Nursing Our Children into Debt

Posted on 05/16/2012 by paulefallon

After two weeks of no TV or radio, my favorite pastime upon reentering the United States is to divine what ‘big story’ captivates the nation.  Will it be something inspiring like Occupy Wall Street or tedious, like Mitt Romney’s bully past, or trivial like Howard Stern’s spin on national TV?  It is fascinating to land in the middle of these media extravaganzas, because regardless the details, all the big news bear common traits.  They reflect a society that foments conflict and anxiety, that would rather point fingers than take responsibility, and that above all, trumpets entertainment over serious discourse.

This week I was fascinated, and ultimately dispirited, by two major trending stories.

Dr. Bill Sears, pediatrician and author of The Baby Book is a well-respected advocate of attachment parenting.  When Time magazine chose to do a feature on him, does his photo grace the cover?  No, we get model and mom Jamie Lynn Grumet standing in a sultry pose while her three year old (who is very well nourished) stands on a stool and sucks at her breast under the headline ‘Are you Mom Enough?’  Kinky?  Maybe.  Sexualized? Definitely.   In an interview with the article’s author, Kate Pickert, disavows penning the headline, but acknowledges that it addresses the fundamental question of every American parent, ‘Am I doing a good enough job?’  Since the vast majority of us do not subscribe to attachment parenting (which may be nurturing and supportive but can also be seen as self-indulgent and elitist), and most moms don’t look like Jamie Lynn Grumet, the answer to ‘Are You Mom Enough?’ is a resounding, ‘No.”  And thus, Time taps into two great American preoccupations.  It simultaneously titillates us and renders us insufficient.

Time knows what will sell, and we buy it.  Shame on us.

The second big news item is both more substantial and more disturbing.  Sunday’s New York Times featured a terrific page one story about the increasing dilemma of college debt. It covers all the usual parameters of the problem – college costs rising faster than inflation, colleges shuffling the real costs by focusing on ‘the package’ while soft pedaling the reckoning that graduation brings, the naivety of students who choose expensive colleges over more economical options, and the increasing cost of public colleges, who labor under ever decreasing amount of public support.  The article contains the requisite heartbreak stories of earnest young men and women who are starting out life mired in debt, and I came away convinced that this is not entirely their fault.  There are also compelling graphics demonstrating the unsustainable economics of a college education.  The subtext of all this bad news is that, maybe education isn’t worth the price.

Tucked into the graphics is a chart that illustrates how people pay for college today compared to twenty years ago.  Although it is not referenced specifically in the article, it suggests a giant omission in the text.  Twenty years ago between 30 and 50 percent of families paid for their children’s college education, varying by public, private and for-profit institutions.  Today that percentage is less than 10% for any type of college. Regardless where we fall in the economic spectrum, we all know intuitively that more than ten percent of American families can afford to send their children to college.  How families have gotten off the hook for providing their children a college education is a perfect example of the twisted logic of our entitlement society, and an indictment of what is wrong with America.

Seventy-five years ago college was the province of the rich.  After World War II the GI Bill made college available to a huge cross-section of our population.  Our educational standards rose, our economy boomed, by the 1960’s our higher education was the envy of the world; Americans were the best educated people on earth. Middle class people saved money and sent their children to college, which was not cheap but within reach.  With noble intention schools started to provide financial aid to help students from poor families attend college.  The government got in the act, providing direct student loans.  The eligibility requirements for the loans became looser over time, because if that kid can get it, why can’t mine,  until we got to the point that assistance was not only provided to those in need, it was available to everyone.

In the process college became just another product that we buy now and pay for later.  Like all things easy to come by, it lost its luster.  We are no longer the best educated nation on earth, or even in the top ten.  No one worried if the cost outstripped inflation; with money so easy to borrow, the actual cost became less important.  The perceived cost was deeply discounted by earnings in a rosy future.  Families stopped saving for college; it is always easier to borrow than to save. Private lenders got involved, private colleges developed predatory practices.  Colleges got very expensive, and now the bills coming due are astronomical while a college education’s assurance of economic advancement is not so rosy.

I am a champion of college education.  I do not subscribe to the argument that college is only relevant if it increases one’s economic standing.  College is relevant because it increases our exposure to the world; it grows our minds in ways we cannot anticipate. That is why college is exciting, that is why students are often radical; that is why the powers-that-be would prefer college to be more job-focused.  The status quo is well served by students who graduate so tied to debt they cannot raise their eyes to change the world.  After all, powers-that-be usually like the world just the way it is.

