Author Archives: Kathryn M. McCullough

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Haiti’s Feast or Famine: the good, the bad, and an etiquette of greed


I got out of the house Saturday, in fact made it all the way to the grocery store, where I saw people—an assortment of real, honest-to-goodness, up-right-walking, human beings.  They were people on a mission—a singular mission, I might add—the search for sustenance.  Members of this group—more hunter than gatherer—were out for the kill—the thrill of stalking and slaying.  They were ruthless.

Blood was shed.

But, before I proceed with these graphic details of gut and gore, let me remind you how I got myself into this mess, in the first place.  To make a long story short, I came to Haiti with my partner Sara, who directs earthquake recovery efforts for a major, international, NGO.  I am an artist/writer/former-academic.  Since our arrival in Port-au-Prince, our two dogs in tow, we have survived a number of dangers that have included Hurricane Tomas, a cholera epidemic, and the ongoing threat of kid-napping.  In the past week things have worsened considerably, however, as in the aftermath of fraudulent presidential elections the country, Port-au-Prince especially, has been paralyzed by protesters rioting in the streets against a myriad of misdeeds on the part of the ruling political party, crimes that included blatant stuffing of ballot boxes and intimidation of voters at the polls.  It is this rioting that kept us house-bound for much of last week—housebound as all around us the city descended into chaos—buildings burned, people killed.   And it is this confinement that made us more than just a little merry to be out this weekend—even as far as the supermarket on Saturday—

—Where, indeed, blood was shed—

—Almost—

Okay, there may not have been literal blood in the aisles—but it was bloody in every metaphoric sense imaginable.  It was desperate.  It was deadly.  There should have been medical intervention, at the very least.

These human beings were hungry, as only housebound-for-days-with-pantries-depleted aid workers can be—a singularly ravenous group—I now know.

So here’s how it all went down:

Sara and I, wisely arrive at the super market early. Giant, as it’s called, opens at 8.  But we arrive around 7:50 with a strategy mapped out—divide and conquer.  By this time a small group has already gathered.  By 8 our number has grown.  By 8:10 we’re a small crowd.  By 8:15 we’re a ravenous herd thronging the gates of super market heaven, as Giant’s own Peter, raises the barrier.

This, I would argue, is what happens to humans accustomed to the food surplus that is America, Canada, Denmark, Kuwait—suddenly threatened—where anything short of feast is experienced as famine. Ironically, many of these aid workers feed the hungry by day, have degrees in food security, advanced degrees in hunger studies These food-spoiled-food-specialists have been housebound for days and know now that more isolation is inevitable, maybe even imminent.  These are the real survivalist, the professionally-programmed to gather, to stock pile, to horde.

Unfortunately, I participate in this parody.

Willingly—

Isles clog with carts— the meat department is particularly intense—shoppers grabbing chickens to roast, t-bones to grill, pork chops to fry.  These are carnivores galore, consuming the store.

I am no different—but I crave the carbs, have been on a diet for weeks.  And even during good times diets increase my cravings.  So when the few foods I’ve been eating for more than a month aren’t stocked by the store, I start to stress.  My anxiety soars—is still soaring two days later. 

On Saturday I do finally find a few favorite foods—pretzels, almonds, raisins, dates—the carbs I crave even on a diet.  This stockpile, however, doesn’t satisfy.  Sara and I still argue.  I know I’m over-reacting.

There’s too much uncertainty.  The airport has finally reopened, though American Airlines won’t resume flights before Wednesday—the very afternoon I’m scheduled to fly home for the holidays.  Almost daily for the past week American has promised to start flying again on a given day, only to announce the following morning the need to prolong their Port-au-Prince closure.  The only way I’ll get out with my dog Lucy on Wednesday, is if the airline does not delay again.

On top of this uncertainty, we’re not at all confident Sara will be able to leave Haiti on the 23rd—the date of her scheduled holiday departure.  The airports are expected to close again after the final results in the presidential election are announced on December 20th.  Many believe the country will slip into a chaos even more intense.

I know I should be mourning these facts on behalf of Haiti, when, actually, my grief is grounded in fear that neither Sara nor I will get home for the holiday, or even worse—that I will, but Sara won’t, and we’ll be apart on December 25th . 

It’s an ugly, selfish sadness. 

In fact, I am what I find most deplorable in citizens of rich countries.

Driven.

Greedy.

Vain.

