Where He leads...: March 2014

This morning I was watching a portion of one of Beth Moore's study videos on YouTube. She started it out with an encouragement and challenge to draw close to God. To seek His heart.

Her words:

If we would simply worry about being with him. If we make our hearts desire, “Lord, Jesus, I just want to know YOU. I want to know you. I want you to give me eyes to see you. I want you to give me ears to hear you. I want you to circumcise my heart to love you.” I make you this promise. If we ask God to make that the most important desire and seeking of our lives, we will have a head-on collision with our calling. You will never make the priority of your life to love him and know him and say, “Oops, I missed my calling.” Your calling is in His heart. As we seek that heart, we’re going to find that calling. What can so often happen in our Christian communities is that we can get caught up in seeking our calling and our ministry rather than seeking His heart. He’s after the purity of that heart. “You just be with me,” He says, “and then I will send you out.”

I can't count how many times in my life I've come to the realization that I'm not seeking God as I should. I'm not spending time with Him as I should. And this is not about me placing guilt on myself or getting legalistic about the amount of time I spend with God. This is me constantly realizing how I am missing out on His blessings—missing out on the sweetest blessing of all... spending time with the One who created me. The One who loves me more than anyone else ever could. The One who knows me better than I even know myself. And I ask myself why spending that precious time with Him is not the first thing I do every single morning and words spoken to Him are not the last words coming from my lips every single evening.

I think what Beth said is true of me so much of the time. "We can get caught up seeking our calling and our ministry rather than seeking His heart." Preach it, sister! The busyness of life. The busyness of ministry in Haiti. The flurry of tasks, needs, and demands that come at me from all sides each and every day. And those tasks are important. I'm managing a guesthouse. I have to keep it running smoothly and keep our guests content. Those needs are important. There are daily struggles that these children and families are facing that God has given me the opportunity and resources to help with. Those demands of my time are important... whether they come in the form of spending time encouraging a friend or needing to intervene in an emergency situation. But I'm reminded again this morning of what is most important. It's not anything I can do for God, for myself, or for others. It is simply being with God. Enjoying His presence. Meditating on His goodness. Soaking up His wisdom. Praising His name.

Oh, Lord. Forgive me for putting things in front of you. Forgive me for not seeking You first to be filled and ready for the busyness of life that awaits me each morning. Forgive me for thinking that I could ever do this on my own. Thank You for adopting me as Your child. Thank You for allowing me to come to You directly, without having to go through some thing or some other person. You call me, by name, to enter into Your presence. What a holy place. What a blessing. Thank You for loving me and calling me to this special ministry. Fill me with Your Holy Spirit. Renew my commitment to You and help me to draw closer to You. "Draw near to God and He will draw near to you." What a special promise from James 4:8! Help me stay focused on You as I live for You each and every day.

I remember the first time I ever heard a Rara parade. It was around this time of year in 2012. I was sleeping at a friend's house in Croix Des Bouquets. To save money, they weren't running the generator at night. City power, which is given at sporadic, unpredictable times, also wasn't on. The house was so dark you couldn't even see your hand in front of your face, and the only sound to be heard was an occasional dog barking or rooster crowing. (I've yet to understand why I grew up thinking that roosters crow mainly at sunrise. Haitian roosters crow ALL the time!) It was around 1am. I was dead asleep and remember hearing bells ringing in my dream. They were getting louder and louder and as I woke up, I could still hear them. As the noises increased in volume, I could hear an array of random instruments that I couldn't place, some drumming, chanting, and singing. The room started to glow with lights dancing across the wall. I stood by the window and above the concrete wall that surrounded the house I could see shadows bouncing up and down from what I imagined as torches being carried to light the path. The songs did not seem to have a melody. To me, they were eerie and haunting, though I reminded myself that I did not have a reason to be fearful. The parade of people didn't seem to be interested in anyone or anything they were passing. They were caught up in the moment. Paying their dues to the gods. And continued on their way into the night.