College transformed my life.  As a student from a barely middle class family I received generous aid, including loans; not so much aid that college life was luxurious but not so many loans that that they cramped my future.  For all I appreciated the government’s help in pulling me up through the middle class, I did not expect it to do the same for my own children. We had enough means to send them to college. No aid, no debt.  And until I read the NY Times article I did not realize how unusual our family is in that respect.  But I am glad that we did it that way, because we could; and I am equally glad there is help for those who need it, because I know how beneficial it can be.

But I am an outlier in this arrangement, for the college debt debacle is another example of the entitlement society run amuck.  Instead of people going to college in order to explore themselves, and society investing in our effort to reach optimal potential, we have created a system that layers anxiety and worry over the student’s college life. There are so many people to point fingers at – lenders, colleges, students, the economy – that no one has to bear full responsibility for anything.  And even in a well-tempered publication like the NY Times, the propensity to highlight the individual’s plight and enhance conflict among parties supersedes a deeper analysis and thoughtful suggestions about how to get out of the mess.

For in the end, the question about college education is the same as the question about healthcare, as it is about social security, as it is about sanitary housing and good nourishment.  Are Americans entitled to these things because they are Americans, or do we have to ‘earn’ them?  We cry ‘socialism’ against any system that is available to all, yet we are unwilling to deny people just because they cannot pay.  So we cobble together patchwork programs of public housing and food stamps and Medicaid and student loans, we give people a taste of what of they want but make them pay some price because we are convinced the best pie is the one with the thumb of capitalism jammed into its crust.

Forty years ago the United States lent me money to go to college.  In exchange for that generosity I have earned multiples more than I would have without a college education and have happily paid all of the taxes those earnings require.  The United States invested in me and we both enjoyed excellent returns.  A student today owes ten times what I did, often to a private company.  The student graduates with dimmer prospects and the returns go not back to our nation, but to some deep pockets.

And where are the parents in all of this? Off at our second house or second car or on vacation; willing to put a burden on our children that we did not have to bear ourselves.  Shame on us.

This week’s top stories cause a conflicting flurry.  One is about how we extend infancy, and whether it delays our children’s ability to develop.  The other is about how we force our children to grow up too soon by burdening them with debt that hampers their best possible start as adults. Problems that we create ourselves; only in America.

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Airplane Nightmare Averted

Posted on 05/12/2012 by paulefallon

One of the many arcane rules of American Airlines is that when you change your ticket in Haiti, they will not assign you a seat on your new flight.  Since I extended my recent stay by a week, I was rebooked but had no idea where I would sit.

I am pretty charming when I approach the ticket counter with no seat assignment. I mention casually that if they have an exit row window available, I’ll take it.  About half the time it works.  But not today.  The agent nodded at me without a word and gave me a boarding pass from Miami to Boston with seat 34 B – the middle seat at the back of the plane.

So in Miami I attempt my customary Plan B for improving my seat – being the last man on.  Since I do not carry a rollie, there is no need for me to rush onto planes for the overhead space.  I loiter at the gate to be the last person down the jet way.  A good portion of the time an exit row is available and I snag it, or I just plop into any empty seat more desirable than my assignment. I have never been caught out yet. But today, no luck. This plane is standing room only.

I have no choice but to hunker down to row 34 and squeeze myself between whatever awaits me there.  I have a middle aged woman at the window, and – oh no – a man with an infant in the aisle seat.  I slither into my slot and resign myself to three dreadful hours.

The plane pulls away from the gate and twenty feet later, everything goes black.  The captain comes on the overhead with a story so lame I can tell he has already filtered through Plans A, B, and C and his playbook is running dry.  He tells us that the ‘start-up’ engine failed to trigger, but that is normal.  This I doubt.  He tells us we will get towed back to the gate and kick started again.  This, I not only doubt; I wonder whether I really want to fly to Boston in a ‘kick-started’ plane.

The story is so ludicrous a buzz ripples over the assembled.  ‘Well, this plane’s going out of service.’  ‘I never heard of that before.’  ‘Is there a guy with a crank at the nose of the plane, like on a Tin Lizzy?’  The captain’s voice returns and suggests that if we close our shades the plane will stay cooler.  Shades flap down faster than a hummingbird’s wings.  As for being cool, our silver metal tube sitting on the tarmac in Miami packed with sweaty people stopped being cool less than a minute after the lights went black.