I come from ugly America, a Mecca of meals with an etiquette of greed.   Am I an ugly American, ashamed but not changed?

Or maybe Alexander from Judith Viorst childrens’ book got it right after all.  Maybe it’s just

                “a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”

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A Frenzy of Freshly Pressed


I had a less-than-cool response to being Freshly Pressed.

I may have over-reacted.  I may have caused a scene.

For those of you who don’t know, for those of you who are just now tuning in, I blog from Haiti, where not a lot of positive things have been happening lately, what with the January 12th earthquake, Hurricane Tomas, cholera, and now the close-to-coup political uncertainty.

To distract myself from this atmosphere of never knowing what’s next, I began blogging again after a year away from posts and comments—from Search Engine Optimization and RSS feeds.

I poured indecent amounts of energy into my renewed foray into the blogosphere.  I was a down-right bloggerly drudge when it came to reading and commenting on the blogs of others. 

I wrote and posted—

Wrote and posted—

Commenting maniacally in between.

For three whole weeks—

Until Tuesday—

When I did my daily duty of checking Freshly Pressed, posted most mornings by 11 Eastern Standard Time.

I had developed a near religious devotion to this posting of posts, ten blogs featured each weekday on WordPress.com. I knew my duties as a devotee, arriving with the requisite ritual beverages (coffee and Coke Zero, of course). I knelt at the altar of blogging greatness— and clicked.

Strangely—the list of featured posts included one that had not only stolen the name of my blog, but the name of my post, as well.

This was a desecration.

A cardinal sin against the goodness that is Freshly Pressed!

Until it hit me.

Oh, may the gods of blogging forever bless the shrine of Freshly Pressed—for, in the name of blog, indeed,

I had been Freshly Pressed.

Heavenly choirs were singing as I twirled my Port-au-Prince kitchen dizzy—

Shrieking—

OMG—OMG

Twirling and shrieking—

Shrieking and twirling—a dervish of posting devotion.

And in this blogging frenzy, I did what any blogging diva worth her salt would do in such a moment.

I called my mother—

(Called my mother with the zeal of a six-year-old, just home from kindergarten, ready to show off her printing practice sheet, S’s marching capital and lower case across the page.)

“Mom, this is costing gobs of money, so I can only talk a minute, but I’ve been Freshly Pressed.”

“You’ve been what, Dear?”

“My blog.  My blog has . . . “

(How should I explain it?)

“My blog has won a prize.”

“Well, that’s lovely, Dear.”

“What kind of prize?”

(I dare not mention “Freshly Pressed.”  She’ll confuse that with French press or launch into a discussion of ironing!)

“It doesn’t matter, Mom, just a really cool prize.  You should hurry and check your email.  I sent you the link.”

“You sent me what, Dear?”

“The link.  The blue LINK!”

“Oh, the BLUE ink, yes, I know, Dear.”

“But wait, let me write that down.  I don’t want to forget—BLUE ink?”

(To better appreciate my mother’s memory issues see a post called “Airing Family Secrets via Haute Couture.”)

“Just go check your email, Mom.”

 You know how the story ends—

Not with my mother delightfully 72, trying to figure out this world that was once Smith Corona and is now Google, Facebook, Twitter. 

Rather with me—dizzy in my kitchen—reeling with the down-right, unabashed, writing-posting-commenting joy of it all—

The joy of FRESHLY PRESSED!

Yippee!

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Cabin Fever Takes Hold in Haiti


(symptoms include: a dire need to make light of what is indeed a dire situation in Port-au-Prince, a flippancy induced by the inhalation of burning rubber, and a need to beg forgiveness in advance for any and all perceived irreverence)

Okay—it’s official—

I’m climbing the walls—

Not to mention ready to pull my proverbially-blonde-bob out by its not-so-proverbially-graying-roots.

Not a pretty sight.

Not only am I not able to leave the house and the confines of our small compound—fully equipped with two armed guards, two women madly in love, two dogs dearer that dirt, and, as of yet, no turtle doves to round out the group—but I’m at a virtual stand-still, as well.

I can’t get anywhere on the internet—anywhere that involves navigating beyond the breadth and depth of options offered on my Yahoo home page, options that include, but are not limited to, commentary on Oprah’s sexual orientation (she’s not gay), a discussion of what landlords won’t tell you (your neighbor is not his problem), an explanation of what makes stomachs growl (gases caught in churning digestive juices), and how to know he’s just not that into you (his arms are folded tightly over his chest)—if you really must know—clearly I’m well informed on all of these matters.

