Celebrating the Occasion

Posted on 07/07/2012 by paulefallon

One hallmark of Haitian culture is gathering together to mark the start of an event.  A collective pause or prayer precedes daily meals, laborers gather before each work day; and we mark construction milestones with impromptu but elaborate ceremonies.  At the start of MoHI’s recent concrete pour dozens gathered on plywood stretched across the rebar to join  in prayer and to photograph the ceremonial dumping of the first bucket of concrete, as well as the second and third and fourth…

A little pomp goes a long way for me; guiding wobbly benefactresses across construction and watching them tipple aggregate tries my patience when I am itching to get into the real work.  But I understand the importance of a ritual beginning to dedicate energy to the task before us, and, in our social network frenzied world, to keep activities of needy organizations prominent in the public eye.

Over the past two days Be Like Brit poured 450 cubic yards of concrete, the largest concrete pour in Grand Goave by some margin.  We utilized a technology foreign to this region – ready-mix concrete. Ten cylinder trucks from Port au Prince traversed back and forth Route 2 for 39 hours straight delivering green concrete to a pump truck that sent the mix thirty feet over the top of the building and deposited it on the roof by means of a giant hose.  Ironically, the pour took the same length of time as the wheelbarrow-based pour the previous week at MoHI, but that was entirely due to the inability of the trucks to get to site more quickly.  The crews, accustomed to placing concrete by bucket and wheelbarrow, were amazed at how easy it is to have concrete powered on to the roof and then simply trowel it in place.  Pumped concrete is less strenuous to pour and many a mason caught a nap waiting for the next truck to arrive.

Capping off the orphanage with this ‘new’ concrete technology warranted not one, but two occasions.

On the afternoon before the pour Gama gathered all the workers. Len made a speech, outlining the history of the project, describing Brit’s journey to Haiti and her death at the Hotel Montana, finding the site almost two years ago, and eighteen months of active construction.  I had the misfortune of following Len (never a good slot on the roster) and tried to explain to the crew what was going to occur.  They had never seen a concrete truck, let alone a pumper, they could not fathom pouring seven yards of concrete in ten minutes.  I framed it as an opportunity for them to learn how concrete is placed in the rest of the world, how we hoped to increase their construction skills with this experience. Then Gama delivered the details of schedule and logistics, which might have been dry except that the men would receive premium pay for night work, so they listened carefully.

The real occasion happened the following night at 9 pm, just before the first truck arrived.  Len, his son Bernie, Lex, Renee and I stood on the roof surrounded by the crew, illuminated by a magnificent full moon.  I expected a reiteration of yesterday’s words but was pleased when Len turned the focus to the workers who stood before us in their rubber boots and discarded tee shirts holding their trusty shovels and trowels while the giant pump truck hung above them like a tentacled alien.  Most of them had worked seven days straight; this was their third all-nighter; yet they listened in attentive good cheer, eager to discover this new way of working.  Len told the crew how much we appreciated them and how important they were to making Brit’s dream come true.  I don’t know if his words meant as much to them as receiving premium pay, but I was glad to hear their contribution affirmed.

Lex’s invocation also took a different turn, describing the project in the larger context of Grand Goave.  He moved beyond the usual recitation that the project would bring jobs and house children and provide clinical services in a safe building – all true but all said many times before. Instead, like all great politicians and preachers, he staked the broader view.  He described the project as setting a new standard to Grand Goave, for all of Haiti.  Then, after a resonant pause, he ended by saying, “Future generations will remember what we do here tonight.”

I doubt that a concrete pour deserves the same gravity as Normandy on D-Day, but it made for a heck of a memorable event.  The moon lifted higher in the sky, the first truck arrived, and the concrete fell from the sky.

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Malaria

Posted on 07/04/2012 by paulefallon

The rainy season is dwindling, which means mosquitos are on the wane, yet malaria continues to circle all around us.  During my last trip Nathan, Gama’s three year old son, contracted malaria; seeing his tiny curly headed body shivering under blankets on a 95 degree day testified to the potency of the disease.  He recovered fully while I was away, but in the interim Gama came down with it, as well as Becca, a missionary from Ohio, and Angie, a long time missionary with a nursing newborn.

