I remember first arriving in Port-au-Prince. All the Ste. Trinité volunteers gathered together as we got off the plane and although I had met a few of them at the airport in Miami, it seemed as if the size of the group had doubled—I couldn’t believe how many of us there were. It was sort of like, oh, this person who I’m talking must be part of our group too. I was amazed by the fact that we, a group of musicians—and no, I’m not talking about the Beatles or the Spice Girls—were treated with such special treatment. We were whisked through the airport and taken to our special little school bus before we ever had the chance to even think about stopping to take out our passports. Eventually, our passports were examined (Hector came around the bus to collect them) and our heavy bags (due to the suitcases of music) retrieved. While sitting there, I became ridiculously paranoid about the sun and was thus applying Rebecca’s 75-level sun block even though I probably couldn’t have gotten sunburned if I had tried. (The first week in Haiti I was so worried about the sun—Rebecca, Meera, Miriam, and Katherine can vouch for this—later, I just stopped worrying about it—and never burned). Meanwhile, a Creole lesson was taking place. It was quite interesting listening to Laura who was trying to teach Rob to say, “Ki jan ou ye jodi a?” He started to get it after a good twenty minutes so the lesson then continued with responses to this question (it was rather exciting to hear Laura say, “M’ap boule” in her enthusiastic contralto voice) but I think Rob had forgotten the question by the time he learned to say “m’ap boule.”
The bus drove into the city. It was so different from anything that I had previously experienced that I felt like I was in some exotic movie—the crazy drivers, the women balancing heavy loads on their heads, the colorful passing tap taps reminding me that I could be saved by Jesus. I spent a few days at the school sleeping excessively and sitting around the kitchen table getting to know some of the volunteers before heading for Leogone.
The trip to Leogane was pretty crazy. We squished ourselves into the first half of the bus; in back, there were naked basses and cellos straddled between school bus seats, surrounded by our suitcases on top of which some of the Haitian staff rode. Taking in the never-ending poverty going out of the city was quite sobering and so it was somewhat refreshing to eventually get out into the country side with trees and fresher air. However, this more pleasing, less congested landscape lent itself to an even more crazy drive with speedy cars passing on curves and switching lanes at the very last minute.
In spite of the anxiety on the road, we all arrived to Leogane safely, just in time for a little rain shower. We were met by Bob and Susie, the caretakers of the hospital guesthouse, which seemed like a first class hotel (at least compared to my expectations of Spartan living arrangements—there was even air conditioning sometimes). Nevertheless, the house was a bit crowded with twenty some volunteers. I shared a room with Meera, Miriam, Rebecca, and Katherine (probably one of the nicer rooms). One night during the first week, (according to numerous second-hand accounts)—I suddenly screamed and woke up and terrified everyone. (Later, I became notorious for commanding my second violins (in French) while sleeping).
My days in Leogane officially began with “Drapeau” (minus the flag) at 7:15 am. I usually got my self to these religious morning ceremonies—when I missed on occasion, I suffered the guilt of one who plays hooky. Breakfast followed Drapeau. A Haitian breakfast favorite seems to be spaghetti (with ketchup). I thought it was just a quirky favorite of the cooks in Leogane but I later discovered that the cooks loved to cook spaghetti for breakfast in Jacmel too (which I found to be quite preferable to boiled plantains).
After breakfast I went to the basketball slab to help tune the POC (a BIG job). Disciplinarian Nancy then took control of the rehearsal and got the POCers in shape. Following theory (which I miraculously did not have to teach) and snacks, I led POC second violin sectional. I learned quickly that I had to be somewhat firm because my very dear second violins (they were all girls) had a tendency to get a bit lazy or end up in left field (perhaps watching the boys in Aluma’s cello sectional on the other side of the court).
