Verity Firth is a NSW Labor MP and her husband got caught buying an ectasy pill the other day, for $20.
That sounds like a reasonable price to me-for Australia. In the US (I hear) you could buy half a gram of fizz for $20! Is it possible the drug dealers are ripping us off?!
What's interesting is the huge media reaction to the incident. I wonder what we would come up with if we blood tested all the Murdoch and Fairfax journos who are so shocked with Mr Firth's behaviour. Got them to wee into a jar the night of the Fairfax Christmas party. We are lucky to have such people in Australia holding our moral compass.
Speaking of weeing into a jar, I got drug tested at a surboat carnival on the weekend. I felt a little flattered they wanted to drug test me. But they tested our whole crew including our bowman who we call McAthlete because he looks like Hamburgler. He also has a quarter pounder and a longneck after every training session. So it was just a random test.
After out third race we filled in the paperwork and our chaperone followed us into the toilet. As a boatie you only wear speedo's anyway but I was told to drop mine to my knees and piss into this little jar, while he watched.
Nothing happened.
It's awkward when someone's staring at your sausage hoping it'll do something but it doesn't.
So I went back to the beach, my chaperone (name of John Brown, no kidding) following to make sure I didn't rort the system. Right before my race I pulled the lever and drained my bladder. No use carting all that ballast around. We got knocked out anyway, then it was back to the drug testing room to see if I could muster something up.
Two hours, two liters of Staminade and two schooners later I passed a beauty-190ml, by far the largest sample in my crew. Old John Brown certainly knew me pretty well by then-stuck in the cubicle with me as I tried to squeeze a piss out, I forced out a sneaky fart by mistake. 'Toot-toot' it went and I suggested we bottle that instead..."odeur de boatie!"
He just stared at my cock and and frowned, unimpressed. He's heard it all before has John Brown. But he didn't mind-he's on an hourly rate.
Anyway, back to our scandal. When Verity was asked if she had ever used ecstasy she dodged the questions by refusing to say no and that her conscience was clear. Whose isn't?
Strange things are happening in NSW. Verity's husband bought a pill, and he's getting in big trouble for it. Kristina Keneally and her government have sold the NSW electricity grid to their mates in the private sector for about half the market price, a discount of about $4 billion.
Some bloke buys a pill and he gets arrested for it, someone else rips off the public to the tune of a few billion dollars and no charges are laid.
You might conclude we have our priorities mixed up in Australia.
Since someone in government has now been sprung buying drugs and we know that anyone who wants drugs can get them whenever they like, why not just legalise and regulate drugs like cocaine and ectasty?
If it was legal you could tax it. The government would buy cocaine for one or two dollars a gram from Bolivia and sell it here for $250 a gram. The good stuff. Imagine what you could do with the tax revenue. Most coke is used by people on high incomes (bankers/lawyers/tradies) therefore taxing it is progressive. This means the big swinging dicks are happy because they can get high legally, and so are the left wingers because the rich are paying higher taxes which will eventually trickle down to the them.
You'd also cut out those dealers who've been ripping us off for so long. They would become engineers and solve the labour shortage in WA instead.
The extra taxes could be used to pay for more schools, bridges, roads, trains, carbon schemes, NBN's, flood recovery efforts and drug rehab centres. The good people of Colombia would have a legitimate income and wouldn't have to answer to FARCing guerilla's all the time.
The down side is you it loses some appeal as a pick up tool as it's now only expensive, not illegal and therefore not as naughty. This negatively effects the experience for guys who rely on it to pick up because they are less badass now. To increase their badness they could get tribal tattoo's around their biceps.
While we're on taxes, why not tax junk food*. If fat people cost the health system so much more than healthy people, why should they be subsidised? It's the user pays principle. We do it with cigarettes, toll roads and insurance. By taxing junk food you disincentivise people to buy it, reducing obesity.
The people who can't help themselves and get obese anyway have paid enough taxes over time to fund their stay in hospital as they recover from heart disease, hypertension, diabetes, osteoarthritis, cancer, sleep apnea, abdominal hernias, varicose veins, gout, gall bladder disease, respiratory problems including pickwickian syndrome (a breathing blockage linked with sudden death), liver malfunction, and being a fat bastard.
We could probably extend this to a carbon price but that's another story.
*Except McDonalds, which is maligned in the media and delicious.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Thursday, September 23, 2010
One Pillar-Banking Haiti Style
It was 7am on Saturday morning and I was lined up outside a bank in downtown Leogane. The bank didn't open until 8.30 but I was only tenth in line. Most banks had fallen over in the earthquake so this one was very popular, especially on Saturdays. I had to get an advance on my credit card, because the only cash machine I knew of in Haiti was thirty kilometres away in Port au Prince.
It was already about 30 degrees and the line was steadily growing. I was the only white guy in the que, and an old man started talking to me in English about the orphanage he ran. Could HODR help refurbish it for him? He needed some running water and a coat of paint. He had fifty orphans to look after and it was hard to keep them clean without a water pump.
He was also a self appointed que disciplinarian. People kept showing up and trying to cut the line, and he would take them to task. He was only a little guy and didn't have much affect. Incidentally Haitian line cheats all look the same-their shoulders hunch a little and their faces set, staring at the ground, a humourless smile on their face-the look of a guilty Haitian who knows he (always a male) is being naughty but has decided it's worth it.
I got chatting to orphanage guy. He said that there was a problem in Leogane at the moment because there was no police force. That must mean there is a lot of crime in the camps then?
Actually no.
"You don't want to get arrested for anything around here my son. If you go to the police station they will let you back into the street straight away. The gaol got smashed in the quake."
"So what's the problem with getting arrested then?"
"Well it's simple. If the police can't punish you for doing a crime then we got to do it ourselves. If you get arrested then you did a crime, see? Then when you get let out the people will make sure you don't commit any more crimes again."
"So things don't get stolen around here?"
"No my son. A man stole a moto from a house one day a few weeks ago. When the police let him out, that night, he disappeared. They found him, dead, chopped to bits, burned, and dumped in a river! So nobody steals moto's in Leogane any more."
Good. I'd parked Matt Engeles' moto round the corner. He was a long termer on a break-he'd bought it for US$800 but was overseas on a holiday and said I could use it.
A couple of times I had to move my shoulder in front of guys who thought they could move in on me. There was nothing I could do about people who jumped in right at the front. My new friend the orphanage director tried his best though. He walked up and down the line yelling at people, jostling, and asking for order. He was like a cattle dog nipping and barking at the herd but having no real effect. He lamented to me that one of the problems here was that people didn't respect rules, this wouldn't happen in New York City. How could his country improve if nobody obeyed simple rules!
As the clock ticked down to 8.30 the line had grown to at least eighty people. There was more open pushing and shoving now, and two huge Haitian men had sauntered up to the front and were standing there, grinning with the look of the guilty and not moving. One guy in particular was a giant. I flipped him the bird and mouthed that he could get f%cked. He threw his head back and laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world.
When 8.30 ticked over and the door to the bank opened the line disintegrated and everybody bolted for the entrance. It was like the starters gun had gone off at the City 2 Surf, everyone was trying to funnel into a single doorway, and it was violent. The big guy I had abused earlier turned out to be a security gaurd patting people down as they went in. His mate with a shotgun braced himself in the door, using his gun as a staff to hold people back.
People began tearing at my shoulders, dropping low and pushing through, pulling me back and thrusting, jostling themselves forward. There was no way I was getting into that bank unless I started shoving my way through the crowd. It was a rugby scrum, but with old men and frail women in the mix. A tall skinny guy in a white shirt pushed in front of me and I grabbed his shirt and dragged him backwards.
"You stretch it, you stretch it!" he cried
"Beg your pardon old chap, but one feels you jumped the fucking que!" I shouted, gesturing behind me with my thumb. I was getting angry.
Two of his friends turned on me, barricading my path and allowing him to push away through the crowd. At no point did they make eye contact.
I let it slide. I felt very conspicuous as the only blanc and didn't want to draw too much attention. It was every man for himself. This wasn't like any bank line I'd been in before. I was forced to drag old women and skinny men out of the way. To force your way through the crowd you had to move your shoulders in front of someone then lever them backwards while you moved into the gap. The women fought ferociously but got more elbows in the face than forward motion. They were just too small. Anybody in front of me got shoved aside until I was near the door way. I reached over head of the old lady in front of me and grabbed the frame of the cage door with my right hand-now nobody could move in from that side because I locked my arm in place. Then I reached over and did the same thing with my left hand, so I had a little clear space in front of me. The giant was panting with the effort of holding people back and patting them down as they came through the door. Once he had checked me he shoved me through...I was in.
