tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15421997775425946532024-02-06T18:50:14.055-08:00Transcendent MomentsMelanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.comBlogger138125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-59164901688297400992016-06-20T18:19:00.000-07:002016-06-20T18:19:58.684-07:00My History with GunsI used to own three guns. A 22 gauge pistol with a long barrel, a 38 special handgun, and a tiny 22 gauge “ladies” pistol with an ivory grip that I thought was adorable at the time. <br />
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I came into possession of these guns through my father, who was an avid hunter and NRA member. In my 20’s, someone very close to me suffered a violent attack from a stranger. My father was understandably devastated, and thus he did the best he could for me. Instead of standing helplessly by, he put force into my hands by buying me a 38 special. And some years later when my father passed away, I took two of his handguns as part of my inheritance.<br />
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I had good associations with those guns. I grew up in a household where there was a gun rack full of rifles on the family room wall. For a time my dad had a pickup truck with a gun rack, and when we went camping or hunting, there were rifles in the back window. <br />
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My whole family was very responsible with guns. As children, my brother and sister and I knew where the guns were in the house and in a million years it would never have occurred to us kids to ever touch the guns in our house, or to play with them. It was unthinkable. <br />
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We knew how to use guns. My dad took us far out into the country and taught us how to be safe with firearms. We practiced target-shooting with handguns, rifles, and shotguns. As soon as my dad handed us a gun, we knew how to immediately check to see if it was loaded. We never pointed guns at any people- not even our toy guns. When I was old enough to comprehend-- probably around 12 years old-- I took a gun safety course with adults. I passed and got a certificate. When my family went camping, my dad would go off hunting for the morning, my mom would read Good Housekeeping magazine by the campfire, and my brother and sister and I would roam around the campground with guns-- shooting into the woods. <br />
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In my baby photo album, there is a photo of me when I was two or three years old. I have blond hair, fat cheeks and a toothy smile as I stand in my father’s hunting boots-- the boots coming up to the top of my thighs. In my right hand I’m gripping a long rifle whose butt is on the floor and the barrel points towards the ceiling. I would post the picture, but honestly I don’t want that shit on the internet. <br />
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Guns were a part of my childhood. I know guns. I am not afraid of touching a gun. I greatly respect guns. <br />
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And this is going to piss off many of my gun-owning family members and friends…. but….. <b>I am not ok with guns anymore. </b><br />
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For many years I kept my three guns in the bottom of my underwear drawer. I stayed low-key about it and didn’t tell people I owned firearms. I lived alone, so there was no danger of someone getting into my guns. At the time I believed that since I lived alone, if anyone burst into my apartment with the intention to harm me, I could make a dash for my guns and handle the situation. <br />
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Then the Columbine shootings happened. This was 1999. <br />
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And a couple of years later Michael Moore released his documentary <i>Bowling for Columbine</i>. It made a big impression upon me. I remember talking on the phone with a good friend about the movie, and at some point I casually mentioned that I owned guns. There was extended silence on the other end of the line while my friend registered this new information. I don’t remember exactly what she said-- I don’t think it was judgmental-- but by the end of the conversation I had no idea why I still owned guns. <br />
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<b>So I got rid of them.</b> <br />
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And even though I know that there are responsible gun owners in the United States, I honestly want all guns gone from our country. All guns. Guns for protection and guns for hunting. <br />
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Columbine was 17 years ago, and according to a depressing info-graphic online (at motherjones.com) there have been at least 54 mass shootings in the USA since then. And the shootings just make Americans feel more afraid and make them clutch tighter to their guns. And legislators don’t do anything to reduce the conditions for mass shootings. Even today, four different gun control measures were voted down (2 by Democrats, 2 by Republicans). <br />
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Gun manufacturers and individual gun owners send money to the NRA so that they can continue selling and buying guns, and the NRA sends money to politicians so gun companies and individuals can keep selling and buying guns, thus politicians vote down gun controls so gun manufacturers and individuals can keep selling and buying guns. I’m a rational, common sense person, and I can tell that something is ridiculously wrong with this set-up. <br />
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I know people who are responsible, conscientious gun owners who keep guns for protection and mostly for hunting. They are loving, caring people. They really are. And I want to ask them if they would be willing to give up all their guns in an effort to transform America into a country where we don’t wake up to a mass shooting every few months, like it is Groundhog Day or something. Different day, same old bullshit. <br />
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I know gun owners are going to say, “If we give up our guns, only criminals are going to have guns, and none of us will be safe.” But I say I am ready to do something radical. And if someone bursts into my apartment some night with the intention to harm me, then I’ll put up a fight with scissors and a chef’s knife and scratching and biting, and maybe I will even get killed by their gun. <br />
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But I don’t care. The right to own a gun is not sacrosanct anymore. Having more guns doesn’t make our country safer. All guns have to go. I got rid of mine. <br />
Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-222759751187705502013-10-30T20:58:00.000-07:002013-10-30T20:58:04.248-07:00Sacred JourneyIn September of this year I began participation in a program called <a href="http://www.mercy-center.org/PDFs/SD/2014-15_SacredJourney_Brochure.pdf">Sacred Journey</a>, hosted and facilitated by the <a href="http://www.mercy-center.org/index.html">Mercy Center</a> in Burlingame. <br />
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The name of the program is kind of an insider’s joke between my Maker and I because <i>The Sacred Journey </i>is the title of an autobiographical book by my favorite author Frederick Buechner. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53vaKm7i7VrXhxuUDfECVbP7I_Vbl-IFltZS_u4ykmpgRM1iIo-iOQu2ASpOV7qrRgeaXNfMjUVQrPEXEqSXxnpn8ubnj2_Z3ywEPoe2kavvJOVKUkq6c63SQRsTZx2GdhwCs3-QmRTg4/s1600/IMG_5872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53vaKm7i7VrXhxuUDfECVbP7I_Vbl-IFltZS_u4ykmpgRM1iIo-iOQu2ASpOV7qrRgeaXNfMjUVQrPEXEqSXxnpn8ubnj2_Z3ywEPoe2kavvJOVKUkq6c63SQRsTZx2GdhwCs3-QmRTg4/s200/IMG_5872.JPG" /></a></div>In Buechner’s introduction he admits that as he gets older (he was 50 when he wrote this, and is well into his 70’s by now) he nostalgically sorts through old letters and photographs to “<i>look back on my life as a whole more</i>.” <br />
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He holds out the possibility that “…<i>you may in the privacy of the heart take out the album of your own life and search it for the people and places you have loved and learned from yourself, and for those moments in the past—many of them half forgotten—through which you glimpsed, however dimly and fleetingly, <b>the sacredness of your own journey</b></i>.”<br />
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I’m at the age where I have black and white baby pictures, full-color photos from childhood and young adulthood, and digital photos for the rest. So “taking out the album of [my] life” is a bit of a pain in the neck. <br />
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But the change in technology signifies the marching on of time. And I wouldn’t have understood this in my twenties, or my thirties, but as I push fifty I have the advantage of life experience. The advantage of perspective. <br />
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And with that perspective, when I am at Ocean Beach just before twilight, and there is a flaming sunset before me and a warm bonfire and laughing friends behind me, I recognize the sacredness. And when I have a deep heart-to-heart talk with a friend in which she is really hearing me and I am truly tracking with her, I recognize the sacredness. And when I read the New York Times on Sunday morning with Bach in the background, and suddenly “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” sounds like something I’ve never heard before, I recognize the sacredness. <br />
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Participating in this program is my attempt to recognize and honor the sacredness of my spiritual journey- which thankfully encompasses Ocean Beach, intimate friendship, Bach, and probably any number of things that will take me delightfully by surprise. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ycpJWfgEtbPd2rnYa_ZdLfwNEDvQYKHyCMGGPPcYLVt8hoGQF-ChOHKRo1m6KMm7ttQE83IoJ1gtnUF71LHg5FF4CCFC45NhHA1fwsBx8z-uJbHm4mRMeowkp8oUy9JZLE2UECrPGqTk/s1600/votives+4+copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ycpJWfgEtbPd2rnYa_ZdLfwNEDvQYKHyCMGGPPcYLVt8hoGQF-ChOHKRo1m6KMm7ttQE83IoJ1gtnUF71LHg5FF4CCFC45NhHA1fwsBx8z-uJbHm4mRMeowkp8oUy9JZLE2UECrPGqTk/s320/votives+4+copy.JPG" /></a></div>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-60052726957918834062012-10-01T20:47:00.000-07:002012-10-01T20:47:59.130-07:00The Five Senses of Pillar Point, Princeton CAInspired by a warm, sunny Autumn day (the kind Californians brag about) and armed with the keys to a rental car, I drove south on Highway 1 for a late afternoon adventure. I stopped at the Pillar Point Harbor in Princeton, just north of Half Moon Bay, and savored the scene on the docks as fishermen sold grateful customers their fresh-caught fish straight off their boats.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_qNJG3VuMGS0DLGDNVmgcs22eJXeqvWgBHZ6TdjnL54H8EBdATFMHo9HF51qqa0GcADFaJmJAdI3iu3XOues-q8Re_kkyqNUiWLBLQfSDUTMt66pR-TXS4r6cS8FUneIZGRoR5ZdTbnkN/s1600/IMG_4974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="180" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_qNJG3VuMGS0DLGDNVmgcs22eJXeqvWgBHZ6TdjnL54H8EBdATFMHo9HF51qqa0GcADFaJmJAdI3iu3XOues-q8Re_kkyqNUiWLBLQfSDUTMt66pR-TXS4r6cS8FUneIZGRoR5ZdTbnkN/s320/IMG_4974.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<b>I SAW: </b> <br />
White and blue painted fishing boats trimmed with orange rust; three sea lions slipping through the water; a sea otter swimming playful circles around a white buoy;<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7kJu-vLAbSEtBYEYm_56x697sjJAUjAL6YCyhUB2qo8SHuQwepRdUn1ovqAHulBosaUeqGflQ3BuJXjJ1SuJT8uGZSvBAzbOHVl9RzXeJdaBV8zn4X4sGMLHPbHOAJR8VNnECyGIAEQO/s1600/IMG_4944.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7kJu-vLAbSEtBYEYm_56x697sjJAUjAL6YCyhUB2qo8SHuQwepRdUn1ovqAHulBosaUeqGflQ3BuJXjJ1SuJT8uGZSvBAzbOHVl9RzXeJdaBV8zn4X4sGMLHPbHOAJR8VNnECyGIAEQO/s400/IMG_4944.JPG" /></a></div><br />
a clam spitting streams of water out of the sand in rhythm with incoming and outgoing waves; <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9oO87ZyQbJZ_P_XOG64jmckD4UqRpNDKbODCv87vJQs4b_TnZFfjzOpwLRpdeWGSOrW-w05opYnxCfUxw6HGX7cKCzxWmVSQ8IZKJnO9-j5Q8rZ6Bquzh7bqCF8PiIxUU5CwP4i1sJmCK/s1600/IMG_4958.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="180" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9oO87ZyQbJZ_P_XOG64jmckD4UqRpNDKbODCv87vJQs4b_TnZFfjzOpwLRpdeWGSOrW-w05opYnxCfUxw6HGX7cKCzxWmVSQ8IZKJnO9-j5Q8rZ6Bquzh7bqCF8PiIxUU5CwP4i1sJmCK/s320/IMG_4958.JPG" /></a></div><br />
