Getting to Know the Aldors

My hosting family was Monsieur and Madam Aldor and their 5 kids—3 of whom were actually theirs, and the other 2 belonging to a sister or cousin or something- it wasn’t totally clear.
The Aldors farm for a living, and have plants, crops, and fruit trees scattered throughout the hillside. They also have relatives scattered throughout the hillside- they told me that basically everyone in their little community is related. The family pointed out the papaya and mango trees on their property, and Monsieur let me swing his machete and plant some seeds.

One afternoon, Monsieur and one of his sons taught my fellow traveler, John, and me a card game. They pulled out this beat up, raggedy deck of cards (I have around 6 brand new decks of cards in a drawer at home) and John and I gamely tried to catch on to the rules despite us speaking English and our hosts speaking Creole. Every time I made some points, I slammed my cards down on the table like I had observed the son do, and this made for some great fun and laughter no matter what language we spoke.




Indeed, with dozens of pairs of children’s eyes watching me at all times, I found that really all you have to do is smile, pat them, and occasionally shake your booty in order for them to think you are the most hilarious person in the world. I don’t do a lot of booty shaking in San Francisco, but I figured give the people what they want. Here are some of my local followers.






Our last evening together, I showed the family two postcards of San Francisco- one of the Golden Gate Bridge, and one of the downtown buildings. They really liked the Golden Gate Bridge. I also showed them a photo of my family, and they wanted to know exactly who everyone in the photo was- sister, brother, mother, nephew, niece…..

After us visitors had showed off a few photos of our families, Madam brought out a treasured photo album, and we went through the album page by page, with Madam Aldor pointing out and naming every single relative in each and every photo. It took a while, but I couldn’t help but note that when an American pulls out photos to show strangers, they preface it with “oh, you don’t want to see all these photos… it’s boring.” Whereas, family is so important to Haitians that they were proud to identify everyone and happy to share their extended family with us.

Even after only a few days with them, I felt a real bond with the Aldors, and certainly a lot of admiration for them. Make no mistake about it- they are poor and they struggle to put food on the table. But they welcomed strangers into their home, they sacrificed their own comfort and probably some of their own meager resources to house and feed us, and hopefully they enjoyed us as much as we enjoyed them.

Living Like the Haitians

One of the best parts of my trip to Haiti was that I got to live with an average rural Haitian family for a few days. After arriving in the village, we had a little get-to-know you time at the school, and then three different hosting families took 2-3 of my traveling partners to their homes. After wandering down a dirt road and then up and down a pleasant dirt trail, we came to our family’s compound. It was composed of a couple of crudely constructed buildings, a cistern for collecting rain water, and a canopy made out of branches and dried banana leaves. It was on a small hill, with a terrific view of surrounding mountains covered with green trees and bushes. Chickens clucked nearby, and a welcome wagon of curious neighborhood children came over to line up and stare at us.

My host mother showed me how to take a bucket “shower” behind the house. After scooping up water and washing the day’s travel grime off of my body, I was ready to explore. The main house was a little bigger than my living room, had no windows, and was divided into four sections by walls, with doors of hanging fabric. Three of the four rooms had a bed in them. The whole family gave up their beds and slept together in a storage shed so that we 3 visitors could sleep comfortably. The 4th room had a small kitchen table and 4 chairs alongside a shelf storing all of their eating utensils.
After serving us a dinner of rice, beans, fish and fresh lime juice, we sat with the family under the canopy. I asked them what the family does on a typical evening. “We sit here and talk until the sun goes down. Then we get sleepy and go to bed because there is nothing else to do” replied Madam Aldor through our translator. The sun went down at 6:30pm so bed time was early. (Every morning of my time in Haiti, everyone was awake with the sun at 5am, and the place was totally hopping by 6am)

Lying in bed the first night, some relief from the sweltering heat eventually came with the arrival of some gentle pitter-pattering rain. I thought it soothing to hear the rain drops on the tin roof of the house, until a real downpour arrived causing a racket beyond anything you could imagine. The wind whipped around the house, the rain poured on the roof and rushed down the gutters directly into the cistern. We later found out that we had survived our first tropical depression, or a light cyclone. All I know is that you could be in the house screaming at the top of your lungs and no one would be able to hear you over the rain pounding on the tin roof. It’s been a long time since I’ve appreciated the fulfillment of a basic need like shelter.

The next morning it was still lightly raining, which the family decided was good reason to have one of the boys escort me up the hill to the outhouse with an umbrella. I’ve never been big on processional ceremonies to the toilet, but I let this one go. Furthermore, call me shallow and spoiled, but the outhouses and toilets were the one thing in Haiti that I couldn’t wait to be done with, and I truly missed Western plumbing. Here are outside/inside photos of the outhouse. It ain’t for the faint of heart.

Island Time- La Gonave

As those who got an A in geography know, Haiti and the Dominican Republic share an island, and on the Haiti side, to the northwest of Port au Prince, there is a smaller island called "La Gonave". I was told that the people from Port au Prince look down upon people from La Gonave, but I don't know why. It is picturesque, peaceful, rural, and it doesn't smell like automobile exhaust. Haitians probably consider it provincial, in the same way that I turn up my nose at Bakersfield.

Our group took a leisurely ferry ride over to the island in the bright sunshine, and a few days later took a speedboat back in order to avoid getting stuck on the island in a possible hurricane. But that's another story. For now, views of La Gonave:

Goudou Goudou

Many people have asked me what signs of the January 2010 earthquake are still present. Well, a year and a half later, there is quite a bit of physical as well as emotional rubble. Referring to the earthquake as “Goudou Goudou” (when you say this a bunch of times in a row, to the Haitians it mimics the sound of buildings shaking) everyone has an earthquake story.