The big meal of the day was served after our sectional—one could always count on some sort of rice and something to put on top of it (usually some sort of meat and sauce) and often a few vegetables. The food seemed especially good after recovering from being sick and not eating for several days. We gathered in the staff (Haitian and American) dining room for good eating and chatting before resuming our musical activities. Nancy loved to tell me about how she had had the father of this or that student twenty years earlier, and how their personalities compared to their sons’ or daughters’ personalities.
I spent my afternoons under a tree working individually with some of the POC violinists. I discovered that teaching individually was more challenging and required greater expertise than leading a POC orchestra sectional. Through experience, I learned what worked and did not work and learned how I could be an effective teacher. I worked with many students on basic position and recognition of intonation difficulties, and I tried to teach them how to practice.
My afternoons ended with another POC rehearsal, followed by vespers and souper (which generally consisted of akasan or peanut butter and jelly). After supper, depending on my rotating schedule, I often got a little escape from the POC to play in the OPST. This was held in the badly-lit, mosquito-ridden kiosk but the stimulating music made up for these little inconveniences. The OPST had a variety of conductors over the course of the camp—Steve, Ms. Anthony, John Jost and John Montez, Hector, and even Mr. Levy for some jazz. By far, the most memorable orchestral moment involved Ms. Anthony nearly falling from the podium crying out, “Laura!”
I would usually get pretty tired by the end of the day and after hanging out a bit at the house, I usually hit the sack pretty early in order to be “en fom” for the following day’s responsibilities.
Weekends in Leogone generally involved marathon-length concerts and recitals, a trip to the beach, Sunday mass (where I received kneups from the crazy man’s communion), and the Sunday night dance. The camp ended with a huge feast (following a monstrous rain storm), the presenting of awards, a student talent show, and the inevitable au revoirs.
While the majority of Americans left for the States, Ms. Anthony, Melvin and Jared and I drove through the mountains to Jacmel. I immediately fell in love with the atmosphere of the city in Jacmel, especially the little Tikaynou across the street from our place. I found that it was much easier to get to know the Haitians in Jacmel, probably because there were far fewer Americans and we were more integrated into the Haitian life.
The music school was just up the street. I really liked the second floor with the big open windows and the roof top view of the city.
I think I had even more responsibility in Jacmel. I learned a lot from Deborah, an excellent violinist, during the first two and a half weeks before I became the main camp violin teacher. In the mornings, I worked with the first and second violins in sectionals and technique class, attended orchestra rehearsals, and led the twinkle/beginner group class.
Then we had an excellent lunch with the staff and I would often squeeze in a twenty minute siesta before beginning individual lessons. I tried to teach my students in Jacmel some of the same things that I worked on with students in Leogone, in particular, trying to teach them how to practice. Souper followed lessons. Again, bread and akasan were very typical but we were so spoiled by Didine that we got to try many other specialties, including militon and pate.
The evenings often gave me a better chance to get to know some of the Haitians over a cold Prestige or Famosa. On other occasions, some of us took evening strolls through the city, got ice cream, or sampled a rum punch as part of our unofficial comparative study of Haitian rum punches). One evening, we took a walk through the graveyard and to the sea. Passing a house on the country road, I heard Saint-Saens’s “Danse Bachannale” (something we had been rehearsing in sectional that day) and was proud to find my student Ralph practicing so diligently. I also attended a strange voodoo ceremony, although we left (perhaps for the better) just before the goat sacrifices.
The best aspect of the weekends was Cyvadier, my favorite beach with sand, rocks, coconuts and crystal blue, calm water. It was always refreshing after a hot, crowded dusty ride on a tap tap. The weekends also involved Friday night recitals and Saturday night orchestra concerts, the last of which ended with the unforgettable “Clash and Roar.”
By the time I had returned to the United States, I was already missing Haiti. Despite the occasional third world inconveniences and the overwhelming poverty that plagues the country, I fell in love with the land and its people, and understand now the song the folk musicians sang at Yannick’s, over wine and fried plantains, Haiti Cherie…..