a cheerful, bright yellow boat named "Sunshine". <br />
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I SMELLED:</b> <br />
Seagull guano; salty seaweed; chunks of cod deep-frying in rice oil. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMgbVyrOVUA_3DhCfQbNfB-Si7COcajuqd33Mcb3z4yiWCUoqL5a85rq4hPJ8a8lbIMQ4yfTWcYD_JLLW8vpG7n9zhFkZETiAs_rMdMJ3qyCV3snL-U88T-zX5FKu8cBLgh1tZNOOAWf2/s1600/IMG_4977.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMgbVyrOVUA_3DhCfQbNfB-Si7COcajuqd33Mcb3z4yiWCUoqL5a85rq4hPJ8a8lbIMQ4yfTWcYD_JLLW8vpG7n9zhFkZETiAs_rMdMJ3qyCV3snL-U88T-zX5FKu8cBLgh1tZNOOAWf2/s200/IMG_4977.JPG" /></a></div><b>I TASTED:</b><br />
Salty, creamy chowder loaded with chewy clams, Diet Coke slurped on the beach at sunset; <br />
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peppermint, molasses, and green apple salt water taffy.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFisY3ezNChYIZ1ctnoMFogOsdGYRKiMwBECtBalRzKITWgILGGf5_rQoYRq8wTzor4avr7RHC5-cX72VpcS-rF32cBtvFlLY2BlJ22k9gFkt9qYyNGpRsd-h6C6OfmyvX8h0V-rw1vvGb/s1600/IMG_4986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="180" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFisY3ezNChYIZ1ctnoMFogOsdGYRKiMwBECtBalRzKITWgILGGf5_rQoYRq8wTzor4avr7RHC5-cX72VpcS-rF32cBtvFlLY2BlJ22k9gFkt9qYyNGpRsd-h6C6OfmyvX8h0V-rw1vvGb/s320/IMG_4986.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<b>I HEARD: </b><br />
Seagulls squawking for scraps of bread; customers and fishermen haggling for best fish prices; small recreational planes landing at the nearby airport; boats signaling their arrival in the harbor with their deep horns; sea birds dragging their feet in the water as they took off flying; <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvlbL72vx7pNw-hFq1A7G01-cmHSKYwjWwgPWIiGlPj_TXDxJKf6LK0JF8MoHczkwpRSSkPYWH445TnIPDKis0fsXDRXEYzix9UiRj31cSuOrCUquT-SaHpH2aviuGdadeGg20PGq97i16/s1600/IMG_4976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvlbL72vx7pNw-hFq1A7G01-cmHSKYwjWwgPWIiGlPj_TXDxJKf6LK0JF8MoHczkwpRSSkPYWH445TnIPDKis0fsXDRXEYzix9UiRj31cSuOrCUquT-SaHpH2aviuGdadeGg20PGq97i16/s320/IMG_4976.JPG" /></a></div><br />
17 pound frozen tunas thudding against a metal scale; hoses spraying salt water off of decks; puttering boat motors; fishermen warning each other of the whereabouts of the Fish and Game warden. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ZA9jkM_yVGL6pMgzpQp7-fq-rQDq7MJBqyTimYyCpJLVAfy0GWmw6H80txz-ySCdXpx3ygX-3CVujNRNg1a7LKb8VjF_TRkYXvdiOiY1V8IZc1ArUNyl9ulTX2Xn_wID7TxRAgC9Rn3h/s1600/IMG_4970.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ZA9jkM_yVGL6pMgzpQp7-fq-rQDq7MJBqyTimYyCpJLVAfy0GWmw6H80txz-ySCdXpx3ygX-3CVujNRNg1a7LKb8VjF_TRkYXvdiOiY1V8IZc1ArUNyl9ulTX2Xn_wID7TxRAgC9Rn3h/s320/IMG_4970.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<b>I TOUCHED:</b><br />
Weathered wooden railings held together with rusty nails; woven wire crab traps; rough barnacles clinging to dock pillars; smooth ahi tuna steaks resting on crushed ice; ragged ropes. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRgQZq7CgCvuVAtdpTrclvcDcxQ3KvrsfcGdY0IFxTy70HaQjlXAUtar-IJHLlNMx3X8I8-6Zj23O1DceaubJjirfWguscViAL3j_jBPAHu7Q0eJCaGAAhQnTAvmUuzmVApsD8AOYEywkT/s1600/IMG_4967.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRgQZq7CgCvuVAtdpTrclvcDcxQ3KvrsfcGdY0IFxTy70HaQjlXAUtar-IJHLlNMx3X8I8-6Zj23O1DceaubJjirfWguscViAL3j_jBPAHu7Q0eJCaGAAhQnTAvmUuzmVApsD8AOYEywkT/s400/IMG_4967.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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For other Five Senses blog posts, see:<br />
<a href="http://transcendentmoments.blogspot.com/2011/08/five-senses-of-pescadero.html">Five Senses of Pescadero</a><br />
<a href="http://transcendentmoments.blogspot.com/2011/07/five-senses-of-haiti.html">Five Senses of Haiti</a><br />
<a href="http://transcendentmoments.blogspot.com/2010/07/five-senses-of-san-franciscos-presidio.html">Five Senses of San Francisco's Presidio</a><br />
<a href="http://transcendentmoments.blogspot.com/2010/05/five-senses-of-san-franciscos-chinatown.html">Five Senses of Chinatown</a><br />
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Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-50662586745002162832012-06-17T18:56:00.000-07:002012-06-17T18:56:38.129-07:00The Soul of Money<i>Every 6 weeks or so, <a href="http://www.reimagine.org/">ReIMAGINE</a> has been hosting "conversations" on various provocative topics, where designated people share their stories, then there is facilitated discussion and more sharing from the people who attend the conversation. I shared this story about money a few weeks ago. </i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSr2YlPPMnT35Rw9UCrPObhyphenhyphen51_cS86eytmpmQ_N60qTW9hGTCLYwGttLQovcTceMeTWAnIYv-JnOTNztvcwQWXv4_VaDIoj-p5o1YB96oMuI80YRPrq7fKoakvyDwLAewE3M42GxUy9Hk/s1600/10+dollar+bill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSr2YlPPMnT35Rw9UCrPObhyphenhyphen51_cS86eytmpmQ_N60qTW9hGTCLYwGttLQovcTceMeTWAnIYv-JnOTNztvcwQWXv4_VaDIoj-p5o1YB96oMuI80YRPrq7fKoakvyDwLAewE3M42GxUy9Hk/s320/10+dollar+bill.JPG" /></a><br />
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My father was a big spender and my mother doesn’t really like to part with money. While my dad’s garage was filled with every power tool imaginable, and loads of fishing equipment surrounding a glittering fishing boat, my mom’s only indulgence was an occasional box of See’s candy. So my parents occasionally argued about money. <br />
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But something they did agree upon was that every Saturday night a check sat on the kitchen counter so no one would forget it the next morning on the way to church. It was a 10% tithe. And it’s weekly presence made an indelible impression upon me. <br />
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In my teens and twenties, I was like most people, earning money as I was able and stocking my cupboards with Top Ramen. But when I turned 30, something clicked and all of a sudden I felt compelled to learn what stocks and bonds and mutual funds and IRA’s and dividends were. Excited about this new phase of my life finances, I bought a few investment books and got myself educated. And thus I began to allocate money towards something else besides rent, food, and fun money. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqoIniOzk1Rc1UYppbgTjl63M7suIb15q_r7l-ovbBDCOd4n71NNJWgvewU5RpzB5ssiIy1-E1q7ph81I7Z_UxDr6nWfLTsv4WHVfRlj0HgWdqhNp9WoN9kxkZJknFZxC7fmnR09zx50SC/s1600/Money+Jar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqoIniOzk1Rc1UYppbgTjl63M7suIb15q_r7l-ovbBDCOd4n71NNJWgvewU5RpzB5ssiIy1-E1q7ph81I7Z_UxDr6nWfLTsv4WHVfRlj0HgWdqhNp9WoN9kxkZJknFZxC7fmnR09zx50SC/s200/Money+Jar.JPG" /></a>Once I got a little more established in my career and had consistent paychecks, and once college loans and my first car were paid for, this was when I got more intentional in regards to my money. I stashed money like a squirrel storing nuts for winter. At first I did this for me. I’d get extra jobs and set aside all those earnings for travel adventures. But eventually I started squirreling away money for other people. Like a college fund for my niece. Or I would make what I considered sacrifices in order to share more of my money with the poor. For example, I’d wash my clothes at the Laundromat and instead of drying my clothes there, I’d hang them all over my apartment and put the $1.50 or so that I had saved into my “help the poor” jar. Or if I had a craving for ice cream or something, I’d pass it up and put the money into my “help the poor” jar, and then every so often I would empty the jar and write a check to the San Francisco Food Bank. <br />
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Of course, I’m well aware that this is a luxury- to be able to play games with money. There are billions of people making <i>real</i> sacrifices, like “do I feed my family this week, or buy shoes for my one kid who is in school, and whom I hope will pull our entire family out of poverty someday”? So in a more drastic attempt to better identify with the poor, a few years ago I conducted an experiment. Every year ReIMAGINE hosts a workshop called Experiments in Truth. In this workshop, we try to choose “experiments” in which we abstain from or engage in something for 40 days, just to see the effect it has upon our spiritual lives. The first year I did it, my main experiment was to live on $1.50 a day, because a few billion people in the world live on $1.50 a day, and I wanted to better identify with them. <br />
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So for 40 days I lived on $1.50 a day, and it was such a tremendous experience that the next year I lived on $1 a day for 40 days and I <a href="http://transcendentmoments.blogspot.com/2009/03/my-main-experiment.html">blogged about it</a>. And I would say that my most significant learnings from those experiments were around “entitlement”. I better recognize how “entitled” I feel to buy things, or to indulge in luxuries, rationalizing that “I work hard, and “I deserve them”. I even feel entitled to take risks in regards to my jobs and finances because let’s face it—I have a handful of friends I could always stay with, and my family will always be my safety net. <br />
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In fact, one thing I really like about my family is that we pass around money like it is a hot potato. Last year—due to the bad economy—I lost a bunch of contracting jobs and made less money than I’ve made in 15 years. Knowing this, my mother, sister, aunt, uncle all sent me either monthly or occasional checks to help me make ends meet. At the same time, my sister is a single mother, a State employee who in the past few years has been put on furlough and thus loses significant income. So family members all sent her money to get by. Sometimes I would be mailing my sister a check while a check from my sister would arrive in the mail and I would think about how ridiculous it was that we were exchanging checks and that we should just call it even, but of course, it was the act of giving that turned out to be so important and we wouldn’t change that for the world. <br />
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Last year, with very little money in my bank account, I was trying desperately to figure out a better, more consistent way of earning money that would meet my financial needs as well as my desire to do meaningful work in the world. Talking to a friend about it, I presented my dilemma of whether or not to take a job I didn’t want—just for the money—or to wait it out and see if I could land work that had more meaning for me. She pointed something out that is currently redefining my relationship with money and with God. “It seems that for many years you’ve pretty precariously pieced together jobs and work “ she said, “and God has always provided for you. <b>Relying on God’s provision is your thing.</b>” My heart and spirit rang “ding ding ding!”. Relying on God’s provision is my thing. That statement resonates with me, so I’m going to keep rolling with it. <br />
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And since God is game, I’m game too. Like my parents, I've kept up a 10% tithe all my life, but some years ago I decided to up the ante. I’m attempting to increase my tithe by 1% every year, because I think it would be really cool to eventually be giving away 20%, 30%, or even 50% of my income if I live that long. And sometimes I lament that it is taking too long to only increase 1% a year, so I want to ratchet it up to 2%- and that really challenges my faith in God’s provision, because as a contractor, I never know exactly where and when my paychecks are coming. <br />
