Post #2 from the Havana Bienal

 The posts run in reverse order, with the newest on top. So if you've come to this one first, read the other one before this one. On the other hand, my writing is not particularly chronological, so perhaps it doesn't matter. 

Internet is spotty at best in Cuba, as you may have surmised. I only tried twice while there. Once I was briefly successful, long enough to retrieve Giselle's contact info. which I had of course misplaced, and to also briefly say hi to Loring via email.

Internet access was very intermittent and difficult to get.  First one needs to buy the scratch ticket card for $8 that gave you a code and an hour's worth of service, and then to actually access the net. That can take a good portion of the hour in itself. Then, it came and went. Some days there weren’t even any cards to purchase, I’m not sure why.  

So here I am, a week later, back in the US and up in the woods of Maine, with finally the time and inclination to write.

We did stroll the Malecon, at least most of us, on a later day. It is a wide boulevard with a lot of fast traffic, not easy to cross, and installations on both sides. Leonora wanted especially to see a large sculptured  head she'd spotted from the bus, so she strolled along the city side. The rest of us, five I think, walked along the water side. Looking at the catalog later, back at home, I realized that there were a number of pieces I never saw at all, although most could be seen from either side of the boulevard.

We started at the "ice" rink, on the city side. It sure looks like ice, but is actually plastic. There was a stand with skates for rent, but it was only "open"" at night. Nevertheless, there were eight or ten teens playing hockey, barefoot and in shorts, with sticks. Very entertaining for us, as well as for them.

A nice counterpoint to the rink was a "beach" on the other side of the street and further down. There were lounge chairs and and umbrellas and imported sand, and a little cart with refreshments for sale. And people using them, including us. One of my travelling comrades offered to take a picture of me lounging, one of the few photos of me from this trip. The beach is very reminiscent, and maybe inspired by, the Paris Plage along the Seine each summer. It started out some years ago with whimsy and a share of irony, I think, but has now become a standard part of Paris' summer, more for residents, I think, than for tourists. I remember an aqua aerobics class in a pool along the river, which seemed absolutely surreal.

Just a day or two earlier, our group had gone to an actual beach about a half hour from Havana. I know that Americans aren't supposed to go to the beach (recreational, not educational) but I assume since it was paired with a visit to the studio of Janette and Norberto it was allowed or ignored.

We had met Norberto and Janette a few days before our visit to their home/studio. In fact, I think they may have been the first artists we met, on our first day. They are both printmakers, and both part of a collaborative of bookmakers that I believe was organized by Janette. The exhibit that first day included both of their work as well as others. When I examined one piece, a book splayed open into a circle, very appealing aethetically, Someone, (our guide Grendy, I think) pointed out to me that it was comprised entirely of ration books the artist collected in his neighborhood. It didn't occur to me until later to wonder if they had never been used, which didn't seem to make sense, or perhaps they would be stamped and kept, not torn off. Maybe I'll write and ask Grendy. I liked her a lot and want to be her fb friend. She is perhaps 30, divorced with a toddler son, and is going travelling to Europe soon with a group of other Cuban travel guides. Obviously one of the privileged, as those in the travel industry seem to be. I wonder if that extends to the maids in the hotels. They get good tips, so maybe so. Then again, the hotel is owned by the government, so who knows.

Two of the other books in the exhibit used white ink on a waxy looking paper. I was very taken with these because the technique was identical to the way Max's birth announcements, which we had made by a woman we'd met in Lima all those years ago, a technique I'd never seen before or since. "It's vellum," said Deb, the master printer in our own group, who'd studied at a prestigious printmaking school affiliated with the University of New Mexico. Vellum is a word familiar to me but I never knew more than that it was a kind of paper. When I looked it up, I read that it was made from skin. Was this, or Max's announcements, made from actual skin? I doubt it, and hope not. Although it isn't any different than leather shoes or eating meat, it doesn't seem very appealing to me as a birth announcement. As a work of art? I don't know.

With much of the art we saw in Havana, we were treated to the artist's description of techniques and significance. It certainly always matters to me if I've met the artist or craftsperson who made something I've admired or purchased, whether a papier mache mask or an arpillera ( the appliqued and embroidered hangings I collected in Peru) or even a piece of jewelry I purchased on a street someplace. And I did meet the three artists from whom I purchased a lithograph or woodcut print in Havana, and the ISA student whose ceramic piece I purchased.  And of course it deepens my interest to hear about the intentions or significance or symbolism in a piece. But what always hits me first is just a visceral reaction, something just pleases or speaks to me in the aesthetics. And that is true whether it is a street artist or a work in a museum. I may appreciate it more when I know more about it. But often I don't know anything about a work of art except that it strikes me as appealing, or startling, or even upsetting.

The pieces I purchased in Cuba have been sitting on my dining room table for almost two weeks now, while I try to figure out where to possibly put them. Every time I walk by them I feel a jolt of pleasure, that the description by the artist may or may not enhance, I don't yet know. The prints all feature symbols of native religious significance, which seems to influence a lot of Cuban artists. One is called Mothers of the Waters, and is two female heads. One is crowned by small fish, the other by shells, and they represent "sweet" water and salt water. The artist showed me the woodblock and several others. One of our group, Daniel bout another of his pieces, a much larger one. Where do these New York City residents find room in their apartments to display their art? I asked Ben, who with his wife, Robyn, purchased several large pieces this trip, (and one $1500 knife.) Robyn had come to Cuba last year, on the UNM trip, and bought a number of pieces then. They live on the Upper West Side and are both lawyers. I can imagine a large apartment there, with plenty of room for art, because my high school friend Nancy , also a lawyer, also lived in one and did have lots of wall space. But when I asked Ben, he just chuckled and said that most of the art wasn't hung. I heard him mention something to one of the other folks in our group about putting it in a closet.

Art collecting, and even more so, being a dealer, seems so out of my realm and league that I was a little concerned about joining this tour, that the group would comprise people from a so different world than mine, with whom I might not feel comfortable. But the thought of going on an art focused tour won out, and I'm glad it did. It's perhaps ironic that I was concerned more about being out of synch with my fellow group members than with being in a foreign culture with its differences and limitations.

Cathy was the art dealer in the group. My own stereotype of dealers being austere personalities was totally belied by Cathy, perhaps the most warm and friendly person in the group. She had made eight previous trips to Cuba to buy art, although she hadn't been there in the last nine years. She. has a private gallery in Montclair, NJ ( ie open by appointment).. She told me that she'd previously made trips to Africa, I forget which country, to purchase art for a client who knew what he wanted to collect but apparently had no interest in travelling there. I suppose in certain circles that may not be uncommon.

Yet Cathy was the most down to earth person, enthusiastic about everything, almost giddy and childlike in her appreciation. She'd enter a studio or gallery with an "Oh, wow" that was so sincere it made me smile. Also in our group was Julia, also from Montclair and a client of Cathy's, who's bought a number of pieces from her in the past from her gallery. Julia is in her 70's, a retired chemist whose husband died at age 68 about seven years ago. She moved from their home to a smaller house in Montclair. A house which apparently still has room for plenty of large scale art. Julia also hosts concerts in her home, and there was brief talk about having a Cuban art and music reunion for the group. Half the group lives in Montclair, the rest, beside myself and Astrid, in Manhattan. So it is feasible, though I don't know that it would actually happen. I wouldn’t mind at all keeping in touch with some of these folks, although most don't seem to use fb aside from Lori, with whom I've already become friends. Lori is a self taught artist (an art school dropout, as she said to me.) She showed me a piece on her phone, but it wasn't really visible. I could only appreciate it when I saw it later on facebook at home. It is incredible, and there is a certain resemblance to some of the magic realistic work we saw in Havana. Lori is the one whose daughter Ava knows my niece Naomi at college.

I realize I've been writing more about people than art, but that's okay. There was so much art that it's hard for me to focus in and decide what to write about. I'll try to describe the places where I bought my four pieces. One was from Norberto, married to Janette, whose collective we visited, and then studio by the beach. It was Janette who really appealed to me personally. She's vivacious, and talented. I would love to have bought something of hers. Her work, though, was mostly large, many in tryptichs, ie three different sections though considered as one, bigger and more expensive that I could consider. But Norberto had several small pieces, finally something I could afford and (hopefully) find space for. I'd set myself a $500 maximum, and this was $150. The piece I chose is largely black and white, with some bright color in the middle. It depicts a head hinged and open, with another creature inside.  I'm sure there's much more that I haven't yet noticed or deciphered. Several others in the group also gravitated toward that piece, and one of them might have bought it if I hadn’t noticed it first

 Norberto and Janette came to lunch with us that day, and another day later on as well. They had done a residency at the Mass College of Art last winter. When I mentioned that I attended classes at BU, Janette told me that they had worked in the printmaking studio there as well. Astrid had been involved, I think, in making the arrangements. She told us a funny story, which Janette continued, about how they had been stranded in their dorm residence during the big snowstorm, when classes and transportation were cancelled. And they had never experienced snow before.

