Loss

I am procrastinating from my economics homework. Usually I can push through and find interest within the topic. Tonight it is all about classical theories and assumptions that I don't see hold much credence in today's economy. I write instead. About loss.

Last week, I grabbed a cup of coffee and then wondered into a Psychic gallery across the street. I would say I'm a skeptic. While I am a spiritual person, and believe in connectedness between people, it is hard for me to trust clairvoyance. However, I was met by a woman in her late thirties, who was on the phone and waved me in to sit, before I could second guess my decision to enter the incense filled, maroon carpeted pod that while located on State St. actually sat between past and future.

I told her my name. Then for the next 40 minutes she reflected my life back to me including points that mark my future. I twisted and turned anxiously in my seat as she recounted details that only my diary and me know. She was blunt, bold, and at times offensive. Yet, she was right. At one point she stated "something happened nearly three years ago that completely changed your life, your perspective, it has challenged your belief." There was no question she spoke of Hanley's death. yet, it did surprise me that it has imprinted my being so heavily. And lately as we approach three years since Hanley died, the loss of her still teaches me further about life.

The first lesson that I learned in losing someone so dear to my heart, is that there is no end to grieving. There is no getting over it. To miss someone so deeply and painfully, is a measure of the love we've had and felt. And that in itself is a gift.

While in Haiti, I found a rock at a beach that undoubtedly spoke of Hanley. It was smooth, bright, and one half pink and one half yellow. the colors of her. I brought it with me back to the United States. And then with me to Guatemala during the week of the 10th anniversary. I then handed it over to a colleague who brought it back to Maine. And finally, the rock rests in the memorial created in June for Hanley. I was sent a photo of it last week. Who would have known that such a simple symbol and act of ritual could warrant such solace? It took time. And still, takes time.

Un Nuevo Camino

It seems that as soon as I actually turned 30 the writing ceased.

It wasn't on purpose. I'll blame it on the planets and stars. I am back.

Yet, the location has changed. I am now in the heart of the midwest learning about the shift in demand for brats when the price of beef falls. Well kind of. I am in the thick of economics courses that intend to bring me closer to my foreseen masters in International Development. I came to Wisconsin to stay with my brother, his wife, and two lovely children - to bond with family - while studying for the GRE, getting school applications together and taking necessary classes. Facing monumental school fees I panicked and got a job. Two in fact. I am waiting tables at two shwanky restaurants. I have not been this rooted down to a place for awhile. I mean, I even have a bus pass!

Just this past weekend I traveled to Guatemala for the 10 year celebration of Safe Passage. Days filled with reunions of every type, memories, blessings... it fueled me. I was reminded of my love for Guatemala and the people and that quite literally it feels like home.

The Safe Passage b-boy break dancing group performed in Antigua's central park as part of the celebrations. They drew a huge crowd as they playfully battled with their talented moves. The confidence and pure enjoyment evident in every dance move was contagious and inspiring. At one point I was called out to *battle* dance with two of the Guatemalan teen girls in the dance group. I looked at my friend Shannon who is a great dancer and said "there is no way I'm doing this alone." We jumped behind a bush and made up some choreography that would hopefully pass with the right addition of sassitude. We brought it. And I ended up with legs bruised and a knot in my shoulder the size of a golf ball... all completely worth it! It was a moment that captured what Safe Passage is truly about. I am pretty sure that the kids partaking in the breakdancing would most likely be named to a gang by now if they hadn't found this outlet to express. It sounds as cheesy as a late 80's movie plot, but in this case it is beautifully true.

Now back in Madison, with leaves popping crimson and gold, the obligations of school and work marking my days, and the promise of winter before me... I am intrigued by this new path. This path that has tried to buck me along the way as it turns from one direction to the next without much warning. It is definitely a ride, and I find, one that is full of meaning.

Everything happens for a reason, thank goodness for those planets and stars.

A sweet day in Jacmel

We're on our way to Jacmel. It's a two hour drive from Port au Prince through mountains, dried up river beds, and lush patches of palms, Mango, and shiny leaved trees that stand as the rare reminder of what Haiti once was. the pearl o

f the Carribean. Frank has traditions along the way. 