At this point the baby next to me starts to fuss, the dad leans forward and presses his forehead against his son’s noggin and whispers the infant into complacency.  Even in my disgruntled state I have to admit, it is one of the most effective parenting moves I’ve ever seen.  I look over and realize that, in the opposite aisle seat is a woman with an identical baby, and next to her a toddler girl. There comes a point when things slip so bad that you have to stop being upset and just laugh it off.  In the dark, stalled at our gate, with all kinds of babies around me, I feel the weight of displeasure lift.  At that moment the nook falls out the closest baby’s mouth. I just cannot pretend these people away any longer.  “Excuse me, let me help.” I reach into the father’s elbow nook and retrieve the pacifier.

From there everything trends positive. The plane actually jump starts and we only get to Boston 30 minutes late.  Better than that, the family next to me turns out to be fascinating. The dad is an environmental consultant in St. Croix, he spent his Peace Corps years in Costa Rica, he is interested in our work in Haiti, and both parents have a firm but caring style that help the children navigate the flight with little fuss.  As a guy who rarely offers more than a cursory hello to my seatmates when the attendants pass out the drinks, spending time with this family is both uncharacteristic and rewarding.

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When I Grow Old I Want to be Like Pastor Beauvais

Posted on 05/07/2012 by paulefallon

Pastor Beauvais is a twig of a man.  Five feet tall and one hundred pounds, maybe; a 36’ belt would surely ring his waist twice.  In a country where the average life expectancy at birth is just over 62 (Index Mundi, 2011, the shortest lifespan in the Western Hemisphere), Pastor Beauvais has beaten the odds and then some.  He is a very old, very spry man.

I first met Pastor Beauvais in 2009 when Andy and I built him a house behind his original one, damaged by the earthquake. Pastor Beauvais was not content to have workers arrive and build him a new house; he had to be in, under, and over every bit of the place.  He held joists true and stretched his tarp walls and when the house was complete he huddled everyone together and whooped out some really loud praise.

A year later he accompanied Len and Bernie Gengal and me up the hill for our first look at the site of Brit’s orphanage. He stood on the wide meadow and opened his arms, a little guy with a Napoleon complex channeling Rio’s Christ the Redeemer statue.  He blessed the site in every direction.  He bowed, he exalted; he made great noise but no sense.

I chalked up my lack of comprehension to feeble Creole.  But now, after seeing Pastor Beauvais for years, developing some ear for the language, and talking with others about his mangled vocabulary, I realize that no one really understands him.  When he preaches, his energy has tornado force, but his message is anyone’s guess.  I am sure that many understand more than I can unscramble, but I don’t think anyone fully grasps everything what rattles around this guy’s head.  What is clear, despite the garbled syntax, is that Pastor Beauvais has a passionate, unified vision of the world; one that has sustained him through a long life in a difficult place and continues to nourish him.  If he is only one with the full picture, so be it.

Born during the American invasion, persevering Doc and Baby Doc, the excitement of Aristide, the terror of the Tontons macoutes, enduring the UN’s attempt to bring order to Haiti’s chaos, surviving hurricanes and earthquakes and floods and droughts, Pastor Beauvais has lived through it all.  He appears to have been untouched by the tragedies yet energized by the successes.  He is relentlessly cheerful despite that fact that to most of us, he hasn’t much to be cheerful about.

I believe Pastor Beauvais’ vitality comes from a solid sense of self and contentment in his world.  The zealots would say his spirit comes through Christ, but I see just as many unsatisfied and frustrated Christians down here as folks of other stripes.  Pastor Beauvais would be equally as indomitable if he identified as a Buddhist, a Jew, or an agnostic.  He is an upbeat guy and if Christianity is his chosen vehicle to express his joie de vie. I’m glad it works for him. Appreciating his character does not make me feel the need to be Christian.  What draws me is his authenticity; the vagaries of popular culture or passing fashion don’t make a dent on this guy.

I should be so fortunate to grow old with such a strong, particular identity.  I can’t think of anything better than being lively and energetic beyond my years, full of joy, with a mind brimming from a life so well lived that I can’t quite verbalize it coherently.  It’s always a good idea for geezers to keep the youngsters guessing.

 Pastor Beauvais

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Four Guys from La Gonave

Posted on 05/05/2012 by paulefallon

There’s a group of laborers that have taken to having English / Creole conversations with me.  We talk at lunch, but sometimes also at the end of the work day.  We use my Phrasebook as a starting point; pick a page, and start reading.  They read the English words, I help their pronunciation, and then we flip roles and I attempt Creole.  Some pages are worthless; being able to ask if your flight is delayed is meaningless to someone who has never been on a plane. The most relevant pages stick to the basics of time, weather, work, and family.  I learn that Emmanuel has a wife and four children, two boys and two girls; Drivle is single, not even a girlfriend; we all laugh that he is ‘lib’ though I applaud his honesty since every other Haitian man I know boasts of his girlfriend, even as I suspect many are fabricated.  Webert is single as well, but offers the conventional description of a girlfriend ‘at home’. Quiet Fanil allows that he has seven children, by several women, none of whom is his wife.  I search for the Creole word for ‘stud’ but cannot find it. It figures that a dictionary that defines single as ‘silibate’ would omit sexually charged slang.