I realize I've mentioned Janette a lot more than Norberto. He talked a lot less, probably because he doesn't speak English very much, but maybe also because Janette is more outgoing.

One day we visited ISA, the prestigious art school. Just about 10% of those who apply are accepted. We visited ceramic, painting, and printmaking studios there. At the printmaking studio I purchased another piece, done by one of the professors there. That's the one with the two mothers of the waters.

And, at the ceramics workshop, I bought a heavy piece (although the artist, a student, obviously wanting to sell his work, told me it was hollow and therefore not that heavy. lord knows what it might have weighed if solid.) I'll try to describe it. It's a cross section, half of some type of citrus fruit, maybe a grapefruit? There are six sections, and three of them, instead of consisting of fruit, are filled with myriad small gears, as from a watch. Any significance? I don't know. He also had pieces that were the shape and size of a conch shell, encrusted with the same type of gears. 

Astrid's strong advice was that we pack the ceramics in our checked luggage, not carry-on, as I'd intended to do. The reason - it might be considered a weapon, ie to bonk someone on the head with, and therefore could be confiscated. Okay. I wasn’t clear on whether this would be by Cuban or US customs. But I carefully packed all my dirty laundry around my ceramic fruit with gears and hoped for the best. Decided I'd rather risk it being broken than confiscated, although the result for me would be much the same.  Good news - it made it home fine, as did Leonora's plate. One problem, it is very dusty in among all those tiny gears. The artist indicated I should clean the ceramic part with water, and the gears with oil. But I haven't figured out how to get in among all those tiny gears. I may try first with a Q-tip.  I didn't really talk to him much, except to bargain a bit about price (he had three, asked $200, or $300 for two. I asked a couple of my group if they wanted one, no takers, so he eventually did sell me one for $150.) I have his last name only because I asked him to sign it.

One of the artists we met, Kcho, was mentioned in today's Boston Globe and a day or two on NPR's Newshour. Not so much for his art as for his open community free internet access. Cuba is just starting this week to open its access a bit, and that's what led to the mention of Kcho. He has a gallery workshop, a classroom to teach kids printmaking, and some installations as part of the Bienal, all of which I took photos of and will post. And, the internet access. It's not really a cafe, but just an outdoor area to which people can bring their own devices. That there seems to be plenty of, people with phones and computers. And there they were, dozens of them, just sitting and using their devices in the sun. At least one of my travelling companions did as well.

Since most of the population only gets the $20 monthly, like my friend Giselle the math professor, it is still an elite, those in the travel, music, and art fields, and those with family abroad, who can afford the technology, and the restaurants, and the night clubs, etc. I just hope the new opening up will bring more equality between the haves and have nots. Ironic, given the spirit of the revolution, that there is such a disparity. Not that we don't have it in the US, but it is so contrary to what the revolution was meant to bring.  And I must admit I feel uncomfortable being part of the elite. That's true anywhere I travel. But here there seem to be less choices. There aren't any greasy spoon restaurants or corner cafes, at least not that I came across. We were fed sumptuous meals at elegant restaurants, something I can appreciate periodially, but not daily. And although I thoroughly enjoyed the hotel, as I did when we were in Havana before, I think I prefer the casas particulares, ie bed and breakfasts,  that Loring and I stayed at, in Havana and in La Boca, outside Trinidad, where we stayed for a week on our last trip.

Back to artists, there was also Choco, an impressive looking black man in white overalls, whose work we saw at the Bienal and then also at his studio. This was one of the real delights of the trip, meeting artists personally in their studios after seeing their work at the Bienal. And in a few cases, for me, going back and seeing their work again at El Morro, the fortress which was the main venue where we saw the majority of the art.

Choco's work at the exhibition featured pieces comprising flattened soda and/or beer cans, made into large portraits. I am a big fan of art using recyled materials, and there certainly is a lot of it in Havana. unfortunately, the photos I took of his work on exhibit don't at all do him justice, nor, I fear, do my words.. Some of the work at his studio, and of him, came out better so I will post some of those on fb.

Another artist that impressed me used mostly buttons, and some other found materials, to make a portrait of a woman. It wasn't evident until you got close what it was comprised of, as was true also of Choco's beer can portraits.

One night some of the group went to a place called FAC, and raved about it so much that the rest of us went the following night. I'd describe it as a nightclub cum art gallery, peopled by Havana's young elite. It was fascinating just for the scene, but also the art, and we met several of the artists there. With your admission you got a card on which the bar would stamp each drink. Upon exiting you turned in the card and paid for the drinks.

At FAC we ran  into Susana Delahante Matienzo, an artist we’d met on our first day. Her work for the Bienal was an ongoing performance piece relating to black women’s hair. While we were there, a lecture about black female hair and self images was taking place. The room was filled with many women, and some men. Some of the women were just gorgeous in their afro hair styles. I particularly noticed a woman who was probably in her 80’s, with a silver white head of Afro styled hair.  Unfortunately most of us couldn’t understand most of the lecture, delivered in a rapid Spanish. We left, but had had the opportunity to speak with Susana personally, a treat. She explained that the culmination of the exhibit would be a contest for people with Afro style hair, adults and kids, women and men.  Although I’m not sure I like the idea of a contest, and wondered what the criteria would be, it would have been interesting to see the contestants and variety of hair.  Perhaps it has been posted online, I’ll have to look.

So, back to FAC, the gallery/nightclub. We ran into Susanna there, feeling pleased to recognize and have a chance to chat with her again. Next, as we wandered through the corridors, a woman approached me and greeted me, as if she knew me. I told her I wasn’t who she had mistaken me for. She then introduced herself as the curator of the site. I wish I had taken the time to talk with her further. I wonder who she’d mistaken me for.

One of the most striking works at FAC was a room size installation, in a round room, a large scale photograph of a group of men, each with arms on the shoulders of those beside him, in a semi circle enveloping the viewers.  Each man was wearing blue underpants, and that was all. In the background music was playing. It was reminiscent of a folk dance, perhaps Greek, I later found out that the artist was Cuban born, but raised and lived in Israel. It turned out that Robyn, who’d been in Havana last year, had purchased a piece of his then but hadn’t met him. She was very pleased to meet him, and he seemed quite pleased to see a photo of his photo on her wall at home.

In the middle of the room was a bin with what looked like the same underpants, lots of them. I thought it would be interesting if observers tried to don a piece. But when I went to touch them, they were all connected, in a long chain. Meaning, who knows? Interesting, definitely.

The artist spoke with Robyn and Ben, and Deb, the other person who’d attended UNM and who is a master print maker. As Deb told me later, his next project was going to be a series of photos of faces, with the mouths covered, so only visible from the nose up. He asked Deb to model for him, because, she said, he liked her nose!  I don’t know if they managed to connect or not.

I haven’t yet mentioned Abel Barroso. We didn’t meet him, but I already was familiar with his work from an exhibit we’d seen at the museum during our previous trip. And his work was on exhibit at El Morro, the large venue we visited early on, and to where I went back a few days later on my own. He’s the only contemporary Cuban artist with whom I was familiar before this trip, aside from Tanja Brugiera, an internationally known performance artist who is quite provocative, and currently in the news for an event she organized for the Bienal. She’s now under house arrest.

But back to Barroso. He works mostly in wood, sometimes quite whimsically, often with political commentary. From the previous exhibit I especially remember life size pinball machines and large scale monopoly boards. The spaces on the board were the names of Latin American countries. So commentary on American rather than Cuban government.

Currently, he seems to be using a lot of pencils, and pencil points, and shavings, in his two dimensional pieces. Again, not sure of the significance, but they are visually impressive and pleasing. In the bookstore at El Morro, I bought the only copy of a book on Barroso, and am glad to have it. I’m not sure if it includes his most recent work, probably not, but it has good quality photos of many others.