People took care of each other and shared what they had. My host family had 17 people sleeping in their house for a while. This is a house the size of my living room.

One woman near my guest house is living in a tent in her yard because the roof on her small house is concrete and she is afraid of it falling on her in another earthquake.

Most people have seen this on the news, but the presidential palace is still in a shambles. I couldn’t help but think that a country like the U.S. would have bulldozed that eye-sore long ago. But on the other hand, some Haitians say that some bad shit went down in that presidential palace in the past, so it is fitting that it stay there as a symbol of evil getting its due.
In downtown Port au Prince there are some vacant lots where I was told demolished buildings had been cleared, but there is still loads of rubble EVERYWHERE. It was difficult to get photos of all that I saw because we were driving through and it seemed voyeuristic to stop and take photos of misfortune, but these are pretty typical scenes of the rubble:

The government has gone through and painted these signs on all the buildings- commercial and residential. If the paint is green it means the building is all right and you can go in it; red paint indicates that the building is off limits.


I know what earthquakes are like. In 1989 I lived in an unstable loft and was home when the Loma Prieta earthquake shook with a 7.1 on the Richter scale. It was scary. 63 people died in that earthquake.

The 2010 Haitian earthquake was 7.0 on the Richter scale. 316,000 people died. Even after seeing the rubble with my own eyes, I can't wrap my head around that number.

Beyond Borders- Transformational Travel

I have nothing but good things to say about the organization that arranged my travels. Beyond Borders’ Transformational Travel program is offered so that people can travel humbly to Haiti with the intentions of learning the culture and history, and getting to know the people and how they live (rather than relying upon CNN to feed us info). There is mutual give and take among Haitians and visitors, and they discourage the typical paternalistic approach where visitors come to Haiti with a wad of cash intent upon doing things for Haitians that the Haitians could very well do for themselves.

In additional to Transformational Travel, Beyond Borders has an apprenticeship program in which people live with a typical Haitian family, immersed in the culture and Creole for one year. Two of the people on my trip- Sarah and Courtney—were two months into their apprenticeship, and their Creole had excelled so rapidly that they joined our trip as our translators. These young women already knew plenty about Haitian culture and I admired their courage and sense of adventure in signing up for a year.

Knowing that Haitians are competent, innovative, passionate people, Beyond Borders partners with Haitian organizations and local individuals to tap their expertise, their relationships, and their street credibility. They raise awareness and organize movements around issues such as reproductive rights and violence against children. They were instrumental in helping families find each other in the aftermath of the earthquake. They support grassroots community actions and help “mobilize and unite” Haitians. And much more.

My group was in constant contact with amazing Haitian people who were knowledgeable and professional. We had language, culture, and history lessons from 4 young men- Manno, Yaya, Jean David, and Routson—who were patient and proud to share their country with us. In addition, our trip employed Haitian drivers, teachers, cooks, hosting families, boat captains, facilitators, artists, musicians—all to give us an accurate view of what Haiti is like. In addition to the privilege of being introduced to true Ayiti (Creole for Haiti), I was happy that some of the fees for my travels helped so many Haitians work an honest day and make a living sharing their expertise.

This is a photo of my travel group, along with the two apprentices and a couple of Beyond Borders staff.

First Glimpses of Haitian Reality

My first glimpse of Haitian reality was in the Miami airport. I smiled at an elderly Haitian woman who was dressed in her Sunday best for traveling with some family members. She looked frail yet adorable in her big white hat and fuchsia suit. When we came to the first escalator the woman stepped up to the moving staircase, froze long enough to back up a long line of people, and at the urging of her family members (who couldn’t help her because their arms were full of luggage) she awkwardly stepped onto the escalator and her feet flew out from under her. But she clutched the railing as if her life depended on it (which it did) and she fearfully watched for the moment when she was going to have to step off again.

I realized that most Haitians have never experienced escalators.

I watched helplessly while she disembarked awkwardly, and then there was another escalator with a repeat performance of stumbling and gravitational realities until finally some of us Westerners feared for her life and we tightly held onto her as she staggered on and off five different escalators. Touched by her bravery, yet shaken by the danger for this poor woman, I raced ahead to get on the airplane.

The flight to Port au Prince was uneventful, but as I completed customs paperwork on the plane I caught a second glimpse of Haitian reality. Seeing that I had a pen and that I was writing on my customs documents, the two Haitians sitting next to me said something in Creole, smiled shyly, and passed me their passports and blank customs documents.

They were illiterate.

So comparing my English documents with their French ones, I gamely did my best to fill in the correct blanks for them. And I sent up a quick prayer that they wouldn’t get detained at Immigration because I didn't study very hard in my high school French class.

Departure Gate

After a red-eye flight from San Francisco, I arrived in Miami at 5:00 am and wearily awaited my next flight at the departure gate. The waiting area was bustling with early morning activity. With a quick glance around the room I estimated that about 15% of my co-travelers were Haitian, and 85% white.

There were more than a few middle-aged men whom I imagined were managers or engineers of various NGO’s (Non-Governmental Organizations). With their gray wavy hair, clean blue jeans, t-shirts, and multi-pocketed khaki photographers’ vests they emitted an air of expertise. They rested their feet on brand new backpacks as they pecked away at battered laptops.

There were various teams of 8-12 people whom I guessed were church groups. One team wore bright yellow t-shirts that said “Love a Child Construction Team”, and another group wore blue t-shirts proclaiming the obvious “Here to Serve Haiti”. The team leaders bustled around in baseball caps, offering firm handshakes and peppering their conversations with questions such as “what’s the weather like?”, or “what are you working on?”, or “how is the drainage working now?” One by one the church groups migrated inconspicuously towards some quiet corners to clasp hands in a big circle and pray.