The guy in the white shirt was standing in front of me. I prepared for a confrontation. "My brother! I am sorry, this is the way it is here, I meant you no harm!" He cried with a giant smile on his face. What the fuck!?
I had been taking things the wrong way. There were no fights or swinging fists, the shoving and mauling was just how people got into banks around here. When white-shirts friends had not looked at me even while they were barring my way, it was like they were acting against something in nature rather than a person. They kept it impersonal, which meant there was no violence.
I walked into the main reception area, sweating like a pig and breathing heavily. Feeling quite pleased with myself, just for getting inside. There were about thirty Haitians lined up waiting to be served. I'd only lost twenty places in line-not bad for my first time! They all turned to stare at me and I felt wary. What was going to happen next? As one they all broke out huge smiles and started clapping! I couldn't believe it! They were genuinely happy that I'd stuck it out the same as they had to get into their bank. It was incredible and bemused as I was, it is easily the most memorable banking experience I've ever had.
I left the bank with a wallet full of cash and rode back to base. Mimi was waiting for me there. A few days earlier I had announced that I was going away for the weekend, leaving Friday morning, taking Matts bike and going to Jacmel. Who wanted to come?
Mimi did, and she waiting for me when I rode back to base to pick up my backpack. We strapped our stuff to the luggage rack and took off. The sun was belting down out of a bright blue sky, not a cloud in sight. It was steaming hot and we rode in nothing but shoes, shorts and singlets. I had a hat on and sunnies, and it felt fantastic to ride out of Leogane and into the countryside knowing that we didn't have to work for three days, three days to kick back and reset our heads. It was freedom.
We stopped at the first service station and bought a few beers. Mimi held the drinks while I rode, and would pass the bottles of Prestige forward when I was thirsty, which was quite often.
Jacmel is on the South side of the Haiti, and to get there you need to traverse a little mountain range in the centre of the island. The road going over the top is well paved and smooth and the views are fantastic. From the side of mountains we had views of tropical rainforest and lush green pasture through the omnipresent haze, from smoke, sea spray and evaporation.
The trip across the top was a hairy adventure, and I'll leave that story for another entry.
It was already about 30 degrees and the line was steadily growing. I was the only white guy in the que, and an old man started talking to me in English about the orphanage he ran. Could HODR help refurbish it for him? He needed some running water and a coat of paint. He had fifty orphans to look after and it was hard to keep them clean without a water pump.
He was also a self appointed que disciplinarian. People kept showing up and trying to cut the line, and he would take them to task. He was only a little guy and didn't have much affect. Incidentally Haitian line cheats all look the same-their shoulders hunch a little and their faces set, staring at the ground, a humourless smile on their face-the look of a guilty Haitian who knows he (always a male) is being naughty but has decided it's worth it.
I got chatting to orphanage guy. He said that there was a problem in Leogane at the moment because there was no police force. That must mean there is a lot of crime in the camps then?
Actually no.
"You don't want to get arrested for anything around here my son. If you go to the police station they will let you back into the street straight away. The gaol got smashed in the quake."
"So what's the problem with getting arrested then?"
"Well it's simple. If the police can't punish you for doing a crime then we got to do it ourselves. If you get arrested then you did a crime, see? Then when you get let out the people will make sure you don't commit any more crimes again."
"So things don't get stolen around here?"
"No my son. A man stole a moto from a house one day a few weeks ago. When the police let him out, that night, he disappeared. They found him, dead, chopped to bits, burned, and dumped in a river! So nobody steals moto's in Leogane any more."
Good. I'd parked Matt Engeles' moto round the corner. He was a long termer on a break-he'd bought it for US$800 but was overseas on a holiday and said I could use it.
A couple of times I had to move my shoulder in front of guys who thought they could move in on me. There was nothing I could do about people who jumped in right at the front. My new friend the orphanage director tried his best though. He walked up and down the line yelling at people, jostling, and asking for order. He was like a cattle dog nipping and barking at the herd but having no real effect. He lamented to me that one of the problems here was that people didn't respect rules, this wouldn't happen in New York City. How could his country improve if nobody obeyed simple rules!
As the clock ticked down to 8.30 the line had grown to at least eighty people. There was more open pushing and shoving now, and two huge Haitian men had sauntered up to the front and were standing there, grinning with the look of the guilty and not moving. One guy in particular was a giant. I flipped him the bird and mouthed that he could get f%cked. He threw his head back and laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world.
When 8.30 ticked over and the door to the bank opened the line disintegrated and everybody bolted for the entrance. It was like the starters gun had gone off at the City 2 Surf, everyone was trying to funnel into a single doorway, and it was violent. The big guy I had abused earlier turned out to be a security gaurd patting people down as they went in. His mate with a shotgun braced himself in the door, using his gun as a staff to hold people back.
People began tearing at my shoulders, dropping low and pushing through, pulling me back and thrusting, jostling themselves forward. There was no way I was getting into that bank unless I started shoving my way through the crowd. It was a rugby scrum, but with old men and frail women in the mix. A tall skinny guy in a white shirt pushed in front of me and I grabbed his shirt and dragged him backwards.
"You stretch it, you stretch it!" he cried
"Beg your pardon old chap, but one feels you jumped the fucking que!" I shouted, gesturing behind me with my thumb. I was getting angry.
Two of his friends turned on me, barricading my path and allowing him to push away through the crowd. At no point did they make eye contact.
I let it slide. I felt very conspicuous as the only blanc and didn't want to draw too much attention. It was every man for himself. This wasn't like any bank line I'd been in before. I was forced to drag old women and skinny men out of the way. To force your way through the crowd you had to move your shoulders in front of someone then lever them backwards while you moved into the gap. The women fought ferociously but got more elbows in the face than forward motion. They were just too small. Anybody in front of me got shoved aside until I was near the door way. I reached over head of the old lady in front of me and grabbed the frame of the cage door with my right hand-now nobody could move in from that side because I locked my arm in place. Then I reached over and did the same thing with my left hand, so I had a little clear space in front of me. The giant was panting with the effort of holding people back and patting them down as they came through the door. Once he had checked me he shoved me through...I was in.
The guy in the white shirt was standing in front of me. I prepared for a confrontation. "My brother! I am sorry, this is the way it is here, I meant you no harm!" He cried with a giant smile on his face. What the fuck!?
I had been taking things the wrong way. There were no fights or swinging fists, the shoving and mauling was just how people got into banks around here. When white-shirts friends had not looked at me even while they were barring my way, it was like they were acting against something in nature rather than a person. They kept it impersonal, which meant there was no violence.
I walked into the main reception area, sweating like a pig and breathing heavily. Feeling quite pleased with myself, just for getting inside. There were about thirty Haitians lined up waiting to be served. I'd only lost twenty places in line-not bad for my first time! They all turned to stare at me and I felt wary. What was going to happen next? As one they all broke out huge smiles and started clapping! I couldn't believe it! They were genuinely happy that I'd stuck it out the same as they had to get into their bank. It was incredible and bemused as I was, it is easily the most memorable banking experience I've ever had.
I left the bank with a wallet full of cash and rode back to base. Mimi was waiting for me there. A few days earlier I had announced that I was going away for the weekend, leaving Friday morning, taking Matts bike and going to Jacmel. Who wanted to come?
Mimi did, and she waiting for me when I rode back to base to pick up my backpack. We strapped our stuff to the luggage rack and took off. The sun was belting down out of a bright blue sky, not a cloud in sight. It was steaming hot and we rode in nothing but shoes, shorts and singlets. I had a hat on and sunnies, and it felt fantastic to ride out of Leogane and into the countryside knowing that we didn't have to work for three days, three days to kick back and reset our heads. It was freedom.
We stopped at the first service station and bought a few beers. Mimi held the drinks while I rode, and would pass the bottles of Prestige forward when I was thirsty, which was quite often.
Jacmel is on the South side of the Haiti, and to get there you need to traverse a little mountain range in the centre of the island. The road going over the top is well paved and smooth and the views are fantastic. From the side of mountains we had views of tropical rainforest and lush green pasture through the omnipresent haze, from smoke, sea spray and evaporation.