This sequence of events prompts me to investigate how malaria epidemics flow.  Since a person can only contract malaria when bitten by a mosquito carrying the virus, that implies malaria will peak and ebb in parallel to the population of carrier mosquitos.  However, one way a mosquito becomes a carrier is by biting a human with the disease, which makes a malaria epidemic a dance between humans and mosquitos; the more they feed on us the more frenzied they transmit the disease.  Once Nathan was infected, any mosquito that bit him could carry the boy’s diseased blood to others, including his father, who contracted malaria a few weeks after his son (the incubation period is fifteen days).

Malaria is not an equal opportunity disease, it occurs disproportionately around the world in tropical climates where poverty flourishes.  Over 650,000 people die from malaria every year, 89% of them in sub-Saharan Africa, where it kills more people than any infectious disease except HIV/AIDS.  Haiti, in keeping with its pattern of being more aligned with Africa than the rest of the Caribbean, is the only country in the Western hemisphere where malaria is prevalent throughout (CDC Interactive Malaria Map Application).

The shame of malaria wreaking havoc on so many poor people is that it can be virtually eradicated through public health measures and, if contracted, is easy to treat.  However, a person with malaria must be treated in a short period of time or the flu-like symptoms, fevers, and stomach pains can escalate quickly.  Left untreated, malaria victims can die within weeks of contracting the disease.

Malaria has roots over 4,000 years old.  In the second century BCE the Chinese used the Qinghao plant to treat the disease, though its active ingredient, artemisinin, was not isolated until 1971.  Another effective natural remedy, Quinine, was discovered in Peru in the early 17th century.  Today, most Americans use, chloroquine, which was developed around World War II, as the malaria treatment of choice.

Travelers to malaria prone regions, like me, have to decide whether to treat themselves prophylactically, which the CDC recommends for travelers to Haiti, or treat the disease only after contracted.  I started in the first camp, taking chloroquine once a week for two weeks before and four weeks after every visit.  The math is not hard to figure – I was taking chloroquine continuously.  I did not like ingesting such a potent drug on a regular basis, but considered it preferable to contracting malaria until three people here on the chloroquine regimen contracted it anyway.  People taking the medicine in advance get a milder version of malaria, but having a milder case can make malaria more difficult to diagnose.  One volunteer was sick almost a week before they confirmed the disease.

Two months ago I changed my strategy.  No prophylactic chloroquine; instead I carry a full regimen of the drug in case I contract malaria.  Though mosquitos have never swarmed to my bony body, I take precautions to reduce my exposure to bites.  They love the ankles, so I wear long pants and full high socks, as well as collared shirts and a shaded hat.  In the past two months I have taken no medicine and have had virtually no bites; a good track record but as they say in the brokerage business, past success is no indication of future performance. I could get malaria any day and carry my pills between Haiti and the United States in case I need them.

I am happy to report that Gama is fully recovered from his bout of malaria.  Unfortunately, Nathan has contracted the disease a second time, a few weeks after his father had it.  Nathan and his mother flew home to the United States and will stay remain there for the rest of the summer.  Nathan’s chances of contracting malaria in Massachusetts are nearly impossible.

Posted in Haiti | Tagged , | 1 Comment

Thank You to all my Readers

Posted on 07/02/2012 by paulefallon

Yesterday, July 1, marked the mid-point in my yearlong commitment to Haiti.  In a happy coincidence the same day marked The Awkward Pose’s highest daily readership and the blog surpassed 10,000 hits.

 

Thanks to all of you who are regular and occasional readers.  I appreciate your comments and support.  Writing is my vehicle to process what occurs within and around me.  It both satisfies and directs me.  To know that others find value in my words enhances my gratification.

Thank you all very much.

Posted in Personal | 3 Comments

Conversion

Posted on 07/02/2012 by paulefallon

Every moment we breathe in, every moment we breathe out.  Every breath seems the same, yet currents of opportunity whisper through our subconscious until all at once, we realize the wind has changed and we are sailing in a different direction.