First stop, a little town at the base of the mountain. We turn down a bumpy dirt road that I wouldn't have known was even there... between a coal merchant and a woman selling bananas. We squeeze through, then bump along for about a mile. Then a right up a steep hill. The men sitting in chairs on the side of this lane, passing time and stories, get up and each take a step back so that I can make it through. I chug up the hill. At the top is a proud church. White with baby blue trim. School children are on the steps of the church and joking around with each other, it is their recess. They see me. The eyes follow. They follow.  Frank jokes, "Ooh white girl."  The most curious come up to the side of the car as I get out. There is a hush of silence. I greet them with "Bonjou" they are quick to reply back. and to giggle. Frank buys a candle and we walk into the church... a handful of children following behind. We walk to the front of the church, they stay behind, eyes steady on us. Frank lights the candle and leaves a prayer. We head back to the car. I stall a few times. The kids giggle. As we turn around there is a blind man speaking to the sky. Frank calls him over and we give him some change. He is grateful - the sky is generous with answering his prayers. As we leave this little village Frank tells me he prayed for my mom. 

We drive through the mountains. The road goes up, curvy and windy - honking my way around each corner, and sometimes just squeezing by the passing truck that is always on my side - strangely we never hit.  An hour through the mountains like this. I now understand the Creole expression "mountains beyond mountains" here, it is so true.  My arms hurt, ass hurts, toes are cramped - this is the most intense driving I have done in my life. Finally, we begin to descend. Now it is about speed bumps. Or as called in Creole - polis kachay - sleeping/fallen police. I find that funny. It makes it a little more bearable to go over the dozens of them.

The the ocean is now up ahead, guiding us like a blue serpent. It is calm, majestic in its movement. We pass through a patch of jungle - it draws up memories of my childhood bible - colorful drawings of Eden. Green, green and greener. Frank explains this is what Haiti once was. It begs a tear of grief, for what this country has truly lost. It's beyond angering. The loss of trees and resources. The erosion, rash scars that rip through the villages - the constant buriel from the rocks and anemic soil that fall on the tin rooftops. We pass. I make a promise to myself to learn more about effects of climate change and what can be done.

Frank's next tradition. To stop at the riverbed. We make a turnoff on the road he has so often travelled. From what i can see it looks like dry cracked soil. We were wrong. Within 20 seconds we were sinking. We were stuck in mud. Surrounded by it in fact. We both let out a four letter word with the mix of laughter and panic. Or the panic was mine. Within minutes there were about 15 men ranging from teens to the well experienced in assessing these kinds of situations. They laughed. I laughed. The panic was over. I kept asking Frank to ask them to push us. He had it under control - they were now conversing - each giving their version of what happened. A handful of young naked boys who had been swimming moments before came running over and quietly sat themselves on the sidelines to watch the show about to unfold. It took all 15 guys to push, and push, slip and to push. We were all laughing by this time. They got us out. And still were smiling as we drove off with mud flying and spinning off every direction of the car. Now we were truly only minutes from our destination. Jacmel. I think.

Although, we drove past Jacmel to Cayes Jacmel - a sleepier version, and quiet beach. I learn that Frank had lived here for several years. We are able to park our car on the side of the road in front of his friend's home - I'm learning Frank has friends all over Haiti!  We walk down to the beach. Beeeeaaauuutiful!  Three young boys come over, Frank gives them big hugs. He has known them since they were babies and it's been awhile since they've all seen each other.  Frank is kind of a pied piper.  Samson, Samuel, and Francoi. They run off and come back with coconuts. Samson, the youngest at about seven years old, uses the machete like a pro - he banks open coconuts one after the next. I'm still on my first. I joke that usually I drink it with a straw and that usually there isn't a gallon of juice in the coco's i'm used to. The juice runs down my chin. We throw the finished coco's onto the beach. The boys swing from the trees and do gymnastic tricks in the sand. I walk to the water's edge. blue blue and warm. Nature's bath. The waves uncover the pinkest stones. I think of Jane and Christine, back in Maine, who gave me heart-shaped stones from Maine's beaches upon my departure in May. I pick up two. And then I see a perfectly round stone 1/2 pink, 1/2 yellow. Hanley. The message is clear. It's her colors. The night before had been the dedication of Hanley's memorial bench in Yarmouth Maine. Stones that children painted from Guatemala had been placed around the bench. This stone was calling to go too. I picked it up - feeling my eyes burn, ready with tears. I brought the rocks to dry over by Frank. I told him the story of Hanley, her intentions in Haiti, her love of children, and then this stone. He smiled. replied "everything happens for a reason, I felt we were supposed to be here today. You know we're all so connected."  My turn to smile. the boys come over and sit next to us, their love for Frank is evident. they sit closely to him. I try a few of my creole sentences - they reply  - I try to respond badly - they are patient. 