The trip across the top was a hairy adventure, and I'll leave that story for another entry.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Auto tune pop music is sickening
Desperate Men. Sometimes things in your mind coalesce into clarity at really odd times. You can be trying to sleep in yet another hostel room, a memory will pop into your head, and suddenly what was really happening at that exact moment becomes crystal clear. The context, the colours and sounds, the diluting details wash away and a realisation of what was really happening hits you like a shot of rum on a hot day. Or maybe my brain is just ascribing meaning to something where meaning doesn’t exist. We’ll see.
There was a Haitian guy, I don’t remember his name, who used to hang out at Joe’s next to our base. He wasn’t one of the volunteers. He was friends with some of them and he tried to sell me pages of English words translated into Creole a few times, because I expressed an interest in learning some Creole when I first got to Haiti. The amount of time and effort to write a page of translations…it must have been an arduous task for a man who could barely write at all, let alone in English. I was tempted but laziness and a general tightness with cash prevented me from going through with it. But mainly, when I checked I discovered many of the translations were somewhat…flexible.
I should describe Joes since it was one of two main venues for relaxing we had in Leogane. There were a few smaller ones like Guttermans (situated in a gutter, later renamed Little Venice, I guess because of the picturesque canal running past it). We actually demolished and removed Gutterman’s house for him. There was also Toiletman, next to a toilet,, and more recently there was Left Bar, reached by turning left when you walked out of the base. It raised the bar for roadside bars (sorry) in Leogane, because he installed a tarp to sit under. He also initiated a price war, dropping his beers to 30 Ghoudes during the world cup soccer. Well, Joes is a basic place. It’s more or less an open square space, with the grey rendered walls of the HODR compound on one side, an L shaped veranda, with the fourth side open. There are square tables with plastic tablecloths and metal fold out chairs. At the corner of the L shape is a bar where can buy all sorts of drinks-Prestige beer, Barbancourt rum…and that’s it actually. Barbancourt rum sends you sideways. It sent me sideways literally. I could never walk straight on the stuff. Not ideal considering I lived on a rooftop with no fence. It‘s great stuff, brings out the obnoxious in you!
The veranda’s are lit with bright orange mood lights and there are murals painted on the wall. One thing Haitians do well is loud fucking speakers. The speakers in the bar are 5 foot tall and weigh about 90 kilo’s each and there are 6 of them. Huge woofers topped by giant horns. It’s not overkill, it’s overserialkill. These things are brutal. You don’t go to Joes to have a conversation because it is impossible, reggaeton or autotuned pop/rap music overwhelms everything.
As an aside, I can’t stand autotuned pop/rap/hip-hop music. If there is an aural equivalent to explosive mud guts, this is it. If auto-tuned music was a hamburger from McDonalds, the beef patty would have a pus pimple in it and there would a tangle of grey (or red!) pubes stuck to the pickle. Worse, they would have forgotten the cheese-I fucking hate it when that happens! I would definitely take that burger back, and as every respectable bulimic can tell you, at least you have the option of throwing up garbage food but you can’t unhear terrible music, ever.
It’s enough to make your ears bleed. Maybe it was the speakers and not the rum which sent everyone staggering all over the place. Let’s run with that. I’m sure there must be a law which restricts Haiti to only having 20 different songs in the entire country-although if it was a law it would be broken, so maybe it’s just a cultural thing-let’s only play twenty different songs this year! They would play reggae and rap all night every night, except for Wednesdays which was reggae night, and then they’d only play reggae. And every time they would finish on ‘No Woman No Cry’, the unofficial Haitian national anthem.
Thursdays was rap and hip hop night when the place filled up with gangsta’s and I felt daggy in my short footy shorts and y-fronts. Nobody saw the y-fronts of course but everyone can see a gangsta’s undies because his pants do up under his ass cheeks. Y-fronts wouldn’t cut it, especially the ones I wore because I bought them at Wal-Mart where the sizes are actually smaller than what they are in Australia, so they were a little snug shall we say. In fact they still are a little snug-I’m wearing a pair right now-it‘s more a squashed lunch than a cut lunch down there. Anyway that was all the music variations, except for Tuesdays now that I think about it, which is salsa night, when they play salsa tunes, and probably some reggae for good measure. Either way the repertoire of songs is very select. They definitely know what they like!
That all said I really enjoyed drinking at Joe’s, (probably in spite of the entertainment) and I really like Joe, they handsome chap who owns the bar. He is a top guy-very amiable and while I was suspended he let me sit on his veranda and gave me beers to drink in the sun for free, while I played the guitar and everybody else worked. He is Haitian and drove taxi’s in NYC for 25 years. He was in fact an award winning taxi driver, according to himself, which I find impressive in the extreme. He tapped into the fact the food at HODR base doesn’t quite qualify as gourmet and started making pizzas and selling them to all the hungry volunteers. Those pizzas were delicious, and made him a fortune. They were made in a bakery between the toolshed and the kitchen of the HODR base. I have great memories of that bar because of its unusual quirks and I miss it, and I most certainly miss the people I drank with there.
This Haitian guy was there every night. He was about six foot and athletic skinny, and had a brown fleck in the white of his left eye, like a blood speck that never filtered out. The whites were really more of a sallow yellow, and he spoke English to a reasonable degree. He would always ask me about the girls on base, especially brown Sarah, where is she what is she doing, so to get him to drop it I started telling him Sarah was my wife. The next day he started asking about someone else and I told him she was my wife too…and he nodded as if to say “I know something strange is going on here but I don’t know exactly what…”
Soon I was up to seven or eight wives. Since even the very concept of having seven wives was filling me with panic (and he was starting to regard every thing I said with suspicion) I told him I didn’t have a wife at all. He shook his in a disappointed, angry way. I had told him an untruth and more importantly diverted him from his infatuation with Sarah, who all the Haitian guys held in very high regard. Now he’d been daydreaming needlessly and unfaithfully about other girls for a couple of weeks.
These young men would hang around in the yard outside the bar, sitting on the fence watching the volunteers drink and be social inside. At first I found it a bit creepy, all these guys staring intently at us while we relaxed. Then it was strange and then I just ignored it all together. Some of them would venture inside to dance but the reason they sat and watched is because they couldn’t afford the 40 Goudes Joe charged for a beer. That’s about US80c. Over time, more Haitians came into the bar and partied with the volunteers. I think this was due to the local volunteer program which helped us integrate more with the Haitians.
When they did come inside to dance the result was spectacular. If it was rap or reggae they would form circles and have dance off’s. These Haitian guys can really break it down (I believe that‘s the term). The girls amongst the international volunteers also loved to dance so often the Haitian guys would round up all the women (come to think of it…it was usually the other way around!) and the dance floor would crank. There were two eleven year old Haitian boys. They could both dance as well as anyone I’ve ever seen-little Michael Jackson’s in training-and had no qualms about grabbing the young female volunteers and twisting, grinding, pelvic thrusting and doing various other lustful things that I almost certainly do not approve of...The girls, they absolutely loved it of course. I shudder to think what the reaction would be if I was dirty dancing with a ten year old girl, but anyway, they were talented little guru’s. They would have the most intent looks in their eyes as they sweat it up with the excited blancs, who’s shirts would cling to their bodies and hair would drip with perspiration, their skin shining in the lamplight. It’s easy to remember the grins on everybody’s face as they swirled in the humid night air.
It was great to watch, but never to participate in-I have a profound ego and as such there is no way I am engaging in any activity where a ten year old can completely disgrace me. Unless it‘s Xbox-then I don’t care. Plus I don’t like dancing of course.
The reason I described blood-fleck guy before is because I remembered his eyes when he spoke to me. Not the off-white colour of his eyeballs, but the earnestness in his face whenever he came to speak to me. He wanted to teach me Creole. He wanted to find out if I was staying long in Haiti, and if I liked his country. He wanted to know about the girls at HODR-did they know who he was? What he really, achingly wanted was for me, and the rest of the volunteers (especially the female ones I suppose), to see him as having some intrinsic value-to demonstrate that who he was and what his country has given him, made him into, was impressive or interesting to the international volunteers.