I left the construction shanty at 5:30 yesterday, early considering our recent workload, but since we were working on Sunday I decided to knock off and take a long walk home.  The breeze was fresh, the air invigorating and in that moment it hit me.  Ninety degrees on a late summer afternoon no longer feels oppressive to me.

True, my housemate Paul noticed months ago that I put on a sweater when the thermostat drops below 70; I never used to get cold.

True, I eat rice and beans in the States more than I eat beef, and I never order a filet of anything anymore.

True, the occasional Creole phrase slips into my dreams.

True, I no longer say I visit Haiti, I say I live here half time.

Today marks the mid-point in my yearlong commitment to Haiti, and I am well along in my conversion. To what I am not exactly sure, but so far it’s been a great journey and I am all in for the rest of the ride.

Posted in Haiti | Tagged | 2 Comments

One for the Record Book

Posted on 07/01/2012 by paulefallon

This morning at 1 am we completed pouring the first floor of MoHI School; MoHI’s largest concrete pour to date, perhaps the largest ever in Grand Goave.  We started pouring at 10 am on Friday and thirty-nine hours later had placed 160 cubic yards of concrete using two portable mixers, fifteen wheelbarrows, dozens of buckets and almost two hundred workers in revolving shifts.  The energy on site rose and fell as initial excitement succumbed to fatigue and hunger and was revived by massive plates of rice and beans and adrenaline.  In the evening the lights dangling from wires lent a carnival atmosphere, we grew lethargic in the early morning hours, got revived with the sun and by the second afternoon we were a well-oiled concrete machine.  The bucket brigade chanted along their line, the wheelbarrow guys competed to push the largest loads, the site was a blur of frenetic movement.  By the second night the camaraderie on site was contagious, everyone smiled and high-fived and held hands as we worked our way to the finish.

Our record will be short lived.  Be Like Brit orphanage plans to pour three times as much concrete in a single pour on Tuesday night using ready mix concrete shipped from Port au Prince. Coordinating so much concrete over a long distance with the uncertainties of Haiti has been a challenge, but we are bringing a new level of technology to Grand Goave.  Perhaps the days of bucket brigades are coming to an end.  I hope the sprit they engender can live on.

A few images of our effort:

Lex and Fanes hold a meeting with the workers in the temporary meeting space before we begin.

Pastor Beauvais prays for our effort.

 

 

 

 

 

The mixing crew on the second afternoon – hour 31

Concrete placement at hour 31

Installing the last row of vertical rebar to support the walls of the next floor – hour 38

 

 

 

The concrete cures under tarps and steady watering on a quiet Sunday morning

Posted in Haiti, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

The Things We Carried

Posted on 06/30/2012 by paulefallon

A week or so before I return to Haiti I send a ‘Mule to Haiti’ email to my connections asking what they want me to bring down.  I am allowed one 50 pound bag in coach, a second costs forty dollars.  I usually fill two hockey bags with requested supplies and carry-on my personal items.  After this trip I may reconsider that advertisement.

I am flying down with two electricians, John Picard and Greg Smith; they came to BLB to wire the first floor and are returning to wire the second floor before we pour the concrete roof.  Len got us an upgrade to first class which means wider seats and fresh juice, but more importantly we are allowed three checked bags each at seventy pounds a piece.

The Thursday before our flight we all meet at Granite City Electric in Quincy, who is donating all the fixtures and fittings for the orphanage.  I bring a collection of hockey bags and the items I have acquired thus far for the trip.  Everything packs into seven bags; the heaviest one weighs in at 66 pounds.  This should be a breeze.

The next day Greg emails me that he has another bag of goods and Renee tells me to expect a keyboard MoHI would really like to have for an upcoming conference.  That tallies us to nine pieces; all good.  On Sunday the keyboard is delivered to my house, along with piles of work gloves, C-clamps, medical supplies and two cartons of cleft palate nursers.  The keyboard, swaddled in bubble wrap, is too large to meet unified dimension requirements, so I repackage it in corrugated, custom cut for a snug fit, and stick the rest of the items wherever.