 

When I ask where they live, all four say La Gonave, the island visible in the bay. I ask how they get there, and they tell me there is a ‘taptap bato-a’, a water taxi.  I picture the hydroplane that ferries commuters from Hingham into Boston, though the reality is sure to be more rudimentary.  I ask how long it takes to get home, and after some discussion they settle on forty-five minutes, which proves to be an awkward period of time to translate.  I ask them if they go home every night; in the States a forty five minute water commute would be considered light.  They laugh and say no, only weekends.

 

I ask where they live, and again they reply La Gonave.  Finally, I realize I have to ask where they sleep, and they point to one of the lean-tos at MoHI, where, apparently, they bunk every night, four of them, maybe more, in a space no more than ten feet square.  Suddenly the parameters of our work days shift for me.  I understand how the workers get here so early and never mind working so late.  They never leave.  Work is surely the most stimulating part of their day; once everyone leaves the émigrés from La Gonave have only themselves for amusement until the sun rises again.

 

On Saturday I ask if they are going to La Gonave.  They look at me odd and say no.  Then when are you going, I inquire.  In July, they reply, which is two months hence.  The more I know about them, the less I understand.

 

Among the four I know Emmanuel the best.  He has worn the same grey tee shirt and loose checkered pants since I first met him in December.  I am sure they were pajamas in a past life.  He has a light heart and a ready smile. The thought crosses my mind that he may have no other possessions.  He lives in a place that he visits only a few times a year, he sends money home to a wife and children when he has some in his pocket and can find someone to ferry it to the island.  When the weather is fine and the resources flow, he is a day laborer at BLB or MoHI.  If neither site wants him, he is on his own, in which case I can find him chatting along the path as I navigate between the two constructions.  He is as buoyant off site as when he is working.  Emmanuel can read; his English is quite good.  He is an adult, a married man in his thirties with a wife and children to support.  He is carries buckets of concrete for a living, when he can. That meager opportunity takes him far from his family, for a forty-five minute ferry ride is dear to a man of such limited income.  Yet he seems completely at ease with his lot in life.

 

I reflect on my own habits.  I never go anywhere without carrying a book, a magazine, or my computer.  I always have something ‘on hand’; to occupy my time if I hit a lull in my day.  The only time I am without accoutrement is when I do yoga, which is highly regulated in its own way.  I do not waste time.  I don’t consider myself particularly anxious, but as a motivated American, the thought of roaming the town all day in my only pair of clothes without so much as a pencil if no one wants me to carry their concrete is terrifying.

 

These guys are not dullards. They are literate and funny; their minds are quick.  Yet they spend large periods of time in a sort of physical and mental limbo.   Is that integral to the Haitian psyche, or is it an acquired skill?  Are they frustrated?  Do they rage against the dichotomy between their ability and their station?  By all appearances they have a calm acceptance of life; they appreciate what comes their way and are untrammeled by grievances and disappointments.  One could make the argument that such placidity sets Haiti back in her struggle to compete in the wider world.  On the other hand, I could benefit from some of that serenity myself.  I wonder if they translate it for me.

 

 

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Photo! Photo!

Posted on 05/03/2012 by paulefallon

As soon as I start down the hill after work a woman approaches in a bold black and white full length skirt, a patterned green blouse and a small tree with the root ball firm on her head.  She gives me a grand smile.  I itch to whip out my camera and take her photo; she is worthy of a National Geographic cover.  I ask the obvious question, ‘what kind of tree is on your head’, to which she replies ‘mango’.  Her lips are already moist in anticipation of her future fruit.  She has another sapling in her hand and a small boy in tow.  I am tempted to ask if I may take her picture, but I refrain.  I will be content with the memory.

I keep my camera clipped to my belt, ever ready, but I only take three kinds of pictures in Haiti. Anything goes at the construction sites, where the workers are photographed and videotaped constantly for all manner of publicity.  I take still life’s and landscapes.  And I take pictures of people who ask me, mostly children.  There is a gaggle of them who live along the hill to BLB, and every time I hike by they run out screaming, ‘photo, photo’.  I stop and take their picture; they never cease to marvel at the tiny image of themselves I displayed in the view frame.

