejudiced remarks to constant representations of catastrophe in the media. But as my friends and I realized, Haiti is a country of SURVIVORS. They’ve recently endured an earthquake, a hurricane, and a cholera epidemic. But they are proud of who they are. In the Dominican Republic, it seemed as if people are always looking to the United States; the Dominican dream is to move to the U.S. But Haiti felt different. They were Haitian, and they expressed that in their language, their art, and their proud posture. They don’t have much, but they have their culture.
Haiti moved me. It was the perfect ending to my amazing experience on Hispaniola.
*Photos courtesy of Mary
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| On the bus to Haiti--without seats |