We convene at Logan at 4:00 am for our 5:30 flight. John arrives first and checks his three bags.  Greg and I wind up with seven bags between us, we quick shuffle reduce to six and take them to the sky cap.  Someone’s scale is off; our biggest bags now weigh over eighty pounds.  We open the bags along the curb and start to sort when the sky cap informs us that American Airlines does not accept cardboard packages to Haiti; the keyboard cannot go.  We shoehorn it in the largest duffle, which leaves all sorts of paraphernalia on the pavement.  I have never been so thankful for four in the morning; at any other hour our shenanigans would bring the State Troopers down on our pandemonium.

The sky cap is no longer an innocent bystander, he asks us where we are going and why, he suggests improved packing techniques.  We play our Haiti card and tell him we are building an orphanage.  He believes us; we are far too disorganized to terrorize anyone.  He tells us to toss everything in a bag, checks a huge coil of wire that won’t fit anywhere, doesn’t bother to weigh anything and hands us a sheath of baggage claims.  John palms the guy a twenty, which is money well spent.

These are the things we carried:

Forty eight Granite City T-shirts

Thirty pairs of Granite City sandals

Eight pairs of safety glasses

Six rolls of blue wiring tubing

Six bags of construction gloves

Four cartons of light switches and receptacles

Four heavy C-clamps

Three rolls of undersurface drainage filter fabric

Two cartons of masonry anchors

Two cartons of cleft palate nipples

Two cartons of blue tube fittings

Two rolls of insulated tubing for solar panel connections

One new computer for Gama

One carton of personal items for Angela

One keyboard

Until this trip I have had great luck breezing past customs in Port au Prince, but as we load our ten items on three carts at baggage claim, I know my luck is over.  Each of us gets called by customs officials who rifle through every bag.  The Oreos in Angela’s personal box receive the most attention.  I consider for a moment handing them over in exchange for safe passage, but in the end we strike a deal – $110 for the whole lot.  If there is any science to determining that sum, it gets lost in translation.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Haiti | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

$5.77

Posted on 06/24/2012 by paulefallon

Consider the following word problem that might appear on the fourth grade MCAS Test.  Paul orders a cupcake at a service center restaurant along the Mass Turnpike.  The total, including tax, is $2.77.  Paul hands the person at the cash register $5.77.  How much change should Paul receive?

I ran into that problem last week when I stopped for dinner on my way home from a business trip.  The correct answer is $3.00, but in real life the answer was E – None of the Above – because the girl behind the counter did not have a clue how to make that change for me.

She was a sweet looking person, somewhere in her twenties.  She rang up my order; she announced $2.77 in passable English with a faintly Eastern European accent. I handed her a five dollar bill three quarters and two pennies. She took them in her hand, gave me a helpless shrug wordlessly turned to the manager, who conveniently stood nearby.  He nudged her aside, pushed several buttons on the machine, gave me three dollars, and closed the cash draw.  He stood back while she gave me my cupcake, with no more idea how much change I received or why than before the manager intervened.

Eating my cupcake, which was mighty tasty, I considered how that small interaction represented so well the erosive decline of the United States.  The cashier was incompetent. The technology, a cash register supposedly sophisticated enough to compensate for incompetent cashiers, fell short.  The manager intervened, as he must do many times a day, yet he did nothing to teach the cashier how to make correct change in this particular situation.  No one communicated, no one learned, everyone was annoyed.

We have become a bifurcated nation. The hyper educated make sophisticated systems and machines, like cash registers that take all the thinking out of being counter help, while the rank and file who staff those counters have no idea how their machines work and are helpless at the smallest glitch.

If a young adult cannot make change, our schools have failed.  If a worker at a national chain restaurant cannot make change, their training program has failed.  If the manager does not teach his worker the rudiments of her job, he has failed.  And the cashier, who did not seem the least bit upset about not knowing how to do her job, is both the object and a casual participant in her failure.

The USA a great country or at least it was.  If we keep going like this some other nation will surely snatch the baton of greatness from our grasp, we are so nonchalant in how we carry it.  There are plenty of hungry and eager countries willing to step up to the big challenges, like how to make change.

Posted in United States | Tagged | 2 Comments

My Dinner with Andy

Posted on 06/16/2012 by paulefallon

In honor of Father’s Day, I am posting this essay I wrote three years ago.  It actually happened, and was the best Father’s Day gift a dad could receive.