I do not take photographs of people without their permission and I do not ask for permission. I feel it is an invasion. I am living in the Haitians’ world.  That I would like to preserve an image of a woman carrying a tree, or a bucket, or a bushel of bananas on her head makes her an object of curiosity, when she is simply doing her daily business.  Strangers don’t take photos of me at my computer, and it would be odd if they did.  I would love to document fisherman spooling their nets and women bleaching laundry on rocks and street vendors sitting in front of their paltry wares. But there is a fine line between generous wonder and prurient fascination, as the most compelling images are often the most desperate.

As I continue home I see all kinds of people carrying plants.  It turns out that May Day is a holiday in Haiti, celebrated with a tradition of planting trees.  Since Haiti can use all the trees it can get, I am a big fan of the idea.  You will just have to take my word for it.

The children on the hill in their daily photo.

 

 

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Holding Hands

Posted on 05/01/2012 by paulefallon

As a politically correct American, the only place I ever touch someone in public is their right hand to my right hand.  There are rare exceptions. I might give my friends or my children a hug if we meet at a restaurant, and I have been known to press the shoulder of long time clients when our professional relationship has become personal as well.  But I would never put my hand on a colleague’s shoulder or give him a pat on the back. The United States is a spacious, litigious society.  We claim a broad personal space and we guard it well.

The line in Haiti is more closely drawn, if it exists at all. Haitians jostle one another in the marketplace as a matter of course.  They live in small spaces, often many people in one room; sometimes multiple people in one bed.  Holding hands is common across genders and activities; every day I see construction workers stroll the site with their hands clasped to one another.

When I first came here I would wave to people as I greeted them. Then I started shaking hands.  Now I make a point to greet the workers personally each morning.  I shake their hand and place my left over it; I give them a good morning look in the eye.  This contact dances on the edge of my comfort zone, but I can tell they appreciate it.  A few of the guys, as I take their hand, throw their left arm around my shoulder, which I accept as a gesture of camaraderie.

Walking home after work, I run into a laborer along the main road.  Gascon bounces up to me, grabs my hand and embraces my shoulder.  We chat and I move on..  A few steps later I run into Clebert, a mason’s assistant. Clebert is a small, spry guy with a gregarious nature and a constant smile.  Mister Paul, he calls out, thrilled to discover me off the construction site.  We greet and I continue on, out of town and over the river; along the highway to the turnoff where my path dips into the jungle.  As I descend into the cool evening I hear footsteps behind me.  At a clearing I slow and step aside, to let the person coming upon me pass.  It is Clebert, at a good clip.  Ah, Mister Paul, he exclaims as if it were years, rather than minutes, since we last saw each other.  He reaches out and takes my right forearm in his left, lets his hand slide down into mine and grasps my fingers.

I am surprised, but I do not pull away. I suck in a breath and force myself to acknowledge that it is rather nice to have a warm, friendly hand in mine.  We walk and in hand.  I ask the small retinue of questions I have at my disposal when one on one with a person who speaks no English.  Clebert was born in Grand Goave, has lived here his whole like, and has a wife and four children; a resume virtually identical to all the other workers.  After a decent interval I point out a flowering tree, which allows me to free my hand.  I do not return it to the same place.  I have had plenty of hand holding with a near stranger on my first foray into such close personal space.  We continue along with a more comfortable distance between us, at least for me, until he gives me a hearty m’ale and turns off towards his house.

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Bang It Out!

Posted on 04/30/2012 by paulefallon

The Haitian approach to work follows the dictum, “Work requires banging.” Most Haitians are remarkably strong, and much of the work site camaraderie is based on shared displays of physical prowess.  There is nothing praiseworthy in the carpenter who cuts concrete formwork with such precision that it slides into place.  Ah, but if the plywood is a too long and the carpenter can poise a mallet over his head, swing a giant arc and force it into submission, that is work.  Better yet, the wood does not comply at once, so the worker has the opportunity to pound repeatedly, creating reverberation over the entire site.  Of course if the plywood is cut too short, the carpenter has a similar opportunity, force fitting shims to fill the gap.

A concrete building is essentially built twice. First we build it in wood, creating formwork that takes the inverse shape of our design, molds of columns, beams and floors.  Concrete is terrific at withstanding forces that push on it (compression), but lousy when pulled apart (tension), so we hang steel inside the concrete, which we call reinforcing, or rebar.  The steel, encased in the concrete, takes care of the tension very well, but it must be fully covered by the concrete, for exposed steel will rust and deteriorate.  When building up from the ground, columns and walls, we install the reinforcing first, and the formwork is built around it.  For elements in the air, beams and floor slabs, we install the formwork first, and then fill it with reinforcing.  Either approach offers multiple opportunities for banging.