I’d like to describe some of the restaurants we went to. They are called paladares. They were on of the first private enterprises allowed in the country, beginning in 1994. They were originally in a room of a private home, and limited to 4 tables, although many or most snuck in another few tables in a back room. All the paladares we went to, one a day for lunch, are still family owned, with, I believe, family still living in a part of the premises. In most cases, we met the restauranteur. But they are far from the humble establishments they must have been when they were conceived. They are elegant, filled with antiques, memorabilia, items of whimsy, art. And the meals match the environment in elegance and quantity. Some of them served a choice of several entrees, lobster or fish or chicken or lamb. Others served a similar menu, but family style. There were hors d’ouevres and salads, mojitos or beer and desserts, more than most of us could eat.

It was wonderful, but after three or four days, I tired of lobster and shrimp, hard to believe, and began eating other entrees. I was rarely hungry at suppertime, just as well, although did go out a couple of times, once with Julia, John, Daniel and   the Reuters correspondent we met with one night, at about midnight. Once with Giselle. Although I wasn’t really hungry I wanted to take her out to dinner. (I think the dinner we took her to three years ago may have been the first restaurant meal she’d ever had.) And the last night our farewell dinner was included, so two big meals that day, too.

I loved the environment of the big mansion filled with antiques and memorabilia, just my kind of place, every wall space and nook and cranny filled. (and the ceilings were probably 18 or 20 feet high!)  And I loved the place with the whimsical structures and art – ie a ferris wheel looking type thing made of old typewriters, and, on the toilet stall walls, beautiful white roses made of toilet paper.

Probably the most atmospheric old building we dined at was the one located on the top, third floor of a building, very elegant, but with the lower floors in a state of decay typical of the city. I had mixed feelings about the environment – atmospheric, yes, but it also felt a bit as if the poverty and decay was being exploited as a design element. I wondered how the people on the lower floors felt about the restaurant. My impression was that there were a number of people still living there. But when I talked to Lori, after our return home, she said she’d talked with a friend who knew the restaurant, and said that the owner had relocated all the tenants into better housing. Perhaps I was mistaken, and the people I saw didn’t live there. I hope so.

On the floor below the restaurant, which looked as though it might once have been a grand ballroom, there were pieces of white cloth, hung very regularly along ropes strung diagonally across the vast space. I first assumed that it was an installation related to the Bienal. I like it. Later, as we left the restaurant, there was a woman unclipping the pieces of cloth from the line. It was the restaurant’s napkins hung out to dry. Art is everywhere.

I briefly mentioned the writer from Reuters above. His name is Marc Frank. He is American, married to a Cuban, and has lived in Cuba for 25 years. He has recently written a book about his experiences and impressions. He talked to a few of us one evening in the very pleasant courtyard of our hotel. Before we knew it, after several mojitos, several hours had gone by, and we adjourned to a nearby restaurant. He said the publishing of the book was very well timed, in view of the recent progress in US/Cuban relations. Because his is one of the most recent books on the country, sales are going very well. I’ve put it on my kindle list wish, although I may need to take a hiatus from Cuba themed books after I finish Leonardo Padura’s Havana Blue, second one I’ve read of his Havana Quartet.

Padura is one of Cuba’s most renowned writers. His books are literary mysteries. He’s a wonderful writer, but I have found his plots quite subservient to his descriptions. I may or may not read the remaining two.

The other book I read while there is The Other Side of Paradise, by Julia Cooke. She’s lived in Havana, went to school there, and has made trips back, and her descriptions of the place, people, and culture are illluminating, and it’s a good read. Several times I came across things she mentioned, like Avenida G (a hangout for young Cubans) which gave me a better understanding of the place. John, a quasi-member of our group ( he came primarily so that he had a legal visa, but had other things planned and didn’t spend much time with us) had read the book and felt the writer’s approach was too negative. I think it got more negative toward the end, but was generally well-balanced. It’s also fairly recent, and I recommend it for anyone in getting some insight into Havana.

I’ve mentioned Giselle once or twice, and wrote at length about her after my previous Cuba trip. We met her through another friend, someone I knew briefly in Europe during one of my volunteer projects, and had stayed in contact with thru facebook. Giselle is a math professor at a University outside of Havana, a highly regarded IT school. She looks quite young, and I was startled when we met her to realize she was a professor. She was 27 then, and so about 30 now. She loves her country, but also doesn’t hesitate to criticize the things she finds wrong. She earns the typical $20 monthly beyond her basic living costs, room and board at the university, health care, etc. She told us then that she saved enough money each month to buy a new pair of shoes once a year, an item of clothing once.  When I asked what to bring this trip, she asked for razors, soap. I brought both, and a few items of clothing, including Red Sox shirts. And some of my traveler friends took the toiletries from their hotel rooms and a few other things to add to the mix. Giselle was beyond grateful, almost in tears.

At dinner, she ordered fish. My immediate assumption was that was because it was familiar. I remembered her discomfort over ordering from the menu three years before, because she was overwhelmed. After we ordered, though, Giselle commented that she never ate fish, and how ironic it was that in an island country all the fish went to the tourists.

I walked her to the bus stop, a couple of blocks away, and waited with her until the bus came. It was one of three buses she had to take to get home, an hour and a half trip. She wasn’t sure if they were still running that late at night. I asked if she had a way to check the schedule. She was incredulous that buses ran on schedules in the US.  I saw her off and hoped she’d make it home okay. She’d told me, when I asked her how often she came to Havana, that she never did, never really went out at night or left campus at all.

I asked what she’d do if the other buses weren’t running, and how far the one from the Old City would take her. She said to the edge of the city, and a taxi from there would be about $20. I gave her $20, a month’s salary for her, the cost of a restaurant meal in Havana for me.

I heard from Giselle a few days after I’d gotten home, thanking me again for everything. She reiterated her previous offer that if we ever came to Cuba again we had a home at her family home. It’s in Holguin, an eight hour bus ride from Havana. She only goes there twice a year .Her parents and sister have never been to Havana. She didn’t mention how her trip back to her University had been that night. She also wrote that she’d repay me the $20 that she was embarrassed to take from me, the next time I saw her.  And that the nice smelling soap in the beautiful box, that I’d bought at Marshall’s for her was so nice, wasn’t sure she could actually use it, might just keep it and enjoy the scent in the beautiful box.

Well, it will take her a while to get through all the small hotel bars that I and the others passed along to her. Perhaps by that time she’ll have gotten enough enjoyment from the fancy one that she can bring herself to use it. Or the restrictions will have been lifted enough so that she has enough money to buy her own. Right.

I’m glad, for the most part, to note the small changes In the three years between my visits. It’s nice to see small individual vendors in the streets, even if they are hawking Che t-shirts and toy wooden cars circa 1959. I just hope Havana doesn’t get too Disneyfied in its frozen in time quality, and that some of the changes bring some good to the people who live there.

Am I taking a break from Cuba themed literature as I mentioned above? Not yet. I’m already into the next one, about Cuba’s “Sugar King”. And I’ve put Cuban Revalations, by Marc Frank, the Reuter writer we met, on my kindle wish list. After that, it’s on to my next travel related theme, and my next trip, Paris. I’ll be writing again soon.

            

Havana Bienal June 2015

I've returned to Cuba, three years after our first visit. This time it's for the Bienal, a large scale art show that happens every three years. (go figure!) Most of the group is from New York and New Jersey. I am the only one other than Astrid, the trip organizer, from Ma. although she has lived there only a few years. Astrid is Cuban American, she left when she was about eight. We all convened at Miami airport for a charter flight to Havana. (operated by Eastern.) There are a lot of things I don't quite get about U.S.-Cuban relations.

I've arrived safe and sound in Havana, although I almost didn't. More about that in a minute. I am sitting on the porch of the Hotel Santa Isabel, where, I am told, others who preceded me include Jimmy Carter, the King and Queen of Spain, and Sting. I wonder if any of them slept in my bed. Today is our third day. This morning we will be taking a walking tour of the Malecon (the seaside promenade), with an architectural historian.

I am the first one of our group at breakfast. Loring will laugh when he reads this. Maybe I should edit it out. I am setting a dangerous precedent. I haven't found a time to write until now, too busy during the day, too tired at night.

So, about the "almost didn't " part. I woke up early Tuesday am in my stunning airbnb apartment in downtown Miami. I hope I find the time to backtrack and describe my brief wonderful Miami sojourn.

