On Nouveau Toddy

The other night, I felt the need for a nightcap on the terrace and without even thinking about it, I fell into an amazing, splendid, lovely hot toddy:

1 part very good tequila

3 parts hot water

1 tsp honey

juice of 1/2 a lime

I don't know if it was the Patron Silver that made it so good but I could quaff the stuff.  I slept like a baby.

On Good Value at a Party

There are a couple of guys who work for the French Red Cross who I was first introduced to at the Belgian bar back in January.  I don't remember much about them that night except that by the end of it they were lining up shots of rum, whiskey, and vodka, shooting them down, then asking for another round.  Being a highly sophisticated consumer of alcohol, I maybe judged them a little.  Maybe just a little.

Lo! and behold! We ran into those two the next night at a party.  They could easily be identified as the guys with their shirts off, dancing up a storm on the dance floor, each with a bottle of wine in hand.  Next weekend: same guys, different party.  One of them dances a bit like a strutting chicken.  The other is unabashedly sweaty.

And so it has been at nearly every party I have been to since.  The French boys can be found on the dance floor, shirts off, freaking anyone brave enough to come close.  They are so ridiculous and so disinterested in being taken seriously, that they are actually.....good fun!  I found myself looking forward to their antics and appreciating the energy they bring to the dance floor.

A rare shot of the guys with their shirts on.  Lord help us if they decide to turn up to the jazz festival this week.

My hats went off to them last weekend at a friend's birthday bash when they suddenly disappeared from the dance floor (shirts off, of course), only to return wearing cuffs with links and collars with bowties.  Heh, heh.  Good value, those guys.  

On Weekends

1. Friday night beers at the only place in the country where we can find Belgian beers.  Everyone walks in exhausted and worn out and walks out at the end of the night silly, relaxed, and ready for another week.

2. A house party thrown by an NGO.  This week it's Medicins sans Frontier, Handicap International, and some Argentinian peacekeepers.  I dance a lot here.  My favourite dancing happens before a shower.  Life is too short to shower without music.

3. Weekend guests.  My friends, Marcie and Maite (pictured) stay over most weekend nights and help me consume vast amounts of coffee on weekend mornings.  I am waiting for them to wake up now in hopes that one of them feels inspired to make omelets.  

On the Best Burger Ever

It can be found at Michael's Genuine Food and Drink in Miami.  Stacey and I went there in November and were so blown away by the burger that we wrote the chef a love letter:



When I was stranded in Miami in December on my way back to Haiti, I took my colleague, Emmanuella, there.  We had the amazing cookie plate (shout out in the February issue of Bon Appetit) and Emma charmed the bartender into taking a bottle of Kostritzer Schwarzbier home with us.

As we were crossing the street on our way out, a bus boy came running after us with the special and difficult to find matching glass!

On My First Haiti HASH

Lima Red Dress Run

Have you been on a Hash?  Google can lend a hand if you aren't familiar with the concept. The Hash House Harriers was started by British expats long ago, and have been an outlot for stir-crazy and fun-loving expats the world around.  Each Hash, the "hare" sets a trail with marks of flour for the "hounds" to follow.  There are false trails, special things you yell to tell people if you found the right or wrong trail, and beer stops along the way.

As a kid in Grenada, the Hashes were some of the best [and tiring] memories. The Hashers included serious runners, parents with kids on their backs, kids of various ages, overweight drinkers, and vaguely disreputable diplomats all following a trail of flour through cane fields, forests of thorn trees, mangrove swamps, pools of mud, and lots of cow manure.  By the Hash end [at a watering hole], everyone was muddy, sweaty, drenched, scratched up, exhausted, and happy.

The Haiti Hash broke up after the earthquake and just started up a couple of weeks ago.  I decided to go as much to stretch my legs as to meet other people.  I also dragged my boss along.  She started the Juba, Sudan, Hash.  We got thoroughly lost driving to the meeting place which didn't bode well for our ability to navigate the Hash but gave us ample time to appreciate the many hills of the neighborhood we were to Hash in.

I ended up holding up the rear of the runners instead of walk-running as I intended.  This was less because I was feeling hard core and more because I don't like hills and wanted to get it over with.  It was a fun group that managed to keep the Hash traditions alive without being too self-important about it.  We got back to the base after what felt like hours of running up and down hills and got to the rounds of Hash songs, penalties and salutes, all of which involved chugging beer.  It's all a bit cheesey and almost requires a certain amount of beer to make it fun.   Alison and I managed to dodge most of the beer chugging, but are determined that for the next Hash we will not have driving responsibilities or $47M proposals to hold us back.

