“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.