Reinforcing must be installed straight and plumb, the steel cut, bent and tied off with thin wire called fille alegature, which might be the longest word in Creole.  Banging 5/8” diameter steel rod can’t do much of anything to it, so gratuitous banging goes on all day to no real effect.  Installing the formwork around it is the real fun.  There are a few important rules to follow. The walls need to be straight, and they need to have clearance around the steel; if the steel touches the formwork, it will be exposed to air in the finished product, which will cause the steel to rust when wet.  Rusty steel is weak steel.  We require at least 1-1/2” of cover, 2” is preferable.  We never get it.  The walls are supposed to be 12” wide.  If they are 13 or 14 inches wide, no matter, so long as they are consistent.  But there is no fun in erecting a piece of formwork and just letting it stand there.  The carpenters routinely install the formwork about 10 or 11 inches wide. The result, of course, is that the reinforcing is too close to the walls, which then affords the wonderful opportunity to insert cleats and stone shims and hammer the forms wider apart.  This also affords the opportunity to stop work and negotiate, a pastime that they love and I loathe. I identify location after location with insufficient clearance and the carpenters argue.  They are in a no lose situation; if I prevail they get to bang some more, if I capitulate, they have triumphed over the blan.

We have yet to complete one concrete pour with a full 1-1/2” cover everywhere.  The engineers back in the States would be disgusted with my track record, but then again, they are back in the States while I am here surrounded by fifty really strong guys who love to swing their big mallets. I console myself that Haiti is not New England.  We have no freeze / thaw cycles that will spall the concrete and expose reinforcing, and in Haiti the finished concrete is covered with a thick parge that will offer another level of protection.

Above ground walls are built of concrete masonry units (CMU), modular block that are 16” long by 8” high by 8” wide.  Standard Haitian block has three voids in them.  The problem with three hole block is that when you stagger the block vertically, the holes do not align.  Many people died in the earthquake when unreinforced CMU walls fell on them, so we add reinforcing to every row of block and vertical rebar throughout our walls.  We custom fabricate two hole block (US standard) so that if the crews offset the blocks on each course by 8”, the holes line up, as do the vertical reinforcing bars in each hole.  It sounds so simple, yet we never quite get it right.

We carefully set vertical reinforcing in the concrete foundation at 16” on center (oc), hoist the blocks up and slide them into place.  The mason’s like to work as pairs, and prefer to start both ends of a wall and work towards the middle.  The result, of course, is that the middle block is either too short of too long.  An opportunity for banging!  Over a few courses the vertical joints shift so much the vertical rebar no longer align with the holes.  The masons bang a crimp in a vertical rebar to shift it to a new void; often as not we wind up with reinforcing 8” oc in some locations and 24” in others.  The virtues of beginning the wall in the middle and working towards each end (where we frame into a column to be poured later and therefore have some slack), seem clear to me, but no matter how I try, and have the bosses explain in Creole, the workers give me their weary nod and then start a new row from opposing sides.

Haiti is a tradition bound country, and their concrete construction methods have evolved over hundreds of years.  The earthquake proved their techniques inadequate, if you think like an engineer.  But Haitians put more faith in tradition than calculations, and are just as apt to credit the mystical for the trauma of their earthquake as they are to credit physics; so trying to explain why a particular piece of steel is necessary to protect them in the future is a daunting challenge. I comfort myself that we have come so far; that the walls are being reinforced, if not perfectly, and they are tied to the columns, fairly well, and the concrete covers the reinforcing, good enough.   The quality of the work is increasing, ever so slowly.  We make progress every day, we tear out and rebuild less and less all the time.  And when we hit an impasse, the workers find a way to bang it out, which always makes everyone feel better.

 

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Twin Construction of Different Fathers

Posted on 04/28/2012 by paulefallon

I am spending more time at the Mission of Hope School site this trip to Haiti. The Be Like Brit orphanage is moving along very well; there is so much repetition now the crews need less supervision while some work has slowed down as the rains prevent material deliveries up the hill. The school, however, which has moved in fits and starts, is now surging forward.  There are so many similarities between the two projects; same design team, same construction crews, shared tools and materials, one would think the experience on one site would be like the other. Yet the culture of each construction site is remarkably different; as different as their owners, Len Gengal and Lex Edme.

BLB would be considered an efficient job site by American standards, in Haiti it is a phenomenon.  We have a construction shanty with a plan table and work space for four people.  It is headquarters for Len, Gama and me, Tito, the accountant, and Frankie, the gofer. It is air conditioned, though when Len is gone I discourage using it because the breeze is pleasant all day long.  Fanes, the job superintendent, is the only person who enters the shanty without knocking, yet even he never uses it as a place of work.  He only enters for morning meet & greet and scheduled meetings.  If crew members have a question, they knock on the door and wait for us to come outside.  They cross the threshold only once a week; to receive their Saturday pay.