I am sore.

On My Self Defense Kit

My friend, Sam (aka Ruthie), is an ER doctor in Flint, Michigan.  Flint is probably one of the most depressed and sketchy places I know of in the US.  It's going no where fast.  I'm not sure anything has changed since Michael Moore's Roger and Me.  Ruthie sees repeat gun shot wounds, junkies, drunks, and crazy/dangerous people walk through her door every day.

And she's worried about me.  

Let's be clear: Haiti is a dangerous place for Haitians.  There are kidnappers and armed burglars and gangs in the slums and cholera and  electoral violence.  But I am an expat with access to clean water and I keep my head down.  I am very careful and haven't felt the little hairs on the back of my neck go up in a long time.

Nevertheless, Ruthie is concerned about my lack of Mace, a gun, a machete, throwing stars, or any other implement of defense.  She told me she would be sending me something to redress the situation.  I received this:

On a Weekend at the Beach

This weekend, I went away to the beach with my friends, Maite and Marcie.  It takes some time to get out of the dusty, gray, city through twisting back roads to avoid traffic.  It's a good way to get a look at the city.

Once at the beach, we didn't talk about work and exerted ourselves only to take our beers from the shore into the water.

This is a camp outside the city with transitional shelters made of plastic sheeting and wooden beams.  Every time I've passed it, it's gotten bigger.  It is now home to 40,000 - 60,000 people.

On the Return of Baby Doc

In a bizarre new chapter to Haiti's political drama, a former president (tyrannical dictator "Baby Doc") returned to Haiti in a surprise visit after 25 years in exile.  Baby Doc inherited the title of Tyrant in Charge from his dad and under their rule, thousands of Haitians were intimidated, tortured, and killed by their armed gangs.

A Washington Post article interviews several people who seem unphased by the return of the dictator.  They are either too young to remember the dark days or are so desperate for someone to come in and fix everything, that they are willing to overlook the transgressions of the past.  Why someone with only "dictator/tyrant/embezzler" on his CV would be the solution to Haiti's problems is a mystery to me.

What is Baby Doc's reason for his return?  No idea.  Apparently, he's here to come to the aid of the Haitian people.  More on that at a press conference he has scheduled for today.  The timing - bang in the middle of a disputed presidential election - is flabbergasting.

I'm at home right now, waiting to find out whether we will close the office today or not.  All looks calm outside my house, though last night I was awakened several times by loud bangs.

On One Year On

It's a sunny, clear, breezy, cool day in Port-au-Prince on this anniversary of the 2010 earthquake.  Memorial services started days ago and are scheduled into the end of the month.  So many people died.

I've been listening to and reading the international media's reflections on the past year since the earthquake.  Is there a code of politeness, even among journalists that prevents them from saying, as I would, "little progress has been made in the past year and the are no signs that any improvement in Haitians' quality of life is likely in the next year"?  Why sugar coat things, as an NPR reporter did, saying Haitians have hope that things will change for the better, but want to know when.

Is it cognitive dissonance for me to both believe that the lot of Haitians is unlikely to improve in the next 5 - 10 years and believe in my work?

Pictures from just after the 2010 earthquake and a year later
 (www.news.nationalgeographic.com)

On Being Home

I'm back in Haiti!  I made it through the figurative birth canal of the immigration/baggage claim hangar and was happy to pop out into the warm sunshine into a (gasp!) waiting vehicle.

Some of my camp neighbors have moved!  There are open spaces on the square they used to inhabit where I saw boys kicking a football.  I have never seen any open space in Port-au-Prince before .  I wonder where they were relocated to.  Living on the square between the police station and the electoral commission office must not have been fun during the elections.

Speaking of which, the official results of the first round of elections might be announced today!  Or on Tuesday.  Or by the end of the month.  February, tops.  In commemoration, I heard several loud bangs at 4:50 this morning.  When I ventured a peek through the window, I saw a flaming barricade blocking the main road behind my house.  It was pretty impressive.  Eventually, the police arrived and wandered around.  While they figured out what to do, I closed all my windows to keep out the billowing black smoke.  I was curious about what they were going to do about the barricade, but they took too long figuring it out so I went back to bed and eventually heard the sounds of morning traffic making its way down the road.

Happy Friday!!