I was thinking of all of this the other day while lying in bed, over a month after I’ve left it all behind. I realised that maybe these young men were staring at us because they so keenly want, no, need the opportunity to be like us. Not to be like a privileged kid from Sydney’s leafy North Shore (like me) but to live in a society that allows them to at least contemplate their potential, or failing even that modest goal, to live in a country that lets them improve their lives, if that is what they want to do. They are desperate to be educated, to understand the concepts that we take for granted, to live the sophisticated existence that we enjoy in the West. We lead these lives without ever even thinking about how far our societies have come, and the prospects we’re afforded in them. Why do we have these opportunities which they don’t have? We can blasé about things they could never contemplate attaining.
I doubt these young Haitian males would articulate things like that. It’s probably not something they dwell on, perhaps in part because it would be a futile and frustrating line of thought. I could be completely wrong as well, who knows. I wonder what the other volunteers think.
As I lay in bed that night, Joe’s bar wafted through my consciousness, the people, nui’s and blancs dancing, drinking together, the ear puncturing music. It swirled through my mind amidst memories of the heat, the flies and mosquitoes, the ice cold beer and potent rum, the concrete wall of the HODR base and the murals of Haitian coastal panoramas. I was reminiscing about these things and the coloured lights along the veranda and the pitch black streets beyond Joe’s, when the truth revealed itself, coalescing out of the memories in my reverie. Blood-fleck’s eyes, his body language, his words, his persistence-his desire.
It seems obvious now-he was a desperate man. He was clinging to the hope and desire of a better life. The sort of existence that the international volunteers gave him a glimpse of when we celebrated finishing a days work in Joe‘s bar. A moment of insight and it was crystal clear, even though I never bothered thinking about it while I was there.
I don’t think it’s all of them or even most of them. There could be a dozen reasons guys like him behaved the way they did. That isn’t the whole story either. Most of the time he probably just wanted to be friendly. But I know what I saw in this guys eyes and in his actions and I know what was underlying his curiosity, a force just beneath the surface driving his behaviour. On reflection there were others like him.
Some people will read this and disagree completely. I think those that would show a lack of empathy. After all it is just blind luck that we were born to privilege and my Haitian mates were born to poverty.
Myself and the other volunteers became close to the Haitians we worked with because the only things we had to judge each other on was our work ethic, integrity and generosity. But this guy, he didn’t work with us and he didn’t know that. So he wondered about us and how we judged his countrymen.
Or maybe it’s just a conceit I have, a privileged rich kid from the West, thinking these people want to have the opportunities we do. That’s possible. But I doubt it. Who wouldn’t want to have the options we do? Perhaps only bead selling hippies from Guatemala would suggest it’s not good to at least have the options we do in the developed world. That makes them the human equivalent of autotune pop songs, inedible, like that burger with no cheese on it. Either way we should count ourselves lucky. I’ve seen, the HODR people have seen what the have-nots have. Mostly, it’s just hope and determination. It will be a long road for Haitians but we’ve seen who the Haitians really are. They can get there in the end.
There was a Haitian guy, I don’t remember his name, who used to hang out at Joe’s next to our base. He wasn’t one of the volunteers. He was friends with some of them and he tried to sell me pages of English words translated into Creole a few times, because I expressed an interest in learning some Creole when I first got to Haiti. The amount of time and effort to write a page of translations…it must have been an arduous task for a man who could barely write at all, let alone in English. I was tempted but laziness and a general tightness with cash prevented me from going through with it. But mainly, when I checked I discovered many of the translations were somewhat…flexible.
I should describe Joes since it was one of two main venues for relaxing we had in Leogane. There were a few smaller ones like Guttermans (situated in a gutter, later renamed Little Venice, I guess because of the picturesque canal running past it). We actually demolished and removed Gutterman’s house for him. There was also Toiletman, next to a toilet,, and more recently there was Left Bar, reached by turning left when you walked out of the base. It raised the bar for roadside bars (sorry) in Leogane, because he installed a tarp to sit under. He also initiated a price war, dropping his beers to 30 Ghoudes during the world cup soccer. Well, Joes is a basic place. It’s more or less an open square space, with the grey rendered walls of the HODR compound on one side, an L shaped veranda, with the fourth side open. There are square tables with plastic tablecloths and metal fold out chairs. At the corner of the L shape is a bar where can buy all sorts of drinks-Prestige beer, Barbancourt rum…and that’s it actually. Barbancourt rum sends you sideways. It sent me sideways literally. I could never walk straight on the stuff. Not ideal considering I lived on a rooftop with no fence. It‘s great stuff, brings out the obnoxious in you!
The veranda’s are lit with bright orange mood lights and there are murals painted on the wall. One thing Haitians do well is loud fucking speakers. The speakers in the bar are 5 foot tall and weigh about 90 kilo’s each and there are 6 of them. Huge woofers topped by giant horns. It’s not overkill, it’s overserialkill. These things are brutal. You don’t go to Joes to have a conversation because it is impossible, reggaeton or autotuned pop/rap music overwhelms everything.
As an aside, I can’t stand autotuned pop/rap/hip-hop music. If there is an aural equivalent to explosive mud guts, this is it. If auto-tuned music was a hamburger from McDonalds, the beef patty would have a pus pimple in it and there would a tangle of grey (or red!) pubes stuck to the pickle. Worse, they would have forgotten the cheese-I fucking hate it when that happens! I would definitely take that burger back, and as every respectable bulimic can tell you, at least you have the option of throwing up garbage food but you can’t unhear terrible music, ever.
It’s enough to make your ears bleed. Maybe it was the speakers and not the rum which sent everyone staggering all over the place. Let’s run with that. I’m sure there must be a law which restricts Haiti to only having 20 different songs in the entire country-although if it was a law it would be broken, so maybe it’s just a cultural thing-let’s only play twenty different songs this year! They would play reggae and rap all night every night, except for Wednesdays which was reggae night, and then they’d only play reggae. And every time they would finish on ‘No Woman No Cry’, the unofficial Haitian national anthem.
Thursdays was rap and hip hop night when the place filled up with gangsta’s and I felt daggy in my short footy shorts and y-fronts. Nobody saw the y-fronts of course but everyone can see a gangsta’s undies because his pants do up under his ass cheeks. Y-fronts wouldn’t cut it, especially the ones I wore because I bought them at Wal-Mart where the sizes are actually smaller than what they are in Australia, so they were a little snug shall we say. In fact they still are a little snug-I’m wearing a pair right now-it‘s more a squashed lunch than a cut lunch down there. Anyway that was all the music variations, except for Tuesdays now that I think about it, which is salsa night, when they play salsa tunes, and probably some reggae for good measure. Either way the repertoire of songs is very select. They definitely know what they like!
That all said I really enjoyed drinking at Joe’s, (probably in spite of the entertainment) and I really like Joe, they handsome chap who owns the bar. He is a top guy-very amiable and while I was suspended he let me sit on his veranda and gave me beers to drink in the sun for free, while I played the guitar and everybody else worked. He is Haitian and drove taxi’s in NYC for 25 years. He was in fact an award winning taxi driver, according to himself, which I find impressive in the extreme. He tapped into the fact the food at HODR base doesn’t quite qualify as gourmet and started making pizzas and selling them to all the hungry volunteers. Those pizzas were delicious, and made him a fortune. They were made in a bakery between the toolshed and the kitchen of the HODR base. I have great memories of that bar because of its unusual quirks and I miss it, and I most certainly miss the people I drank with there.
This Haitian guy was there every night. He was about six foot and athletic skinny, and had a brown fleck in the white of his left eye, like a blood speck that never filtered out. The whites were really more of a sallow yellow, and he spoke English to a reasonable degree. He would always ask me about the girls on base, especially brown Sarah, where is she what is she doing, so to get him to drop it I started telling him Sarah was my wife. The next day he started asking about someone else and I told him she was my wife too…and he nodded as if to say “I know something strange is going on here but I don’t know exactly what…”
Soon I was up to seven or eight wives. Since even the very concept of having seven wives was filling me with panic (and he was starting to regard every thing I said with suspicion) I told him I didn’t have a wife at all. He shook his in a disappointed, angry way. I had told him an untruth and more importantly diverted him from his infatuation with Sarah, who all the Haitian guys held in very high regard. Now he’d been daydreaming needlessly and unfaithfully about other girls for a couple of weeks.
These young men would hang around in the yard outside the bar, sitting on the fence watching the volunteers drink and be social inside. At first I found it a bit creepy, all these guys staring intently at us while we relaxed. Then it was strange and then I just ignored it all together. Some of them would venture inside to dance but the reason they sat and watched is because they couldn’t afford the 40 Goudes Joe charged for a beer. That’s about US80c. Over time, more Haitians came into the bar and partied with the volunteers. I think this was due to the local volunteer program which helped us integrate more with the Haitians.