So what is Rara anyway? That is the question asked often by visitors around this time of year. As Easter approaches, it's not uncommon to see Rara parade pass in front of the guesthouse, both during the day and late at night.

In her book, "Rara! Vodou, Power, and Performance in Haiti and Its Diaspora" Elizabeth McAlister describes it this way, "Rara festivals are a number of things at once: they are musical bands, carnivalesque crowds, religious rituals, armies on maneuvers, mass political demonstrations, and performances of national pride."

The history of Rara dates back hundreds of years and its roots trace to Western and Central Africa. The season of Rara begins around the same time as Carnival and continues throughout Lent. Festivities wrap up at Easter, a significant week for a couple of reasons. One, in 1685, King Louis XIV passed a decree called the Code Noir which allowed Holy Week as a break from labor for African slaves. And two, Rara participants believe that "they are conducting the spiritual work that becomes necessary when the angels and saints, along with Jesus, disappear into the underworld on Good Friday," (McAlister). A Haitian friend of mine was recently explaining to me that those leading the Rara processions believe that they have a due to pay to the spirits and thus, they must lead Rara for the next however many years to pay back that spiritual debt.

Leogane is known for its elaborate Rara celebrations. Closer to Easter, they will set up stands along the side of the road in town for the public to gather and watch the parades. But all across Haiti, Rara bands gather and march the streets with their drums, horns, and other instruments. Many of the instruments are homemade, but you'll also see parades with trumpets, tubas, and trombones. The handmade horns are called banbou or vaksin. They are bamboo sticks that have been hollowed-out and are cut at different lengths to produce a range of tones and pitches. The Rara tunes are short and repetitive, a technique called hocketing. The drums are typically made of goatskin and are hand-held or hung across the shoulder.

Many towns have local Rara societies who join together and have practices before taking their performance to the streets. Bands may stop when they come to a cemetery, to honor their ancestors. Some will have performers, including kinds and queens, captains, priests and others to tell a visual story and emphasize their songs. Sometimes participants dress in elaborate costumes, though for the ones that I've seen parading around, they are in normal clothes, some casually strolling along in the middle of the parade, others deeply into the music, sounds, and tradition of Rara.

If you ask a Haitian what they think of Rara, you'll get a range of responses. Some seem to relate to it for historical reasons. Others talk about the traffic hazard of people marching in the street. Some don't pay much attention to it at all. Sometimes I feel I'm no closer to understanding this deep-rooted tradition of Rara. An American friend of mine once tried to join a Rara band. He grabbed a banbou and went to practices for a while until they told him he couldn't actually participate because he's not Haitian. I suppose I'll cross joining a Rara band off my bucket list. But it is another interesting piece of the history and culture of Haiti. So next time you're in Haiti during Easter time, keep your ears open and you may just hear the rhythm and tunes of Rara pass you by.

An excited group either leaving or heading to a Rara parade

{Part of my Haiti Reflections series. Read Part 1 here.}

What words come to mind when you think of Haiti?

What stories have you heard about this country and the Haitian people?

It seems to me that the majority of people respond to the first question with words like poor, dirty, sad, polluted, hungry, and desperate. To answer the second they will recount tales of despair, families who don't have enough food to feed their children, senseless deaths, and the tragedies of life here.

Do you think that's an accurate picture of Haiti? Do you think those are the stories Haitians want told?

Don't get me wrong, in the case of raising awareness and pleading for action for Haiti, it is important to share the realities of this country. But as I reflect on the stories we share—the stories I share—I have to ask myself, what stories should we be telling?

Chimamanda Adichie is a novelist from Nigeria. I encourage you to watch her Ted Talk "The Danger of a Single Story". She encourages us to be careful not to attribute only a single story to a country or a people group.

Growing up in a middle-class family in Nigeria with domestic helpers, she remembers one little house boy named Fide. Her mother always told her how poor his family was. At the dinner table she would get scolded for not finishing her food, reminded that there are starving children like Fide who don't have such a luxury as an overabundance of food.
Not long after Fide came to live with them, her perspective changed...