Frank and I leave in search for Myel (honey). My mere presence in the car jack's the price up from $80 to $250 for a gallon. That is US dollars. Frank is baffled yet wishes them a pleasant day. I joke that the bees must be churning the honey with golden spoons. An image of little bees churning honey with their little hands, cracks me up. Needless to say we leave Jacmel without the honey. 

But it has been the sweetest of days so far.

Streets of PAP

I begin with the rain. Looking out through the slit glass windows of my home I watch it pound the greens of my backyard. I know that just outside the gate people are running in the streets, scattering in all directions to find a dry refuge. There are few. In minutes streets turn to rivers, washing dirt, garbage, and the like at rapid speeds downhill. In minutes too, the sun can push through and make this all seem like just a flash dream.  I prefer though to watch it. How the sky opens up around 5pm the lightning, and thunder begin...a dramatic symphony that has been the soundtrack to my evenings.

Erdem is in Europe for a conference regarding climate change - one that concerns Haiti in all measures. This has left me to navigate Haiti with a new perspective. It is that feeling that I remember so well upon my first travel solo, which was to Guatemala. When you are faced with the simplest tasks yet fail to complete them without the help of many or that you complete them in record time - that is of course, in an obscene amount of time. It is a mix of courage, challenge, and stupidity which result in a nice balance of humility. Every day has been so for me. 

I am borrowing Erdem's friend's Suzuki sidekick. It has given me freedom to explore, to get into hilarious and uncomfortable situations, and to get out of them hopefully as quickly. Driving isn't so scary anymore. I've learned it requires one eye on the passenger window, one on the rearview, two looking ahead, one looking out for pot holes, one looking out for people that seem to spontaneously jump in front of the car, one hand on the steering wheel, one hand constantly shifting gears (between 1 and 2) and one hand on the horn - that's how the game is played. I have taken several photos of both the less traveled roads (such as the narrow rocky dirt one that leads me to creole and drumming class) and the busier streets - although pics show them at their down time.

My head is full of new creole words. I love that there are so many English words where the "r" has been replaced by "w". Such as: pwoblem, woz, kawot, makawoni. They make me smile to say. Head is also full from dealing with the little things: phone card, power-outages, finding parking places, directions. The things that have no manual. I enjoy this. The pure exhaustion

of being fully awake.

The Art - Haiti's Gem

A week ago I visited Musee d'art Nader. A residential art gallery perched atop a hill; nestled between a radio tour and local street market. We honked several times. I suggested it might be closed even though it was a Saturday and only early afternoon. Erdem replied, "no, it's definitely open." They know him well. We call the phone number on the wall. Thirty seconds later the big blue gate opens to an empty parking lot. John  Nader greets us - he's wearing a soccer shirt, shorts and sandals. John is the grown son of Georges Nader, the founder of Nader art galleries throughout Haiti and the Musee. John is kind and truthfully has a daunting task as the son of eight who is seemingly taking over his father's treasure.

I learned that Georges began collecting art nearly 40 years ago. And soon finding that there wasn't a market in Haiti he personally inserted himself into the artist community - building names - encouraging artists - publicizing - exhibiting - and soon creating the market that would bring hundreds of Haitian artists deserving exposure and recognition. To this day Musee Nader stands as the world's most important and exclusive collection of Haitian art - with more than 15,000 pieces. The collection is overwhelming. I walked up spiraling staircases to what I thought to be the main room... yet it continued. One room behind another, and the next. The musee itself stands as an architectural wonder with each inch of wall covered by a Haitian expression. It is where voodoo, impressionism, realism, abstract, and portraiture meet in tall corridors, balconies, on ceilings and in boxes for the viewer to touch and sift through.