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And honestly, that uncertainty has made me cling a little tighter when I do have money. And depending on which day you catch me, I either say I am being responsible with my money, or I’ll more honestly admit that I am taking my provision into my own hands instead of trusting my Provider. Which one is true? One of them? Neither? Both? To be totally honest, I often wonder what it would be like to give away my entire net worth and start over, as a grand Experiment in Truth. When I’ve brought this up at any church or faith community I’ve been involved with, people squirm like crazy, clear their throat and say “well, God wants us to be responsible with our money and possessions” or “God gives us things and our jobs is to be good stewards of it”—and they could be right. But I suspect that what they also mean is “take your terrifying ideas and get the hell out!” And yes, it is terrifying, but you never know- I might take God up on that crazy idea someday, because hey, God’s provision is my thing!<br />Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-4547894080755361832011-10-27T00:45:00.000-07:002011-10-27T00:56:45.187-07:00Occupy SF- Who Was ThereYoung men wearing flannel shirts and dark hoodies sat on their skateboards in a circle on the lawn in the middle of camp. <br /><br />TV reporters pointed cameras and shoved microphones into the faces of the weirdest people they could find and prompted them to say inevitably outrageous things. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACzB-4bExl1T45CYAWwoVtaZ870_KO-_uVJp5hyNpbLdju4hXDp7k0ri3Pcr8_VK7iyzDXY3FWphoq41N5tawy6HVffrzu8u_5F0P37f8jrGqoP5tHrxoJEu8NqjYxa2rVbycmhsdSI1u/s1600/IMG_4504.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACzB-4bExl1T45CYAWwoVtaZ870_KO-_uVJp5hyNpbLdju4hXDp7k0ri3Pcr8_VK7iyzDXY3FWphoq41N5tawy6HVffrzu8u_5F0P37f8jrGqoP5tHrxoJEu8NqjYxa2rVbycmhsdSI1u/s320/IMG_4504.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668075666777001586" /></a><br />Legal volunteers wandered the camp making sure everyone had the phone number of the legal hotline. I scribbled the number on my hand just in case the police rushed in and I got swept up with the people being arrested. <br /><br />A pack of drag queens sashayed by lisping “drag queens for social justice”. <br /><br />An enthusiastic guitar and mandolin duo entertained the crowd by singing “All you fascists are bound to lose!” to a cheerful melody. <br /><br />Former City Supervisor Aaron Peskin sat on the ground linking arms with others who were willing to get arrested tonight. Mayoral candidates Leland Yee and John Avalos were also present, often with digital recorders shoved in their faces seeking saucy sound bytes. <br /><br />Gray-haired Boomers wearing Land’s End fleece jackets marched in a circle and reminisced about past marches, actions, and demonstrations. <br /><br />Garden variety San Francisco hippies huddled together pinching joints between their thumb and forefinger. <br /><br />Drunken homeless people plopped down to sleep smack-dab in the middle of all the milling crowds, probably wondering what the hell all the noise was about. <br /><br />Canine occupiers were well represented. Two puppies wrestled in the center of camp, and on the outskirts a kitten on a leash ignored the action long enough to lick herself a nice bath.<br /><br />Young people clutched cell phones, social networking at lightning speed with blurred thumbs. <br /><br />Earnest social justice and activist leaders prepped crowds of people on the north and south ends of camp. “Mic check” one of them would yell. And the crowd repeated “MIC CHECK”. Then a series of staccato instructions would ensue—one sentence at a time—while the crowd repeated each sentence. “We are going to role play.” WE ARE GOING TO ROLE PLAY. “When the police come we will form 3 rows”. WHEN THE POLICE COME WE WILL FORM 3 ROWS. (you get the idea) “The first row will be seated.” “The second row will be kneeling behind them.” “The third row will be standing.” <br /><br />We were instructed that if you were willing to get arrested tonight you should be a part of the first row sitting in front of the camp. Those who weren’t willing to get arrested were instructed to stand on the sidewalks on the sides of the camp and alternate between two chants: “The-whole-world-is-watching” and “They-may-be-violent-but-we-are-nonviolent”. And as a final instruction, the activists told us “the police will succeed if they raid the camp tonight. So when we are dispersed, reconvene tomorrow at noon in front of 101 Market Street.” <br /><br />There’s a lot of smart, brave, committed people at that camp. I’m going to bed hoping that my prayers made a difference for those who may be arrested or injured tonight.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zcg2MbNJooc9mnxI7L4M5l8UoJm71-FqJGu5EuxAyR4zxV9rly18qOpmmgmZP4-apagac_6FUOasYbVUtg__SBO98RJ7F1cH8ceXCyXgSUrhp4AMbewe8fDN5hUa3Q6zJVrMRZ_olU-I/s1600/medical+tent+Occupy+SF.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zcg2MbNJooc9mnxI7L4M5l8UoJm71-FqJGu5EuxAyR4zxV9rly18qOpmmgmZP4-apagac_6FUOasYbVUtg__SBO98RJ7F1cH8ceXCyXgSUrhp4AMbewe8fDN5hUa3Q6zJVrMRZ_olU-I/s320/medical+tent+Occupy+SF.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668076783934082242" /></a>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-60867894684721691362011-10-27T00:35:00.000-07:002011-10-27T00:45:00.842-07:00Occupy SF- Walking Laps Around the Camp<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6loIqM7gDY7zVYQ8fWgFvs3prMVnCW_-QLSm22CkE3Ix2CQDi9bKcRIbOGx-tUaggOOSuZWvBILcvDaJwxEyIiRK5ptVE1Bz2B5rASQiUThMYbK-xpYENQCwtqErcnreM_W4JdJcjUvh/s1600/Occupy+SF.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6loIqM7gDY7zVYQ8fWgFvs3prMVnCW_-QLSm22CkE3Ix2CQDi9bKcRIbOGx-tUaggOOSuZWvBILcvDaJwxEyIiRK5ptVE1Bz2B5rASQiUThMYbK-xpYENQCwtqErcnreM_W4JdJcjUvh/s400/Occupy+SF.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668073239498983314" /></a><br />Arriving at Occupy SF at 9pm I got it in my head to walk seven laps around the camp and pray for all the people who may very well be subjected to violence or jail tonight should the rumors about a police raid turn out to be true. Seven is such a nice sacred number, and besides, walking seven times around Jericho seemed to work (Joshua 6). <br /><br />So I strolled the walkways, ramps, make-shift highways and byways through the camp at Justin Herman Plaza, towered on different sides by the Ferry Building and the Embarcadero Center. <br /><br />First thing I noticed is that the camp is clean and tidy. I don’t know what the SF Dept of Health was looking at this week because I didn’t see any vomit, feces, or really any trash at all except for two empty Peets cups with tea bags hanging off the sides. Scattered on cement walls around the perimeter of camp are lots of black glossy buckets with neatly printed signs labeled “cigarette butts”. In one corner of the camp there are 4 porta-potties and a sink. And recycling bins are located throughout the camp. <br /><br />The camp is organized. There are a variety of tents and some structures of dubious construction made out of tarps. A couple of doors rest horizontally on crates to form low communal dining tables. There is a lost and found area. Someone is even paying attention to decorating because carved pumpkins that would make Martha Stewart proud are scattered throughout camp. There are also art displays, and feathers hanging from overhead strings. <br /><br />Lest an occupier get bored and stir up trouble, the camp appears to have an active social calendar with various activities to keep occupiers occupied. One tent advertised “Free Massages Here.” I saw a sign informing occupiers of an upcoming “Paper Mache Committee Meeting”. They have formed a committee for paper mache! Taped to a lamp post was a poster board “Sign Up To Teach a Class” which advertised the following upcoming classes:<br />o The military industrial complex<br />o Anarchism theory<br />o Book reader circle- The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein<br />o And my personal favorite, although I have no idea what it means: “Workshop and group discussion on the society of the spectacle, commodity fetishism, and the situationist international.” (if anyone understands that, let me know)<br /><br />There is a large drum circle tent, where the rhythmic faithful are pounding out beats for the cause. A medical tent stands in the southwest corner of the camp, where volunteers ripped strips of gauze and gave instructions for people to tie them over their mouths and noses should they be confronted with pepper spray. <br /><br />My favorite sign was “Standing for a More Just, Moral America”- probably because it echos my beliefs and explains why I was there to pray for the camp. A more just and moral America is something that people of faith have been desiring for many months and years- long before the switch was flipped on the first megaphone at Occupy Wall Street.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-15063381886837238232011-08-02T20:14:00.000-07:002011-08-02T20:22:38.386-07:00The Five Senses of PescaderoWhile driving down the coast from San Francisco to Pescadero…<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLZamJbcNaUPzO6Y-6O6lrS9yq3KMYaa0EbpapGpqzJvkF5I9G8YqpmBcQh4wF3m9VyOYhLPUrcXM58LwizmIielRzlhVj9fcxhVdBLvICtzUEiA6FEbz1bSLIm-MQ1fFcsZtORa4zEdEA/s1600/wildflowers.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLZamJbcNaUPzO6Y-6O6lrS9yq3KMYaa0EbpapGpqzJvkF5I9G8YqpmBcQh4wF3m9VyOYhLPUrcXM58LwizmIielRzlhVj9fcxhVdBLvICtzUEiA6FEbz1bSLIm-MQ1fFcsZtORa4zEdEA/s320/wildflowers.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636464234678056402" /></a><strong>I SAW:</strong><br />Skinny tow-headed teenagers lugging surfboards to the beach; pelicans flying in formation; bicyclists hugging the shoulder of the road; bright yellow kayaks in the harbor; a tall blue heron hunting for lunch; driftwood forts constructed on sand; fat lizards sunning on driftwood; hovering Red-Tail Hawks, coyote scat, coastal wildflowers.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><br />I SMELLED:</strong><br />Coastal sage; fennel; eucalyptus trees; salt water marsh; beach BBQ’s; fresh baked cinnamon bread. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWQBwX8d_m4-G42gpO2RiXFD8WrBK_lXA98UtjzCOIp4dNEykPdtazfCzsOMWjsfgnVvXvuc7sLbVSlTplGOy0pfi0fyDzAKf5vG5zKKrGjiKy-wI9TSm44iRYtSPrAREPlFe6tPc0Fdu/s1600/river+into+ocean.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWQBwX8d_m4-G42gpO2RiXFD8WrBK_lXA98UtjzCOIp4dNEykPdtazfCzsOMWjsfgnVvXvuc7sLbVSlTplGOy0pfi0fyDzAKf5vG5zKKrGjiKy-wI9TSm44iRYtSPrAREPlFe6tPc0Fdu/s320/river+into+ocean.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636463026815455650" /></a><br /><strong>I TASTED:</strong><br />Cream of artichoke soup; crusty sourdough bread; olallieberries fresh off the bush; succulent tender flounder sandwich; peach-apricot jam. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6vtBwMK-bToLxnytW3g-sMMMqFTiAXP9rDn9bkHK0MEU3-Ud1u4l0-aETJ4MWVLL9-0tNN5cqnwy1kgVPA5f5w0UPmbfAHNYGtGmhZgRpVytgemO2NA7NCPgVhgc4yvlar8rzRyFiy1O/s1600/ArtichokeSoup.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6vtBwMK-bToLxnytW3g-sMMMqFTiAXP9rDn9bkHK0MEU3-Ud1u4l0-aETJ4MWVLL9-0tNN5cqnwy1kgVPA5f5w0UPmbfAHNYGtGmhZgRpVytgemO2NA7NCPgVhgc4yvlar8rzRyFiy1O/s320/ArtichokeSoup.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636463125853605714" /></a><br /><strong>I TOUCHED:</strong><br />Sun-dried crab legs; empty snail shells cast away by satiated sea birds; gray feathers; hot sand; a bench made out of driftwood; Indian Paintbrush flowers; thorns on berry bushes.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pFthdyESX2RMu8SdNkRbEntT-BdNO3lpFTy4AvrfQ0G0pulRJZHTe2AYuPf12Zef1Tb9hfPHJ5fCFJQPbrKWgZt3fIP6YsYJz2pqAQxyjoPeEGrx4fGkEkcqS7e4Zan77LY-7PP1sn-a/s1600/shells.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pFthdyESX2RMu8SdNkRbEntT-BdNO3lpFTy4AvrfQ0G0pulRJZHTe2AYuPf12Zef1Tb9hfPHJ5fCFJQPbrKWgZt3fIP6YsYJz2pqAQxyjoPeEGrx4fGkEkcqS7e4Zan77LY-7PP1sn-a/s320/shells.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636463860725796866" /></a><br /><strong>I HEARD:</strong><br />Scurrying lizards; Jethro Tull singing “Thick as a Brick”; elephant seals barking; farm workers hoeing around plants; seagulls squawking their warnings; waves crashing through a natural bridge in the rock. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHVcWJY3qJuOwexViVBXm8sR-V48-mglp4sOo3TRaXXS0U_JLUsKnMa9vrJi-eA0JGycg8iizdmGf8GQWd1jNEhFrTqdvzkkRMUV8q99ucnCCGwuSk47wBnaE-jnRXu9K2v2aZI0NAVbC/s1600/natural+bridge.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHVcWJY3qJuOwexViVBXm8sR-V48-mglp4sOo3TRaXXS0U_JLUsKnMa9vrJi-eA0JGycg8iizdmGf8GQWd1jNEhFrTqdvzkkRMUV8q99ucnCCGwuSk47wBnaE-jnRXu9K2v2aZI0NAVbC/s320/natural+bridge.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636463497416485970" /></a>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-6753574309310244212011-08-02T19:49:00.000-07:002011-08-02T20:13:37.090-07:00Road Trip to PescaderoAs a city-dweller without an automobile, I often yearn for the freedom of open roads and a day-long adventure that will supply me with a steady stream of simple pleasures. So on a recent Friday I gassed up a borrowed car, pressed the radio buttons to a classic rock station, and shrieked to Styx’s “Come Sail Away” as I put the car into gear. <em>“I thought that they were angels but to my surprise, they climbed aboard their star ship and headed for the skies….”</em> 70's rock and roll was so dramatic. With the Pacific Ocean on my right, and wildflower-dotted hills on my left, I headed south on coastal Highway One past small beach towns with pleasant names like Pacifica, Moss Beach, Montara, El Granada. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTf7HQISVFDAhnKTokZnd_tO2QzGyY_4OV-TjS82oP1mxwKavuxmwTK0_jPe8_9bzYCLm_nn2i9M0K8aKdciU1OpzOmrKprZVR2HAnGgGZguKVxmHbwvVJhgj9hvXlGwA8j4H12YaYZteX/s1600/marsh.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTf7HQISVFDAhnKTokZnd_tO2QzGyY_4OV-TjS82oP1mxwKavuxmwTK0_jPe8_9bzYCLm_nn2i9M0K8aKdciU1OpzOmrKprZVR2HAnGgGZguKVxmHbwvVJhgj9hvXlGwA8j4H12YaYZteX/s320/marsh.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636456595595786514" /></a>After an hour of driving, my legs needed stretching so I pulled over to a parking lot to explore the Pescadero Marsh Preserve- an area I have passed on multiple occasions but haven’t taken the time to explore. The marsh is a low wetland of brackish water, which I learned is a mix of salt and fresh water. Over 68 species of birds live in the marsh, but they must get a kick out of giving birdwatchers a run for their money because all I could see with my binoculars were white herons and blue herons (which I can see in Golden Gate Park five minutes from my apartment). <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />While the marsh didn’t have much action (that I could see), it was peaceful and pretty with a winding channel of water meandering through the grasses and reeds. A larger river curved its way around sand dunes and fed into the ocean. Seagulls and other sea birds stood in groups on the river bank, facing the same way and squawking like banshees whenever anyone or anything approached them. Driftwood of all shapes and sizes was scattered on the sandy river banks, and some enterprising explorers had built simple driftwood forts large enough for 2 people to sleep in. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs_M0sR_K0rKix107qwbZ1R9aKJYdjUYZay1X1ktIH_sumkQ9y6LfCElNSkVWoXkwGAY5vKNI40h-sSqIEJtHD9vQdCwjpRViW4xFGemcKQIXws7vAbibssghbYz12zFld7vnWF1Uv-iqH/s1600/fort.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs_M0sR_K0rKix107qwbZ1R9aKJYdjUYZay1X1ktIH_sumkQ9y6LfCElNSkVWoXkwGAY5vKNI40h-sSqIEJtHD9vQdCwjpRViW4xFGemcKQIXws7vAbibssghbYz12zFld7vnWF1Uv-iqH/s320/fort.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636456818027375426" /></a><br />After hiking through the wetlands and tiring of the uneventful bird watching, I got in the car and headed further south. Fields of artichokes stood between the road and the sea and it was visions of artichokes that motivated me to turn left onto the road that leads to the small town of Pescadero. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLgzXvuLmmoa_L3OPfFynNG9g4wm0DnA6hDnlM3SzXgsBnfkAVuUzV77sukmsV3nAKLCSPhICeRRsoTw86jPuLkZ3zQZfyr9MADpMc_qBsQUvHBYyyw9frtZcUF1XZEVXJHv9_V8d8IEI/s1600/artichoke.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLgzXvuLmmoa_L3OPfFynNG9g4wm0DnA6hDnlM3SzXgsBnfkAVuUzV77sukmsV3nAKLCSPhICeRRsoTw86jPuLkZ3zQZfyr9MADpMc_qBsQUvHBYyyw9frtZcUF1XZEVXJHv9_V8d8IEI/s200/artichoke.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636462254372593842" /></a>Pescadero is an old Portuguese town that was founded in 1856. Pescadero means “fish seller” and I assume that after California’s initial Gold Rush of 1849, San Francisco grew so large so fast that those who were disenchanted with gold mining moved south of the big city to fish for seafood to sell to San Franciscans, and ended up planting agricultural crops (like artichokes) as well. In all of my reading about California Gold Rush history, it is clear that the people who sold things to the gold miners usually made more money than the gold miners. <br /><br />Pescadero’s current population is 643, which must triple or quadruple each day as tourists swarm in. There’s not much there—a couple of general grocery stores, a few artisan shops that sell the works of local artists, and Duarte’s Tavern. <br /><br />Pronounced by locals as “Do-arts”, Duarte’s Tavern was founded in 1894- so about 40 years into the life of the town. It isn’t cheap but it has delicious food and fantastic pie, as evidenced by the fact that everyone who was leaving the restaurant was also lugging along 2-3 pies to go. I took a seat at the counter and was ignored for a while by my brusque waitress, who daily deals with demanding tourists and cranky old timers- like the one sitting next to me at the counter. This man- who appeared to be one of the town’s founders from 1856-- ordered a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, then complained bitterly when he was presented with a bill for $9.74. He paid with a $10 bill and departed, giving the waitress just cause to roll her eyes over her whopping 26 cent tip—which was probably a decent tip in 1856, but not so much in 2011. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia7pl4o4_kS92FUbqh1cDj2-b-fZw4ECQ_UCMpFrV1uZ8KjxoZEHH8kQyd7Gf8kc3X6w7gXaQGTLBT4arXeVPI0sUfzZvf9en-_9basGl3bxz7yh7R64M7AgeqZGJ2Y3b0MIwOm_6MvY-i/s1600/ArtichokeSoup.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia7pl4o4_kS92FUbqh1cDj2-b-fZw4ECQ_UCMpFrV1uZ8KjxoZEHH8kQyd7Gf8kc3X6w7gXaQGTLBT4arXeVPI0sUfzZvf9en-_9basGl3bxz7yh7R64M7AgeqZGJ2Y3b0MIwOm_6MvY-i/s320/ArtichokeSoup.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636456943605893250" /></a>My lunch started with a bowl of cream of artichoke soup, perfectly accompanied by steaming hot sourdough bread and unsalted butter. That would have been enough but I also ordered the flounder sandwich, earning the title as the juiciest, best-cooked fish sandwich I have ever eaten. <br /><br />Craving more exercise than a lap around the tiny downtown, I got in the car and drove south to Swanton Organic Farm. Stopping first at their strawberry fields, I chatted with the attendant who was sitting behind a make-shift table with a scale, and was reading an organic chemistry text book. Since no one else was around, he seemed glad to have some company so I listened to his animal facts about the nearby barking elephant seals and the pelicans(in the 1960’s pelicans almost became extinct because pesticides ran from the crops into the ocean, contaminating the fish they ate and affecting their reproductive systems). <br /><br />But since I can get strawberries at my own farmer’s market, I drove to the olallieberry patches. Families with children fanned out amidst the berry patches, and the kids alternated putting one berry in the communal container and one berry in their mouths. I happily strolled the well-tended rows while berries practically leapt into my Tupperware. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRjrDPgEqlLDSguORlnh53esI-Yg2XMopm-VqYtyK81EXo4T5clPCB6fB4NgcEAfZ6BicAPiqhhLr9KTmx4vZjku8m7c-G9C6TIb_7ZNG8-jjm66JNmL9_Gzz_ObYJJ9qsuzeWikfKose/s1600/olallieberries.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRjrDPgEqlLDSguORlnh53esI-Yg2XMopm-VqYtyK81EXo4T5clPCB6fB4NgcEAfZ6BicAPiqhhLr9KTmx4vZjku8m7c-G9C6TIb_7ZNG8-jjm66JNmL9_Gzz_ObYJJ9qsuzeWikfKose/s320/olallieberries.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636457747153064610" /></a><br /><br />After paying for my U-Pick berries, with visions of the jams I will never get around to canning, I shifted the car into gear with my purple stained hands and drove north up the coast towards my San Francisco home.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-28731693428425083822011-07-02T15:17:00.000-07:002011-07-02T15:45:22.691-07:00The Five Senses of HaitiIn Haiti…..<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheoPLkeRxB9pL9udgrpSYKtW84e5zuACkkjUWBkq8hYN7jrDbAXNmVfnUpblXGcBEcs8HrLBtqhRoUUwFW8UjFOAtcr9paRE2G57iF-Y4L8Fti5j376BRz05GyJ4jSskGczwLv9YNyZYD2/s1600/IMG_4002.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheoPLkeRxB9pL9udgrpSYKtW84e5zuACkkjUWBkq8hYN7jrDbAXNmVfnUpblXGcBEcs8HrLBtqhRoUUwFW8UjFOAtcr9paRE2G57iF-Y4L8Fti5j376BRz05GyJ4jSskGczwLv9YNyZYD2/s320/IMG_4002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624883045927632802" /></a><strong>I touched</strong>: A whole goats’ head wrapped in cold plastic in the refrigerated meat section of a grocery store; a tattered deck of cards; a farmer’s worn machete; a handful of tiny planting seeds; conch shells lining the top of a wall; banana leaves slick with rain; rain drops sneaking through a tin roof onto my bed; rough wooden carvings; calloused hands and leathery cheeks of countless Haitians; a non-electric iron that grows hot by inserting pieces of charcoal inside. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhASARlM5bSK8TWeWNQ6W9rlQJT4wFzkgvseb-SoK5zzA9S1wCGJBJp2o2UXD1mydsLn7LHMFjTUC2p6ZniSZIMRnfLjiOLmusnzk5Lx9vmgjoBhNhjiZqipEZt5o8VlkpRxPUY217aO8Gl/s1600/IMG_3986.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhASARlM5bSK8TWeWNQ6W9rlQJT4wFzkgvseb-SoK5zzA9S1wCGJBJp2o2UXD1mydsLn7LHMFjTUC2p6ZniSZIMRnfLjiOLmusnzk5Lx9vmgjoBhNhjiZqipEZt5o8VlkpRxPUY217aO8Gl/s320/IMG_3986.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624883353065191650" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM2TEvzf-eyxnAidUbUkUVCychU6UJsytIMwCcHfZZ9ipf5BYy5kGXXfCsAEqjTpMHj7gLpXMyVKsIAGLWoScvruCNbS-zx767z8NRiyrrYx6hu5QgQMaEuprKLmYIeKPQWOPPMTcDbkc/s1600/IMG_3952.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM2TEvzf-eyxnAidUbUkUVCychU6UJsytIMwCcHfZZ9ipf5BYy5kGXXfCsAEqjTpMHj7gLpXMyVKsIAGLWoScvruCNbS-zx767z8NRiyrrYx6hu5QgQMaEuprKLmYIeKPQWOPPMTcDbkc/s320/IMG_3952.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624883762090310738" /></a><strong>I smelled</strong>: Small charcoal fires in cinderblock houses; pigs wallowing in mud; grilled chicken at a street stall; trash rotting in the streets; shared chunks of watermelon in a crowded van; Caribbean ganja; propane stoves; homemade meat turnovers being cooked at a street stall; incense; trucks sputtering exhaust; sulfur flats where President Duvalier used to dump the bodies of his enemies; freshly woven shopping bags.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNG8e91LvAbGW-LF2Q7KTuI-KQ2JbPwnFDLj9iSa6RLIu_BfhSLpGKgWpxMryVnmFVa0jwBtWrLuHkHdfbqk0Am75hpT2fWUDUT-yKRy6hPaQ4NUkS0h4syWyMkke_ELqzEssAlUYU8ak1/s1600/IMG_3891.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNG8e91LvAbGW-LF2Q7KTuI-KQ2JbPwnFDLj9iSa6RLIu_BfhSLpGKgWpxMryVnmFVa0jwBtWrLuHkHdfbqk0Am75hpT2fWUDUT-yKRy6hPaQ4NUkS0h4syWyMkke_ELqzEssAlUYU8ak1/s320/IMG_3891.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624884411795097346" /></a><strong>I saw</strong>: mangroves lining the coast; a Benedictine monastery nestled atop a hill; cars and trucks crushed by earthquake debris; chartreuse lizards clinging to walls; trees heavy with fruit; armed men piled in the back of United Nations Land Rovers; piles of sticks prepared to make charcoal; flying fish skimming the sea like skipped stones;<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3YghKzcIWTGOgL3O9hv7wBdp3EOfIsM2uBYZb46ZH79GZXu4Jcuu3W-1reLu7hMTVgsYUY5eDy94-Kjlj7U1Xpmz2szRrweAXGd9HURdNGHc7yZ90OiLNNunwdv4cd_ox_bs_RFHkgN1/s1600/IMG_3982.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3YghKzcIWTGOgL3O9hv7wBdp3EOfIsM2uBYZb46ZH79GZXu4Jcuu3W-1reLu7hMTVgsYUY5eDy94-Kjlj7U1Xpmz2szRrweAXGd9HURdNGHc7yZ90OiLNNunwdv4cd_ox_bs_RFHkgN1/s320/IMG_3982.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624884971856415570" /></a>fridges turned horizontally to be re-purposed as ice chests from which to sell cold drinks; children bathing in rain puddles; scraggly dogs searching for scraps; children dancing; cock-fighting rings; the sun setting over Florida; men and women donning cheap shower caps to walk in the rain; coffee and manioc plants, street art on public walls.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2RrmZ-D8F1RnyO_f1Ausxzo8o29G72EEiwxK14jM_whot1uhyvKQSH_bZpReH5TCknLc0s5-0-kFQ7W0hJ8Jb2pE-qal4URzAx1seT6yrK5Zapvmsc8wUVR6OSKgrEk5QHoTvHSBcMFgw/s1600/IMG_3912.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2RrmZ-D8F1RnyO_f1Ausxzo8o29G72EEiwxK14jM_whot1uhyvKQSH_bZpReH5TCknLc0s5-0-kFQ7W0hJ8Jb2pE-qal4URzAx1seT6yrK5Zapvmsc8wUVR6OSKgrEk5QHoTvHSBcMFgw/s320/IMG_3912.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624885616870352082" /></a><strong>I tasted</strong>: Madam Antoine’s delicious homemade donuts; dried breadfruit chips; fresh mango; Haitian rice and beans; hot coffee from beans hand-ground by the neighbor next door; homemade peanut butter; tangy lime juice sweetened with sugar cane; Prestige Haitian beer; <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMakJq7I99xFlV1VMU_PWmbKdUkp1a2VORP1g7q-bFyGRgmtobWUg85Rv5sVYUV7sAABcN7Ls7ghM3VVWcFM7CQlJN-QMGfe_0d6pduFjR8R8JwZ3zq4RDqW2PqJXJT7SWH0Uz_dD9vhl/s1600/IMG_3808.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMakJq7I99xFlV1VMU_PWmbKdUkp1a2VORP1g7q-bFyGRgmtobWUg85Rv5sVYUV7sAABcN7Ls7ghM3VVWcFM7CQlJN-QMGfe_0d6pduFjR8R8JwZ3zq4RDqW2PqJXJT7SWH0Uz_dD9vhl/s320/IMG_3808.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624886272483887698" /></a><br />manioc dumplings; fresh passionfruit juice; conch meat with hot sauce; goat meat; spaghetti for breakfast; spicy hot tea with ginger and anise; sugar cane peanut brittle; hot chocolate with spices; chaka stew (beans, veggies, milled corn).