Then one Saturday we went to his village to visit, and his mother showed us a beautifully patterned basket made of dyed raffia that his brother had made. I was startled. It had not occurred to me that anybody in his family could actually make something. All I had heard about them was how poor they were, so that it had become impossible for me to see them as anything else but poor. Their poverty was my single story of them.

She talks about moving to the U.S. to attend university. Her American roommate was surprised she spoke English so well (obviously unaware that English is the offical lanugage of Nigeria!), expected that she didn't know how to use a stove, and seemed disappointed when she was listening to Mariah Carey instead of "tribal" music. Her roommate had only a single story of Africans.

Haiti is in danger of us hearing only a single story.

But what if we changed that? What if we joined with the Haitians to tell the stories they want told? Stories of hope, of triumph and success, of overcoming difficult obstacles to care for their families and raise up a new generation.

Stories like Nancy, who was raised in a rural mountain village. At the age of ten, she lost her left hand in an accident. She is now a young mother who gave birth to a baby girl in January 2013 who has some kind of visual disability that has yet to be diagnosed. Instead of focusing on the disabilities of her and her child, she has decided to take control of her life and has moved four hours away to Port au Prince—a difficult place, yet sometimes a place of opportunity. She's using business skills she learned from her mother to sell hygeine items in the open market, hoping to make a profit and be able to better care for herself and her daughter Makala.

Stories like Geddy, another young mother of two living children. Her middle child died of malnutrition a couple years ago. Her third child, Smerelda, was brought last fall to a nearby nutrition clinic. At 13 months old, Smerelda weighed just over 7 pounds. After many obstacles, not excluding opposition from the young mother herself, Smerelda began receiving the medical and nutritional care she needed. She is still small but plump and growing. And Geddy is all smiles and now refers other mothers with malnourished children to the clinic so they can get healthy like her baby! She has overcome the lies of Voodoo beliefs within her community that told her that her baby was cursed, and has realized that she has the power to create change for her family.

Just like the photos we take, the stories we tell are important. They have the ability to motivate and encourage. I don't want to tell stories that guilt people into taking action. I want to tell stories that inspire people to ignite a change in their society and the world around them!

I'll close with more from Chimamanda Adichie, "The consequence of the single story is this: It robs people of dignity. It makes our recognition of our equal humanity difficult. It emphasizes how we are different rather than how we are similar."

One of my favorite verses in the Bible says, “A man's heart plans his way, but the LORD determines his steps.” (Proverbs 16:9) I’m sure there’s a Haitian proverb out there that says, “A man’s mind plans his day, but Haiti determines what actually happens!” If there’s not, there certainly should be!

Thursday was much like any other day. I had a list of items to cross off my to-do list, one of which included going into Port au Prince to meet some friends from home at the airport who were bringing some things down for the Hope For Life kiddos—and also a spare camera for me as mine recently broke. I had breakfast with and said goodbye to the team who had been staying here at the guesthouse. And then Lesly and I headed to the airport.

As I said in the last blog entry, I want to be more attentive to this world of Haiti around me—considering it from the perspective of a blog author who may want to share my experiences with all of you. So allow me to share the events from this almost successful day…

We hop on a moto to go from the guesthouse to the “bus station” less than a mile down the road. Our cook’s sister Myrlande (who helps when we have big groups) is heading to Port au Prince at the same time, so we all leave together. Lesly and I with our moto driver, Jacke, on one motorcycle and Myrlande with the driver of another.