The trades at BLB are well organized.  Every crew has a boss, and there is a clear hierarchy of communication, from Len to me or Gama to Fanes to the boss to the crew.  If I am spray paint marking locations of electrical or plumbing fixtures on the floor and pick up a broom to clean an area, a crew hand will always come over, take the broom, and sweep for me. No one allows me any manual labor.  At BLB, pay is tied to performance.  Masons are expected to lay ninety blocks per day, and since the flow of blocks, mortar, and reinforcing are continuous, it is an achievable target.  If they don’t achieve their quota, they receive short pay.

Three women have set up makeshift breakfast and lunch establishments on site, the Haitian equivalent of the lunch truck.  They serve competing versions of dire et pwa (rice and beans), embellished with chicken or goat or fish to suit any wallet and any palate, and I can attest that their food is very good.  Workers have their preferred options; during lunch they cluster by trade at their kitchen of choice.

MoHI is less hierarchical, both by circumstance and by design.  There is no construction shanty.  I set up my drawing and computer on a picnic table under a lean-to, surrounded by school children and an arm’s length away from the concrete mixer. When Lex is present he wanders the site, his primary tools being his voice and his cell phone.  Since the site is so compact and the children are everywhere, the crews cannot segregate as much; everyone works everywhere.

Crew designations are less clear at MoHI.  If I am marking something up, no one volunteers to assist me; yet if I need someone to hold the end of the tape while I measure something, I just grab the nearest guy and he is happy to help.  People are paid by the day.  If the daily productivity is low, Lex gives a pep talk the next morning to inspire the men, but output expectations are less stringent than at BLB.  MoHI is a more complicated building with more challenging conditions; if masons lay fifty blocks a day, they are doing well.  No one grouses when asked to do something outside their usual task.  The laborers work hard, but the output is not as remarkable.

MoHI provides lunch for the workers at mid-day or, if we are pouring concrete, whenever the pour is finished. Sometimes they even provide soda.  The food is standard Haitian fare, cooked in giant pots and served out of five gallon paint buckets.  Today is was diri et sauce pwa, a variation on rice and beans where the beans are pureed into a thin gruel and ladled over white rice.  Delicious, but simple.  The delicacies available up the hill are not on the menu here.  Lex and Boss Pepe serve the food; everyone jams under the lean-to escape the sun. We talk and joke.  The cliché of the happy native is so politically incorrect I shudder to use it, yet these guys have so much fun with a half an hour and a plate of rice that my spirits rise even though I understand only a quarter of what they say.

Before my work day ends, I ask Renee if they pay workers less since MoHI feeds them. No, she replies, MoHI pays the standard wages, but feels that feeding the workers has the benefit of making sure they eat and making them more receptive to working late when needed.

As I walk home I consider these two variations on a theme – the proto-capitalist BLB site versus the Social Democratic MoHI site.  As management, whose salary (?) is independent of either system, I should be able to make an objective assessment.  But I cannot.  On each site I have enjoyable, productive days. At BLB I feel very productive; at MoHI I feel very good; which pretty much sums up Lex’s and Len’s primary drive.

Boss Pepe ladles out lunch at MoHI

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Rainy Season

Posted on 04/25/2012 by paulefallon

One aspect of spending time in Haiti every month for a year that particularly appealed to me was the opportunity to witness the country’s full cycle. The seasonal adjustments of a Caribbean nation are minor compared to those of New England, but I looked forward to experiencing the subtle shifts between warm days morphing into cool nights (January) and hot days that stick to you 24 hours straight (August).  Be careful what you wish for, however, for either of those options seem preferable this time of year – we are thick in the rainy season.

Haiti has been cloudy since I arrived. It rains every night, hard, and often during the day.  Haitians are notoriously, almost hilariously afraid of rain.  At the sign of a few drops the entire crew at BLB scurry down the ladder and huddle under the second floor slab until it clears.  Today they just quit at noon.

The rains lay a lugubrious blanket of humidity over everything.  In a country where mechanical objects are precarious to begin with, the moisture seems to make everything break down.  The water pump at MoHI is on the fritz, the main generator is kaput, so we haul portable generators back and forth between home and work.  None of it much bothers me because if there are no lights it just gives me more time to sleep and if everyone is taking bucket showers, then we are all equally slimy.

