Another Thought on Haiti

Something I realized as I wrote my previous post is that my nerves always calm down sooner or later, and I’ve become very comfortable in poor countries.  After that first trip to Mexico, which lasted two weeks, I returned the following summer for eight weeks.  I got used to living in a cabin in the hills outside Ensenada, where I would hear mice scurrying along the rafters above my bunk.  Even now, it’s hard to imagine being OK with that.  But I managed, just like I did in other ways, and just like I’ll have to do during my four days in Haiti.

I also got used to eating the local food in Mexico, whether it was at a restaurant or a taco stand.  But I remained vigilant with the water, always using the bottled stuff to brush my teeth.  I ventured out of my comfort zone by going there in the first place, and it paid off.  I love Mexico now.  I’ve been back on short visits a handful of times, and I always enjoy it.  I don’t feel uncomfortable in the least when I’m there. 

This week, in the Dominican Republic, the only things bugging me are the mosquitoes and the heat.  Over the past few days, we’ve spent a significant amount of time in the slums on the outskirts of the city, where my employers have schools.  I haven’t felt out of place or uneasy.  I think part of the reason is that I’m used to being in areas like this.  And another big part is the people I’m with.  The local staff members are in these slums daily, and the Americans with me are just as accustomed to seeing this kind of deep poverty as I am, if not more so.  Everyone is surprisingly nonplussed by the sight of palm wood and sheet metal shanties with naked toddlers running around in front of them, through rutted dirt roads strewn with trash and other, more fluid types of waste. 

Maybe part of it, too, is that the families who live in these conditions know our organization is there to help, and so they’re friendly toward us.  I’ll try and post photos of some of the folks I’ve met.  But right now, I need sleep.

Preparing for Haiti

Tomorrow I go to Haiti.  I’ve been looking forward to it for a while, but now that it’s upon me, I’m nervous.  I tend to get like that before trips that I know will stretch me.  And usually those are trips to very poor countries. 

The first time I went to Mexico, I was excited but afraid of everything.  When we drove through downtown Ensenada that night, on our way to the camp we were staying at in the hills outside of the city, I was afraid to eat the food at Burger King.  Yes, Burger King.  Not some street-side taco stand, but a reputable, international restaurant chain.  My stomach was in knots that only untied slowly, over the course of a few days.

Before I went to Bolivia, I was similarly anxious.  I had to visit the doctor in Argentina, where I was living at the time, and get a tetanus shot, a hepatitis shot, and a yellow fever vaccination.  It all seemed like a big deal.  I was nervous about eating the food in Bolivia, nervous about accidentally contracting something and ending up in a hospital or wrapped around a toilet.  And yet, the only place I got sick during my seven months in South America that year was in Argentina, one of the wealthiest, most comfortable countries on the continent.  I guess that’s what I get for trusting the quality of meat at “the end of the world” in Tierra del Fuego.

Now, like the first time I went to Mexico and the first time I went to Bolivia, I’m going to a country that’s poorer than any other I’ve been to.  “The poorest country in the Western Hemisphere,” is the oft-quoted phrase that follows Haiti like a voodoo curse.  I’m uneasy any time I’m entering a place that’s poorer than any other I’ve been to.  Bolivia is still holds the title of the poorest place I’ve been.  But after tomorrow, that label will belong to Haiti. 

I talked briefly with Mark—one of the people joining me for the trip—about my nervousness.  And it helped.  Just like writing this helps.  Now, maybe the only thing I really have to dread is the 4+ hour drive from here in the Dominican Republic to Gressier, just west of Port-au-Prince. 

In the Air Again

Here I am, back on a plane, and I’m reminded off all the things I love and hate about air travel.  It’s a red-eye flight with a 10:35 departure from SeaTac, heading to Newark.  I’ve got plenty of time to muse, which brings up the first thing I hate about the red-eye flight in particular: my difficulty sleeping on airplanes.  But let’s start with something more positive: the peacefulness of the red-eye.

On this flight, as on most of the other overnighters I’ve been on, it’s quiet.  No crying children, no loud talkers, the drink cart passed once, almost silently, and I was able to use the bathroom without waiting in line.  Which reminds me of something else I hate: airplane bathrooms.  I’m skinny and even I have trouble turning around in those places.  I can only imagine the tiny corner of hell the 350-pound guy across the aisle walks into when he enters that miniscule closet.

But let’s continue with the positive points again.  Tonight I lucked out enough to get an entire row to myself, so I don’t have to worry about anyone crawling past me to take a leak or grab something from the overhead.  And who knows, maybe I’ll be able to stretch out and catch a few winks later.  In the meantime, I’ll sit here and write while listening to my iPod.  Which are two more things I love.  