When they did come inside to dance the result was spectacular. If it was rap or reggae they would form circles and have dance off’s. These Haitian guys can really break it down (I believe that‘s the term). The girls amongst the international volunteers also loved to dance so often the Haitian guys would round up all the women (come to think of it…it was usually the other way around!) and the dance floor would crank. There were two eleven year old Haitian boys. They could both dance as well as anyone I’ve ever seen-little Michael Jackson’s in training-and had no qualms about grabbing the young female volunteers and twisting, grinding, pelvic thrusting and doing various other lustful things that I almost certainly do not approve of...The girls, they absolutely loved it of course. I shudder to think what the reaction would be if I was dirty dancing with a ten year old girl, but anyway, they were talented little guru’s. They would have the most intent looks in their eyes as they sweat it up with the excited blancs, who’s shirts would cling to their bodies and hair would drip with perspiration, their skin shining in the lamplight. It’s easy to remember the grins on everybody’s face as they swirled in the humid night air.
It was great to watch, but never to participate in-I have a profound ego and as such there is no way I am engaging in any activity where a ten year old can completely disgrace me. Unless it‘s Xbox-then I don’t care. Plus I don’t like dancing of course.
The reason I described blood-fleck guy before is because I remembered his eyes when he spoke to me. Not the off-white colour of his eyeballs, but the earnestness in his face whenever he came to speak to me. He wanted to teach me Creole. He wanted to find out if I was staying long in Haiti, and if I liked his country. He wanted to know about the girls at HODR-did they know who he was? What he really, achingly wanted was for me, and the rest of the volunteers (especially the female ones I suppose), to see him as having some intrinsic value-to demonstrate that who he was and what his country has given him, made him into, was impressive or interesting to the international volunteers.
I was thinking of all of this the other day while lying in bed, over a month after I’ve left it all behind. I realised that maybe these young men were staring at us because they so keenly want, no, need the opportunity to be like us. Not to be like a privileged kid from Sydney’s leafy North Shore (like me) but to live in a society that allows them to at least contemplate their potential, or failing even that modest goal, to live in a country that lets them improve their lives, if that is what they want to do. They are desperate to be educated, to understand the concepts that we take for granted, to live the sophisticated existence that we enjoy in the West. We lead these lives without ever even thinking about how far our societies have come, and the prospects we’re afforded in them. Why do we have these opportunities which they don’t have? We can blasé about things they could never contemplate attaining.
I doubt these young Haitian males would articulate things like that. It’s probably not something they dwell on, perhaps in part because it would be a futile and frustrating line of thought. I could be completely wrong as well, who knows. I wonder what the other volunteers think.
As I lay in bed that night, Joe’s bar wafted through my consciousness, the people, nui’s and blancs dancing, drinking together, the ear puncturing music. It swirled through my mind amidst memories of the heat, the flies and mosquitoes, the ice cold beer and potent rum, the concrete wall of the HODR base and the murals of Haitian coastal panoramas. I was reminiscing about these things and the coloured lights along the veranda and the pitch black streets beyond Joe’s, when the truth revealed itself, coalescing out of the memories in my reverie. Blood-fleck’s eyes, his body language, his words, his persistence-his desire.
It seems obvious now-he was a desperate man. He was clinging to the hope and desire of a better life. The sort of existence that the international volunteers gave him a glimpse of when we celebrated finishing a days work in Joe‘s bar. A moment of insight and it was crystal clear, even though I never bothered thinking about it while I was there.
I don’t think it’s all of them or even most of them. There could be a dozen reasons guys like him behaved the way they did. That isn’t the whole story either. Most of the time he probably just wanted to be friendly. But I know what I saw in this guys eyes and in his actions and I know what was underlying his curiosity, a force just beneath the surface driving his behaviour. On reflection there were others like him.
Some people will read this and disagree completely. I think those that would show a lack of empathy. After all it is just blind luck that we were born to privilege and my Haitian mates were born to poverty.
Myself and the other volunteers became close to the Haitians we worked with because the only things we had to judge each other on was our work ethic, integrity and generosity. But this guy, he didn’t work with us and he didn’t know that. So he wondered about us and how we judged his countrymen.
Or maybe it’s just a conceit I have, a privileged rich kid from the West, thinking these people want to have the opportunities we do. That’s possible. But I doubt it. Who wouldn’t want to have the options we do? Perhaps only bead selling hippies from Guatemala would suggest it’s not good to at least have the options we do in the developed world. That makes them the human equivalent of autotune pop songs, inedible, like that burger with no cheese on it. Either way we should count ourselves lucky. I’ve seen, the HODR people have seen what the have-nots have. Mostly, it’s just hope and determination. It will be a long road for Haitians but we’ve seen who the Haitians really are. They can get there in the end.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Last night in Haiti
“My God will help you. You came to my country and helped me. I cannot help you, but I pray that my God will.”
Reginal was the oldest of the local volunteers and told me this on my last night in Haiti. He was crying when he told me that.
It’s tough for the Haitian guys. People like me fly in and work to fix up their city, which really was ruined in the earthquake. We work side by side with the Haitians and become their friends. After work we eat with them and drink with them at the dodgy bar next to base. We get to know their families, their problems, hopes and aspirations. We talk about their personal lives and find out that some of them pass up paying jobs to work with HODR, because they hope by working with Westerners they can learn something from us. We give the older ones grief about how fat they are and the younger ones grief about how desperate and horny they are. (They are outstandingly desperate and horny). We have nicknames for each other. Mine was Lapoynet. This translates to “only God sees me” or something poignant like that. It’s not as cool as it sounds; what it actually means is “wanker”. As I drove around in the back of a tap tap kids, adults, everyone would wave and call out to me “Lapoynet! Lapoynet!” It was a real honour to be hailed in that fashion. The name probably stuck because Haitian guys pretend they never have romantic moments with themselves-because they are so virile they all have multiple girlfriends. Yea right. They thought it was hilarious that I freely admitted to enjoying some special time on the odd occasion. By odd I mean every night, of course. Helps me get to sleep. Tony would ask me every day before work, “Tim, last night lapoynet? One time, three time lapoynet?” Thanks Tony. I started calling him Chichiflex Tony, which is a way of referring to sex in Guatemala.
After we’ve gotten close enough to write each other off with bad sexual nicknames the time comes to leave. Living in Haiti, working 6 days a week 7.30-6pm drains you, mind, body and spirit. I stayed for ten weeks. You live on a surge of adrenalin for the first month, and most people who stay for about that long have amazing memories of the place and plan to come back. They update their face book profiles with Haiti and HODR references and plan reunions. It’s a fantastic experience where you make wonderful new friends and revel in the work being done, which is difficult but very satisfying. Some of them do come back and are confused and disappointed because it isn’t the same as when they were first here.
If you stay for ten weeks, or longer, Haiti, the work, the living conditions, the difficulty of continuously making new friends, then seeing them leave, it grinds you down. Teaching people new skills, seeing them become good at their jobs, then seeing that effort disappear when they do is tiring. Long termers get a bit cynical and withdrawn and newcomers wonder why they are so unfriendly. The food is wholly inadequate and in my last two weeks I could barely stomach it. A typical meal is chicken cooked in an nuclear powered deep fryer, of which you are allowed one piece. The intensity of the frying allowed you to eat the bones often as not so maximum nutrition was gleaned. I guess the oil was full of energy to fuel our days. On a bad day we were served fish head soup. Fish heads are fucked, and so are the fish tails which are part of the recipe. Whenever that meal was served, it was entirely possible to pick up one end of the fish and pull it’s entire spinal chord out of the bowl. Plenty of brown rice with beans thrown in, and one piece of tomato. Often there was a vegetable mash (an appetising brown slush. It looked solid enough to walk on, but was surprisingly viscous. It certainly helped keep our bowels loose) with fresh onions thrown in. As luck would have it there was always chilli sauce to ensure it you could moderate the taste as required. The first month I believed the old maxim “there’s no seasoning like hard work” but now I know that in fact the real seasoning of last resort is chilli sauce. Always in the last week before guys leave (for some reason this applies to men, not women) they lose up to 10 pounds. I did, because I just couldn’t eat the food any more. I had a few other issues as well, including dynamite food poisoning and a busted rib which didn’t help. The thing to remember is that HODR is a volunteer organisation and that when you start to loose drive it really is time to go-no point poisoning the atmosphere.