<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>I heard</strong>: impassioned preaching and singing from outdoor tent churches; children singing and playing drums and wind instruments at school; gentle rain on a tin roof; roosters who start in at 4am; children chanting “blan! blan! blan!” (white!) whenever we went by; the soothing waterfall next to Carla’s house; goats bleating for food; a dot-matrix printer spitting out receipts; cats meowing in the night. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXkI7vryR2u0l6EhbBVXtHmtQYofmFplEtLR1ekfSojYI1XFrieBSM0BsGpdHDfHhoxKOtgWBmfDhD2Br894OtzfjfrqwJ-jeDFSbHKRuq_OeCIkUp9B3iKjWKnCSOgWX7xfn-tTdJLjN/s1600/IMG_3843.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXkI7vryR2u0l6EhbBVXtHmtQYofmFplEtLR1ekfSojYI1XFrieBSM0BsGpdHDfHhoxKOtgWBmfDhD2Br894OtzfjfrqwJ-jeDFSbHKRuq_OeCIkUp9B3iKjWKnCSOgWX7xfn-tTdJLjN/s400/IMG_3843.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624886684298147922" /></a><br />Mesi, Haiti. Pita. (Thank you, Haiti. See you later. )<br /><br /><br />For other Five Senses posts, click on any of these:<br /><a href="http://transcendentmoments.blogspot.com/2009/08/five-senses-of-tanzania.html">The Five Senses of Tanzania</a><br /><a href="http://transcendentmoments.blogspot.com/2010/05/five-senses-of-san-franciscos-chinatown.html">The Five Senses of San Francisco's Chinatown</a><br /><a href="http://transcendentmoments.blogspot.com/2010/07/five-senses-of-san-franciscos-presidio.html">The Five Senses of San Francisco's Presidio</a>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-89285096198920571322011-07-02T14:25:00.000-07:002011-07-02T14:45:16.007-07:00Haiti and the USAI’ve been avoiding writing this post because there is huge potential for coming off as sanctimonious, “preachy”, or judging. Some people aren’t going to like it, but it's a post I have to write. <br /><br />We don’t want to admit it, but the United States is hugely responsible for many adverse conditions in Haiti. Other Western countries also do their share of the pillaging—but that doesn’t let the U.S. off the hook because that’s like being a part of a gang who beats someone senseless, and pleading afterwards “But I wasn’t the only one hitting him.” Besides, my belief is that the U.S. owes more to Haiti because of its close proximity- it’s only a 1 ½ hour flight from Miami to Port au Prince.<br /><br />Anyway, there is this giant called the United States of America, and we have a functional government (I know, it sounds like an oxymoron) that very successfully looks out for our own interests. Then there is this pee-wee named Haiti that has suffered from a long string of dictators and failed leaders, and who most recently elected a Haitian pop star as their president, in an attempt to give someone a try who hasn’t come from a corrupt political career and thus may look at things differently. (Kind of like Arnold Schwarzenegger being elected in California) <br /><br />So whenever there is a situation when the U.S. can benefit from something related to Haiti, the U.S. inevitably wins, and Haiti loses because the U.S grabs for what it wants like a two-year old in a sandbox. And the American people probably don’t even know this is happening because the trade agreements and political alliances happen on levels that we have no access to or that we find so boring and beyond our realm of influence that we don’t bother to keep informed about them. <br /><br /><strong>But the fact is that I could physically see America’s adverse influence on Haiti while I was there. How?</strong><br /><br /><strong>Rice</strong>. All over Haiti I saw 50 pound bags of rice in white canvas bags labeled “Made in the USA”. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-YfI6YddpSCyF43GEWwDwy358QrK8hI9kmIRd6UpPAsIuesg8BDR_WAOxWYRUzqVohWfZIMKSNJGVCEsai3D9uZXLRp0kPoc6SlwgVEbV4eLJi64mOcY2g_Wv_Cm-CVC6PJh6zHFn5JJ/s1600/IMG_3933.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-YfI6YddpSCyF43GEWwDwy358QrK8hI9kmIRd6UpPAsIuesg8BDR_WAOxWYRUzqVohWfZIMKSNJGVCEsai3D9uZXLRp0kPoc6SlwgVEbV4eLJi64mOcY2g_Wv_Cm-CVC6PJh6zHFn5JJ/s400/IMG_3933.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624869836350902354" /></a>Haitian farmers used to grow all their own rice, but for years buying imported U.S. rice has been cheaper than buying locally grown Haitian rice. So Haitians buy “Miami Rice” (get it?), Haitian rice farmers are out of a job, American rice farmers off-load their subsidized product, and the U.S. bags more money. <br /><br /><strong>Chicken</strong>. Haiti has chickens running around all over the place. Sure they are scrawny—but chickens nonetheless. Tyson Foods takes the dark meat that Americans don’t want and exports it to Haiti. Guess who makes a lot of money on that? Tyson! Guess who loses out from raising local chickens? Haitians! To be fair, right after the earthquake in 2010 Tyson donated $250,000 to Haiti’s disaster relief efforts. But on the other hand, this is a company that makes hundreds of millions of dollars per quarter, so you be the judge on whether a $250K donation is significant or not. <br /><br /><strong>Travel advisories</strong>. Some world travelers have long been distrustful of the United States’ travel warnings posted on State Department websites. “<em>The Department of State warns U.S. citizens of the risk of travel to…” </em>It is suspected that there may be some less-than-truthful or some politically motivated reasons why American’s are discouraged from traveling to certain countries. One highly cynical theory- and I don’t know if it is true- is that U.S. Embassy employees get extra pay for living and working in a high risk area. Who writes the travel advisories? U.S. Embassy employees. Thus, to issue a warning about a certain country may work to the financial benefit of the person issuing the warning. My main point is that- partially due to travel advisories-- Haiti doesn’t seem to have any tourism. I’ve been to poor countries before but many of them have some sort of tourism infrastructure that brings in at least a little money. In Haiti I saw a few sub-par “resorts” along the beach where United Nations soldiers go to shed their camouflage and drink beer, but as a rule, tourism for pleasure is pretty non-existent in Haiti. <br /><br /><strong>Volunteer Tourism</strong>. However, volunteer tourism (volunteering for a charitable cause) is rampant. And America spends a lot of money in Haiti through church groups, NGO’s, building projects, and medical clinics. But before we pat ourselves on the back too quickly, 12 months after the earthquake the Associated Press shared information that out of every $100 spent by U.S. organizations in Haiti, only $1.60 was won by Haitian contractors. In other words, Americans' charitable service to Haiti lines the pockets of Americans- not Haitians. <br /><br />Trash. Port au Prince is covered with trash. There is so much trash because the Haitian government doesn’t have a handle on things like sanitation. Most Americans can’t wrap our heads around this reality because we enjoy regular sanitation pick ups once or twice a week. (In 2007 Oakland had a trash strike and the trash wasn’t picked up for weeks. Homeowners threw a tizzy fit, people were confronted with their waste consumption, and politicians were calling it a “serious health crisis.”) Not once did I see a public garbage can in Haiti. And even in places where there were huge trash bins, they were overflowing because the government doesn’t have someone pick them up regularly. I distinctly remember being in developing countries in the past, looking around at all the trash and thinking “if everyone is unemployed, why don’t they rally themselves to gather up all the trash and get rid of it?” But now I understand that there is nowhere for the trash to go. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy3lLJPsOl_k3MCelGGYS0L3kDW7reVHnI7ncUHdTo_4JA0YD3tqrk2unzvAekrk-UBvam-yWII_iKWpZLNOy0g1CdteZt8T0t4-_ethWE__9E9FFNfZ_6zS2Q7nucRvwdXNS95Lx8s-Xl/s1600/IMG_3969.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy3lLJPsOl_k3MCelGGYS0L3kDW7reVHnI7ncUHdTo_4JA0YD3tqrk2unzvAekrk-UBvam-yWII_iKWpZLNOy0g1CdteZt8T0t4-_ethWE__9E9FFNfZ_6zS2Q7nucRvwdXNS95Lx8s-Xl/s400/IMG_3969.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624870360641150498" /></a><br /><br />But there is also trash in Haiti because American companies sell things to Haiti that exacerbates the trash situation. Haitian locals told us that in the last 15 years the trash has gotten worse in Haiti. Previously, Haitians used recyclable glass bottles for Coca Colas and other sugary drinks, which they would return back to the place of purchase. Now there are worthless, empty plastic bottles strewn everywhere. Previously, the Haitians wrapped street food in biodegradable banana leaves. Now there are Styrofoam containers tossed all over. Coca Cola and whoever manufactures and imports styrofoam gets money while the Haitian countryside gets litter. <br /><br />Wood and gold. Haiti is completely deforested in part because long ago other countries took most of their wood to build houses in France and other lands. Canadian mining companies are scattered all over Haiti, taking Haiti’s natural resources and leaving massive soil erosion as a gift. <br /><br />So the United States and other key Western countries are directly responsible for much of the tragedy and poverty in Haiti. Countries like the U.S. have what we have because countries like Haiti don’t have what they don’t have. Taking it up a notch- Melanie has what she needs (and wants) because a woman in Haiti doesn’t have what she needs. I'm currently sitting with that.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-73256546880560871492011-06-30T19:24:00.000-07:002011-06-30T19:39:19.537-07:00Things I Like About Haitians<strong>“Bonjou!” and “Bonsoir!”</strong> I like that Haitians greet one another with a robust “hello” and a hug and kiss on the cheek like they haven’t seen each other in weeks or months—even if they saw each other earlier that day. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWbInGoCBlcyUI1LzZB-Wa9sNVbEaIsXdcOz_mCwKSvdidBb_YnVsZQ5EuN5AkW9HYYM1WeKip6r8FVV88h6QN9OLU2WXivxGW-_6s7c5Z5-uJLihgKxDbMQjNEKvA_cc5kc1zNkw1Y_y/s1600/IMG_3913.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWbInGoCBlcyUI1LzZB-Wa9sNVbEaIsXdcOz_mCwKSvdidBb_YnVsZQ5EuN5AkW9HYYM1WeKip6r8FVV88h6QN9OLU2WXivxGW-_6s7c5Z5-uJLihgKxDbMQjNEKvA_cc5kc1zNkw1Y_y/s320/IMG_3913.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624205121016192146" /></a><strong>Strength</strong>. While I don’t like the conditions that keep testing them, I do like and admire the physical, emotional, and spiritual strength of the Haitians. It’s astounding how they endure things that would have made most of us crumble long ago. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEl8qAP1OGmVR8OVuimZ4a1lSZk1S89JNV7mf-1Iwj0z7hQNZdGPUHX2FzQfpgx_CRdWJ7P22_kkjH68I8DbfLJyhcwMuIO4Q1efDIhMXx6t04eqz9xV2XJhsl9QCFVONqMHk6YbWu8GNO/s1600/IMG_3946.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEl8qAP1OGmVR8OVuimZ4a1lSZk1S89JNV7mf-1Iwj0z7hQNZdGPUHX2FzQfpgx_CRdWJ7P22_kkjH68I8DbfLJyhcwMuIO4Q1efDIhMXx6t04eqz9xV2XJhsl9QCFVONqMHk6YbWu8GNO/s320/IMG_3946.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624205368597694386" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbVoabTte4QiYe_suMr1KLmbD6uE-cWLy6AArycV_FMN5m0P0aJBrCGxR2IaIxVM4tRng1eKHK9HTkvwkMxfgwWZIbBeP1uuy-Oj26PVgKdZPlVImzH1z9QBbEWqSjBwrTEEzXeFkeSXL/s1600/IMG_4043.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbVoabTte4QiYe_suMr1KLmbD6uE-cWLy6AArycV_FMN5m0P0aJBrCGxR2IaIxVM4tRng1eKHK9HTkvwkMxfgwWZIbBeP1uuy-Oj26PVgKdZPlVImzH1z9QBbEWqSjBwrTEEzXeFkeSXL/s320/IMG_4043.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624206050202989906" /></a><br /><strong>Patience</strong>. I like that Haitians don’t fret traffic jams, they patiently tolerate the fumblings of foreigners trying to help, and I watched this Haitian fellow patiently and kindly help Yvonne learn some Creole for quite a long time on the patio. <br /><br /><br /><strong>Sharing</strong>. In the van one day, Carla bought us all a bunch of chips in plastic bags. When we stopped to pick up some Haitian friends of hers, she gave each of them a bag to eat too. When one man was dropped off first, he took his unopened bag with him. “See that?” Carla shared, “he’s taking that home to his family to share with them. Haitians always think of others when they receive something.” <br /><br /><strong>Big is Beautiful</strong>. Upon arriving at the wharf for our ferry ride to La Gonave our van was swarmed by a dozen men wanting to carry our bags to the boat. Hot and sweaty, in NO WAY looking my best, I climbed out of the van under the stare of 12 sets of eyes. “Big woman!” one of the men said appreciatively while the others nodded. All righty then. <br /><br /><strong>Artists</strong>. In Port au Prince-- a city where there isn’t much natural beauty-- public art stands out as a lily among thorns. I admired much of the graffiti, and their public buses are fancied up real purty too! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJmvLn9VYldiywh-X_W4KTgE0UlVXM2qg9mA2W0XIcQ35FmoxEI4PQ3JD6yfNNXOItphg8kPLvzirGIHdXRagF_ZOG3E926on13ZlrV7NPiwiqFyiLbbpsmz75i1oCGqvNaZvF6IkEU4em/s1600/IMG_3967.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJmvLn9VYldiywh-X_W4KTgE0UlVXM2qg9mA2W0XIcQ35FmoxEI4PQ3JD6yfNNXOItphg8kPLvzirGIHdXRagF_ZOG3E926on13ZlrV7NPiwiqFyiLbbpsmz75i1oCGqvNaZvF6IkEU4em/s400/IMG_3967.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624206226793967602" /></a><br /><strong>Local Heroes</strong>. All over Haiti there are people like Mona and William who have other passions and responsibilities, yet remain committed to their communities and work hard to raise the quality of life around them. I can only guess at the massive number of local heroes who share their food and water, offer their personal space for a stranger to sleep in, care for orphans who lost family members in the earthquake. Heck, I considered Madame Antoine a local hero for cooking over open fires in this “kitchen” and churning out delicious meals for us guests every day. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoH1FpySvN6cVmS7nGsfEo3EkCHJNeD3uNeeRFdQ1jV_Pc3N7MufrRZJwUeKqRQEYDqio5Uk8lCT6cJDyKqSRBEX2OMCLcFlkE-QN5kqdqobO4RN88Z2bt0fb64_llDK91otgUKhwCxYqs/s1600/119.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoH1FpySvN6cVmS7nGsfEo3EkCHJNeD3uNeeRFdQ1jV_Pc3N7MufrRZJwUeKqRQEYDqio5Uk8lCT6cJDyKqSRBEX2OMCLcFlkE-QN5kqdqobO4RN88Z2bt0fb64_llDK91otgUKhwCxYqs/s400/119.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624204856119695170" /></a>Average Haitians rise up every day and make good things happen. <br /><br /><strong>A Great Saying</strong>. In Creole—as in English—there are a large variety of responses you can give when someone asks “How are you?” My favorite response is “Map bat zel mwen” (I’m still beating my wings!)Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-77109777857078309202011-06-28T12:46:00.000-07:002011-06-28T13:05:08.793-07:00Tent CampsIn one month I’m going tent camping with my sister. We’ll pitch my fine REI tent on a carefully tended campsite in a lush forest, toast marshmallows over a fire, sleep on comfortable mattresses, and consider it a fine vacation. <br /><br />In Haiti there is a completely different situation going on with tents. Driving around the countryside we saw plenty of tents pitched on hillsides or out in fields. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbwQU2Xmlliv1jB_NhXQQh0Risl4BVTlnWXCiLU8xITmuAjwaGDKA2M6OddedbZFnh7i1l7qVEexfm8M3TympfnsxzHAQFSUlcK6qc67TDCq8WqFCNAnsENDltidYIyRsgQg0cnUzFexo/s1600/IMG_3762.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbwQU2Xmlliv1jB_NhXQQh0Risl4BVTlnWXCiLU8xITmuAjwaGDKA2M6OddedbZFnh7i1l7qVEexfm8M3TympfnsxzHAQFSUlcK6qc67TDCq8WqFCNAnsENDltidYIyRsgQg0cnUzFexo/s400/IMG_3762.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623359749606035026" /></a> Many of them were stenciled with “PR China” and the names of countless other governments and NGO’s providing housing to the Haitian people after the earthquake. In Port au Prince there are tent camps scattered around the city. There’s a big one by the airport, there are tent camps in spaces where there used to be parks or public squares, there are tent camps built on top of the rubble from fallen buildings, and Sean Penn’s famous tent camp in Petionville (a suburb of Port au Prince) is situated on a golf course and houses and cares for 50,000 people. Check out this before and after satellite <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/packages/flash/newsgraphics/2011/0109-haiti-map-html/">photo</a>. <br /><br />We drove by many of them, but it is difficult to take photos while cruising in a van, and I also didn’t want to be a voyeuristic jerk, obnoxiously taking photos of other people’s misfortunes. So I don’t have great photos. I have ones like this: <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjGS5WActopusoTiD375y4_EoiweqB2CfTkFsKVMLcBDMst7cGZGYlexPi2rwBiuZF0E3NHsgFLk16wCVUKdM82CcGLIm0AKq5ZHZwTMWQLhR8dnjiaORIvK3UlwAbFGrmh5nbFkqPcYly/s1600/109.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjGS5WActopusoTiD375y4_EoiweqB2CfTkFsKVMLcBDMst7cGZGYlexPi2rwBiuZF0E3NHsgFLk16wCVUKdM82CcGLIm0AKq5ZHZwTMWQLhR8dnjiaORIvK3UlwAbFGrmh5nbFkqPcYly/s400/109.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623360515507054226" /></a><br />But I have vivid memories. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-U9kZlhipxrh6XZjoEosOxnM7JC89ma5JesNpRp84JCnfOC0J0wi8DBvrUOFHTUlZgsCuhJUFqHPW4i_-vHstBlkHQyV0sxVICMPO-Ofi7bLqHB4EMLuwqD6O6lB7uIjzyPb_lLluWey/s1600/IMG_4053.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-U9kZlhipxrh6XZjoEosOxnM7JC89ma5JesNpRp84JCnfOC0J0wi8DBvrUOFHTUlZgsCuhJUFqHPW4i_-vHstBlkHQyV0sxVICMPO-Ofi7bLqHB4EMLuwqD6O6lB7uIjzyPb_lLluWey/s320/IMG_4053.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623363689711228338" /></a>One of my host Carla’s good friends is a man named Mona who is a remarkably gifted painter, poet, musician, and song writer. He is a classic Renaissance man. On January 12, 2010 the earth started shaking, walls and ceilings came down all around Mona, and despite being in a basement room on the bottom of a house, he miraculously survived. <br /><br />Out of necessity, a tent camp sprung up in his neighborhood and 300 families currently live there. When my group visited his camp we walked through muddy, narrow walkways past rows of tents and shacks made out of plywood and scavenged materials. Tent flaps were tied back to reveal 5-10 people sitting in tents about 15 feet wide and long. Older children came out to shake our hands and offer cheerful “bonsoir’s”, while naked toddlers laughed and twirled in the rain. <br /><br />Our group gathered in a make-shift community center built out of plywood, and listened to Mona and his co-laborer William speak of their experiences helping to run the tent camp. Shortly after the earthquake, a pastor from San Diego had showed up with a wad of cash, asked the tent community what they needed, and peeling off $3,000 had commissioned them to build the community center in one week so that he could take a photo of it before leaving to show his church what they had paid for. Mona and William had hired Haitian workers and moved heaven and earth to complete the room in one week, with a painted sign “Rev. James W. Smith Memorial Community Center” being the finishing touch. They also built a small medical center so tent community members could get medical attention, and they want to stock it with more medicines but they need to save up for a cupboard with a lock so that the medications will stay safe. They’d also like to hire a Haitian nurse to provide care-- especially since there are so many Haitian medical practitioners currently out of work. <br /><br />Of the 300 families living in the tent camp, there are a handful of men and women who participate in a committee that makes decisions for the community. It is difficult for Mona and William because they are looked at as people who can give other people work if an NGO approaches them with a project. So they hear a lot of desperation and get a lot of requests. Mona and William have a computer with spreadsheets of hundreds of names of people who want work, and there is a lot of pressure to ensure that the distribution of work and resources is fair and just. <br /><br />Seeing that the tent community had taken initiative to build a community center (as a gathering place for meetings, and for a space for children to play and learn), another NGO gave the tent camp a water tank and built toilets and showers. The NGO pays for two people to clean and maintain the public toilets and showers, but instead the community chose four people to work part-time so that more people can make a little money. With an 80% unemployment rate, cleaning toilets is a prized job.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-14704401882136183942011-06-24T14:29:00.001-07:002011-06-24T14:31:45.464-07:00First World Problems RapGreat perspective in light of the other things I'm writing about lately. <br /><iframe width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/D2p5svFJ9cQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-45322516857780380452011-06-24T10:57:00.000-07:002011-06-24T11:05:45.135-07:00Healing in HaitiI’ve traveled to several developing countries and the truth is that with the exception of the Philippines, I haven’t had great experiences. India was the absolute worst. I don’t even talk about what happened there, except to say that after a week I left there with severe post-traumatic stress syndrome that I recovered from by sitting in a guest house garden in Katmandu for a week. <br /><br />When I’ve traveled to developing countries, I’ve been prepared for the fact that they will be poor, that there will be people asking me for money, and there will be sad things to see and experience. I accept those realities. But what I’ve never been able to accept is the cheating, lying, scamming, stealing, and the constant feeling that everyone sees me only as a walking ATM machine, everyone is trying to get one over on me, or everyone is trying to befriend me just to get something from me. In those countries I feel like I can’t trust anyone. <br /><br />Haiti wasn’t like that. In my 8 days of traveling Haiti, only about 2 people asked me for money—and they didn’t really even ask—they just pointed to their stomachs and said they were hungry. I never felt pounced upon or unsafe in Haiti (except for maybe seeing all the U.N. soldiers with automatic weapons resting on their knees). And the Beyond Borders staff brokered all the relationships, so I never felt like anyone was trying to shake me down or get something out of me. <br /><br />So the disturbing things that have happened to me in other developing countries didn’t happen to me in Haiti. But Mother Ayiti took it a step further—she <em>healed </em>me. <br /><br />On my final day with my rural hosting family on La Gonave, our group had to leave unexpectedly to catch a boat across the water before a bad storm hit. At my hosting family’s house I quickly packed my backpack, said reluctant goodbye’s, and slung my backpack over my shoulder to walk back to the truck. After a minute I heard a child yelling “Mel-a-nie! Mel-a-nie!” One of the children from my house ran down the trail with my shoes in his hand. Someone had put them outside the door of the house, and when I packed I didn’t notice they were gone. <br /><br />I can’t describe how healing that moment was for me. I was profoundly touched. Any other country I had been in, the person finding my shoes would have probably thought “that damn American has other shoes. I’m keeping these.” But in Haiti- the poorest country in the Western hemisphere-- this beautiful child knocked himself out to return my stupid, old, beat up shoes (that I was planning on leaving in Haiti anyway). <br /><br />It's easy to ascertain from my vague narrative above that I carry some heavy emotional baggage from past travels. Fully aware of this, in the months leading up to my departure for Haiti I had been filling up a flip chart on my living room wall with prayers for me, my fellow travelers, and for Haiti. Here’s what I had written in one corner:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpwNgds88AqdQQjbloQ3c76Pul_cp_QrNzv-H6ailZhyphenhyphenP2icg4-GGlAx2Ep0mTrAdPFQ0tyo3tVpjPVnTkx-haf3gdEOfSor3b4jqbh-drnyxjiOTHuvdp9y8gIFVNInKIxLb88SbazdrB/s1600/IMG_4198.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpwNgds88AqdQQjbloQ3c76Pul_cp_QrNzv-H6ailZhyphenhyphenP2icg4-GGlAx2Ep0mTrAdPFQ0tyo3tVpjPVnTkx-haf3gdEOfSor3b4jqbh-drnyxjiOTHuvdp9y8gIFVNInKIxLb88SbazdrB/s400/IMG_4198.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621847360771109922" /></a><br />How’s that for an answer to prayer?Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-76163045503740945792011-06-21T09:39:00.000-07:002011-06-21T09:49:42.628-07:00Children in HaitiOne of the best things Mother Ayiti has going for her is her children. Haitian children have something special going on. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3TgAgvU62PRmCWzuSxXXdWPxR2A97r7mgu_lV8RmguyYECPAXN8BxooamGc5nCtB9KRvKnX5CcQz2CJq-peb3U4kd_8A1UQ8CIybchxuTlVzAyno3CHSk-4D_9fA0MHoPb5oJciIc05qI/s1600/060.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3TgAgvU62PRmCWzuSxXXdWPxR2A97r7mgu_lV8RmguyYECPAXN8BxooamGc5nCtB9KRvKnX5CcQz2CJq-peb3U4kd_8A1UQ8CIybchxuTlVzAyno3CHSk-4D_9fA0MHoPb5oJciIc05qI/s320/060.