But now, that I've finally calmed down, let me recount my almost disasterous trip from Miami to the airport. I left the apartment with plenty of time time for the trip to the airport. A transit cop pointed me in the right direction, telling me to take the train to the last stop. What he neglected to tell me was that there were two train lines. I of course was on the wrong one, which I discovered after we passed the stop to transfer to the airport line. I had to get off and take the train back, then change to the line that actually went to the airport. When I got to the transfer station, the train had just left and the next one not due for another 25 minutes. My phone had died, permanently, the day before when I drowned it. A very nice transit officer allowed me to use his phone, but I didn’t have the group leader’s #, except on my phone. I called Air Havana but only got a message, and no room to leave one.  Finally the train arrived. Then, an airport shuttle train, and a rush through corridors, like a bad dream. I arrived an hour late, as the group was starting to give up on me, and received a warm welcome.  They’d been worrying and were relieved to see me, and were very helpful in calming me down. I was of course equally glad to see them.

The flight to Havana was about 45 minutes. We were, somehow, in first class. There was so much room that I couldn't reach my bag once I'd stashed it under the seat ahead. It was so comfy I wished the flight was a little longer.

Our hotel, the Santa Isabel, is lovely, and located on the Plaza de Armas, in the middle of the old city. I haven't had a chance to walk around the area yet.  We've had a busy schedule, brought around the city on a fancy airconditioned bus similar to the Chinese imported one we had on our other trip here.  Let me quote from the history written on the hotel restaurant menu:

"On October 16, 1833,the mansion was graced and were made solemn feasts, rising from its roof a great balloon full o flowers. On Sept. 16th 1867, the North American merchant Mr. Luis Lay from New Orleans rented the palace and installed there the luxurious Hotel Santa Isabel, the most modern and famous of Havana for having ensuite bathrooms, maid service, good food, and sea views. In 1943 the architect Mr. Benes Arrate restored the building and it was declared national monument, respecting its original....whoops, the English translation stops there. Let me see if I can decipher the last sentences. ...." the hotel was re-inaugurated on the 1st of March 1997 , continuing the tradition and history of hostelry in Cuba." Or something like that.

Breakfast here is a choice of anything or everything on the menu, including a hot buffet that I first thought was the entire selection. I've had my plate of fresh fruit, and am awaiting my cheese omelette. Along with the coffee is brought a basket of breads, including chocolate croissants, my favorite. Not quite Parisian quality, not even Au Bon Pain, but still.

In the time I've been writing, most of my group has arrived for breakfast, and a couple have already left. We are scheduled to meet the bus in about 20 minutes for our architectural tour.

I hope that our walk includes some of the art along the Malencon. It was all of those installations that clued me in to the fact that there was an art festival when we were here three years ago. At first I thought just that there was an incredible amount of street art in Havana. And there is a fair amount. But not as much as during the Bienal.

A day later:

 It turns out that the walking tour did not include the Malecon: we are going on a separate walk there tomorrow. I'm glad they weren't combined; there is so much to see on each.

This walk included a lot of history, more than most of the group seemed to want, but it was very interesting. We saw many restored buildings, and went into a couple that were centers of some kind. One was an Arab cultural center.  There were beautiful tiles and fountains, and a peacock strolling around the courtyard. Beautiful but not friendly, it pecked at a few of our toes. We encountered several of them along the way, along with a peahen, the female of the species, much less spectacular in its plumage than the male. They also had a terrible screech that belied the beauty of their feathers.

There are a number of “boutique” hotels, more than were here, or at least more than I noticed, three years ago. We went into one with a strange bronze monk statue out front, hooded and faceless, and apparently a Christian "theme." There were other monks and different Christianesque statues inside the lobby, small reproductions in a glass case for sale, and a desk with a computer inside a confessional booth. Not sure that would go over too well in the U.S.

The hotel put me in mind of the Hotel Raquel where Loring and I spent a night three years ago. We'd been staying with our group at the Hotel Telegrafo, from where I believe the first telegraph had been sent from the island. We went on an overnight trip, the dozen of us, and Hoji, our guide, to a cooperative farm, a tobacco farm, Hemingway's house, and Jose Fuster's wildly mosaiced house and village. When we returned from our trip, no more reservation at the Telegrafo. No problem; after a brief delay, we wound up at the Raquel. No complaints, it was a beautiful place with a Jewish theme. Not a Jewish owner or prior owner, as I'd assumed, just Jewish art and a restaurant that serves potato pancakes, Israeli salad, etc. I guess religion has a certain folkloric cache here.  Since I'd asked, our guide, a head historical architect here, took our group to the Raquel, which was even more beautiful than I'd remembered.

Right now, I am sitting on the large balcony outside my room here at the Santa Isabel, overlooking the lovely park plaza.It's about 9pm, and the first time it's been cool enough for me to sit out here. It's just beginning to get dark. There's a band playing at the corner of the park below. There of course has been music everywhere but this seems particularly wonderful. They just began playing a Manu Chau song I’d discovered through my Paris friends a few years ago and listen to constantly at home.

The booksellers set out their wares every day, although they've packed up a few hours ago. In the morning, I watch and hear them pull their wares and tables into the plaza, clacketing over the cobblestones. From our last visit, three years ago, I remember only books and posters for sale. Now there are many more venders, and almost every seller has a few flea markety items too, pins and watches and cameras and other such things. I of course perused everything carefully, in search of an appropriate vintage souvenir. I did eventually find a wonderful advertising fan, circa 1940’s I’d guess, with a picture of a lovely lady on the front, and the words, in English, “a sight for every lifeguard. “ On the reverse is advertising for a Havana clothing store.

It was ironic that it was a fan I found, because I'd actually set out in search of a fan store some of the others had found a day or two ago. I did eventually find it, and after many minutes of perusing each fan in the store, finally settled on a one in black with lacy cutouts and painted pink flowers.  There were dozens of fans, each displayed open on a stand, in a mirrored case. The owners told me all the fans were made here in Havana. I’m wondering, though, if they were made in China, and painted here. Even if so, they are beautiful. There was a woman painting them in a corner of the store, so of course I asked her to paint ”Cuba”, and her name, Lidia, on mine. She said she painted every one of the fans. There must have been hundreds of them, one of each design on display, and many more in the drawers below.

Now several of us are fanning our way thru the hot days in the studios and booths of the Bienal, and the restaurants where we pause for lunch between visits. A lovely sight in itself, and at least giving us the feeling that we are cooling ourselves a bit.

I realize I have hardly described the art we've encountered, and the Bienal, actually the crux and motivation for our trip. I've seen so much art, , and met so many artists in the last few days that I can barely keep track of it all.  Today I purchased a piece of art, about which I am really excited. Out of our group, I believe I am the next to last to have actually bought something, from a printmaker who we first met at the exhibition a few days ago, and whose home studio we visited today.  I am the only one in the group who is not either an artist, collector, or gallery owner. Everyone is very friendly, not at all austere as I'd worried might be the case.  It is certainly wonderful to have their eyes to help me appreciate and see things about the art that I might not have appreciated otherwise.

What has bowled me over, though, is the amount of art others are purchasing, and amount of money they are spending. It is no doubt much less than they would spend in the US for similar quality work. But it still out of my league. Several of them have bought several pieces, each in the $1000 to 2000 range, and large in size.  I have neither the wall space nor the inclination to spend thousands of dollars. But I am very happy with my small piece.

Norbert and Janette's studio is in a beach town about a half hour outside of Havana. They joined us for lunch after our visit, and then we spent about an hour on the beach, which was beautiful and full of locals on a perfect Sunday afternoon. There were couples, families, all sorts of people, and a couple of guys strolling the beach selling kites. I’d guess that most of them were Cuban, Havana folks who’d come out for the beautiful day. It’s only about a half hour drive from the city.  The Europeans and Canadians head further out for the all-inclusive resorts further up the coast. We Americans are not officially allowed at the beach, which is recreational, not educational. I supposed our visit to the artists’ studio had perhaps validated our side excursion, but most likely, no one cared. This restriction is, after all, on the part of our government, not the Cuban one.

A couple of our group stayed on the beach longer than the rest of us. Most everyone went back to the hotel, and I, alone, went back to El Morro, the fortress which is the largest Bienal venue. I'd only covered half of it on our first visit, and know other people wanted to go back, but I guess not today. No problem, because I am always happy visiting museums and exhibits on my own. I revisited several artists' booths (not sure what to call them, they are actually former barracks and perhaps prisoners’ quarters in the old fort.) We'd met some of the artists  personally in the meantime, and I therefore saw their work in a new light.

Returned here about six pm. the first evening I am spending here, and on my own. A welcome respite, although I have enjoyed being with and getting to know the people in the group.