Arriving at the bus station (aka: a chaos of people, motorcycles, trucks, food vendors, vans, and big buses everywhere—including in the middle of the road) we pass by eager transportation salesmen (the guys repeating their destination over and over again, pointing to their bus or van, and sometimes reaching out to try and escort you on it) until we get to the bus we actually want to board… the first white bus in a line of a few white buses. They line up in order of who’s leaving first. Trying to board the first one sometimes means you will be hard-pressed to find a seat, but it also means you’ll be hitting the road before the others. They don’t leave until they’re full, and full means PACKED—though the rule in Haiti seems to be “there’s always room for one more!” We are happy to find that the first one in line has a row of three seats open just for us. Myrlande gets by the window, I’m in the middle, and Lesly is at the aisle. The seats are scooped so your backside can fit inside them. These buses are called “Obama buses” by the locals because they were shipped down after the earthquake. I remark to Lesly that the buses must be made in China where the people are obviously smaller, as I scoot a bit more towards him as Myrlande has the build of a basketball defense player (= overflowing into my backside space). We wait a good 15 minutes for the bus to fill up and then we’re on our way. We pick up more people along the side of the road until the whole aisle is filled with people standing. There were over a dozen rows of 5 seats and at least 15 people standing in the aisle…

Anytime you ride a bus in Haiti, you’ll experience traveling salesmen and women. These are individuals the driver has given permission to ride the route and try and sell their products. I’ve heard sales pitches promoting a range of products including English learning books, stomach relief medicines, vitamins, perfumes, you name it! There are usually one to three sales people per bus ride. The first guy who stood up offered something I’d never heard before…

“If you have a cramp, headache, or even an illness that has bothered you for 25 years, raise your hand. In two minutes, I will heal you. I will give you that gift for free!”

Well, that’s interesting! I leaned over to Lesly to ask if anyone will take him up on that offer. “Perhaps. Maybe there is someone who is crazy like him,” he said. After his 15 minute offer for healing (which no one responded to), he pulled out some miracle oil…

“If an elderly person or a young person is about to die, rub this over his or her entire body and within one hour, they will be healed. For other ailments, within 45 seconds you’ll be better.” At least five people bought this oil for the special price of 100 goudes, less than two and half bucks. The next lady stood up and began to sell some kind of solution to help care for your teeth. By the end of her pitch, the price was sliced in half.

We arrived at the Port au Prince bus station about an hour and a half later. If you think the Leogane bus station is chaotic, imagine one 10 times as big and major multiplication of vehicles and people! We help Myrlande and her bags get loaded into a taxi and then we walk a couple blocks to catch a taxi van to the airport. They are all quite full and we squeeze on. This van is smaller than what we call 15-passenger vans at home. It has four rows of seats and they force at least four people per row and two up with the driver for a total of 19 inside and sometimes one or two hanging out the door or standing on the back. For longer distances you may have people on top. But for this shorter route, 20 people give or take is normal.

I enjoy being in one of the middle spots. For the most part, no one on the streets outside notices me. For the thirty minute trip I don’t hear anyone shouting at me… “Blan!” (literally means “white” and is what they use to refer to any foreigner), “HEY YOU!” or if they have time, “Hey you, blan!”

We hear tires screech and gasps and CRASSSHH!!! I quickly look left to see a moto toppling over sending the passenger falling on his backside and the moto driver trying to save himself from the fall. He jumps up shaking his left hand in pain. As he looks—and as we look—he finds his left ring finger perpendicular to all his others. I cringe and am deeply saddened for him, wondering what options of care there are for him here and realizing that even a minor injury like a broken finger can be quite debilitating without proper treatment. Apparently another taxi van is at fault. He stopped a few feet ahead. As we pass, one of our passengers shouts out the window, “Go back and see what you did!” In an incident like this, the driver will need to go to the police station (or maybe the police will come here) and will be responsible for the damages. Often drivers at fault may try to flee, but in the crowded city, there’s not much opportunity for that.

Arriving at the airport we head to the shadiest spot we could find. It’s around 1pm. My friends’ plane doesn’t even arrive until 3pm and it can sometimes take an hour for people to emerge after the infamous baggage claim experience. I send Lesly to buy a hot lunch for us. Rice and beans with some really fatty pork. The rice is good but we both skip the pork. He was going to save it for his dog but as he was throwing it away, a man came up to him and asked if he could have it. He gave it to him.