The impact on the natural world of so much rain is anything but subtle.  The corn, so scrawny just three weeks ago, is reaching Kansas proportions. A bird got disoriented, flew into the chain link fence at BLB and broke its wing.  Gama brought it into the shanty where it scurries from corner to corner to avoid Christlove’s attentions.  If its wings heal, we will release it to the sky, though Gama threatens to mark it with a BLB.

The most bizarre natural phenomenon is the rain bugs.  They emerge every night around 7:30 pm, when night falls, and swarm any place with light.  They are a monstrous version of the ‘noseeum’s that swarm Massachusett’s ponds on wet summer evenings.  These are long, up to an inch, with wide wings. They are so easy to kill there is no sport in it at all.  With one thumb you can smudge out half a dozen.  Of course, that is also a testament to their density.  Well over a hundred are circling my light bulb as I type this.  I only bother to kill them if they land on me, but since I don’t glow I am not an object of their attention.  Besides, only the most literal animal rights activists could protest rubbing these guys out; they are all dead by morning anyway.

Like all minor annoyances, the rainy season offers its particular pleasures.  Last night Lex and Renee took me up to Saint Etienne in the mountains to give them some advice on a project they are building up there.  It was twilight when we arrived, the clouds drifting over the mountains created a mist shrouding the terraced hillsides.  It was green as any corner of Ireland I’ve ever seen yet more dramatic.  The hills of Haiti are so steep they defy physics; which makes them seem unreal.  In the silvery mist, Haiti looked like nothing other than Tolkien’s Middle Earth.   It is a small trial to persevere a few rainy days to experience such magic.

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Descent into Eerie Chaos

Posted on 04/24/2012 by paulefallon

The pilot of American Airlines Flight 1291 into Port au Prince made the craziest descent today.  He remained high in the air until the city came into view, then made two complete arcs, 720 degrees of centrifugal pull, to reach the ground.  Outside my window the view rotated from sky to water to coast to city to coast and then the sequence repeated over again.  The pollution was worse than usual.  As we spiraled down the sooty sky grew green, and by the time the pilot leveled over the runway, the sky and the water were the same shade of a lima bean.

On the ground this bizarre disequilibrium continued.  This is how Lex Edme, the founder of Mission of Hope International, who picked me up at the airport, describes the situation as we drive through Port au Prince.

A Member of Haiti’s congress was stopped last week at a police checkpoint. The officer found a concealed weapon on the Congressman’s chauffer, arrested him and put him in jail.  The Congressman, irate, went to the jail and demanded his chauffer’s freedom.  Three hours later the arresting officer was shot and killed.  Lex is a little unclear whether the policeman was shot by the Congressman, the chauffer or a hired gunman, but in any event the Congressman has immunity from prosecution.  The police, in solidarity, called a strike for today.  As a result, there are no police in the capital city.

The dominoes of lawlessness fall fast.  Stores are closed, as shop owners feel unprotected from thieves.  Schools are closed, as parents fear for their children.  Gangs gather.  They throw rocks and build barricades and set bonfires at busy intersections.  The point of their protest and their allegiances are a murky as the thick smoke enveloping the city.  The streets are barren with few pedestrians, no street vendors and scant traffic.  The massive open air market is deserted.  Huge white UN tanks with uniformed Brazilian soldiers barrel down the thoroughfares, more menacing peace keepers than the police sedans ever were.  The city is a web of silent tension; the quiet is explosive.

The US State Department issued warnings advising Americans against traveling in Port au Prince.  It is interesting that Ameircan Airlines felt no compunction to announce anything about this to the hundreds of American’s they deposited into the melee.

As we drive, Lex maintains regular cell phone contact with a striking police officer who updates him to trouble spots, a personalized, riot-centric traffic report.  We take a circuitous route to avoid trouble spots.  Evidence of agitation surround us, the black soot of spent fires, boulders from barricades.  Yet we weasel through the gaps of Port au Prince’s terror.  Nothing slows us down.  With no traffic, we reach Grand Goave in less than two hours – a personal best.

Once outside the city Lex explains that he considered not risking the trip to Port au Prince today.  He tried to contact me but I was already in flight.  We have a contingency plan in case no one can meet me at the airport; I have met the head of airport security, Mr. Big (that’s right, Carrie Bradshaw, the man of your dreams wound up here), and I am comfortable putting my fate in his hands if need be.  But Lex’s commitment to his volunteers is supreme.  He monitored the situation, decided better to pick me up before things got worse, and took meticulous care to ferry me safely home.  It is hard to imagine my love and respect for this man could grow, but he impresses me more with every visit.  I am so fortunate to have Lex looking out for me.

 

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