I remember on my last night at the HODR base, I had made my goodbye speech, and was next door at Joes saying goodbye to the Haitians. Reginal would barely look at me. I could sense something was wrong so we went for a walk.
We walked down the pitch black streets of Leogane. The streets there are just dirt, the main ones cobblestones. If you’re in thongs you need to watch out for the puddles left over from the afternoon rain, which glint a little in the moonlight. The mud bogs are harder to spot since they’re not as reflective and you need to be switched on or you’ll get first muddy, then septic feet. The streets are lined with open sewerage/drainage canals and vacant buildings. There is no electricity. When I first arrived the roads were covered in smashed concrete and tents. People lived on the road out the front of their houses, while dump trucks rumbled past, literally inches away.
Now as I walked down the road I could feel the space that we had helped to create. The roads don’t have rubble or tents on them anymore and people don’t have to sleep next to heavy traffic. Street vendors line the roads in increasing numbers. Commerce is returning. People are rebuilding their homes. Cars can pass each other without having to back up because Leogane has its streets back. It has its streets back because the people who used to live on the road, have their houses back. The rubble has been picked up and carted away. I did that, and the other volunteers from HODR did that. We made it happen and Leogane is better for us being there. It’s a satisfying feeling.
As we walked down the broad streets it was clear Reginal had something to say. He is a Haitian man in his early thirties. He has short hair, slightly longer on the top than the sides. He is pitch black and is round in the middle but mostly from muscle, not fat. He has a gold brace holding one of his teeth in. We sat on a half collapsed wall on the side of the road, up the street from Gutterman’s Bar. Some local kids skipped past laughing, rolling bicycle wheels with sticks, and the only light came from the moon, which shone through fleeting clouds.
“What’s the matter mate?”
Reginal sighed. “I am sad. I am sad because I am losing a friend tonight Tim.” He lowered his head and stared at the ground. I could see his eyes glistening. I didn’t know what to say.
“Will you come back to Haiti one day?”
I don’t know the answer to this question. Haiti is a long way from Australia and I am broke. I would love to come back in a few years and see Leogane rebuilt, but would rather see my Haitian mates with good jobs and families living in a flourishing, incorrupt society. I tell him this. He grimaces. He knows I’m saying I will probably never be back.
“We see you Tim. We are sad that you leave because we see how hard you work and we see what you do for us. We know that you are a good man, and that you have a good heart. You come to my country and help me. I want to thank you but I can never thank you because I am poor.” He frowned. “My God will help you. You came to my country and helped my people. I cannot help you, but I pray that my God will. My God will help you Tim,” and he swung his eyes up to stare into mine. I could hear the truth of what he said in his voice. I knew he would pray to his God for me. I still didn’t know what to say, so I put my arm around his shoulders and we just sat there for a while in the moonlight.
His words meant a lot to me. The truth is that I have worked extremely hard in Haiti. I basically worked myself to a stop. Not necessarily only for the Haitians, especially at the start, but because if I actually get around to doing something I push it to the limit. At any rate, the actual reasons don’t matter. The volunteers saw me work and respected it. I’ve never been in an environment where it was so basic-if you worked hard you won respect, as simple as that. So for that, I need to thank the people I have met through HODR, the local and international volunteers.
It’s hard for the Haitians because when people like me come, work ourselves to a standstill, lose motivation and then leave, they are the ones left to deal with the loss of their friends. For me it was an amazing ten weeks and I'll always cherish the memories I now have and the people I met, but I left because I was exhausted. The Haitians have to keep going, for weeks, months and years and even when the rubble is cleared and their town rebuilt the struggle for Haitians is really only just beginning. I don’t feel guilt at all, in fact I’m happy with the contribution I’ve made. I just have a deep respect for the long term battle these people have, just living in their own country. Ten weeks is enough for me, for now.
On my last day I was sitting around at Masayes with a few people from HODR. Ton, Sinead, Becky, Chris and a couple of others. For once the music wasn’t too loud and even though I was sure the twelve fingered guy behind the counter had served me the wrong type of macaroni (again) it was a pleasant place to be.
Ton had been there a while. He is a tall crazy eyed Dutchman with a masters in science, who likes wearing orange outfits and proves that beer is a food group in its own right. He was always a bit crazy, I’ve seen him licking a girls feet while she slept, but on my last day I think he lost the plot a bit. Not because of me, just because it was that time. Or maybe it was just that he was on the end of a 40 hour bender.
“Sinead, you are very beautiful.”
“Shutup Ton, you’re an idiot.”
He looked out from under his shaggy, filthy fringe with questioning puppy dog eyes. “All I want is an orgasm. Is that too much to ask?”
I started giggling. I knew he was being rude but this was pretty funny. I wondered how it would pan out. Besides, Sinead was pretty plucky, being an Irish lass and all. She raised one eyebrow in exasperation. “Ton, stop it.”
“Isn’t there anybody here who will give me an orgasm?” He swung his eyes over the group. They landed on me. I shook my head, grinning.
“Is that too much to ask, just a little orgasm?” His eyes swung past Sinead again and stopped.
“You come under table and suck my dick. Yes suck my dick until I make orgasm. Please?” He looked around the table for reassurance he was on the right track. I gave him the thumbs up. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in, reflecting deeply on something.
“Oh no, I can’t get it up, how can I have an orgasm now? I hate my stupid penis…No wait, what am I saying? I love it!”
He pulled his knob out and started to apologise to it. It was pretty hairy down there, the bloke obviously didn’t have an extensive hygiene routine. Still, I didn’t need to see his old fella to know that.
I truly believe that a mans flaccid penis, surrounded by a thick tangle of pubic hair is one of the ugliest sights you can ever feast your eyes on. It’s one of natures most epic failures. It’s not grand, or delicate or impressive in any way, and it’s certainly not aesthetically pleasing, but it is why I had to change beds when I admitted myself to hospital with food poisoning on my last Saturday. The old chap lying next to me had his trousers pulled down to his knees and a yellow catheter inserted into his dangler. A little mushroom lying limply on a grassy knoll. With a plastic hose jammed in the top. Not what I wanted to see after vomiting all night, and besides, that catheter was disturbingly thick and it made me uncomfortable to look at it. I found a spare cot in the operating theatre and had a pleasant afternoon listening to reggae courtesy of the theatre nurses, who were sharpening surgical tools. That hospital was by far the most comfortable place to be in Haiti-because it was air-conditioned. When I was lying next to catheter man the generator broke and the air con stopped. Within the 15 minutes the temperature had risen to 47C in the hospital, because it’s just a giant plastic tent, acting like a greenhouse. I could actually see sweat emerge from the pores on my forearm. Luckily it was only out for an hour. When the air con came back on, I was lying on the floor of the drug storage room. I actually fist pumped the air it was such a relief.
I tried to salvage Ton from himself. “Ton, you’re out of your line, what’s on your mind?”
He looked up sharply and pouted. Then he reached cross the table and knocked over an empty beer bottle.
“What? What’s the matter?” He knocked another one over and stole a chip of Sinead’s plate and threw it at the street dog lurking around the table. I couldn’t stop giggling, he was being a very naughty boy. At least his little champion was back in his Dutch Orange soccer shorts.
He passed out later that evening on a sack of concrete in the base, spooning someone in a platonic way. He slept there every night. A few nights before he had passed out on the concrete in the middle of the courtyard at 7pm, starfish on the ground. Maybe he was a little crazy but at least he worked hard. Ton, I hope you got your orgasm, mate.
That night I was sitting with my mates at the bar and trying to think of things to say to them but nothing was coming. I knew what the matter was. I wasn’t excited to be going, and I wasn’t sad to be leaving these wonderful people behind. I wasn’t looking forward to Miami and I didn’t spend the evening reminiscing about my last ten weeks. The problem was simple.
I was just tired.
I remember Shooby who I met on a demolition site out in the country. He showed up to the site with a guy called Ga and spoke good English. Turned out he had lived in Florida for 25 of his 27 years and been deported back to Haiti in 2008.