Long (3.5 hours) airport story short… my friends’ four suitcases didn’t make it. They’ll arrive tomorrow. The sheets for the kids and camera for me will have to wait. But on a good note, I got to see Stacy and Rory—and seeing familiar faces from home is always good for the soul!

Lesly and I headed to find a taxi van back to the bus station. This time we squeezed on a bigger van. I find myself wedged—literally, between Lesly, a woman, and a man sitting opposite from me. His knees are on either side of my knees—or should I say knee because I couldn’t even put my legs square together as there wasn’t enough space, so one leg is tucked up under the seat to make room for the other one wedged between his legs. It’s more humorous than awkward because what choice do you have?! More people get on at each stop as again, there’s always room for one more. Unfortunately for me, I have to unwedge and rewedge myself at every stop to let people pass through the small opening on the front row we’re sitting on. Finally enough people exit that I can have my own space by the window. All good except my cover is blown, everyone can see the blan on the crowded bus and OUCH—watch out for that jagged piece of rusty metal under the window!

It’s after 5pm when we reach the bus station. Not as many options for buses, but we eventually find another 15 passenger van type taxi and settle into the front seat. We wait about 20 minutes for it to fill up. I watch out the window where a guy is shaving a three foot block of ice. In his hand is a metal container about the size of a shoe. He’s raking the ice with it and then opens the end to dump the shaved ice into the cooler on the ground. There are street vendors with mobile carts who use this to sell shaved ice drinks with various flavors. Even though I eat street food, I’ve never tried one as I haven’t fully investigated the estimated stomach risks of this treat. The van is packed with all men and one woman. They are squeezed in the back like sardines. Even though my middle seat is harder than the rest of the seats and my head is close to the roof of the van, I’m glad I’m not squished in the back.

A begger in his young 20s comes up to the driver side window. He spots the takeout container beside me. I explain to him that it’s not mine and I can’t give away someone else’s food. He continues to plead. I tell him that next time I see him, I’ll bring something for him to eat. He tells me he might be dead by then. I tell him I’ll pray he won’t be dead by then. He asks how I’ll remember his face. I hold up my hands like I’m taking a picture and tell him I’ll take a picture of him in my mind. I tell him to smile. He does. And then he tells me I didn’t really take it. I try again. He’s still not convinced. I hold up my simple Haitian phone that doesn’t even have a camera and tell him to smile again. He’s happy enough. “A la pwochèn!” I say. (“Until next time!”)

We make it back to Leogane around 7pm. I’m exhausted and find it amusing that we spent all that time and travel and came back empty-handed. Oh well, it's on my to-do list to go to Port au Prince for something else tomorrow anyway… surely everything will work out then!

I realize that I haven’t been blogging as much as I used to. I need to change that. Even though I’m a bit more stationary this year managing the guesthouse for Family Health Ministries, I’m still active and meeting new people and visiting new places quite regularly. I just finished reading “Following Jesus Through the Eye of the Needle: Living Fully, Loving Dangerously” by Kent Annan, and while it wasn’t quite what I expected—I expected a more Christian living type novel—it was an interesting and detailed look into the details and experiences of living in Haiti. As I was reading it I kept thinking, “Yep! That’s exactly what it’s like to live here. Yep, I’ve been in a public transportation situation just like that. Yep, I can relate to the benefits and challenges associated with working alongside my Haitian brothers and sisters,” and so on. And then I started thinking about how I should just copy and paste some of his chapters onto my blog… or I suppose, more appropriately, how I just need to blog more about EVERY DAY LIFE in Haiti. Sometimes after you’ve lived in a place for a while, things that are quite different from what life is like in your home town or country, to you, start to seem quite normal. The “new” normal as I sometimes call it. But like I said, things are actually quite different. And to my friends and family, the experiences, observations, and events of my day could be described as interesting, educational, shocking, humorous, and so on.