Then there’s the noise—yesterday multiple explosions and periodic bursts of gunshot—today the clamor of protesters close enough to hear, but not close enough to watch.  I’m sorry, but I simply must insist that all rioters on the Petion-ville side of Port-au-Prince, at least have the rioting decency to circle by my house once in the course of general looting and plundering—what any civilized plunderer wouldn’t have to think twice about.

Then there’s my neighbor’s music—

I can only say that it’s loud, Hispanic, and involves a lot of drumming.  And just in the last few minutes, they’ve added clapping to the percussion already well-represented in the piece.  The neighbors, too, could be suffering from cabin fever, as evidenced by an overwhelming urge to paddy-cake themselves to comfort.  But, actually, I think there may be alcohol involved.

Please be assured that the rambling nature of this rant is likely caused by cabin fever and won’t continue once the cabin has been put on ice, the international airport has been re-opened, and all aid workers have been evacuated and repatriated.

(Seriously, it’s really getting to me.  You probably should pray.)

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A Holiday Prayer for Haiti


This morning Sara’s office is closed for a second day in a row, as announced results in the Haitian presidential election, have thrown much of the country into chaos.

Yesterday hundreds of protesters rioted past out house in the Port-au-Prince suburb of Petion-ville, and shots rang out across the city.  Throughout the day we could hear explosions and smell tires burning.  The toxic fumes of burnt rubber and tear gas left me with a near blinding headache and induced an allergic reaction in Sara, her eyes watering, face swollen from irritants in the air.

Given the seemingly insurmountable series of obstacles the country has faced since the January 12th earthquake leveled most of Port-au-Prince—hurricane Tomas, cholera, and now election fraud—I’m reminded of the Haitian proverb, “dye mon, gen mon,” which roughly translates into English as “beyond the mountains, more mountains.” 

Here the expression images topographically the never-ending struggle of the Haitian people, outlining a belief shared by many, that conquering one challenge only brings the next one into focus—a belief mapped in the furrowed brows of many who fight the good fight one day, only to see the sun rise the following morning on the summit of the next.

As the mountains that circle Port-au-Prince are brightening today, those of us holed up in our houses are left with little to do but pray—

Pray for peace on these angry streets—

And in the mountains—the mountains beyond mountains—

May the hills be alive with a sound of peaceful music–

A peace that passes understanding–

May God bring peace to Haiti this holiday season!

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Haiti–poker-faced amid post-election violence


Yesterday morning, very early—not yet 4 am—

Eyes opening—through a blur, I see Sara on the bed next to me—Blackberry in face—fingers flying.  This is not an uncommon sight, by any means.  Often by 3 in the morning, Sara is awake responding to email—and as soon at the day’s online edition of the New York Times is posted—almost always by 4:30, she’s reading that via Blackberry.

However, this morning I notice her brow furrowed with more intensity than I’m accustomed to.  So through the fog of not yet total consciousness, I ask—

“What are you doing?”

“Poker,” she grunts.

“Oh,“ I respond, rolling over to doze a moment more—since I myself have no serious gaming to attend to.

But I’m thinking:

Is it the challenge of poker she responds to? 

—any challenge—new challenge—big challenge—challenge I wouldn’t touch if my creative-driven life depended on it.

Sara does challenge recreationally.

Imagine what that’s like to live with!

Fortunately, however, it’s this drive to conquer the complicated and seemingly impossible that equips her to deal with the kind of challenge Haiti faces today.

Things aren’t good here this morning.

The announcement last night of preliminary results for the recent presidential election has resulted today in widespread chaos and rioting ,this in a country already in crisis, not only from last January’s earthquake, but more recently from a cholera epidemic that has killed thousands.

Even in our usually quiet Port-au-Prince suburb of Petion-ville, the streets are barricaded this morning with burning tires.  Hundreds of protesters riot past our house, as UN helicopters circle over-head and gun-shoots ring out across the city.

Last night stone throwing protesters broke Sara’s office windows.

Today American Airlines has cancelled all flights into and out of the country.

In a setting like this, I’m fortunate to be with a woman who loves a good challenge—

Especially since I sit cowering in a  some writerly corner—a blog my only defense against what seem overwhelming odds—odds not in Haiti’s favor, I’m afraid.