One more thing to mention before I forget, and before I sign off tonight. Our local guide, Grency, is delightful. I asked her on the first day if she knew a lot of other guides. When she said yes, I mentioned Hoji, who'd been our guide three years ago. She indeed knows him, and is his facebook friend. He's no longer working for the company and now is in Miami. It sounds as though he is helping people to emigrate. Grency seemed as excited as I was to find out that I knew him, and says she’ll give me his whole name to contact him on fb. In any case, I hope to stay friends with her.

Oh, a couple of other coincidences - two of the people in this group went to UNM, one a few years after I did, the other more recently. They both came to Havana last year on a UNM trip, which they didn't like nearly as much as this one. I think that's where they met each other.

Another possible coincidence - another woman has a daughter in her first year at Oberlin. She says her daughter has a friend named Naomi. Wouldn't it be strange if she and my niece know each other?  (UPDATE: they do!)

Time to stop for tonite, though there's so much more to tell. Now to attempt to access the internet!

And there ends my writing, and attempts to post it, while in Cuba. So much happened, and I will attempt to document it here, if memory permits. 

The things we read, the things we carried back, some thoughts on international aid and service, and being a tourist in Haiti.

And now, enroute to home. We are on the plane back north, this one to JFK, then after an hour plus there, a second flight back to Logan.

Our trip began this am with a pick by taxi at our house by Elvens, the same driver who brought us to the house 9 days earlier. It was a fascinating trip both times around. First, back through Jacmel then across the mountains, from south to north, back to Port au Prince. I'd hoped we'd have enough time to stop in the city and take a look around, and we did. Our trip out to Jacmel, we'd gone on a long continues route lined with vendors. Not sure of our geography, we didn't realize that this had all been part of the capitol.

 While P au P hadn't sounded very appealing, I had wanted to at least see what it was like. I'd been hoping that we'd left early enough to do so, and indeed we had. Elvens said we'd have enough time for a meal, did we want him to drop us off at a restaurant before the airport? Neither of us wanted a meal, but we did want to get a tour around the city, and we did. It was the same combination of half built buildings, small brightly painted cement blocks homes and business, ruins, but more extensive and intensive than Jacmel. 

Elvens took us to a series of courtyards that went back from a street, to a photo exhibit of photos of the devastation of the earthquake, an exhibit mounted for the 5th anniversary. I'd actually seen an article about the exhibit in the newspaper I'd found at our house.  The photos were by Haitian/American photographer Daniel Morel. The pictures were graphic and heartbreaking, many focused on the shock and pain of individuals caught in the devastation. 

As much as I wanted to take time to look at the photographs, I was even more taken by the hundreds of sculptures made from scraps of various kinds that took up the walls and floors of the series of courtyards. They were huge and tiny and in between. Many featured doll heads, combined with other materials in grotesque but appealing configurations. They reminded me oddly of sculptures made of tin cans and doll heads and other scraps that I'd seen sold at an arts fair in Salisbury Ma. a year or so before. But these were less cute, more grotesque.

 Loring, I could see, was worried that I would be carting one of the large scale ones back home. I was good, though, and decided more quickly than normally. I didn't see a small one with a doll head, but did find one with a Barbiesque body, sans arms, and a frame that looked like strips of tire tread, and some caps that were probably from water bottles, that said Haiti. A fine end to our travels and an excellent souvenir. I bargained briefly, without the heart for it, and paid, I'm sure, too much. The only reason I feel like I should bargain is that I don't want to be taken for a stupid tourist.

The piece reminded me somewhat of some of the street sculptures we saw in Havana.  I think they both have a voodou quality, but don't know enough about voodou art to say what it is. I put it in my suitcase just as we arrived at the airport, so look forward to taking a better look at it when we get home.

I didn't buy as much as I have in the past in terms of crafts, but am happy with what I did purchase. I have two papier mache pieces that I hope make it home intact. They are in the suitcase I brought down filled with supplies for the school. I think they were better quality than the other artists whose items I saw in Jacmel, but I liked them even more because we saw and spoke with the woman, Charlotte Charles, who made them. I bought a small metal piece that struck me in one of the shops, even though the man who was selling it told me it was $25 when I came back, rather than the $10 he told me before.  Loring had heard him, too, so I know I hadn't misunderstood.  I did not feel bad insisting on the $10 with him.
 I also bought two small paintings from a young man on the beach, one for Carolina and one for Max. He first unrolled a dozen or so that were about 20 inches square, and I said I could only use smaller ones. He left and came back about 10 minutes later with two small pieces, each of which he'd cut from one of the larger ones!  I told him that wouldn't do. He was persistent but polite.

He left again, living all the paintings spread out around us on the beach.  He made another excursion and came back about a half hour later with about a half dozen small pictures. I didn't like most of them at all, but, luckily, there were two that I did. He'd earned his money, although I'm sure I also paid him more than he would have been willing to sell them for.

Loring is convinced that much if not all of the artwork of various kinds is mass produced in China, and it's quite possible he's right!  When we were in Venice a few years ago he was reading a book by a Chinese American man who drives along the Great Wall and has all kinds of interesting encounters. One was with a woman who lived in an "art city" in China where great numbers of people are employed painting multiple  copies of paintings of famous places which are then sold in those places as originals. Well, they are originals, I guess. Didn't all kinds of artists learn their trades copying the works of great artists in whose workshops they apprenticed?

The vendors are surprisingly low key, some more insistent than others, but none are annoying. And some just ask once, say merci if you say non, and move along.

So I'll give M and C their paintings, whether Haitian or Chinese made, and hope they'll like them.

Aside from the first couple of days, where we walked up and down the road a mile or two, then went to Jacmel, and then to L'Ecole lDignite, our general pattern was to walk all or part way to Ti Mouillage each day, catching a tap tap if one came along, and then spending the entire afternoon there.

Most days we ate at the restaurant there, too, crab one day, lobster another. The setting couldn't be beat - turquoise tables and chairs on the sand, a few yards from the shore. Kids playing soccer that went into the waves. A few fishing boats in the distance. The owner of the restaurant and cabins ( we never saw anyone staying there)  and a few friends  playing dominoes at a nearby tables.

 We hadn't been sure just how we were going to find either the supermarket or the place to pick up a tap tap back. We were just wondering around the town hoping to stumble on the right place. I asked a woman on the street about the supermarche. She didn't understand me, but after I'd started to walk away, said, oh, le supermarket? It was practically around the corner, as was the tap tap depot.

 Last night we hadn't yet decided whether to eat at our same restaurant on the beach or go back to one of the others we'd tried before. Then two men came up the beach, one carrying several lobsters, the other a bunch of fish. I wasn't sure if the owner was going to buy the fish, so quickly went up to him and said we'd like fresh fish for supper.

Promptly at 4pm, our fish dinner was served. We hadn't specified the time, but that was the time we'd eaten our other dinners there, so they didn't even need to ask. We'd been on an early dinner schedule for a couple of reasons. One, we hadn't eaten much or any lunch most days, so were hungry by late afternoon. And, also, since we didn't want to get home much after sunset, 4 seemed like a good time for dinner.

Have I mentioned our electricity issues? Yes, I think I have. We'd settled into a a regular schedule of  Jeancene turning on the generator when we arrived home around sunset, about 6, and turning it off a couple of hours later. In the meantime, we made sure to plug in our kindles and camera batteries and computer, and to drink cold water out of the water cooler while it was somewhat cold. And to drink some of our canned club sodas while they were at least somewhat cool from the 2 hours of freezer time they had each evening.

What we didn't quite understand was why some of the places in the village did have electricity, that did not come from generators, while we did not.

And then there was the time, a day or two ago, when we ran out of gas for the stove. Loring had gone down to the kitchen to boil a couple of eggs for us to have with our crackers, cheese, and salami for supper. But before the water could boil, the gas ran out. We went in search of Jeancene. He said, not surprisingly, that it was too late to get gas, that he'd do it first thing in the morning.

 But before he came back, though, the next morning, we'd also run out of water from the tank on the roof. That was less of a problem, first, there was still some on the second floor . And, it took just a brief run of the generator to get the pump to run the water back up to the tank above us. So we soon had both water and gas back again, although Loring had to wait a little later for his usual pre-dawn cup of coffee.