The two of them looked like they wanted to pitch in so I gave them some tools and let them go. They were good workers. There was another local guy there who didn’t speak any English at all. He was a bit older and was missing most of his front teeth. He picked up a sledgehammer and I pointed to a corner of the house that we needed blown out. He worked, in the 35C heat, without a break, for four hours. I couldn’t believe it. Haitians have a strange style of sledging, straight up and straight down instead of in a circle which is how I would do it, to make the most of momentum. He just hacked away at his corner until he’d reduced it to dust.
The next day Shooby, Ga and old mate showed up again. I didn’t really have enough tools for everyone and old mate was left standing around without much to do.
Ga is a pretty gangsta sort of guy, who happily trades practicality for fashion, if it means his boxers can reach halfway up his back and his pants do up under his ass cheeks. He spoke English to an extent. He pointed at old mate who was standing around eyeing of a sledgehammer and said:
“Nigger wants to work.”
“What?” You can’t say nigger. It’s politically incorrect and offensive to minority groups. I looked around guiltily for someone from the Sydney Uni arts faculty, or one of those bead selling hippies from Guatemala.
“Nigger wants to work, man.”
Sweet, I thought, I’ll let the African-Haitian work. I gave him my hammer and took a break. And work he did. I never got his name but he was one of the fittest men I’ve ever seen. He belted down half the roof on his own and saved us huge amounts of time on the job. Men like that helped restore, and then bolster my faith in the Haitian work ethic.
Shooby and Ga went on to become volunteers with HODR. One day Shooby pulled me aside at the bar and told me about his daughter. She needed to be baptised and he needed 1500 goudes to pay for the baptism. I was pretty cynical and thought it was a scam. At that point I was pretty sensitive about being a source of charity to poor Haitians because of guys like Dave Shakalaka and Jesse James, who are con artists and dickheads (don’t worry I told that to their faces) and apart from anything else I was running out of my own money. Anyway I gave him 500 goud towards the baptism. I justified it to myself by thinking I’d rather be a generous sucker than a cynical asshole, in case he turned out to be telling the truth, but really I just wished I’d told him to go away.
A few days later he pulled me aside again and gave me a hug. There were tears in his eyes and he told me that thanks to me (and another volunteer, a Texan guy called Aaron who forked out 1000 goud) his daughter had been baptised in the proper way. Later he showed me a photo of the ceremony.
It made me glad that I erred on the side of sucker. Shooby was one of the guys who cried when I left. He is intelligent and speaks good English. I think he will be one of the young Haitians to lead their town, and maybe their country, out of the mess they are in.
I helped lead a strike in my last week in Haiti which transformed the local volunteer program but will leave that for another time as this post is already weeks overdue.
Reginal was the oldest of the local volunteers and told me this on my last night in Haiti. He was crying when he told me that.
It’s tough for the Haitian guys. People like me fly in and work to fix up their city, which really was ruined in the earthquake. We work side by side with the Haitians and become their friends. After work we eat with them and drink with them at the dodgy bar next to base. We get to know their families, their problems, hopes and aspirations. We talk about their personal lives and find out that some of them pass up paying jobs to work with HODR, because they hope by working with Westerners they can learn something from us. We give the older ones grief about how fat they are and the younger ones grief about how desperate and horny they are. (They are outstandingly desperate and horny). We have nicknames for each other. Mine was Lapoynet. This translates to “only God sees me” or something poignant like that. It’s not as cool as it sounds; what it actually means is “wanker”. As I drove around in the back of a tap tap kids, adults, everyone would wave and call out to me “Lapoynet! Lapoynet!” It was a real honour to be hailed in that fashion. The name probably stuck because Haitian guys pretend they never have romantic moments with themselves-because they are so virile they all have multiple girlfriends. Yea right. They thought it was hilarious that I freely admitted to enjoying some special time on the odd occasion. By odd I mean every night, of course. Helps me get to sleep. Tony would ask me every day before work, “Tim, last night lapoynet? One time, three time lapoynet?” Thanks Tony. I started calling him Chichiflex Tony, which is a way of referring to sex in Guatemala.
After we’ve gotten close enough to write each other off with bad sexual nicknames the time comes to leave. Living in Haiti, working 6 days a week 7.30-6pm drains you, mind, body and spirit. I stayed for ten weeks. You live on a surge of adrenalin for the first month, and most people who stay for about that long have amazing memories of the place and plan to come back. They update their face book profiles with Haiti and HODR references and plan reunions. It’s a fantastic experience where you make wonderful new friends and revel in the work being done, which is difficult but very satisfying. Some of them do come back and are confused and disappointed because it isn’t the same as when they were first here.
If you stay for ten weeks, or longer, Haiti, the work, the living conditions, the difficulty of continuously making new friends, then seeing them leave, it grinds you down. Teaching people new skills, seeing them become good at their jobs, then seeing that effort disappear when they do is tiring. Long termers get a bit cynical and withdrawn and newcomers wonder why they are so unfriendly. The food is wholly inadequate and in my last two weeks I could barely stomach it. A typical meal is chicken cooked in an nuclear powered deep fryer, of which you are allowed one piece. The intensity of the frying allowed you to eat the bones often as not so maximum nutrition was gleaned. I guess the oil was full of energy to fuel our days. On a bad day we were served fish head soup. Fish heads are fucked, and so are the fish tails which are part of the recipe. Whenever that meal was served, it was entirely possible to pick up one end of the fish and pull it’s entire spinal chord out of the bowl. Plenty of brown rice with beans thrown in, and one piece of tomato. Often there was a vegetable mash (an appetising brown slush. It looked solid enough to walk on, but was surprisingly viscous. It certainly helped keep our bowels loose) with fresh onions thrown in. As luck would have it there was always chilli sauce to ensure it you could moderate the taste as required. The first month I believed the old maxim “there’s no seasoning like hard work” but now I know that in fact the real seasoning of last resort is chilli sauce. Always in the last week before guys leave (for some reason this applies to men, not women) they lose up to 10 pounds. I did, because I just couldn’t eat the food any more. I had a few other issues as well, including dynamite food poisoning and a busted rib which didn’t help. The thing to remember is that HODR is a volunteer organisation and that when you start to loose drive it really is time to go-no point poisoning the atmosphere.
I remember on my last night at the HODR base, I had made my goodbye speech, and was next door at Joes saying goodbye to the Haitians. Reginal would barely look at me. I could sense something was wrong so we went for a walk.
We walked down the pitch black streets of Leogane. The streets there are just dirt, the main ones cobblestones. If you’re in thongs you need to watch out for the puddles left over from the afternoon rain, which glint a little in the moonlight. The mud bogs are harder to spot since they’re not as reflective and you need to be switched on or you’ll get first muddy, then septic feet. The streets are lined with open sewerage/drainage canals and vacant buildings. There is no electricity. When I first arrived the roads were covered in smashed concrete and tents. People lived on the road out the front of their houses, while dump trucks rumbled past, literally inches away.
Now as I walked down the road I could feel the space that we had helped to create. The roads don’t have rubble or tents on them anymore and people don’t have to sleep next to heavy traffic. Street vendors line the roads in increasing numbers. Commerce is returning. People are rebuilding their homes. Cars can pass each other without having to back up because Leogane has its streets back. It has its streets back because the people who used to live on the road, have their houses back. The rubble has been picked up and carted away. I did that, and the other volunteers from HODR did that. We made it happen and Leogane is better for us being there. It’s a satisfying feeling.
As we walked down the broad streets it was clear Reginal had something to say. He is a Haitian man in his early thirties. He has short hair, slightly longer on the top than the sides. He is pitch black and is round in the middle but mostly from muscle, not fat. He has a gold brace holding one of his teeth in. We sat on a half collapsed wall on the side of the road, up the street from Gutterman’s Bar. Some local kids skipped past laughing, rolling bicycle wheels with sticks, and the only light came from the moon, which shone through fleeting clouds.
“What’s the matter mate?”
Reginal sighed. “I am sad. I am sad because I am losing a friend tonight Tim.” He lowered his head and stared at the ground. I could see his eyes glistening. I didn’t know what to say.
“Will you come back to Haiti one day?”
I don’t know the answer to this question. Haiti is a long way from Australia and I am broke. I would love to come back in a few years and see Leogane rebuilt, but would rather see my Haitian mates with good jobs and families living in a flourishing, incorrupt society. I tell him this. He grimaces. He knows I’m saying I will probably never be back.