But—I have on my poker face.             

Sort of———

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A Tale of Miserable Failure: moanings of a second language learner


So—I’m trying to learn French.  I’m not good at it.  In fact, I think I hate it!

Don’t tell my teacher—it might cause her to reassess her positive opinion of me.  She thinks I’m a “good” student.

Now, I don’t know what kind of pathetic linguistic losers she’s used to teaching—but if I’m a “good” student, it doesn’t bode well for the language acquisition skills of these other wanna-be-French-speaking-idiots she’s teaching here in Haiti.

The fact of the matter is I’m getting older. 

I can almost watch it happening.  I hover slightly over-head, a stunning display of aging unfolds below, a slightly over-weight woman morphing before my very eyes.  What’s that she’s saying?

Unfortunately I think age is interfering with language acquisition.

I watch myself struggle with the words.  From above I observe—the woman has gotten dumber—way, way dumber.  She’s nearly mute.  She mumbles. 

It’s sad, really.

It’s not that I was ever an intellectual heavy weight.  I’ve never had the brainy brilliance of my sister Lynn, for example.  She’ll probably never dumb down with age.

But at one time—mind you this was a good 25 years ago—I was decent with languages.  I studied German and Spanish—and was able to get along—limpingly—but at least I held my own, made myself understood, made out what native speakers were saying to me.  Yes, I asked them to speak more slowly, to repeat themselves—but eventually I understood.

Not so anymore!

In light of this language lapse, I’ve begun reading a book I think might jump start a little linguistic hope in this old tongue of mine.  Called Dreaming in Hindi, this book by Katherine Russell Rich, is about the year she “spent living in India, learning to speak another language.”   Rich addresses the “transformative power of language,” its ability to “tug you out of one world and land you in the center of another” (Prologue).

So far, studying French has landed me flat on my linguistic ass right here in the middle of Haiti, not the most romantic of language learning destinations.  Surprisingly, however, this little island in the center of the Caribbean Sea has romanced me—welcomed me with arms wide open—even as I’ve stumbled over every sound, struggling to make myself understood in either Creole or French.

The lesson to be learned is this—

Despite an earthquake that left most of Port-au-Prince in ruins, despite cholera that continues to kill folks by the thousands, despite election fraud that in the last week has brought the country to the brink of yet another unnecessary disaster, the Haitian people soldier on—

—keep trying.

So—I’ll keep trying too—

Language learning be damned!

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Friends in Far Away Places: a meditation on “good-bye”


Saturday night our friend Kathryn came to dinner.  Sara cooked Pad Thai.  There was salmon pate and wine, and an evening on our deck with a friend we dearly love.  We had wanted to celebrate Kathryn’s recent milestone birthday—I won’t mention her exact age, just that she could pass for someone a good 2 decades younger.

But that’s not what matters here—not what matters most by any means. What’s more important is the fact of friendship, the fact that Sara’s worked with Kathryn in countless places around the world, and I’ve been with her in a good many locations myself.  What matters most is this benefit, this blessing of friendship—one of the unexpected perks that comes with Sara’s work in disaster response.  It makes things feel a little less disastrous.  It normalizes.

Travel to exotic places is sometimes made a little less pleasant by the day to day reality of actually living in uncomfortable locations, places our pampered American upbringings have not prepared us for.  But when it comes to folks we’ve worked with, there’s just no down side.  Sure it feels good to know that Sara’s work improves the lives of others, but when one gets down to the nitty-gritty selfish reasons I benefit from this arrangement, it’s really all about the people.

Since I’m not the one actually doing the work, since I’m the one sometimes forced by circumstances to set aside my career as a writing teacher to be with Sara in the field, I’m especially grateful for the folks we meet along the way, the ones we live with, shop with, cook with, cry with. 

I’ve gotten close to many of Sara’s colleagues, folks like Elizabeth and Minh, like Dee and Aileen, like Todd and Robin and Lesley and Jack.  But Kathryn, well, Kathryn has not only been one of my personal favorites—Kathryn is leaving us today—going back to the US to take a job with another international aid organization.

And though this makes me sad—(sad for only selfish reasons, I might add)—it’s a great development for Kathryn herself, since she’ll be headquartered in the same city her daughter and grandson live in, the same city several other of our friends have also settled, friends Kathryn too has worked with in many places on the planet, from Thailand to Tanzania.