I’ve had the same songs on my iPod for over a year.  That’s lazy and pathetic, I know.  I’ve had plenty of time to change my lineup—I just haven’t gotten around to it.  But right now, that’s OK with me.  Because now, whenever I’m on an airplane and I turn on my iPod, I’m reminded of the nine weeks I spent on the road in the southern United States and Europe last fall.  At the moment, I’m making my way through my collection of The Black Keys, just as I did on so many airplanes and buses a year ago.  I already listened to Death in Vegas’ “Scorpio Rising,” just as I did on that wobbly train from Dallas to Austin last September.  I can never get enough of Liam Gallagher’s voice, and that song has become a ubiquitous travel companion, along with a handful of Liam’s better-known Oasis hits. 

Another indispensable album is Cornershop’s When I Was Born for the 7^th Time, which puts me back on that train platform in Bilbao, waiting to ride from my hotel into the center of town.  Later tonight, or perhaps on my connecting flight from Newark to Santo Domingo, I’ll probably listen to some Bishop Allen.  “Flight 180” is a tough song to do without when you’re on a plane, after all.  So are a pair of songs from the Foo Fighters’ There is Nothing Left to Lose album: “Next Year” and “M.I.A.”  Which reminds me, I’d love to hear “Paper Planes” right now, but unfortunately it’s not on my playlist. 

These songs and others are comforting when I’m on the road.  They’re the voices of old familiar friends.  They remind me of the trips I’ve taken and the sites I’ve seen, because they’ve been around for so many of them. 

As I said earlier, I’m also glad for the chance to write during this flight.  I’ve done that now, so I’ll move on to something else enjoyable: reading.  Maybe when I’m halfway through the next chapter, I’ll luck out again and sleep will seize me for long enough to make tomorrow bearable. 

Preparing for Hispaniola

I feel bad.  I haven’t written a blog in about six weeks.  I meant to write about my surfing experience soon after it happened, but instead I let myself become preoccupied with other things.  So here’s an update:

I just moved into a new apartment two weeks ago, and I’m leaving on a work-related trip in about a week.  Yes, those are my excuses for not blogging more regularly.  Could I have found time between moving and trip planning to sit down for 40 minutes and type?  Probably.  But I back-burnered it. 

Now, most of the travel plans are in place and I’m all moved in.  The new place is a little one-bedroom overlooking the water in West Bremerton.  I’m still working on furnishing it and trying to figure out how to hang a painting without using nails.

The upcoming trip, which begins on Halloween night, is a 12-day excursion to the Dominican Republic and Haiti.  I’m leading a group of seven other people—mostly writers and photographers—to the areas where the organization I work for conducts its business.  The business is that of development.  Schools, medical clinics, churches, clean water projects, that’s what the good people on the ground in Africa and Hispaniola develop.  I write about it, and edit what others write about it, with the intent of generating more publicity and enthusiasm from the literate public, thus generating more support and further development and helping more people. 

On this particular trip, our group will get a first-person perspective of what our organization is doing in the Caribbean.  I’m looking forward to meeting some of the people we’ve written about and getting to talk directly with sources, rather than going through an intermediary or exchanging emails.  I’m also excited to spend two weeks in a warm climate during the middle of autumn.  And getting to practice my Spanish.  And getting to venture into a crazy, messed-up place like Haiti.  I admit, I’m a little nervous thinking about Haiti. 

This is the first place I’ve gone where I have to take malaria pills.  And I’m more frightened of the pills making me sick than I am of actually contracting malaria.  Or dengue fever.  But, considering the way the mosquitoes in Argentina feasted on me (at one point, sleeping with the window open, I had about 30 bites), I should probably be more afraid of the bugs than the pills. 

Overall, though, I’m excited.  I get to travel, write, and experience two countries I’ve never been to before.  One of which has a lot of traits I’m familiar with, and another that will be completely new, strange, and intriguing.  

Who are those white people?

What can I say about San Diego that isn’t a tired old cliché?  Certainly nothing about the perfect weather, abundant palm trees, beautiful women and sandy beaches.  Those are old news.  Something that was new to me was meeting a few dozen relatives I’d previously only heard brief mentions of—and some I’d never known existed.

I’ve got a crazy, huge Mexican-American family down in southern California.  I felt like I stuck out a bit at the reunion for a couple of reasons: I don’t drink much, and I’m white.  Well, whiter than most of my California cousins, anyhow.  That’s what happens when your dad marries a woman with Irish blood.  Thanks, Mom.  At least I’m not as pasty as my sister.  Though I wouldn’t mind having a tan like my cousins.