 

 

It’s getting on seven o’clock Saturday night.  I’m sitting in the kitchen, by myself, a pot of ribs in the oven, a pair of dinner settings on the table, thumbing through an out of date newspaper.  There’s no sign of Andy anywhere.  We had planned dinner at six so we could be finished before an eight o’clock football game he wants to watch with his friends, but he called around 5:30 to tell me he was running late.  I am feeling squeezed; not an uncommon feeling when it comes to Andy.

Andy is my nineteen year old son, back in Cambridge after a rocky freshman year at Cornell where he mostly learned what he doesn’t want – Ivy League pressure, fraternities, Engineering.  He’s taking a year off, living with his mother, working part time as a lifeguard, taking two courses at a local college, and planning to hike the Appalachian Trail with some high school buddies come spring. Since being home he and I have dinner together once a week, a schedule I pronounced the day he returned, in a parental voice that disallowed negotiation.   For me, it seems a paltry amount of time after spending 18 years of three afternoons a week plus alternating weekends together, but to an adolescent fresh off a year of independence, I suspect I’ve created a burden.

The oven clock dings seven and my temper stirs.  Maybe when he finally arrives I’ll remind him how important it is to keep appointments. But he did call, which is polite.  Maybe I’ll demand a bigger time slot in the future so I cannot be boxed in between other plans.  Maybe I’ll…  The basement door opens, shuts.  I catch a deep breath.  Maybe I’ll just put my temper on hold, skip the disciplinary tone and let the evening evolve.  After all, how many times did my father expect to have dinner with me when I was nineteen?  Exactly never, which is why I think it is important.

“Hey Dad, sorry I’m late.”  Andy bounds up the stairs, flushed from hurry.  The kitchen throbs with youthful energy that quashes my anger.  Andy stands taller than me, leaner too.  He drapes a casual arm around my shoulder and smiles with an easy confidence that I’ve seen him throw in a thousand directions, but when he tosses it my way, it always makes me glow.  Perhaps someday I will look at this young man, so different from me, without being dazzled.  But by the mystery of genetic fate he is my son, and that wonder has yet to wear off.  Where I am rock, he is wheel where I am Woody Allen, he is Brad Pitt, where I am the infield fly, he is the long ball; and although the world accommodates solid chumps, nebbish comics and spiked parabolas like me, what we idolize is what Andy’s got – fluid beauty and grace.

Andy’s appetite is huge but simple, long on protein, tolerant towards vegetables and salad, short on dessert; so dinner is ribs, ribs and more ribs plus a few raw carrots, rice and a mix of romaine, parmesan and Caesar.  He is full of talk; he’s got a new venture.  Seems he did the math and realized that part-time lifeguarding was not going to generate the money he’ll need to spend four months on the AT.  His mother and I decided that although an extended walk in the woods is a valiant undertaking, it is not the same as sitting in a college classroom, so we are not going to foot the bill for his hike.  His entrepreneurial response has been to post notices around the neighborhood seeking odd jobs.  I smile at the naiveté of telephone pole posters in an internet world, but sure enough, Andy’s phone has been ringing.  He spent the afternoon putting together furniture for a local business, will be painting a porch tomorrow and is cleaning out an old women’s basement on Monday.  “I already have jobs lined up for next week; if I didn’t have classes on Tuesday and Thursday I could make a killing.”

After Andy reports his business news, our talk falls into our predictable pattern.  I ask about his classes, he responds.  They are a breeze.  I ask about lifeguarding, he responds.  It is the easiest job in the world.  I ask about college transfer plans, he responds.  He has seen his old guidance counselor, has made some selections, and is on track with the paperwork.  I ask about his older sister, Abby. He responds.  They have not been in touch.  I ask about his friends.  He gives a breakdown on the ones I know. There is an interview quality to our talk.  After all, we are father and son, close by the measures applied to that relationship, but not exactly friends.  Some evenings, towards the end of the second helping, some thread of interest will take hold and our conversation will linger beyond the meal.  We might latch on to politics, where Andy is well informed but uninterested; or science, on which he is keen; or even religion, which he finds incomprehensible.  On those magic nights we transcend our litany of logistics and single sentence responses.  We explore the realm of ideas on a plateau unbound from our roles as parent and child.