“We see you Tim. We are sad that you leave because we see how hard you work and we see what you do for us. We know that you are a good man, and that you have a good heart. You come to my country and help me. I want to thank you but I can never thank you because I am poor.” He frowned. “My God will help you. You came to my country and helped my people. I cannot help you, but I pray that my God will. My God will help you Tim,” and he swung his eyes up to stare into mine. I could hear the truth of what he said in his voice. I knew he would pray to his God for me. I still didn’t know what to say, so I put my arm around his shoulders and we just sat there for a while in the moonlight.
His words meant a lot to me. The truth is that I have worked extremely hard in Haiti. I basically worked myself to a stop. Not necessarily only for the Haitians, especially at the start, but because if I actually get around to doing something I push it to the limit. At any rate, the actual reasons don’t matter. The volunteers saw me work and respected it. I’ve never been in an environment where it was so basic-if you worked hard you won respect, as simple as that. So for that, I need to thank the people I have met through HODR, the local and international volunteers.
It’s hard for the Haitians because when people like me come, work ourselves to a standstill, lose motivation and then leave, they are the ones left to deal with the loss of their friends. For me it was an amazing ten weeks and I'll always cherish the memories I now have and the people I met, but I left because I was exhausted. The Haitians have to keep going, for weeks, months and years and even when the rubble is cleared and their town rebuilt the struggle for Haitians is really only just beginning. I don’t feel guilt at all, in fact I’m happy with the contribution I’ve made. I just have a deep respect for the long term battle these people have, just living in their own country. Ten weeks is enough for me, for now.
On my last day I was sitting around at Masayes with a few people from HODR. Ton, Sinead, Becky, Chris and a couple of others. For once the music wasn’t too loud and even though I was sure the twelve fingered guy behind the counter had served me the wrong type of macaroni (again) it was a pleasant place to be.
Ton had been there a while. He is a tall crazy eyed Dutchman with a masters in science, who likes wearing orange outfits and proves that beer is a food group in its own right. He was always a bit crazy, I’ve seen him licking a girls feet while she slept, but on my last day I think he lost the plot a bit. Not because of me, just because it was that time. Or maybe it was just that he was on the end of a 40 hour bender.
“Sinead, you are very beautiful.”
“Shutup Ton, you’re an idiot.”
He looked out from under his shaggy, filthy fringe with questioning puppy dog eyes. “All I want is an orgasm. Is that too much to ask?”
I started giggling. I knew he was being rude but this was pretty funny. I wondered how it would pan out. Besides, Sinead was pretty plucky, being an Irish lass and all. She raised one eyebrow in exasperation. “Ton, stop it.”
“Isn’t there anybody here who will give me an orgasm?” He swung his eyes over the group. They landed on me. I shook my head, grinning.
“Is that too much to ask, just a little orgasm?” His eyes swung past Sinead again and stopped.
“You come under table and suck my dick. Yes suck my dick until I make orgasm. Please?” He looked around the table for reassurance he was on the right track. I gave him the thumbs up. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in, reflecting deeply on something.
“Oh no, I can’t get it up, how can I have an orgasm now? I hate my stupid penis…No wait, what am I saying? I love it!”
He pulled his knob out and started to apologise to it. It was pretty hairy down there, the bloke obviously didn’t have an extensive hygiene routine. Still, I didn’t need to see his old fella to know that.
I truly believe that a mans flaccid penis, surrounded by a thick tangle of pubic hair is one of the ugliest sights you can ever feast your eyes on. It’s one of natures most epic failures. It’s not grand, or delicate or impressive in any way, and it’s certainly not aesthetically pleasing, but it is why I had to change beds when I admitted myself to hospital with food poisoning on my last Saturday. The old chap lying next to me had his trousers pulled down to his knees and a yellow catheter inserted into his dangler. A little mushroom lying limply on a grassy knoll. With a plastic hose jammed in the top. Not what I wanted to see after vomiting all night, and besides, that catheter was disturbingly thick and it made me uncomfortable to look at it. I found a spare cot in the operating theatre and had a pleasant afternoon listening to reggae courtesy of the theatre nurses, who were sharpening surgical tools. That hospital was by far the most comfortable place to be in Haiti-because it was air-conditioned. When I was lying next to catheter man the generator broke and the air con stopped. Within the 15 minutes the temperature had risen to 47C in the hospital, because it’s just a giant plastic tent, acting like a greenhouse. I could actually see sweat emerge from the pores on my forearm. Luckily it was only out for an hour. When the air con came back on, I was lying on the floor of the drug storage room. I actually fist pumped the air it was such a relief.
I tried to salvage Ton from himself. “Ton, you’re out of your line, what’s on your mind?”
He looked up sharply and pouted. Then he reached cross the table and knocked over an empty beer bottle.
“What? What’s the matter?” He knocked another one over and stole a chip of Sinead’s plate and threw it at the street dog lurking around the table. I couldn’t stop giggling, he was being a very naughty boy. At least his little champion was back in his Dutch Orange soccer shorts.
He passed out later that evening on a sack of concrete in the base, spooning someone in a platonic way. He slept there every night. A few nights before he had passed out on the concrete in the middle of the courtyard at 7pm, starfish on the ground. Maybe he was a little crazy but at least he worked hard. Ton, I hope you got your orgasm, mate.
That night I was sitting with my mates at the bar and trying to think of things to say to them but nothing was coming. I knew what the matter was. I wasn’t excited to be going, and I wasn’t sad to be leaving these wonderful people behind. I wasn’t looking forward to Miami and I didn’t spend the evening reminiscing about my last ten weeks. The problem was simple.
I was just tired.
I remember Shooby who I met on a demolition site out in the country. He showed up to the site with a guy called Ga and spoke good English. Turned out he had lived in Florida for 25 of his 27 years and been deported back to Haiti in 2008.
The two of them looked like they wanted to pitch in so I gave them some tools and let them go. They were good workers. There was another local guy there who didn’t speak any English at all. He was a bit older and was missing most of his front teeth. He picked up a sledgehammer and I pointed to a corner of the house that we needed blown out. He worked, in the 35C heat, without a break, for four hours. I couldn’t believe it. Haitians have a strange style of sledging, straight up and straight down instead of in a circle which is how I would do it, to make the most of momentum. He just hacked away at his corner until he’d reduced it to dust.
The next day Shooby, Ga and old mate showed up again. I didn’t really have enough tools for everyone and old mate was left standing around without much to do.
Ga is a pretty gangsta sort of guy, who happily trades practicality for fashion, if it means his boxers can reach halfway up his back and his pants do up under his ass cheeks. He spoke English to an extent. He pointed at old mate who was standing around eyeing of a sledgehammer and said:
“Nigger wants to work.”
“What?” You can’t say nigger. It’s politically incorrect and offensive to minority groups. I looked around guiltily for someone from the Sydney Uni arts faculty, or one of those bead selling hippies from Guatemala.
“Nigger wants to work, man.”
Sweet, I thought, I’ll let the African-Haitian work. I gave him my hammer and took a break. And work he did. I never got his name but he was one of the fittest men I’ve ever seen. He belted down half the roof on his own and saved us huge amounts of time on the job. Men like that helped restore, and then bolster my faith in the Haitian work ethic.
Shooby and Ga went on to become volunteers with HODR. One day Shooby pulled me aside at the bar and told me about his daughter. She needed to be baptised and he needed 1500 goudes to pay for the baptism. I was pretty cynical and thought it was a scam. At that point I was pretty sensitive about being a source of charity to poor Haitians because of guys like Dave Shakalaka and Jesse James, who are con artists and dickheads (don’t worry I told that to their faces) and apart from anything else I was running out of my own money. Anyway I gave him 500 goud towards the baptism. I justified it to myself by thinking I’d rather be a generous sucker than a cynical asshole, in case he turned out to be telling the truth, but really I just wished I’d told him to go away.
A few days later he pulled me aside again and gave me a hug. There were tears in his eyes and he told me that thanks to me (and another volunteer, a Texan guy called Aaron who forked out 1000 goud) his daughter had been baptised in the proper way. Later he showed me a photo of the ceremony.
It made me glad that I erred on the side of sucker. Shooby was one of the guys who cried when I left. He is intelligent and speaks good English. I think he will be one of the young Haitians to lead their town, and maybe their country, out of the mess they are in.
I helped lead a strike in my last week in Haiti which transformed the local volunteer program but will leave that for another time as this post is already weeks overdue.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