All this is amusing in retrospect, and was pretty much so even at the time. It's hard to be frustrated with Jeancene, he is so good natured, offering his hand to shake every time he sees us, with his still disconcerting "buenos dias" and his big grin. On the other hand, we feel we need to tell Lionel the things that weren't right with the house, to be honest, and if he wants to continue to rent it. The couple of times Lionel called to see how we were, I tried to mention, in a nonchalant way, the issues with electricity, gas, etc. But we've also been compiling a list of things we think the place needs in order for it to be rentable for more discerning folks than us - a couple of plastic porch chairs that aren't broken, a few more glasses, etc.

Loring just announced that he read 9 1/2 books while we were in Haiti. I think I've read seven or eight.  He woke up about 3 hours before me most mornings, hence the difference. We've both read many but not all of the same ones. Most but not all had Haiti themes. I read The Big Truck that Went By, written by Jonathan Katz, about the aftermath of the quake. He's an AP reporter who was in Haiti during the quake. Loring read that too. We both also read Claire of the Seas, a series of interrelated stories by Haitian American author Edwidge Danticat. I'd had Junot Diaz's This is How you Lose Her on my list for a long time, but then came across an essay by him about the earthquake. So I read both the essay and the novel. He's Dominican American, and the book is about growing up as a Dominican American man in New Jersey.

We both also read The Oldest Woman in the World and other Stories by Kirk Colvin. The stories take place in Haiti, but we weren't able to figure out if they were true or fiction. I'll have to check once we have internet again. They provided another interesting perspective but left me kind of puzzled.

I just finished An Untamed State by Roxane Gay, another Haitian American. It begins with the abduction of a Haitian woman from her family's gated in compound in a wealthy section of Port au Prince. It's an intense, powerful read.

read Still Alice, which Loring had read a while ago, about a woman with early onset Alzheimer's. We'd just seen previews for the movie, I figured I should read it soon.

And we both read Big Little Lies by Liane Moriarty, which takes place around an elementary school in Australia, not a thing to do with Haiti. I chuckled all the way through it, and Loring did too. It's an odd mixture of hysterically funny and dealing with quite serious issues, very well written.

Final thoughts? I am surprised that the Haitians I've met and observed don't seem as destitute or desperate as I had imagined. Yes, I've seen plenty who live in tiny shanties or less, and surely can't have terrific health or nutrition, much less opportunities. And yet they don't seem, on the surface, worn down by their lives or situations. Most smile or say bonswa when we pass each other on the road. Their clothes look clean and not overly well worn .More surprising, although there are few private cars, there are tons of people with motorcycles. Ones with entire families riding on them, ones with young couples, many with two or three men. How can they possibly afford to buy them, even to pay for the fuel? Or are they lured by salesman with enticing loans that they aren't able to continue to pay?

And what about the horror of living through an earthquake that has taken thousands, many thousands of lives? According to Katz, the AP writer, there are no firm numbers on how many died, because the different agencies, government and private, don't agree, don't even come close. The government had no numbers on how many inhabitants, before the quake, lived in the country. The various death estimates range from 80,000 to 320,000, an upsettingly large range.

Five years have passed. Lots of buildings, including the government palace, have never been rebuilt. Some have been cleared, some still lie in ruins.  How do people even recover, emotionally, from that kind of trauma?  Is it any easier when it's collective, when everyone you know has been affected, because your pain is no worse than anyone else's?  Or are there layers of damage, not physical but pyschological, that could never be noticeable to the casual observer, many, thousands suffering from some type of post- traumatic stress related to what and who they have lost. And yet they smile when we pass each other on the road, or when we climb up and squeeze into the already crowded tap taps.

I would be interested to read or speak to some mental health workers who have dealt with survivors. Or are there even any such trauma mental health workers here?

There were many aid workers in Haiti even before the earthquake, and hordes that poured in afterwards. And we've seen a number of groups of Americans that were clearly here on some type of aide trip.

Our driver, Elwens, spoke disparagingly of them when Loring asked him if the international aid had been of any help. He said that the workers came mostly to eat lobsters on the beach. I would hope that at least some had more good intentions than that. But I also wonder if all the money poured into the country does much good. Katz, the AP writer, is not any more lauditory. He is talking about the big groups, not the little church and other service missions, although I'd like to know his thoughts on those.

I’ve come across a similar issue in my own volunteer work .Does it really do any good to spend a couple of weeks in a situation planting a garden or teaching kids English or whatever the particular project is.? Or is it more to assuage the guilt of the privileged, or give the college or gap kids something for their resumes?  My answer to that is twofold one, I really do these projects for myself, for what I get out of it, and only secondarily for the people I am supposedly helping. But, also, isn't there some merit even if you just reach one person, make an impression or have an impression made on you. You know, the old tossing the fish back into the ocean parable.  It's not going to save the world or even anyone in it. 

But, I am thinking now of the boy I met on the beach this week. He was selling shells. He also had two notebooks with him. I didn't need any shells and they weren't even very nice. But he showed me his notebooks, and how he was learning chemistry and biology. I figured it was part of his schtick, but I chose a few shells anyway. He was so sweet. Later, and the next day, he sat on a wall, and later, in a hammock,  singing his notes to learn them. Whether he was a good salesman didn't matter. He was truly interested in learning. I won't forget him. I hope he remembers at least for a bit, one foreign blan who took the time to listen to him. 

Blan, by the way, from blanc, doesn't mean white so much as foreigner, and is not derogatory. From what I've heard and read, it isn't strictly for whites, either. A foreign person with of dark skin is, apparently, a blan as well.

As far as whether the billions of foreign aid that poured into the country in the aftermath of the quake ever reached the victims, it seems the answer is that most of it did not, that relief effort was mostly an abject failure.  From all Ive read and heard, from fiction to the AP reporter’s book to our driver, Elvens, to the articles in this week’s press, the answer seems the same. I don’t know, will have to read more, how much of this is endemic to Haiti, to the degree of poverty, amount of corruption, any other factors.

And I don’t know how much the many smaller relief projects, soon after the quake and continuing into the present, that build or rebuild houses, schools, etc. are subject to the same criticism. I hope that the  medical  trips, at least, provide critically needed services. 

And I personally think projects like the mosaic one in Jacmel do serve an important purpose. In many streets where we walked in Jacmel, especially near the water, were wonderful mosaic walls and a beautiful  well used staircase.  I saw no signs about the mosaics in Jacmel.  But when we returned, I found info online about the U.S. mosaic artist who has spent much time in Haiti and some other places doing mosaic work, It  has involved the community, especially children,  has really brightened the city and made it visually beautiful for both the inhabitants and for tourists.

Loring, though, has a good point about reconstruction projects. How much does it help for a group of us blans to come down when there so many Haitians with no source of income who could use and do the work, and probably a better job of it. Volunteers for Peace, the organization with which I’ve participated in numerous projects, currently has eight different projects in Haiti. I think highly of VFP and have recommended them to many people. But it is, I think, a valid question. 

 Is it our place to do projects that take badly needed work from people who desperately need it? Is it ok to do art projects, or other ones that the locals couldn't initiate, but not ones they couldn't do on their own? I welcome other thoughts.

We went to Haiti on a vacation about which some folks we know were incredulous. Surely, most people from abroad who aren’t Haitian come on service trips. And I think, that was part of the appeal to us, to see what it was beyond all of our perception of it as a place of poverty and crisis, and if it was a place that we thought people could and should consider for a vacation. Our conclusion – it was interesting, beautiful in many ways, as well as very poor and sad in terms of the poverty, and what we knew of the disaster and hardships, both before and since the quakes. If you are looking for upscale accomodations and service, it’s not the place for you. But if you are an adventurous traveler and interested in culture, it might just be.

Madarines and mangoes, lobsters and crabs, and a krewel "bonswa" to all

It is now Friday am. We leave for home on Sunday. We have settled into pretty much of a daily routine , Loring up before sunrise, me two or three hours later. Today, though,I have awakened for the sunrise for the first time. Today is also the first time I've lost track of which day it is. Surprising that I have kept track, since I often lose track at home, at times between semesters, when my routine is more open ended.

 I like the slow pace of the days, when the biggest decision may be which way to walk, or which fruit to have for breakfast. We have our choice of bananas, mangoes, mandarines, grapefruits, oranges. It took a few days to realize what the grapefruits were - they look like giant lemons. And the oranges are green I skinned, not so sweet, and my least favorite.

Our breakfasts, along with the fruit and coffee, have been pb and j and crackers, which we bought our first day in Jacmel, on our way from the airport, and then again in Jacmel, the day we spent there, three days later. We also have cheese and salami, which we've added some mornings to the mix, or for lunches if we are hungry before we head out to the beach.