My family had trouble blending in at the start of the get-together.  As the five of us walked up to my cousin’s front yard in Chula Vista, home base for the reunion, a group of dark-haired young girls stood leaning over the fence, peering at us.  Even my dad is fairly light skinned, because of the mix of German and Norwegian that blend with his Mexican roots.  “Are you my cousins?”  I asked the girls.  An unhesitant “no” was the response.  I just laughed.  I knew they were probably second cousins once or twice removed, because of their age and the fact that they were wearing the reunion T-shirts.  A short time later, my dad heard one of them ask their parents, “Who are those white people?”

We went around to the back of the house, where the music was playing, fish tacos were being served, tequila and beer were flowing, and probably 40 distant relatives were getting reacquainted.  I grabbed some tacos and beer, but stayed away from the tequila because vomiting has never been something I’ve particularly enjoyed.  My dad took me, my brother and sister and my mom around the yard, stopping every couple of feet to introduce us to new relatives.

I was told by several people that I look like two relatives who weren’t there: a late second cousin who had shaggy hair and a beard (I think it’s the face shape and the beard), and a second cousin who lives in Canada and happens to be a fellow cue ball.  Frankly, I’m offended that some folks look at bald guys and say, “All you people look alike.”  My response is, “What do you mean, ‘you people?’”

I gravitated toward the relatives I’d met on prior trips to San Diego, and the ones I’d befriended on Facebook before the reunion.  But I also spent time chatting with some of the previously unknown relatives.  I tried to meet as many as I could, but it was a bit overwhelming, so most of the meetings consisted of little more than an introduction.  I could only focus on really getting to know a few.  Hopefully I’ll get to know some of the others better the next time I go San Diego.

One of the new relatives I did get to know was my second cousin, Bobby.  He offered to take my brother and me surfing the next morning.  And I think that experience deserves its own blog post.

Dinner with an amateur shrink

Last night I had dinner with a couple of friends in Poulsbo and we decided to try and figure out my life.  Well, Melissa tried to figure out my life.  And then I joined in because it seemed like an interesting topic.  Paul provided a few thoughtful insights and observations from the right side of the couch while Melissa guided the discussion from the left.  The result: it’s a mixture of uncertainty and things I already knew.

Even though I’m sure my taste in movies is solid, Paul seemed to be on the fence while Melissa has lost faith in my judgment.   But we did agree that I need to travel (of course) and that I need a girl who loves to travel (and who can also tolerate me and my shiny dome).   As far as other serious life issues go, we’ll probably need a few more dinners to figure things out.

It was nice to talk with some friends who are willing to hear my musings and complaints and shortcomings without me worrying that they have an agenda or that they’ll hear something they don’t like and then force something on me because of that.  They’re still relatively new friends (I knew them first as coworkers, beginning about 7 months ago), so maybe that’s why they seem easy to talk to.  Or maybe that’s only part of the reason.  They’re also just generally easygoing and understanding.  Although I think Melissa has something against guys with shaved heads and she’s not completely willing to admit it.

Anyhow, they also did their best to help me with my weight-gain goals by feeding me plenty of burritos and ice cream, which I greatly appreciated.

What’s the best experience for a writer?

Sometimes I wonder if writing is the best occupation for a writer.  What I mean is, if I’m going to create, is it best for me to be employed as a writer?  Or should I try to gain life experience in another line of work, all the while writing in my downtime?  That’s the route a lot of great writers have taken.  But that route might be a problem for me.  If I knew I could depend on myself to put plenty of effort into writing in my downtime, it could work for me.  But I’d have to make a concerted effort, which I haven’t done before.

I do most of my writing at work right now.  Even though my job forces me to write in someone else’s voice many times, or to use styles of writing that I’m not terribly fond of, it still forces me to write and edit.  It forces me to hone my skills and become more well-rounded as a writer.

But on the other hand, even though I get a lot of training in writing when I’m at work, I can’t really develop my own voice unless I write on my own time.  That was less the case when I was working at a newspaper, but still true to an extent.  The guidelines for corporate writing (my job now) are much more rigid than those for newspaper writing; but news writing still requires adherence to certain strictures.

I guess all this leads me to believe that, no matter what I’m doing for a living, it really behooves me to write in my downtime.  Working as a writer and editor has its benefits, as I become better versed in the English language. (Reading a lot helps with that too.)  And working in other jobs helps me by offering broader life experiences.  But I can gain life experience and writing experience—or development of my own voice—in my off-time.  So maybe, no matter how I’m making money, the most important thing is just avoiding laziness outside of 9 to 5.