Ernst Louzier, 1938. I have fallen in love with his work. The one 2nd from top is of slaves working around a table with just one light source. The other is a full on dance celebration. Both were painted with a knife's edge - which resulted in deep valley's and ridges of chunked paint - yet still precise expression. 

You too can get lost in the important work of Haitian artists at galeriedartnader.com - or come for a visit and I'll take you to the real thing. I promise.

 

A Glimpse of the City

I look over Port au Prince from Musee d'art Nader. The Musee d'art Nader will be its own entry - I am still in awe and will be after each visit I make to this incredible Gallery that features more than 15,000 pieces of Haitan art.

From the hilltops there are trees. Big ones in fact. And then as you approach downtown they decrease, by time you reach the port there are none. The big white building is in fact the capital. The US was involved in the design so it definitely mimics the white house, however this is far from DC. Port au Prince is a confusion of design and development. As the passenger for a drive, the constants are driving upwards, downwards, in a spiral or loop... and then somehow you are at your destination, and

 it is always a different one. Port au Prince in one word - roller coaster. It has the sounds that go with that too. A harmony of French and Creole, lots of car horns beeping, Kompa music (mixture of african, latin), insects rubbing their wings together at high decibels. The smells - stale beer washing under the bridge, crushed cement (this comes from sidewalks being made!), the musty sent of jungle trees. It has not been my experience to smell fresh fruits and vegetables along the streets - they are mostly tightly wrapped in Ceran wrap and sold on styrofoam trays. Imported tidily from abroad. Even eggs from Iowa. Makes my head spin. 

Hurricane Season Official

I don't plan on becoming a weather newscaster any time soon, but thought I'd share... (the sound in the background -wind- is actually pre hurricane season) ...

A room fit to heal

Yesterday, after a fresh morning swim at the nearby Villa Therese I walked home ahead of the rain clouds in time to make a little lunch for Erdem and I. As I entered through our big red gate Jemmes the security guard asked me where my car was. I tried to tell him in very broken French that I prefer my feet - he told me I need a car - I told him I like to swim. Truly a conversation that is lost in translation. But we communicated something that ended in smiles.

Walking down the bumpy path to my home I felt the first inklings of a pinched nerve in my neck. ignore. Begin to make a modified Waldorf salad without the walnuts and with grapefruit instead of lemon squeeze - each time I bend to relieve an ingredient from the fridge I feel my neck spasm...hmm.

Erdem arrives, I ask him to crack the ol' back. He does. I can't move. Literally my whole upper body in spasm. This hasn't happened since I was writing the last pages of my thesis nearly 10 years ago. Erdem calls his chiropractic genius who agrees to see me. I have to keep my elbows up in order to walk, I get in the jeep, and try to brace myself for every bump, crater, traffic jolt that comes our way. I felt like a bobble head - neck disconnected from body - I can no longer ignore the pain. 

The Haitian Chiro/acupunture/masuese man stuck needles in my neck and moved them around until I thought I might just pass out. I didn't, and in fact my neck began to move again.  He told me to sleep and breathe and I'd be okay. 

Then came driving to 4 different pharmacies to buy 2 pills. Two didn't have, one did but wouldn't give, and finally the last had and gave 10 pills! Go figure. I slept for hours on my back under the mosquito net. Erdem killed those that snuck in - so that they wouldn't eat me as I was too vulnerable too fight back. I slept with the rain.  And the nets that surround me like a protective vail.  Peaceful.  Again, sleep beckons...

Jurassic Garden

Friday I woke up with a burst of energy. I went out onto the balcony off the bedroom and this is what I saw. Sun pouring through the trees and basking the tips of the palm leaves. I was expecting Tarzan to come swinging through the branches! I then spotted two pretty little lizards taking in the sun side by side. I started snapping away photos when suddenly while focused on the green one (below) his "buddy" grabbed his neck and started swinging him about. A crazy sound came out of them and all I could do was stand in shock. My garden turned into Jurassic Park 4 within seconds.

Arrival

Bags were mostly packed, just a few last minute items to throw in. So I decided to head out with Zack and Andy for some drinks and dinner at Norms. Everything felt like the "last." I felt I was on overdrive taking in the last sites of Portland, and some last laughs with friends before my 3:15am bus ride on Concord Trailways to Boston for my early morning departure to Haiti.