Ti Mouillage has become our default destination. It is really the only sandy beach in the area. It is about a 15 or 20 minute walk from our house. There's a restaurant/ bar and some lounge chairs. We have generally picked up a tap tap ride somewhere between our house and there, and then walked back in the early evening around Sunset.

Yesterday, as we arrived, the burly, friendly manager, and probably owner, invited us into the kitchen and showed us two enormous crabs, as well as lobsters. He asked us which we wanted, and if we wanted to eat about 4pm, which has become our routine. Shortly before 4, we moved from the beach chairs to the tables and chairs in the sand. We noticed people congregating behind us, a bit toward the road. More and more arrived as we awaited our crabs. It was some kind of community meeting. And our restauranteur was clearly one of the organizers. We ogled them a bit, and they us. Our chanting student shell seller from the day before was in a hammock between us and the group, swinging and singsonging his lessons like on the day before.

Our crabs arrived, the legs overflowing the plates. On a separate plate were the ubiquitous spicy cole slaw and fried plantains. The coleslaw is great, the plantains I am tiring of. The waiter showed us how to crack the claws with the handle of our knives, and then, realizing we were somewhat stymied, proceeded to help us with it.  We didn't quite have the technique, and whacked at the shells hard to crack them, which was quite noisy and drew the notice of all of the people at the meeting who were trying to listen to the speaker. They were all facing us, which made me feel quite conspicuous. I am sure they were as curious about us as we were about them.

There was another group of "blans", two couples, who'd arrived to the beach quite after us. They had drinks and took the beach chairs when we had moved to the tables.  Aside from the two chairs we were sitting in, every chair, many more than I realized were on the premises, was occupied by someone attending the meeting. They'd kept arriving, until there were probably about 50 0f them. Most were older, not the young men and women we've seen on motorcyles and just hanging about on various points along the road. But there were a few younger people there, including one young woman who sat next to the restaurant guy and seemed to be one of the leaders. I wish I could have understood even a little of what they were discussing. But the speakers had their backs to us, the waves were loud, and they were no doubt speaking in Creole.

What must they think of us, beside that we are rich? Does being on a beach watching the waves have any appeal or soothing effect, or is it just a part of their environment that they take for granted. For some, it is a livelihood, we see the fisherman in boats from our deck and from the beach, but very few, actually, just three or four boats that we've observed. And they must be aware of the appeal of the ocean, not just to us blans but to well off Haitians who at least begin to build their grandiose houses here.

I wonder how many of these homes, including the one we are living in, will ever be completed. To us, this house doesn't feel complete. It is livable, for people like us, who regard living without much electricity (just a couple of hours at night) as somewhat of an adventure. (I'd mentioned missing refrigeration much more than electric light, but as Loring points out, we also rely on the electricity to keep our cameras and kindles and computer charged.  I've read at least 5 books in the last few days, and neither of us brought any paper books, so we'd have been lost without our kindles. We also are okay with the sparse furnishings (a few more cups and utensils would be nice, especially if we wanted to do any amount of cooking aside from making coffee.)

And it would of course be a palace for most Haitians. Each room of this house is bigger than many of their homes. 

But there are probably not very many foreigners, or blans,  unless they are aid workers, or young adventurers, who would be ok with the level of accomodation. If Lionel, the owner, wants to rent to more blans, he will probably need to up the comfort level. I discovered a whole folder of color fliers advertising the place, with phrases like "our ultra-modern 3 story waterfront villa"  and "ideal for a film location", the descriptions somewhat of an overreach, although not really untrue. It is modern in that there are stove, fridge, microwave, blender, etc, but not of much use without electricity, or, for that matter, pots and pans.

And yet, the couple of times that Lionel called to see how we are doing,, and once when Jeancene called him because he wasn’t sure what I was asking, I answer fine. And in fact we are fine, with the beautiful ocean, palms and fruit trees, and the friendly people to whom we say bonswa, the Creole greeting  no matter the time of day, and them returning the greeting.

A singing school director, and a singing student shell salesman

Wednesday, half way thru our Haitian sojourn, We spent Monday in Jacmel. Yesterday we went to visit a school, L'ecole le Dignite, about a 15 minute walk from here, 10 minutes on the road, and another 5 minutes up a hill, as Viviane Vieux, the director, had told us. I'd gotten her name from Lionel, the owner of our house. The school has been there 15 years, and Lionel has known her from the beginning, when there were only seven students. Now there are over 250, from grade one through nine. Viviane is quite the character. She's from the area originally, but has lived in other places, has two grown children living in the states, and two who had lived there but have returned to Haiti.

Viviane says she came back here to retire and relax in a hammock, but that didn't happen. She has incredible energy and enthusiasm, and a somewhat impish personality. She kind of bounced and sang her way into each classroom with us behind, and introduced us to each group. Some students were shy, others giggly, and a few volunteered to talk to us, the younger ones in French, which they are learning, and a couple of the older ones, young teens, in English.

The school is free, funded largely by a Swiss foundation, supplemented by Viviane's "begging" folks for support. Free schools are rare in Haiti. Most cost the families about $200 tutition, a prohibitive price for many families.

We'd brought a couple of suitcases of supplies. Jeancene got two men with motorcyles to each carry a suitcase down the road and up the hill. The intention was for Loring and me to ride on the bikes as well, but I demurred, preferring to walk, and Loring then did too. So the suitcases had arrived before we did. I'd bought a variety of school type supplies, pens, pencils, markers, a couple of puzzles and games. Most of the bulk was in two large trash bags full of Duplo, the larger scale version of Lego.  At the Y, the day before we left, the director of the child care program was giving it away, because they had too much, lots of it donations from families.They seemed pleased that it was going to Haiti. 

Viviane seemed pleased with all the supplies, noting that the duplo, which I hadn't been sure would be useful or appropriate, would be great for motor control, learning names of colors, etc. 

She showed us the large water tank, which she explained government workers had installed and monitored routinely for water quality, adding chlorine on a regular basis. But although she'd asked them to teach her how to do it, they didn't, and then eventually stopped coming. So they are unable to use the water for drinking.

She also showed us the school garden, which they are having trouble maintaining because it has been unusually dry This made me wonder how severely affected the local communities were, in terms of water and crops.

As we left the school, we decided to head directly to Ti Mouilliage Beach, really the only sandy and relatively calm beach in the area, where we'd already spent one other afternoon. We walked just about back to our own road before a tap tap came along, along with the usual rearrangements of passengers to make room for two more. We spent the rest of the day there at the beach, and had supper at the adjoining restaurant on the beach, lobster and shrimp.

Unfortunately, Loring was plagued last night and into the morning with digestive issues, which we attribute most likely to the shrimp and sauce, the only thing he ate yesterday that I didn't.

Nevertheless, back to Ti Mouilliage beach we went this afternoon, for the better part of the day. But we did not eat there today, having only a coke each. We'll go back again tomorrow, because of the beach and also because the owner said he'd get single US dollars for us tomorrow. We are running low, not on cash, but on low denominations. We have in fact used only dollars, no Haitian money at all.

On the beach I met a young boy selling seashells. He had a bucket full of them, none of them particularly beautiful. He said he was trying to earn money for his education.  It's a pitch I've heard before, in other places. He did have books with him, which I asked to see. They had sentences related to chemistry and biology, in beautiful handwriting.  I asked how old he was, and he said fourteen. I was surprised, he looked about 10.

I bought some of his shells, which I didn't need at all. When I went to pay for our cokes, the restaurant guy said he had no change, I told him to give the $3 change to the boy when he had it. The boy seemed unsure that the money would actually make it to him, so I walked him over to the restaurant guy and hopefully made clear that the change was to go to the boy.

Among the folks hanging out there was another man who spoke decent English, although with a thick accent. He told me he taught people English, and that the restaurant guy was one of his students. The man said he spoke French, English, and Spanish, but not Creole, which surprised me. He told me that he was of Haitian decent but had grown up in the US, and returned to Haiti to meet his father's side of the family. He did want to return to the US, though, if he could save a couple  of thousand dollars. Oddly enough, one of the places he'd lived in the US was Framingham, Ma.

Later, on the beach, my young friend was sitting on a low wall, chanting singsong style in a sweet voice from his notebook. However good a salesman he may have been, he was clearly a diligent student too, I wondered if the singsong memorization was the school's style of teaching, or the boy's own technique. In any case, it added a musical flavor to the beauty of the beach and the sea.

