Andeyò

            After my first 24 hours in Haiti, we left Port-au-Prince and headed “andeyò,” outside the city to the countryside. It’s about a five hour ride from Port to our location near Milot. We followed the coast as far as Gonaïves, then turned east and headed over the mountains.

            The ride showed just how different parts of Haiti are from one another. Just outside of Port-au-Prince, the Plaine de Cul de Sac rises up into low mountains, which are all but bald due to deforestation. One author I read called this area a “scalded savanna of white shale at the foot of a denuded mountain” (Beverly Bell, Fault Lines). There is no shade, no water, no vegetation, no industry. There are a lot of earthquake victims, who have been resettled into tin and concrete houses. Now that they are no longer “displaced,” the government has washed its hands of any responsibility for them. Another writer, Amy Wilentz, claims that 100,000 people now live here--enough to crack the list of Haiti's ten largest cities.

            Going north, the highway is studded with busy, dusty towns that reminded me of Senegal. The road is far enough inland that you can’t see the ocean, which is a shame. I haven’t seen the ocean since I flew in, even though I’ve never been more than hour’s drive away from it. For an island nation, Haiti seems turned in on itself. The places I’ve been so far might as well be in the middle of a large continent.

            Where we crossed the mountains, the scenery is lush and gorgeous. The road clings to the sides of the slopes and looks out over stunning views of peaks and valleys. It was raining as we drove through, and the runoff flowed down in bright red muddy streams along the sides of the road. Everything else was green, green, green. While the areas outside Port-au-Prince look about as well suited to farming as a sandbox, the north looks like you could drop a mango pit on the ground one day and have a 30-foot tree the next morning.

            That said, I didn’t see signs of farms, like fields or terraces. This was odd to me, because the mountains are surprisingly populated. There are houses all along the road, and lots of people all around the houses. I’m not really sure how they make a living there, or how they sustain their communities. I didn’t see any shops, schools or clinics, or even any areas of greater density that could be called towns. There must have been more I couldn’t see from my seat in the truck.

Eventually we crept down from the hills and into Milot. The foundation folks dropped me off at Paroisse Saint Yves, my home for the summer. I met Fr. Gaby, the priest of the parish. He is originally from Cap-Haïtien, a coastal city nearby, but lived in Boston for almost 10 years. One of the first things he said when he found out where I was from was, “You Massachusetts people sure do love your sports.” 

On the rectory porch

He’s a friendly guy, and the rectory is a comfortable place (solar electricity, running water, and internet when the stars line up). There’s a short corridor of dorm rooms, all empty at the moment except for me. The place is anything but lonely though. Also on the parish compound is a big church, obviously, which is almost constantly in use for prayers, masses and choir practices. There is also a playground, which is always full of kids, and lots of animals, including three adorable puppies in addition to the usual chickens and goats. The rectory will fill up in June, when a contingent of veterinary students are coming down to hold a livestock clinic, and more interns are coming to work at the foundation.