I got home around 1am, took a shower, packed the rest of my stuff up, and decided to take a quick nap before calling the taxi. Alarm went off, I woke up, taxi guy came. Taxi guy decided to take an unusual route to the station... I told him to haul. We arrived at the station at 3:15 and CT cashier would NOT let me on the bus. I was told it is just like a plane, once the door is closed, they can't sell tickets. I begged to differ that a bus is like a plane. But id did not help. So I watched as the bus backed up with TWO passengers! I called up Zack - on the second try he woke up and even agreed to driving me to Boston. Zack is a winner! We both fought to keep our eyes open by eating fresh donuts from seven eleven. I made it to Boston.

Then Miami. A little background. Flight AA803 to Haiti is notorious for having big issues. Last time I flew it, we got on the plane and then had to get off and sleep in Miami for the night and then leave on a delayed flight in the morning. So, I had been praying for weeks that the plane would fly. There were mechanical errors. But, this time they were able to fix it, the Pilot took it for a test run, and then after 6 hours of being delayed he came back for us, we boarded, and actually got to Haiti Saturday night. I was happy that Erdem was there and that finally, I was in Haiti.

Monday was a holiday, Flag Day. So we headed to the beach with some friends on Sunday and enjoyed the long weekend. The days were filled with swimming (where I got a mild jelly fish sting); squash ball (where every time the ball went over the wall we'd have to search for it in a lot with several cows, a bull, and muddy puddles); volleyball amongst the palm trees; and finished with rum sours. And about every 20 minutes of every day I am found spraying OFF on my arms and legs. That seems to be the magic application to keep the bites in the dozens.

I have already lost track of time. It is easy here. It is hot, with light breezes, sporadic showers, chirping of insects whether it be morning or night. Last night while playing cards with several international workers, one who works for Oxfam mentioned a position that would be opening soon. First, I really want to get the hang of just having time off - not vacation - but time.

Age of reason; ray of sun

When I was seven years old, I bent down to "peg" (tightly roll) my lavender corduroy pant leg probably for the 5th time that day. A hard trend to keep up with. At that very moment, I felt a ray of sun beaming on me. I looked up and with the sun shining on my face, I remember hearing a voice that said "we are all one."
These words continue to fill me and fill my life as my path continues to share through expressions of love, tragedy, discovery, diversity, language, dance, food, exhaustion, joy and celebration the beauty of human connection.

At the age of 19, I heard that voice, again. Okay, "Rachel," you are thinking "voices?"
Stay with me, I promise, I'm not crazy! So, this time all I heard was "Guatemala." A year later I ended up in the highlands of Guatemala working with young single mothers and helping them start up their own small businesses. Within days my eyes were opened. Opened so wide in fact, that I knew this was no longer a 6 month field study I was there for, but a life study that would evolve and bring me back again and again. The deepening of friendships came as the Spanish lessons progressed each week and we began to understand each other. Understand that despite our many differences we were also so similar. Each seeking approval, love, laughter, peace.

When I came upon the Guatemala City dump and saw a complete violation of the human spirit as children and families scavenged in the dump for all they could to survive, I stopped. It wasn't so much the fact that they were working in the garbage dump - it was -that there was no social net, no other opportunity to choose something else, no resources for health, education, and basic necessities. I stayed and joined forces with Hanley Denning, the founder, of Safe Passage. The mission: to provide opportunities through education to the children and families living in Guatemala City's garbage dump.

I have been with Safe Passage for over eight years. I lived in Guatemala for years and saw things that still make me shudder. Images that haunt me and fuel me to make a difference every day. Two years ago the unimaginable happened - Hanley was killed in a car accident in Guatemala City. We lost a beautiful soul that day. Hanley had a vision and focus like no other - her daily mantra was "for the children." There were mountains of challenges yet she kept on and in doing so created an organization that is supported by thousands from all around the world. In the past 2 years we did everything to make sure that Safe Passage continues and thrives. And it is. I have been breathing and living Safe Passage for the last eight years... and now. And now.
In one week I am leaving. I'll be joining the board of directors. However first, I am taking time.

And that time will be taken in Haiti. The journey continues...