Here’s an example from Annan’s book about his new living arrangements after moving to Haiti:

We’ve been here for a couple of weeks since first landing in Port-au-Prince and then, twenty-four hours later, settling into this eight-by-ten-foot room with a bed, chair, small table, gas lamp and a three-gallon water filter. The room is one of four in a square concrete house that we share with three generations of a Haitian family… I return home for breakfast prepared by Grandma and the two sisters: coffee ground by mortar and pestle, and spaghetti noodles with a thin, oily tomato sauce... All food is shared here, the plates passed around during a meal until family, friends, and even animals have eaten... Wearing only a blue-and-white-checked school shirt, a rambunctious four-year-old boy sprints past going to fetch a gallon of water at a pump a hundred yards down the dirt path. He’s the second-youngest member of the family we’re staying with. Their yard (called a lakou) is a quarter acre of dirt and pebbles with many tropical trees—coconut, mango, lime and others. Lush shades of green give the illusion of prosperity.

In addition to the concrete main house, the lakou has a second house of woven wood and an outhouse of palm leaves. Six turkeys, three chickens, two roosters and four guinea hens peck away incessantly in search of seeds. Tied to the trees are a goat and a calf, which I’m told serve as investments or insurance policies, to be sold when money is tight. Two dogs and a cat hover at mealtimes. The family includes a grandfather, grandmother, two adult daughters, a son-in-law, an adult niece, four grandchildren between four and twelve years old who belongs to daughters living elsewhere, and the niece’s baby.

He wrote that after simply observing his new home and what was happening around him. I can do this. I used to be good about doing this more! But now Haiti has become the country I've lived in the longest outside of the U.S. and it's not that I no longer find things interesting—I definitely do! I learn something here every day and I'm constantly (pick one) amused, challenged, discouraged, excited, burdened by this country and her people. And any of those experiences could and should be written about for this online journal [slash] update on my life in Haiti for all of you!

So consider this my renewed commitment to blogging. I will try to be more aware as I go about my days of what might be considered blog-worthy and interesting to my family and friends back home—or. Life here is certainly different... from the little things like I hardly ever drink milk here because it doesn't taste as good to me and goes bad quicker to the big things like how many steps and people it takes to purchase a vehicle! I've already got a couple posts in the work from the past two days so stay tuned. And thanks for following along! You encourage me to not only keep up the work that God has called me to, but to keep everyone informed so you can be a part of the team that allows this work to be accomplished!

[This is a post I wrote for FHM's blog.] We are so blessed to have this incredible lady working for us! Yvette is our cook here at the FHM guesthouse. My expanding waistline is proof of her delicious feasts!

Yvette began working for FHM when the guesthouse first opened in the fall of 2012. She was the assistant to the head cook, Losina. When Losina moved to the States, Yvette took over as the head cook. When we have big groups, she often brings along her sister Myrlande to help out.

In 2006, Yvette decided to attend a cooking school in Port au Prince. She always loved to cook and wanted to improve her skills. The program lasted one year and while there she also took cosmetology classes to learn how to do manicures, pedicures, and hair styling. After finishing in 2007, it wasn't until 2010 that she found a decent job at a salon in Delmas. She worked there for about a year and was also employed as a domestic worker for some of her friends from time to time. In 2011 she started working in Leogane as a cook for St. Croix Hospital. Our guesthouse manager at the time, Missy, was looking for good workers to help give our guests a full and excellent experience and hired Yvette to join our team.

Yvette's meals never disappoint, and her beautiful smile and positive attitude give a warm welcome to all our guests! She loves her job and you can tell she puts that love and energy into everything she does. Her job is one of her main priorities, and doing it well is important to her. She lives in Port au Prince and travels to Leogane whenever we have guests. From her house she'll take a taxi to the bus station, then squeeze onto a bus to Leogane, followed by a motorcycle taxi ride to arrive at the guesthouse. She has a 14 year old son named Ralph and enjoys spending time with him and encouraging him in his schooling on her days off. When she's working away in the kitchen, you'll often find her listening to English lessons or singing along to some gospel tunes. She's also working on putting together a small cookbook of her recipes to sell to any interested guests. We've already had many requests! :)

As I said, we are blessed to have Yvette on our team! She is the fourth cook I've had since living in Haiti and while I love them all, Yvette's versatility wins the prize for best cook in my book! Her lasagna is outstanding, the meat she prepares is so tender, and she even makes an incredible made-from-scratch pizza! (Not to mention the fresh corossol juice she makes for me to enjoy!) And most importantly, she brings us all together at the table in the midst of our busy and exciting adventures here in Haiti!