But Andy eyes the clock; almost eight, and I accept that this will not be one of those nights.  “Do you want any dessert?”  I ask in the dim hope of delaying his departure; Andy rarely eats sweets.  “You know, some ice cream would be good after the ribs.”  Ice cream is a staple in my house, on hand with greater predictability than even milk or bread.

I get us each a dish. I sit back down and ask if he’s seen any movies.  “No time, but I’m reading this cool book at the pool.”  Lifeguards have long breaks, which Andy finds good for reading.  “It’s a Harlan Corbin mystery.”  I had never read Harlan Corbin until I learned Andy enjoyed them, and then I read one to get the taste.  He asks me what I am reading.  I tell him I am deep in Les Miserables, the annual novel selected for my Great Books group.  I explain how contemporary I find the style, the participatory narrator, and the long tangential detours Victor Hugo takes to immerse the reader in 1830’s Paris. Andy compares my comments to some of the books he read in his freshman seminar at Cornell.  The clock slips past eight.  For all that he considers his year there a waste; his critical thinking skills are keen and sharp.

Our spoons scrape the bottom of the ice cream bowls. Andy stands up, grabs mine, heads to the sink and starts to wash them out.  I don’t even have to ask.  I grab a towel, begin to dry. We stand side to side, silent in our simple tasks.  I am thankful that we never got in the habit of an automatic dishwasher.

“Dad, do you mind if I ask you a question?”  Andy’s voice is measured, thoughtful.

My heart stops.  Only a terrible question could require that preamble.  But there is no choice in how to respond.  “No, go ahead.”

“How did you do it?  I mean, how did you and mom do it?”  He struggles for words, which results in a question so broad I am baffled and a little worried.

“Do what?”  He was three years old when his mother and I split up; he has never asked a single question about it. Even though she and I have one of those odd, lucky divorces where we remain civil and sometimes friendly, he must know that at some time in the past, a time proximate to his birth, a volcano erupted and two reasonable people who had committed their lives forever crumbled under the folly of such optimism.  We shall never know how the separate lives Lisa and I carved out of our diminished, if more realistic, expectations contributed to the children we have raised.

“How did you teach me and Abby to be responsible?  How did you know when to give us what we wanted and when to hold back?”

“Do you mean why didn’t we give you money for the Trail?  I know some of your other friend’s parents are contributing.”

“No, that’s not it; I mean I guess that’s part of it.  You see, I have to make the money and so I am making it, and they don’t have to make it and so they’re just hanging around.  How did you know that it would be better for me to make the money myself?”

I could have cried, except I knew that would be wrong.  I pushed the well of sentiment in my chest aside and focused on his words.  “There is no formula, Andy; your mother and I make it up as we go along, just like you do.”

“No you don’t.”  He sets a dripping plate in the rack and looks me in the eye.  “You and mom are not random.  You’re the furthest thing there is from random.”

I laugh.  It’s rewarding, and also creepy, when your children come to know you so well.  “It’s about consistency, and having guidelines. Some things are easy.  We pay for college, but we don’t dole out party money. The grey areas are trickier.  Like last year when you were having a tough time and so I paid for your spring break trip; but this year we figured if you really wanted to do the Trail, you have the time and ability to make the money yourself.  Sometimes you’re still a kid and need a little extra help; but sometimes it’s good for you to shoulder your own load.”

“Well, just for the record, you should know that you’re doing it right.”  Andy looked out the window as he said this, which I appreciated.  Compliments between guys are always awkward.

“Thanks.”  This was enough deep bonding for one evening. I had gotten more than I could expect from our dinner; it was time to set him free.  “So, where are you watching the game tonight?”

.