We walked back along the ride the mile or so back to our bizarrely large house, and had a hopefully stomach soothing supper of crackers, cheese, hard boiled eggs, salami, and potato chips. So far, so good, reports Loring an hour later. He has just now fetched us a dessert ration of chocolate. Hopefully in another day he will feel better enough to attempt another meal at our beach side restaurant.

Day in Jacmel

We took our first tap-tap today. In the city, the tap-taps are busses, brightly and beautifully colored. Outside the capital, they are mostly small trucks. The concept is the same, though. You put out your hand for a ride, they pick you up. We've seen some hauling donkeys as well as people. People get on and off anywhere along the way. There were about 8 to 10 people in ours at any given time, plus a large steel pot and a very large jug. At times a couple of the men were standing and hanging onto the back of the truck.  No donkeys though.

We made it into Jacmel fine, and disembarked in the middle of a very large, dense street market. People selling everything from produce to cosmetics.

Jacmel is largely, but not totally recovered from the earthquake. There are still partly collapsed buildings and piles of rubble interspersed with brightly painted new and reconstructed buildings. We passed a building where people were singing on a second floor open air thatch roofed  balcony, and waving their hands. Perhaps it was some kind of memorial service, as today is the 5th anniversary of the earthquake.

We found a couple of streets with stalls and stores of artisans, largely papier mache masks and other items. along with paintings and other crafts in metal and ceramic. Looked at a lot, and finally came across one of a woman, Charlotte, who was paining a papier mache rooster. She was as colorful as her work, was the only person we came across who was actually working, and her work seemed higher quality than most of the other crafts we'd seen. There was one other couple in her tiny shop. They were Haitian, and were exclaming about how much superior her work was to most others. I thought so too. They purchased a few painted wooden trays, and I got a saber toothed tiger mask, (very Haitian, as Loring said) and asked if she could finish painting a blue rooster that was only half finished. She said yes, and we came to the Hotel Florita, where we are now, for lunch (grilled goat for me) and internet,

It's been three hours, and in theory my rooster should be finished, and we will head back to Charlotte's shop as soon as I finish writing. The Florita was largely destroyed and has been completely rebuilt. Here at the hotel, almost everyone in the lobby/bar/restaurant is using a computer.Even two little kids, who are sitting entranced in front of an Apple. They are watching Home Alone.

Then back to the food market (the indoor supermarket kind, if we can find it) for more supplies, ie pb and J, and chocolate, club soday,  a few other indispensibles,  and then back to our house, by tap tap if we can figure out how to find one in the city.

Creole, or Krewel, as they spell it here, is a conglomeration of French and I don't know what else. Once in a while I can recognize a word. The word for hello is bon swa, in other words, good evening, in French,. But here people use it at all times of day.

I will keep writing, but may not get to post again until we are heading home a week from now.

Bienvenue a Haiti!

It is our third day in Haiti, Sunday. We flew down from Boston Friday before dawn, landing briefly in Miami, then on to Port au Prince. It is always a strange transition, going from a cold place to warm, from frost to palm trees. It leaves me with an odd feeling of dislocation, a dream like sense of altered reality.
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We have rented a house about 10 miles east of the town of Jacmel, itself about 60 miles from Port au Prince, the capital. We found the house on Homeaway, which we have used before. We chose the Jacmel area because it is on the ocean, and because it is described as the arts capital of Haiti. There are, apparently, many crafs tpeople there.  We drove thru briefly on Friday, on our way here, stopping at a supermarket for provisions - peanut butter, jelly, saltines, cheese, potato chips, rum.  We knew that the caretaker here, Jeancene(ie. Johnson) would provide us with breakfast, and other meals too if we wished.

We knew from the photos that the house was sparsely furnished, and that was fine. We generally prefer rustic to elegant. There are four bedrooms here, and just the two of us. If we were indeed the ten the owner said the house can hold, we might have been hard put to find cookware, cutlery, glasses, etc for all. We were actually somewhat hard put to find enough for two. There's a pot, a pan, one mug, several glasses, enough silverware for perhaps three.

We didn't know there wouldn't be electricity, but that is mostly okay, too. We have spent plenty of time, in a variety of places, without it. Many years camping at Ladd Pond in Maine, our sojourns on a pretty much uninhabited island in the Bahamas, etc. The one thing I missed most there, in the Bahamas some 40 years ago, is the same thing I miss here, which is something cold to drink. In the Bahamas it was a  great joy to have an iced drink on our once weekly trips by boat into town.  There is a generator here, which Jeancene has run a few hours at night, not enough to keep a drink chilled. But we are fine without electric lights.

Our house here is owned by a Haitian American who lives in New York. I am not sure how frequently he is here, or how long ago he left Haiti. He lives, oddly enough, very close to my mother in New York, knows exactly where her assisted living facility is. That came up when he told me he lived in NY, and I told him I'd grown up in the Bronx.

The house is huge. There is a second floor with living room, kitchen, and bedrooms, and a third floor with living room and bedrooms and a lagre balcony overlooking the ocean.  We are primarily using the third floor, plus the kitchen to heat water for breakfast. There is also a large rooftop balcony which we haven't yet used and probably won't, since the one on the third floor is just as nice.
The breakfast Jeancene has served us is largely fruit. Bananas, tiny, drier, yellower than the ones we have at home, and mangoes, oranges that look like large lemons, and mandarines, small oranges, and larger oranges which are green skinned.  This morning he brought us coconuts to drink. There are also eggs, and the pb, j, and crackers that we brought. We've been eating breakfast plus one meal out, which seems to suffice.

Jeancene is very solicitous, almost too much so. He makes the bed every morning, and we think he's changed the sheets both days too. The first day he seemed to want to accompany us everywhere, to make sure we were okay, I guess. Oddly, he speaks some Spanish but no French. I can only guess he's spent some time in the DR.

Yesterday we walked west along the road, stopping to take photos and once for a swim.  The beaches all along the way are rocky, so no place nice to sit and relax for a while, the only dissappontment so far. Today we walked east a similar distance. The houses along the way are a mix of tiny shacks, some very colorfully painted, and half built houses on a scale similar to ours here. Very few of the large houses seem inhabited or completed.  It seems that most are post-earthquake construction. But it is not clear if construction is continuing.

We came across several hotel-restaurants.  One, fancier than the rest, was owned by a Swiss German man with whom we spoke for a while. There were no customers there. He said it was particularly quiet this weekend. probably because of the demonstrations in PP and along the highway. He was surprised we weren't aware of them.  We saw no evidence of any protests ( we didn't find out what they were protesting, the government, I assume.) Hopefully no one at home had heard about them either, or were worrying about us. We had told them we'd be out of internet contact for at least the first few days.

Mr. Lehrman showed us a room, quite nice. The grounds were pleasant and there were two
s wimming pools. He said his hotel wasn't one of the $60 ones, that the rates were from $100 to $140, but negotiable if one stayed a while. He said that a group had been there last week for 9 days. He told us that he was building a house behind the hotel for several children of two families whose mothers had died, who still had their fathers but who weren't able to care for them.

Another small hotel had little cabana rooms right on the beach. Nice but very rustic. Even those were $70.  Mr. Lehrman said people expected things in Haiti to be cheaper than they were, they didn't realize how expensive everything was, like food. He also said that people asked him many times why he chose to leave Switzerland for Haiti. He answers that there is no adventure in Switzerland, whereas in Haiti everything is an adventure.

Tomorrow we will head into Jacmel for the day.  We've considered even staying overnight if it seems like there is a lot we want to do there.  In any case, we will visit the Hotel Florita.  I spoke to the manager of the hotel from home, and had him arrange for transportation for us from the airport to here. The hotel was destroyed in the earthquake, but has been completely rebuilt. It is a 19th century building, one of many with wrought iron balconies reminiscent of New Orleans that were originally built for coffee plantation owners. There are pictures of the devastation on their website. They wanted to show how committed they were to rebuilding.

Tomorrow is the 5th anniversary of the earthquake. I wonder if there will be any visible acknowledgement, in Jacmel or in Port au Prince.

It is about a month before Kanaval, as they spell it here. Jacmel's is supposed to be even better than Port au Prince. They have moved it up a week earlier than PP's, so they don't compete. I am hoping that there are workshops we can stop in at where they are making the masks and floats. We stumbled upon one once, in Trinidad, but were quickly shooed out when they saw us, because the crews and their designs are quite competitive.

More to come, when we find internet.