I already miss the year we shared with Kathryn in Vietnam—months living together in Hanoi, days shopping in the Old Quarter, mornings walking West Lake, a 30 hour train traveling the country south to north. 

Here in Haiti she’ll be missed by many more than simply Sara and I—and our dogs, wagging, barking, licking kisses to” Auntie Kathryn,” whom they adore.  Here she’s loved by both Haitians and expats alike, people who have come to Port-au-Prince to participate in the recovery—come from places as far away as Alaska or Alabama, India or Indonesia, Eastern Europe or Western Africa.  

Kathryn is loving. 

And accordingly—she is loved.

The bottom line is this—

When working far from family, far from the comforts and conveniences of home, we’re thankful for the exquisite blessing that is friendship—friends who comfort, friends who share our homes and become like family.

 We’re grateful for the Kathryn’s among us—

— even when we say goodbye!

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Surviving the Port-au-Prince Airport: a shining example!


Two days ago I promised and am here today to deliver a post about the Port-au-Prince airport—so here we go.

First a bit of background—

Just before my first trip to Haiti during the last week of March 2010, 8 months ago, Toussant Louverture International Airport had only recently begun operating in any remotely routine way since the January 12th earthquake.  Before March the only real way to get to Port-au-Prince from outside the country, if you weren’t a plane carrying emergency relief supplies, was to fly into the Dominican Republic and  endure an 8 hour drive across the island of Hispaniola to the Haitian capital—a route Sara took a few too many times.

So—in March when my plane landed in Port-au-Prince, things were, shall we say—chaotic.  Though a band played Caribbean steel drums for the passengers deplaning, what I discovered inside the warehouse-like building that was then, and is still, being used for immigration and baggage claim was more akin to an episode of Survivor than anything remotely resembling an airport in any nation’s capital in the entire Western Hemisphere. 

The passing glance immigration “officials” gave my passport and travel documents, moving me on with a stamp and a wave, though disconcerting, was nothing compared to the pandemonium I discovered beyond immigration—utter and complete pandemonium in a cavernous space mountained with luggage we were meant to ultimately “claim,” without any apparent procedure, without any remotely organized way for passengers to examine and sort out which suitcases belonged to them.

This masqueraded as “Baggage Claim.”

However—there was what initially seemed one saving grace—namely an assortment of limp-along luggage carts—costing a mere arm or leg—though they may have settled for a finger or toe had we gotten down to the anatomical nitty-gritty.  Initially this seemed a hopeful development—hopeful until I realized there was no way—literally no way in hell—one could wheel a luggage cart anywhere in that room so strewn with bags it looked like the contents of a small Samsonite store room had been turned upside down and emptied on the spot.

Then it hit me—the only conceivable escape—meant asking for help.  I considered tears but decided in the interest of minimizing the look of vulnerability that is the American way in the face of Haiti’s seeming systemlessness—a more proactive assault of an airport employee was in order.  I didn’t care what it cost, I was willing to pay any and all “special fees” in the ultimate interest of baggage possession.

And thanks to one heroic airport employee, I ended up not having to assault after all—I got my bags.  For apparently, underneath the mountains of seeming disorder, there existed a system, invisible to me, but some protocol for baggage retrieval that worked for my new Haitian friend.  Because, I promise, in not more than 5 Port-au-Prince minutes he returned with my VERY over-weight bags— 88 and 89 pounds respectively.  The suitcases were full of household items, including an entire set of butcher knives—since Sara, when purchasing her first kitchen tool in Port-au-Prince (a manual can opener that would have cost less than 2 dollars in the US) had paid a grand total of 22 dollars and 66 cents!   Inevitably fearing that the most basic of kitchen utensils were going to cost at least a month’s salary, if not a small life-savings, I hauled nearly half the inventory of William Sonoma in with me.

Ultimately, I exited the airport that day into a desperate crowd of newly-homeless Haitians, needing nearly everything, from dinner to a warm bed and a roof over their heads. But I found Sara—I survived!

Survived, only to return to the scene of the crime a week later—the first of anyone remotely associated with Sara’s NGO to leave the country through the newly-opened airport. 

Since no one knew what to expect, I arrived an optimistic 2 ½ hours before departure—seemingly plenty of time.  Until 2 ½ hours later, I still hadn’t made it into the terminal itself, crowds of needy people were thronging the facility so intensely.

I called Sara a number of times from outside the airport that morning, convinced I would miss my flight.  She assumed I was over-reacting—until— I called after finally making it inside—terrified.