Posted in Personal | Tagged | 3 Comments

In A Country of Teenagers, A Young Man Grows Up

Posted on 06/10/2012 by paulefallon

Haiti is a country of teenagers.  I did not originate that saying, Renee did, but it is the best single description of the place I’ve heard.  Teenagers are unformed yet egotistical, lack competence yet are overconfident, wound others recklessly yet are so thin skinned they bruise easily.  Teenagers are fiercely defensive of their clan, prideful beyond reason, focused on narrow desires and clueless to other interests.  Their bodies are drenched with passions that flash and burn to the limits of their world, but unfortunately their consciousness ends about two inches beyond the surface of their skin.  They are self-absorbed, self-centered and oozing with potential.  Just like Haiti.  I am one of those rare parents whose favorite period of child rearing was the teen age years.  Perhaps that is why I love Haiti so much, the land where teenagers go on forever.

The superintendents at our two projects provide good insight into the Haitian inclination of perpetual teenagerdom.  A superintendent is the person who works across all trades and makes sure that people, materials and tools are in the right place at the right time to keep construction moving. He is responsible for building the project according to the drawings and ensuring quality.  A good superintendent needs to be able to manage people and time, be skilled in construction, accept criticism and give direction.  It is a job for an adult.

Fanes is our superintendent at BLB, a guy with a solid gut and a firm handshake.  Chronologically we are the same age, but our world views are decades apart, which cause us ongoing stress.

My first run in with Fanes spans over two trips.  As the crew is forming and installing the reinforcing for the second floor slab, I ask for one section to be finished for review – everything in place so we can understand problem areas and develop realistic expectations for progress.  Fanes nods at my request but does not do it.  I ask again, I get the same nods and zero action.  Every time I find an error in construction he tells me they aren’t finished, yet he will not finish anything.  Eventually, as work proceeds and unresolved errors pile up, he tells me that all I do is complain and that my demands are unrealistic.  By this time he is right, because the list of unsatisfactory work has grown so long I am a complete nag.

I change my approach and apply enlightened management techniques to work our way out of this quagmire.  I wrap Fanes in the cloak of senior management; I spend extra time reviewing the drawings with him to make sure he understands the intent and the details; I insist that Fanes join Gama and me whenever we walk the site.  Fanes responds to my inclusiveness like a trapped rat frantic for escape; he chases any excuse to be absent.

On my following trip conditions are worse.  In a confrontation Fanes yells at me to stop chastising him for the bad work because he didn’t do it. Yes, he tells me, he is responsible to get the work done, but he is not responsible if the work is bad.  I recall similar logic from my thirteen year old.  I realize, too late, that Fanes takes every criticism personally. I have wounded his honor.  ‘Why don’t you ever tell me what’s good?’ he pleads.

American muscle may no match for Haitian strength, but our hides sure are tougher.  We focus on the work; we give a passing nod to the overall product and then dive right into the meat of the issues.  In Haiti, where the meat is so close to the bone, that approach is a disaster.

Over time Fanes and I have built some trust but we will never be simpatico; he is simply too high maintenance for the results he delivers.  Like most teenagers, he puts off whatever can be put off, he winds up creating more work down the road and then he pouts at the fallout, storing it in his personal arsenal against me.  Still, things have improved.  I start every conversation with Fanes by asking about his family, I begin every discussion by praising all aspects of the work that are good, and though it seems a waste of time to me, I have learned that when I sugar coat the criticisms he can digest them, which is not to say he actually acts on them.

Huguener arrived in Grand Goave almost twenty years ago, a shrimp of a kid who looked four when he was eight; yet another of Lex’s cousins emigrated from La Gonave.  Despite Huguener’s small stature his mind was quick and he soon became top of his class.  He grew tall and sprite and became a soccer star.  Then he picked up a guitar and laid down a good lick.  He became a hit in the church band, pushing the limits of loud twangs and sliding across the stage on his knees before screaming, quivering girls on Sunday mornings. His studies slipped, but genius is not a prerequisite for the ultimate teenage fantasy of being a rock star.

Unfortunately Huguener’s fame did not extend beyond Grand Goave and his music brought him no fortune.  Six days a week he worked for Lex, doing construction or driving errands or whatever chores appeared.  Reality is no match for a heady fantasy and Huguener did not apply himself to his work.  A clever lazy guy is the worst possible employee; much more creative in his evasions than a lazy guy who is just plain stupid.  Lex and Renee bristled at so much potential frittering away in a country that needs every bit of talent it can muster. Huguener was none too happy either.