“Invaded by a euphoriant fever in the streets, maskers lost themselves into lascivious dances to the beats of drums, guitars and the songs of both mini and walking bands.” (Hudler Joseph, Le Matin)

Carnival (or Kanaval in Creole) is a big celebration in Haiti. Festivities began this year on January 19th and will end tomorrow, Fat Tuesday. Each year one city is chosen to host the main festivities Sunday through Tuesday. But leading up to this weekend, all around the country, various cities will have their own parades, parties and concerts. Last year I went with some friends to Petit Goave for a smaller scale pre-Kanaval celebration. This year I sat out of the festivities but have enjoyed hearing the reports and seeing the photos (above and below) from friends who went down to Jacmel last weekend. Jacmel is always a recommended place to enjoy Kanaval. As an "artists town", it boasts extravagant and colorful costumes and lively entertainment—typically without the rowdier crowds found in Port au Prince or at the finale events that bring in hundreds of thousands of people. My friends were especially excited to attend the Jacmel concert where Arcade Fire was performing as well as nearly a dozen other artists for an event that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. Kanaval is an important time for musical artists to debut new tunes and get their name out. New songs and music videos are broadcasted throughout Kanaval time. Just google "Carnival Haiti youtube" and you'll find many of them. Music styles include zouk, kompa, mizik rasin ("roots music"), and Haitian rap.

This year the main Kanaval event is being held in Gonaives, a city of around 300,000 a few hours north of Port au Prince. The 2014 Kanaval theme is, "Tèt kole pou Ayiti Pi Djanm" (Together for a Stronger Haiti). When I was driving through Port au Prince on Saturday we passed by one of the main police headquarters. A few school buses were getting ready to be loaded up with hundreds of police officers from all over Haiti, joining together to help with security and crowd control in Gonaives.

What is the history of Carnival?

The following explanation is taken from AllAhWe.org which may or may not be the original source of this information:

Hundred and hundreds of years ago, the followers of the Catholic religion in Italy started the tradition of holding a wild costume festival right before the first day of Lent. Because Catholics are not supposed to eat meat during Lent, they called their festival, carnevale — which means “to put away the meat.” As time passed, carnivals in Italy became quite famous; and in fact the practice spread to France, Spain, and all the Catholic countries in Europe. Then as the French, Spanish, and Portuguese began to take control of the Americas and other parts of the world, they brought with them their tradition of celebrating carnival.

There are also a lot of African influences in the celebration of Kanaval in Haiti. Ancient African traditions included parades and dances throughout the villages in masks and costumes. Various purposes for these marches included beliefs that such movements could bring healing, good fortune, and communication with the dead.

The Kanaval is celebrated with music, bands and parades. Parades have floats, sometimes with children participating in the celebrations. The floats typically have sound systems set up on trucks to play music to the crowds. Food stands selling barbecued treats and rum are a popular part of celebrations. There are also comedy plays put on by the Kanaval participants, often satirizing political topics. Revellers wear masks and costumes, as they do at other carnival celebrations in the Caribbean, North America, and Central and South America. (Wikipedia)

“Young men and women dressed with all colors: yellows, reds, blacks and flamingos generated moments of true attractions with their routines performed under the stars." (Hudler Joseph, Le Matin)

Photos from Kanaval celebration in Petit Goave, 2013:

Creole phrase of the day:

Mete menn anlè! (met-ay mehn ahn-leh)

Put your hands in the air!

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