“Listen, this is not a workable way to leave the country—someone needs to come get me—I’ll get out of the country some other day, some other way—any other way.  I swear, Baby, this is not an option.”

“But what line are you in?”

“Line!”  I screeched.  “You assume there’s anything remotely resembling a ‘LINE!’  This is more swarm than line, more stampede than queue!”

Quickly gathering her wits, recognizing my psychotic break was imminent, Sara, disaster response specialist that she is, yelled at me over the cacophony and clamor, “Listen!  Remember!  You always do best when things are really, really bad.  You do bad really well!”

“Yeah.  Okay.  You’re right.  I’ll call you when I get to the gate.” Click.

And though it may have been foolish to assume I would EVER get to ANYTHING remotely resembling a “gate”—I knew—I knew in that moment that I would be fine—that I would survive.

I knew in that moment that I could do Haiti.

I knew—

Yeah—I DO do bad really well!

And though Haiti IS really bad—it’s getting better.

Though it’s still the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, the airport in Port-au-Prince has improved since March. 

Though it’s still chaotic and dangerous because of that chaos, though “baggage claim” still doesn’t resemble that of Miami or Houston, we now know it helps enormously to have Samuel’s escort through the chaos (see post from several days ago).

Though, since March, Haiti has suffered a hurricane, cholera, and a fraudulent presidential election, the Haitian people carry on.

They are resilient.

They shine—

Tiny lights twinkling from the darkest corner of the Caribbean!

So remember, like the Haitian people, to shine this Christmas—shine!

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Re-naming America?


(I know I’m supposed to be blogging about Haiti and I promised a post today about the Port-au-Prince airport—but, I swear, the issue I address below is an “event horizon,” of sorts.)

In case you missed it, yesterday, BabyCenter.com posted its list of top 100 names for 2010—an annual event that’s more than making a name for itself!

So—I hate to ask a seemingly indelicate question.  But—What’s up with baby names these days?

Why are the first names of most newly-born kids in the US names that merely decades ago would have been nothing other than good, old-fashioned last names?

Why are we so obsessed with family names, we’ve nearly abandoned the sacred tradition—centuries, rather millennia in the making—of assigning “Christian names” to our newly hatched Madison’s and Mackenzie’s?

I know the American “family” is in decline.  I know many now say America a “post-Christian” nation—(which is itself a misnomer, I might add).  Does this underlie the confusion? 

Seriously!  What’s up?

Why is every Tom, Dick, and Harry now named Taylor, Devon, or Yale? 

And what about these names with oblique, more often than not overt, allusions to the aristocrats of academia? 

My own nephew, born last month, is named “Rhodes”—God bless his little, “high-IQ-ed” heart.  I know his grandfather is a professor, and his aunt, yours truly, spent WAY too many years not making NEARLY enough money in academia—(thus, the high dollar move to blogging)—but that’s a lot of pressure on a little guy!  How’s that for a “you-better-make-the-grade-or-else” kick-in-the-ass?

Now, I know I should keep my family out of this.  I know my brother could and probably should kill me. (But he has a really great sense of humor; his name is “Tyce,” by the way, if that tells you anything about the DNA of naming in my family.)

I know, as well as you do, that a rose by any other name should smell as sweet, but what about poor “Baby Rose?”

Why has she morphed into little “Reagan?”  Yes, I kid you not; she’s number 66 on this year’s list of most popular girls’ names in the US.  I love the old Gipper as much as the next left-leaning, non-Bible-toting, “doesn’t-give-a-hoot-about-Hollywood,” Democrat in America.

But—PLEASE!

Enough is enough!

My mother called me “Kathryn” for a reason.  I was named after my grandmother, her first name, I might add.  And there were a total of three “Kathy’s” in my kindergarten class—I was born in an era, now sadly past, when “normal” naming still happened in America—was right up there with good breeding!

Speaking of breeding—does it say anything about all that’s vogue in naming that my dogs are “Ralph” and “Lucy?”

What’s next?

BabyCenter.com has itself used a “top-secret algorithm” to determine what names will climb in popularity next year, and according to the “online parenting and pregnancy destination” the boy’s name “Max” is predicted to “gain momentum in 2011”—climbing from its current spot at number 46.  Are the sons (and daughters) of America already being named after their canine companions?

Or am I barking up the wrong tree?