Once MoHI decided to capitalize on my regular visits to Haiti and increase construction, Huguener became a natural interface for me.  He was a serviceable carpenter, but I needed his obvious intelligence and excellent English to act as my translator and keep the project running in my absence.  He was magnificently lazy, disappearing at all times of day, shirking any accountability.  I have no patience with a bad attitude and was not about to play the ridiculous Fanes and Paul game with a guy twice as smart and half my age.  During the first stint Huguener and I worked together I told him straight out he was the sharpest guy on the site, the laziest and the most disappointing.  I told him he should be running things, but his attitude was holding him back.  I don’t think he much liked me, and I didn’t blame him. I am not here to be liked; I am here to nudge Haiti forward every way I can; and the most effective nudge carries bite.

Two weeks later I return and MoHI has met our most ambitious construction targets, the site is clean and tidy, the workers focused. “I don’t know what you told Huguener, but he is a new man.” Lex tells me. This is Huguener’s doing, not mine.  Still, I capitalize on the momentum and stoke Huguener’s engine. I tell him everything he has done well along with what needs to get done better. He listens to both with equal care.  We review the MoHI drawings, the construction details, the spread sheets.  I add him to our email distribution list.  He organizes meetings every day before we start work, he has an agenda planned, he even wears nice shirts to address the crew and then changes into construction clothes after the meeting.  He confides in me the pushback he is getting from the guys who used to be his peers and now have to take his direction.  We become confidantes.  The project, Huguener, and I all benefit from the change.

I can’t take much credit for Huguener’s transformation.  He just needed the right nudge at the right time to step into his own.  He is bright and confident, unburdened by superstition and able to separate constructive criticism from personal wounds. Fanes is a nice guy, but he will never transcend the myopic vision common among many Haitians and fourteen year olds.  Huguener represents a more promising breed.  I hope he can continue to grow into a capable, confident man and benefit himself, and his country, in the process.

 

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A Map of the World

Posted on 06/04/2012 by paulefallon

What does the world look like to man who has never traveled more than forty miles from home?  He lived in a quiet place among his own kind.  There were missionaries, of course, earnest white people who dispensed clothing and medicine along with their god; benevolent rarities who eased their way into Haitian life.  But then the earth rattled and blan sprinkled out of the sky like salt from a shaker, bearing tents with flags of Italy, protein crackers with flags of Great Britain, rice with flags of Brazil, backhoes with flags of China and pop-up shelters with flags of the United States.

I am part of that blan invasion, the people who pack the planes into Port au Prince, which have more than doubled since before the quake.  We are not rare anymore, though we are certainly odd.  We tell Haitians we come from the United States or Germany or Canada, or we tell them we are from Massachusetts or Ohio or Boston or Akron and their heads nod with the same comprehension as a bobble-head on a dashboard.  We might be better off saying we are from the moon; at least they can see that.

One of our MoHI volunteers, Daniel, is from Alaska.  He left in February, while I come and go regularly.  Whenever I return to Haiti the crew asks after Daniel, and wants to know if I see him back home.  They have no idea that Alaska is further from Cambridge than Haiti, that the United States is huge and encompasses so much more than the place names Haitians hear so often – Miami, New York, and Boston.  So, on this trip I packed a map of the world with photographs of their favorite stateside volunteers and arrows to their hometowns.

I hang it on a wall at the MoHI job site and at lunch I tell the crew that this is a drawing of the entire world.  I circle Haiti in red. I show them the United States, and where we all live when we are not building their school.  I don’t even touch on the two-thirds of the earth that is Africa and Eurasia. They pay rapt attention, which says less about my speaking ability than it does about their thirst for new experience.  Some may have never seen a map; some may have never seen a colored print hanging on a wall.  A few get up close and point to their red circle, incredulous that it is so tiny.  They like the photos of the people they know.

I don’t imagine the map dispels the notion that Daniel and I have lunch together when I am home.  But the next time someone asks, we can walk over to our map of the world and talk about geography and scale and distance and the people they know who are scattered across the globe.  And each time we do that, the world will get a little bit smaller and a little bit more familiar, and these guys will be a little bit bigger part of it.

Huguener and MoHI’s map of the World

 

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