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620714444936001458" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicmCzN0XsoOHWrlgkcqCZCRiDK4aMZYQs4PzQBXOqe1EAL1DGXibRchxM34sULbUyq14DVstuNnpnKBH5wjyIWqMoVecJyLIamD49vwt8Q0k1xvMwXikzK1KU2vGB0uc-Gaeh22MX6ibSA/s1600/DSCF0008.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicmCzN0XsoOHWrlgkcqCZCRiDK4aMZYQs4PzQBXOqe1EAL1DGXibRchxM34sULbUyq14DVstuNnpnKBH5wjyIWqMoVecJyLIamD49vwt8Q0k1xvMwXikzK1KU2vGB0uc-Gaeh22MX6ibSA/s320/DSCF0008.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620714551671473826" /></a><br />Number 1- Haitian children are not lazy. If an adult needs to send a message to another person in the village (or even the household), they flag down a kid and the child runs to deliver it. With no TV's or video games to plop down in front of, Haitian children actually apply the old-fashioned practice of <em>physical movement. </em> <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuviWyyV7Fvs55IVnabn7hC8AmN23Hh4YWJA0VtsgmtfeXWLV1ZPSwmi1nFuRyfK6-TQMV0NIVkW2sbVNkXXkZ4baR3HbMrYH3EqGA68mh4LsXmlQLeZILswdsOK81ttzLbJ8K7OtPQpOd/s1600/DSCF3106.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuviWyyV7Fvs55IVnabn7hC8AmN23Hh4YWJA0VtsgmtfeXWLV1ZPSwmi1nFuRyfK6-TQMV0NIVkW2sbVNkXXkZ4baR3HbMrYH3EqGA68mh4LsXmlQLeZILswdsOK81ttzLbJ8K7OtPQpOd/s320/DSCF3106.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620714805319275058" /></a>Number 2- Haitian children are hard working. At Carla’s guest house, all of the children- whether they were 4 years old or 14 years old—carried adult-sized loads of enormous bags and supplies from the van to the kitchen. Without complaint. They grow them strong in Haiti. <br /><br />Number 3- Haitian children take school very seriously. In a country where there is no free public education, families who make very little money struggle to scrape together at least $150 a year to send each child to school. So the children study hard to honor their parent’s sacrifice. Late on Friday nights at our guest house, older children could be found fretting over mathematical equations scribbled on a chalkboard. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IEO3_B14mmn8fUk8w8n3ub9wlA8dUVeepj5kXPqTQV6Y1ZwZh_pdBcqEpwl1E1vVRo-GpnJJ0FvDwjetmQ3SUyaHHlnspZRqZ6PRqxiGCLmKb4VjNqCkbUQp4kgGtRrB59wt4EAlWjpp/s1600/IMG_3894.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IEO3_B14mmn8fUk8w8n3ub9wlA8dUVeepj5kXPqTQV6Y1ZwZh_pdBcqEpwl1E1vVRo-GpnJJ0FvDwjetmQ3SUyaHHlnspZRqZ6PRqxiGCLmKb4VjNqCkbUQp4kgGtRrB59wt4EAlWjpp/s320/IMG_3894.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620714029496071314" /></a>Number 4- Haitian children are uncomplaining. While staying with my rural hosting family, the family was standing up looking at the postcards of San Francisco and photos of my family that I had brought to show them. The youngest son- a little guy no more than 4 years old— well, here is a photo of him….<br /><br />…the youngest son stood underneath everyone and clearly wanted to see the photos but they completely ignored him. He jumped up and down a couple of times to try to get a peek, but came up a good 2 feet short of being able to view anything. Eventually I saw that he was being left out, so I lifted him up to see. But the whole time he never said a word- he never cried or whined or complained. Now show me an American kid who acts like that.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-60611352044788854462011-06-21T09:11:00.000-07:002011-06-21T09:19:32.100-07:00Creatures in HaitiMost of the non-humans occupying Haiti are of the domesticated kind. Haiti is only a small island, so there aren’t any deer or bears wandering around. The animal I saw the most of was goats. Goats are everywhere- sometimes roaming freely and oftentimes tied up. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwFHKKslQVOTjtCQnRRLsaR8HPC_1OaUULX4APDXtB_BFUZrATC4L2z38mh684Za3k4uU7DAHgsG_-QMgAjG28opKufPUwHdmoeGnzeQNpvXmyO2f1aw8t2GvaxRI8J0GBFw_JLKY9UsoE/s1600/IMG_3865.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwFHKKslQVOTjtCQnRRLsaR8HPC_1OaUULX4APDXtB_BFUZrATC4L2z38mh684Za3k4uU7DAHgsG_-QMgAjG28opKufPUwHdmoeGnzeQNpvXmyO2f1aw8t2GvaxRI8J0GBFw_JLKY9UsoE/s400/IMG_3865.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620706839129990162" /></a><br />The rural family that I lived raised these lovely pigs. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLBBu5RN4HrpKESWlmZFcbmxIfpAPi9COOvVi_ZZuF6jkmbjWXchZQIL5aa2GxEKyCBMfMwo1UOAMUzb9mNWjp1UemcuyodIj2BVI-1mvtGVpBLOO9jNkZYZFw1JXtNQTdyBg_IozjSNM/s1600/IMG_3940.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLBBu5RN4HrpKESWlmZFcbmxIfpAPi9COOvVi_ZZuF6jkmbjWXchZQIL5aa2GxEKyCBMfMwo1UOAMUzb9mNWjp1UemcuyodIj2BVI-1mvtGVpBLOO9jNkZYZFw1JXtNQTdyBg_IozjSNM/s400/IMG_3940.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620706974948940034" /></a><br />And on the more appealing side, I saw a few baby animals like this adorable horse. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbV8UMl_BaSI0U0dtdNWpXjHciwyJWb8N6qsqfhPHgMktn-71Kcofdtt1BHqGLNdddyWcqDdcXIJoQQyULDTBj5yqY3zpP0OVCwpHrA5DBg079Rw4xDzwucz85gh1N5xAun6wKKGdaF0tV/s1600/IMG_3879.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbV8UMl_BaSI0U0dtdNWpXjHciwyJWb8N6qsqfhPHgMktn-71Kcofdtt1BHqGLNdddyWcqDdcXIJoQQyULDTBj5yqY3zpP0OVCwpHrA5DBg079Rw4xDzwucz85gh1N5xAun6wKKGdaF0tV/s400/IMG_3879.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620707100088035298" /></a><br />It being a Caribbean island, there were a lot of lizards scurrying around the guest house. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTSkZTVR5JQZyrsdPfuaCDFaVHhbdb4fizVCzPesYzgOLqwmfJTK36n8xmqd3oqQ-xW7-TiJ2UDN3oSl4vduQ8NU2BPl1SKnchZe9SKicqJDiXr7-oCRvTEH6nWq2BemJIF45MYY2KA92/s1600/IMG_4041.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTSkZTVR5JQZyrsdPfuaCDFaVHhbdb4fizVCzPesYzgOLqwmfJTK36n8xmqd3oqQ-xW7-TiJ2UDN3oSl4vduQ8NU2BPl1SKnchZe9SKicqJDiXr7-oCRvTEH6nWq2BemJIF45MYY2KA92/s400/IMG_4041.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620707235590423474" /></a><br />But the animal that reigns at the complete bottom of the totem pole is dogs. In Port au Prince dogs could most often be seen pawing at trash piles, searching for something to eat. My rural family had a little puppy whose mother had died weeks before. This scrawny puppy lived a miserable existence fending for itself and trying vainly not to get stepped on. We visitors petted him, but you could tell that it wasn’t used to anyone paying attention to him. The rainy season had just begun, and while I didn’t think it was cold, everyone else- including the puppy—thought it was freezing. The puppy was often found huddled up shivering, and once I woke up in the morning and found the puppy sleeping curled up on top of some coals from a fire that had burned out the night before. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioqTnMScewa7sRpG6wQwYip1Eya2xQN2izgqn1wcwmLU_cLwowFn3FNlsJT-56c3O17SpoSyMDzkMONiFvb7VZOxFNVtX53dzXF4bt05coN5GgpdwrlrtrkO_Yu8IBMBXxX5o4XJNs8mqr/s1600/IMG_3883.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioqTnMScewa7sRpG6wQwYip1Eya2xQN2izgqn1wcwmLU_cLwowFn3FNlsJT-56c3O17SpoSyMDzkMONiFvb7VZOxFNVtX53dzXF4bt05coN5GgpdwrlrtrkO_Yu8IBMBXxX5o4XJNs8mqr/s400/IMG_3883.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620707361285853266" /></a><br />Did it break my heart? Of course! But the sad reality is that in a country where people are struggling to survive and they barely have enough to eat, feeding and loving dogs is not a top priority.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-91780189948441908412011-06-17T11:56:00.000-07:002011-06-17T12:13:01.056-07:00Haitian MarketThe streets of Port au Prince are crowded with street vendors selling what they can. Imagine every square foot of the your city’s sidewalks filled with people squatting beside blankets on which they have neatly arranged items to sell- shoes, clothing, food, cooking utensils, mattresses- I literally saw kitchen sinks for sale on a sidewalk. Lucky vendors who stake out prime sidewalk space get to hang their items on a fence or the wall of a building. Of course there are no official standards, no permits, but there probably are mutually understood rules. I have no idea how anyone carves out a living selling the exact same mangoes and bananas that the person right next to them is selling, but somehow it works. <br /><br />One day our whole group drove Madam Antoine, our amazing cook, to the market in her old neighborhood so she could pick up a few days of food to prepare for us. Madam Antoine brought along 3 children to help her at the market, since she essentially bought the equivalent of a big Costco run and needed help lugging her purchases from place to place. <br /><br />This is what the market looked like:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyrXY4Yf57y_rzPwi8x6tF17Kf263Z4UHFxwXQYQda1gLQnwPdCCFCQ2sLlg1vTlJ0hFyycSJMe6X5WtSWLfRYDdOWrnHF7PeHLetoGJz0PiUJraJ1sCHOCeBVCiBC1wfD49NkvUvP_B7e/s1600/106.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyrXY4Yf57y_rzPwi8x6tF17Kf263Z4UHFxwXQYQda1gLQnwPdCCFCQ2sLlg1vTlJ0hFyycSJMe6X5WtSWLfRYDdOWrnHF7PeHLetoGJz0PiUJraJ1sCHOCeBVCiBC1wfD49NkvUvP_B7e/s400/106.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619265809482139426" /></a><br />There were pyramids of papayas, mangoes, oranges, coconuts, pineapples, melons. <br />Tables were heavy with piles of pigs feet and chicken feet. <br />There were wheelbarrows of charcoal for making fires, and other wheelbarrows of 3-4 foot rods of sugar cane (Haiti used to be the sugar cane capital of the world). <br />Most interesting to me was that men and women stuffed scrawny live chickens head first into black plastic bags, and walked around with them tucked under their arms. <br />Platters of smoked herring glistened in the heat and Madam Antoine picked up the biggest sweet potato I had ever seen: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7t1O3H15sTdy7cBRnskWTm8MQxgnhoh_FeboJLNNvAursWoOAJxvZIE_u-aOsYE6VWSNYjZl4Q2HBWpcftbGFsEByy20mFsfKkUXValDZDS8Fa2zs6epfsOlfyCp8UyUAKvaZp-OnpCWl/s1600/IMG_3984.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7t1O3H15sTdy7cBRnskWTm8MQxgnhoh_FeboJLNNvAursWoOAJxvZIE_u-aOsYE6VWSNYjZl4Q2HBWpcftbGFsEByy20mFsfKkUXValDZDS8Fa2zs6epfsOlfyCp8UyUAKvaZp-OnpCWl/s400/IMG_3984.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619266920613100450" /></a>(this isn't Haitian Madam Anoine, by the way. This is Anne, of Virginia. But <em>that is</em> the sweet potato)<br /><br />Later on in the day when we returned for Madam Antoine and the children, we had 15 people, all the market purchases, and two propane tanks crammed into a van with a passenger capacity of 12. We were so packed that the sliding door of the van threatened to come off. At one point in the van I yelled “Stop! The window just fell out!” and we drove slowly along in traffic as a random guy on the street trotted alongside us and gave us back our window. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8MQPfdyhZlruQdbgUictfpQk-iJIu5BJGoCOTc2mqg81KY_5yj57ceiypFcEWS_8zEfGXFzM7MlBFLybXrn1YTVDhyfwCXxH8GahUWoZi-XRP45VFGPMZfXqQ4EUFLy8AdJgz4xER5Ig/s1600/DSCF3136.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8MQPfdyhZlruQdbgUictfpQk-iJIu5BJGoCOTc2mqg81KY_5yj57ceiypFcEWS_8zEfGXFzM7MlBFLybXrn1YTVDhyfwCXxH8GahUWoZi-XRP45VFGPMZfXqQ4EUFLy8AdJgz4xER5Ig/s400/DSCF3136.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619266006534781346" /></a>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-9619836891856334052011-06-16T12:55:00.000-07:002011-06-16T13:05:26.773-07:00Getting to Know the AldorsMy 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. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2eQusnn7BdMElaVd7-vq2-wdZwkeGHv-D8e6vG0E5mP63wBssGP8rkHzYPGWVxtAiyFuVUrcesXIIsM3pctY9Ch3NcH_F3B0i8UuzbP2UkZOScbmqC9IKgshGGqexuqdqs-CW4mLoGUi4/s1600/IMG_3908.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2eQusnn7BdMElaVd7-vq2-wdZwkeGHv-D8e6vG0E5mP63wBssGP8rkHzYPGWVxtAiyFuVUrcesXIIsM3pctY9Ch3NcH_F3B0i8UuzbP2UkZOScbmqC9IKgshGGqexuqdqs-CW4mLoGUi4/s400/IMG_3908.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618908971749555730" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-DLv6T-AFshmrmMINGejB5jfJHk5ECk4Zo4v0PHg49LKvz6ir5POumYRqa01q3o7djWs35GLh6hNCGlRBuSAN41qfil3aJWCgChtp1T6-R78vuQK5E-YKeK2iGGek3BfhkHrKF0MKj0Z/s1600/IMG_3882.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-DLv6T-AFshmrmMINGejB5jfJHk5ECk4Zo4v0PHg49LKvz6ir5POumYRqa01q3o7djWs35GLh6hNCGlRBuSAN41qfil3aJWCgChtp1T6-R78vuQK5E-YKeK2iGGek3BfhkHrKF0MKj0Z/s320/IMG_3882.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618909163525023602" /></a><br /><br /><br />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. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />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…..