(And tomorrow—I’ll yap about the Port-au-Prince airport—I promise!)

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Risk Management in Port-au-Prince: a note of clarification


My blogging buddy Lisa (again at “Notes from Africa”) raises an important point in a comment to yesterday’s post—one, in fact, that helps me realize just how lost I sometimes am inside my own perspective—looking at Haiti from the inside out—(not that I’m a real “insider” by any means).  It’s just that, as the name of this blog suggests (“reinventing the event horizon”) to come to Haiti is, in many ways, to cross a virtual “event horizon.”  Things get twisted here, turned inside out, spit out, inverted, and reinvented!  So I should try untangling a few details for the sake of clarity.

More specifically, Lisa notes how casually I mention someone from security, namely Samuel, not meeting my plane and how that makes me sound like some kind of celebrity. 

Now the fact of the matter is—when Samuel escorts you through the airport you do FEEL like a celebrity—by-passing the lines at immigration and security check points.  However, this perception has more to do with how well Samuel does his job, than anything about my status as a 5” 2’-artist-writer-nobody hoping, sometimes even praying, to get through the chaos, the outer edge of insanity, that IS the Port-au-Prince airport. 

And even more importantly to do with the insanity itself, the degree of danger, the security risks Sara’s NGO cannot afford to take, and the willingness of my partner herself to forgo as much risk as possible where MY safety is concerned.  In other words, the woman loves me.  What more can I say?

But about the risk itself—

Port-au-Prince is a dangerous place.  The risk-management folks at Sara’s NGO, for example, won’t allow her to travel through the traffic, streets still clogged with rubble from the January 12th earthquake, to the airport itself without an armed escort, in addition to a driver.  In fact, any expat working for the organization is NOT allowed to drive outside of Petion-ville—never supposed to drive alone—even in the relative safety of our upscale suburb where President Preval himself lives.  We drive with seatbelts on, windows up, doors locked.  It’s harder to be pulled from a car that way.

To violate these rules would be to face the wrath of Richard, head of security for the organization’s operation in Haiti, the one responsible for the safety of a few ex-pats too many, someone we affectionately refer to as “Papa Bear.”  Not to mention the wrath of Jack at headquarters in Atlanta!  (Jack sometimes reads my blog, so I need to give him the credit he’s due.)

On average—there’s a kidnapping a day in Port-au-Prince—usually of foreigners, often of expats working for NGOs on earthquake reconstruction.  And in fact, a number of these kidnappings actually happen in Petion-ville itself, since most NGOs have set up their operations from this location.  

Though most of Port-au-Prince proper was left in ruins following the earthquake, much of our small suburb was still left standing.  The actual earthquake only measured a magnitude 7.0, but because there’s no building code, to speak of, in Haiti, people take engineering shortcuts to save money and establish shelter without “excess” expense.  These kinds of structures pancake in the face of earthquakes. Remember the earthquake in Chile soon after the one here.  It was a magnitude 8.0, but because of rigidly enforced building codes, the country ultimately suffered far less damage than Haiti did.  

In Petion-ville, however, people have the funds to build safer structures.  These more stable buildings survived the earthquake with far less damage, so it’s in these that NGOs have set up offices to oversee the recovery process.

But about the danger itself—back to the risk of kidnapping—

I should specifically mention an “attempted” but soon failed abduction that took place outside the gym where I work-out most mornings.  In this instance, the Haitian driver was let go because he supposedly “had no money” to pay a ransom, while the “foreigner” (as they’re referred to here) was essentially car-jacked (but soon escaped)—physically unharmed, thank God—though I’m sure emotionally quite unsettled by the event.

Around the same time, the wife of the Petion-ville chief of police was assassinated just yards (meters) from her house and another NGO employee was shot and killed by gunmen while working “in the field”—essentially anywhere outside of Petion-ville where reconstruction is taking place.

The bottom line, actually, is this—

Sara oversees operations, on the ground here in Haiti, for a large NGO that works in almost 100 countries around the world—one that, for legal reasons, is forced to manage risk quite closely—so the security protocol is extensive.

It means that every day I live with two armed guards outside my door—in shifts that rotate every 12 hours.

It means sometimes a security escort at the airport.

Why the airport specifically, you might ask.  Ah—that “outer edge of insanity”—that’s tomorrow’s story to tell—

—“Adventuring at the Port-au-Prince Airport:  Another Event Horizon Redefined.”