<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-yRv8gav_j5Exy4T-9vlfspj8jH05B7iAZ2a4LeeCGPIUbYR0cez2AClmdhqAva-8HvKHLdpdKORCiENSTzG4lUyaZMXNkcvaV6OjPqiGYNIbSHTPX8c_FaHAqU86beumBU_NRYfhH3T/s1600/IMG_3909.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-yRv8gav_j5Exy4T-9vlfspj8jH05B7iAZ2a4LeeCGPIUbYR0cez2AClmdhqAva-8HvKHLdpdKORCiENSTzG4lUyaZMXNkcvaV6OjPqiGYNIbSHTPX8c_FaHAqU86beumBU_NRYfhH3T/s400/IMG_3909.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618909687298966194" /></a>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-15190405247941928762011-06-16T12:12:00.000-07:002011-06-16T12:22:46.123-07:00Living Like the HaitiansOne 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. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQIhRRg6k9-g-auWKVw6byjzmZdtGPMG8a57ZHyq43U7F1jc8QFhQtj_mMxV41Xx3EggVfflnxHXqLIEMhXsc5K9lxFDx26ymddQXExIJWmcbH0pF-0kXfp84FTp4FSCZ4mC9WpHLlvxN/s1600/DSCN0360.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQIhRRg6k9-g-auWKVw6byjzmZdtGPMG8a57ZHyq43U7F1jc8QFhQtj_mMxV41Xx3EggVfflnxHXqLIEMhXsc5K9lxFDx26ymddQXExIJWmcbH0pF-0kXfp84FTp4FSCZ4mC9WpHLlvxN/s400/DSCN0360.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618897935795439682" /></a>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. <br /><br />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. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5s6QFA2lQKvz4KRHU5I2RCMJWD9mqUhOPddrf65V6ZqSkAr1Y3QNRaWYRS2EY4bnJw5yNe26NsSy09_6YYK_hAbOFc9XNlk4Zz-RvKDGVc7ZaU3GlGSdHNGn_R4kcLRhUW-8aTcXdR2cW/s1600/IMG_3888.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5s6QFA2lQKvz4KRHU5I2RCMJWD9mqUhOPddrf65V6ZqSkAr1Y3QNRaWYRS2EY4bnJw5yNe26NsSy09_6YYK_hAbOFc9XNlk4Zz-RvKDGVc7ZaU3GlGSdHNGn_R4kcLRhUW-8aTcXdR2cW/s400/IMG_3888.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618898212115026258" /></a> 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. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8DxnkgY-QOA76HNzfuZhAmHaHe4AwPossyft4ol4WSqXmreT6rK_NxLz0Ybu3PN7uo-bDjalJu7nSfD5iiVALKYGwbhfyKhVzuLHwBNuW0U0ZqtEjGcZG9_DwHM7Mv4GP1oK7kjvtaeL/s1600/DSCN0368.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8DxnkgY-QOA76HNzfuZhAmHaHe4AwPossyft4ol4WSqXmreT6rK_NxLz0Ybu3PN7uo-bDjalJu7nSfD5iiVALKYGwbhfyKhVzuLHwBNuW0U0ZqtEjGcZG9_DwHM7Mv4GP1oK7kjvtaeL/s400/DSCN0368.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618898341022729762" /></a><br />After serving us a dinner of rice, beans, fish and fresh lime juice, we sat with the family under the canopy. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuOJIVKsikMLTkEzNULzUWzTuI4Pwk3yViruF8ekRfXr4eB6pkApriBVpgQF4yeUxRjnBHyv0rbchigw8cdLLUoekKS786KvrPGLJCdBia66DyVxcV7w65cnWBxm0idR-qsNpdvCtl-z_Y/s1600/IMG_3887.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuOJIVKsikMLTkEzNULzUWzTuI4Pwk3yViruF8ekRfXr4eB6pkApriBVpgQF4yeUxRjnBHyv0rbchigw8cdLLUoekKS786KvrPGLJCdBia66DyVxcV7w65cnWBxm0idR-qsNpdvCtl-z_Y/s400/IMG_3887.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618899183494104722" /></a> 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) <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh68wD4hMDxp5gLGogPkevvjl6VNXn3w_Vkm-4Al1V-CDTJLGobhVb6n_9pEFpDMmRZvtAmL30tusF4f93A8H2h5q0WGXR1ghfc40bML-fRgfaZBQjo0whaPdnpsyHat7RdzDhRccmjyTrv/s1600/IMG_3939.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh68wD4hMDxp5gLGogPkevvjl6VNXn3w_Vkm-4Al1V-CDTJLGobhVb6n_9pEFpDMmRZvtAmL30tusF4f93A8H2h5q0WGXR1ghfc40bML-fRgfaZBQjo0whaPdnpsyHat7RdzDhRccmjyTrv/s400/IMG_3939.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618898603895570674" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoqLE4koLhuz7vzLXiq9BXcLrAzHiDS0Mh-9cz3S-WNYvNhWIVaJ4M8lKXt5T3ygzFoCy6PHXxA5X5qqKP1g4lpfAj2taYAk_4WnQH8WkJwO0CI6iF7UlZw7N-bZFsdoJHg2hW9s2w3qw/s1600/IMG_3938.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoqLE4koLhuz7vzLXiq9BXcLrAzHiDS0Mh-9cz3S-WNYvNhWIVaJ4M8lKXt5T3ygzFoCy6PHXxA5X5qqKP1g4lpfAj2taYAk_4WnQH8WkJwO0CI6iF7UlZw7N-bZFsdoJHg2hW9s2w3qw/s400/IMG_3938.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618898715014632978" /></a>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-2835484211416109972011-06-14T13:23:00.000-07:002011-06-15T09:18:36.393-07:00Island Time- La Gonave<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZVpT6Q74I_QW1CxyC6WUYGWs6R9sNMBb3ZYSm6bh1CxpsJY3fGD28PU0I3uXvGPmNNftklOj2497o_FZjklTKWsyKzPBOZmODftf2prToXYRcDGnWYhqdMUT6574ieHmZPqVVZofmdRj/s1600/haiti+map.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZVpT6Q74I_QW1CxyC6WUYGWs6R9sNMBb3ZYSm6bh1CxpsJY3fGD28PU0I3uXvGPmNNftklOj2497o_FZjklTKWsyKzPBOZmODftf2prToXYRcDGnWYhqdMUT6574ieHmZPqVVZofmdRj/s400/haiti+map.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618173749798359538" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS3klB6j4_1Dl82RJxXgvP4_eyXjd39cktvWHovaZOECuO6GUZY-WBsxtJJ5Ot3xg9iejymHYhP-SqrDU_7P7zCcyj8y28KsHdAVvWcBsv0City6XNWyErutSV6DSSr3zXE_y0jjgKfnbZ/s1600/IMG_3786.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS3klB6j4_1Dl82RJxXgvP4_eyXjd39cktvWHovaZOECuO6GUZY-WBsxtJJ5Ot3xg9iejymHYhP-SqrDU_7P7zCcyj8y28KsHdAVvWcBsv0City6XNWyErutSV6DSSr3zXE_y0jjgKfnbZ/s400/IMG_3786.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618173912958260242" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJBHY9PDdYSjbAP9jL-9VKuTtg11KMk4sS8hLml8HdUx2PdyCZN3FmSPzP1RNXFKRIUR_VoEcqIOVJOIQFDzeuz2xBwiCXb5LGgBD8rnvKAkGnQElOG8Lgs9Lwc1QSHxhezNFH1kILtok/s1600/IMG_3778.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJBHY9PDdYSjbAP9jL-9VKuTtg11KMk4sS8hLml8HdUx2PdyCZN3FmSPzP1RNXFKRIUR_VoEcqIOVJOIQFDzeuz2xBwiCXb5LGgBD8rnvKAkGnQElOG8Lgs9Lwc1QSHxhezNFH1kILtok/s400/IMG_3778.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618173841158003122" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsNaO0felefckinI5V9FM33AbNfkZZl35BqMH3UC9fgVvs4lwOtoRdV4KJpHbGym4WEBt2ZDaMZ26AXM_IEUhvbwQQGjabw5OmjL1AO36DJrg8c_t9rT40DBof-DPGhLkKe-UePWSsa6X/s1600/IMG_3856.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsNaO0felefckinI5V9FM33AbNfkZZl35BqMH3UC9fgVvs4lwOtoRdV4KJpHbGym4WEBt2ZDaMZ26AXM_IEUhvbwQQGjabw5OmjL1AO36DJrg8c_t9rT40DBof-DPGhLkKe-UePWSsa6X/s400/IMG_3856.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618176317601085298" /></a>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-88185467309653792642011-06-14T09:12:00.001-07:002011-06-14T09:30:21.218-07:00Goudou GoudouMany 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAlozIcunttTDoqV_bjk6DIrOVXS8HF_iLjAwjjEEUm6sTsY8tzr_uin9Q0c7BZa0RquSHa-MO1p6c-PiVi79RbxIIA1HIxOQqCZR0CQlo1HOwcZBFcAIcwuxxFJxA-Se3rBXa2Ax8AYq/s1600/presidential+palace.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAlozIcunttTDoqV_bjk6DIrOVXS8HF_iLjAwjjEEUm6sTsY8tzr_uin9Q0c7BZa0RquSHa-MO1p6c-PiVi79RbxIIA1HIxOQqCZR0CQlo1HOwcZBFcAIcwuxxFJxA-Se3rBXa2Ax8AYq/s400/presidential+palace.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618111299895238546" /></a><br />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: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQF82qppxOUIXaV_7E-NSmJx9ZwJtGV5gG9IONMzg7pOa_B29wwsqBAhhqffYDZ46gUFo7mBOee-p9zHdaSWBZ52UdqbT1HNq6I2xOjC2xtNCI0OXhBhY9EHPBONrGt_ONZ2483zICUMH1/s1600/earthquaike+rubble.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQF82qppxOUIXaV_7E-NSmJx9ZwJtGV5gG9IONMzg7pOa_B29wwsqBAhhqffYDZ46gUFo7mBOee-p9zHdaSWBZ52UdqbT1HNq6I2xOjC2xtNCI0OXhBhY9EHPBONrGt_ONZ2483zICUMH1/s400/earthquaike+rubble.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618111948070395906" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRRqHnHUqzQFf0Lum77vHj0YumqPl6LFdmZBh4bCJEYpSifsaXmCj14hfR31VNlE-ZEPpFlgj4pNe-IabtDpEkCehg8vYV_X63VnFfG881fQueQplo1wZ6h8lXumt1-D0XNZgQq2ScYk1/s1600/building+rubble.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRRqHnHUqzQFf0Lum77vHj0YumqPl6LFdmZBh4bCJEYpSifsaXmCj14hfR31VNlE-ZEPpFlgj4pNe-IabtDpEkCehg8vYV_X63VnFfG881fQueQplo1wZ6h8lXumt1-D0XNZgQq2ScYk1/s400/building+rubble.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618112179576696338" /></a><br /><br />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. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglk318hyphenhyphenBInUmGXFFyNg9RlgzRBGlFK0dFl5vuZLx2aY9m5DMJtfpEea_DJYkFwtfv25aPovBkIZ6IC_dpuNphGfh8v8wpN3ZHp_ekP6iOP2JWIm6HXDzbgVJFvPD04Iw430uWKQE54PUP/s1600/MTPTC.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglk318hyphenhyphenBInUmGXFFyNg9RlgzRBGlFK0dFl5vuZLx2aY9m5DMJtfpEea_DJYkFwtfv25aPovBkIZ6IC_dpuNphGfh8v8wpN3ZHp_ekP6iOP2JWIm6HXDzbgVJFvPD04Iw430uWKQE54PUP/s320/MTPTC.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618110456744677266" /></a><br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-5390803830844642902011-06-14T08:11:00.000-07:002011-06-14T08:20:03.666-07:00Beyond Borders- Transformational TravelI have nothing but good things to say about the organization that arranged my travels. Beyond Borders’ <a href="http://www.beyondborders.net/WhatWeDo/TransformingtheMissionModel/TransformationalTravel.aspx">Transformational Travel</a> 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />This is a photo of my travel group, along with the two apprentices and a couple of Beyond Borders staff. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYE34SxL3fwKuT1u40iMq9GxYPBFDndYdKrlCwZF-gAcfU3v2055TvPPzRK1GJVEi2hfSHn3e5EbBjVrt4JrdHlSrisTqoDKmuYrSXBqYZvmSVV_m_2GhcA_qK4EbNJBapVgRwjS8jwDix/s1600/group+with+Beyond+Borders+staff.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYE34SxL3fwKuT1u40iMq9GxYPBFDndYdKrlCwZF-gAcfU3v2055TvPPzRK1GJVEi2hfSHn3e5EbBjVrt4JrdHlSrisTqoDKmuYrSXBqYZvmSVV_m_2GhcA_qK4EbNJBapVgRwjS8jwDix/s400/group+with+Beyond+Borders+staff.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618094807419896450" /></a>Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-91723388143666136862011-06-12T16:31:00.000-07:002011-06-12T16:52:54.657-07:00First Glimpses of Haitian RealityMy 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. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURvE6I-e0vN5v55anlO1c9de50Cr10trsE4xVmDnjLJi2MhIbmAuSNuDscW-QBbQuMJF_3GfiiZmH7X-tuGCHq8jDpRzWXjNU96QSBB3rDXAOUC_RHS39YA1v8sRt9fetFOSuBN-TXLpD/s1600/escalator.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURvE6I-e0vN5v55anlO1c9de50Cr10trsE4xVmDnjLJi2MhIbmAuSNuDscW-QBbQuMJF_3GfiiZmH7X-tuGCHq8jDpRzWXjNU96QSBB3rDXAOUC_RHS39YA1v8sRt9fetFOSuBN-TXLpD/s320/escalator.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617480920840712274" /></a>I realized that most Haitians have never experienced escalators. <br /><br />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. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8hmEfBj4l-INMDTTYbhURETNM9wqXHIKNzHG0p1dZYp7eS9VKSIIzveJiw54KUaOyydGoUBXfeP6ExanVPbwZM6njMVQJ1p2PAQ4TPrCi0AtOemGbluFPHh_OIMzic4RUWRnZUxTaiZS/s1600/IMG_4070.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8hmEfBj4l-INMDTTYbhURETNM9wqXHIKNzHG0p1dZYp7eS9VKSIIzveJiw54KUaOyydGoUBXfeP6ExanVPbwZM6njMVQJ1p2PAQ4TPrCi0AtOemGbluFPHh_OIMzic4RUWRnZUxTaiZS/s320/IMG_4070.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617482778260327426" /></a>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. <br /><br />They were illiterate. <br /><br />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.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-59663678250120041002011-06-12T16:27:00.000-07:002011-06-12T16:51:16.530-07:00Departure GateAfter 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1542199777542594653.post-37677570610075172952011-05-24T07:20:00.000-07:002011-05-24T07:22:59.684-07:00Haiti as a BlessingLately, in preparation for my Haiti trip I have been watching all the news specials and documentaries about Haiti that I can get my hands on. I recently watched a Frontline special about that state of Haiti one year after the 2010 earthquake.<br /><br />A Haitian man named Daniel was interviewed. He is a successful businessman who is putting Haitians to work building a power plant in Port au Prince-- at high cost to himself and his family. As one of the “business elite” Daniel is a target. His wife was kidnapped by gangsters and held for 10 days while he paid three different ransoms. When she was finally released she was so traumatized that she moved to the United States with their kids. He stayed in Haiti. <br /><br />A soft-spoken man of incredible faith, this is what he said: <br />“Coming from Haiti feels like a burden. It feels like a heavy cannon ball tied to your ankles. It feels like a curse, really. I used to really feel that. Until it occurred to me that living in Haiti was a blessing. It’s an opportunity to touch Christ every day. In the person who can’t feed himself. And the men in the prison. And the kids who contacted AIDS and don’t have access to medicine.”<br /><br />That statement blew my socks off. This is exactly the type of attitude I am going to be on the lookout for while I am in Haiti.Melanie Hopsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08912036486605082671noreply@blogger.com0