Rocks in the Water, Rocks in the Sun: A Memoir from the Heart of Haiti

by Vilmond Joegodson Déralciné

  chapter two

  IN SIMON, a district on the edge of Site Solèy, Deland found a little school called La Providence near our tikounouk for my brother James and me. It was a pitiful school but was connected to the Salesian Brothers, a Catholic congregation that helped us poor kids. They used to come to La Providence each day with two big sacks, one full of bread and the other of large hard biscuits. Their aid was very helpful because my father didn’t have enough money to send us to school and to feed us. James and I were saved by the daily visit of the Salesian Brothers. For us, school was more about food than education. The biscuits were especially nutritious. One single biscuit filled me up.

  James and I learned to read before all the other kids. As a result, they used to come to us for help. In gratitude for our help, they used to share with us the bread and biscuits that they got from the Salesians. We would eat our own portions at school and then take what our classmates gave us home for Deland and Cécile. That strategy helped us to relieve the pressure on our parents and also made us good students.

  Sometimes the teachers kept sacks of bread and biscuits for themselves. They could sell it to street merchants and pocket the profits or they could take it home and feed their families. As a result, there wouldn’t be enough for all the students. We students were affected differently, depending on our situation at home. For James and me, it was a minor catastrophe. The teachers would distribute a portion of the bread and biscuits. Then, we would see them start to tie up the sacks. Whatever remained inside was destined for the market or their homes. If we hadn’t got our portion, it was too late. We wouldn’t eat.

  I used to cry when I realized that I was not going to get a biscuit. But I was too ashamed to tell the teachers why I was crying, that we were too poor to eat at home and my family depended on me. Mostly, I didn’t like to be hungry. If a teacher asked me what was wrong, I would invent scenarios to explain my tears. I would lie that one of the other children had hit me, for instance. Once, the student I accused of hitting me yelled that I was lying, that the reason I was crying was that I hadn’t received a biscuit. The teacher asked if that was true and I acknowledged that it was so. To keep me calm, if she saw me crying, she would undo the sack and find a biscuit for me. I wouldn’t wait for the tears to stop streaming down my cheeks before I dug in.

  One day, my grandmother Suzanne came to Simon to spend a few weeks with us. Since we couldn’t eat the whole biscuit, we would keep a portion to take home for Suzanne. Sometimes, we managed to get an extra biscuit and we would give it to her. She started to get used to her daily biscuits, just like us kids. The first thing I used to do upon returning home was to greet my grandmother. After awhile, her response was, “Where’s the bread and biscuit for your grandmother?”

  One day, when we were especially looking forward to the arrival of the taptap that usually brought the Salesians with their bread and biscuits, it simply didn’t arrive. All we school kids were crushed. School turned into hell that day. When we returned home, my grandmother was waiting for me at the door like a customs agent. She asked me hopefully, “Where are the bread and biscuits that you have brought your grandmother?”

  I had already passed customs, but I had to take two steps back to deliver the bad news. I lied, “Mèmè, it’s not just for bread and biscuits that I go to school, you know.”

  She was shocked by the response. I had always been a good grandson who shared his biscuits with his grandma. She never knew what I had to go through to make sure I returned with something for her.

  “Okay, okay, my child,” she responded. “I won’t ask you anymore for a biscuit. I see that school also teaches you how to be mean to your grandmother.”

  Deland learned through the neighbours that the only strength of our school was the bread and biscuits. It was not strong in academics. So, he sent us to a primary school called Le Progrès, also run by the Salesian Brothers, in a neighbourhood called Site Limyè in the centre of Site Solèy. There, they gave us bread along with a little carton of milk. The school only operated during the dry season, better understood as the dusty season. During the rainy season, there was so much mud in the area that the school had a difficult time operating. So it closed its doors until the worst of the muddy season had passed.

  In Le Progrès, we made lots of new friends. I was lucky to make a friend named Molière who was in my class and lived near the school. There were many days when the Brothers did not hand out milk and bread and I had not eaten at home. But, before going to school, Molière used to prepare a pot of kongo or black beans and leave them on the rechau, a little oven that the local men made out of sheet metal. When recess came, he invited me to his home for a plate of rice and beans. I asked him wherever he found the money to cook beans each day. In my own household there was seldom a meal in the morning. He told me that his mother was a street merchant who sold agricultural products. She left him the beans every morning.

  Deland was now using his own sewing machine to support his family. He decided to buy his own house instead of renting. He found a place in even worse condition than the one we rented, but which he could afford. He paid in instalments. He did his best to make the new place habitable, but there was only so much he could do.

  Deland was trying to build a life for us in Site Solèy, but we seemed to be going backwards. The new place did not have enough space for his sewing machine. The only logical place for him to locate his business was on top of the ditch where the human waste flowed. It was about thirty metres in front of our new home. At the time, the road that led to downtown Port-au-Prince passed next to that spot. Deland wanted to attract as many potential customers as possible. So he laid plywood across the ditch and built a little shop with corrugated iron. On a board, he wrote the name of his business and affixed it to the new structure: “Bethesda Shop Deland.”

  When my father began to build on top of the ditch, the neighbours and passersby thought he was crazy. But he continued. Finally, clients began to visit his new shop. Why? Because it turned out to be the best location. So what if human waste flowed underneath the shop? That was just a part of our neighbourhood. Inside the shop, clients did not think of its location. Not only did people reconsider their criticism of Deland, but many started to follow his example and build their homes and little businesses on top of the ditch.

  Among them was a man from Cap Haitien and his family. He built a room of corrugated iron on top of the ditch not far from the Bethesda Shop. Olvè had no money, even to feed his family, but he wanted to start some small business. A friend lent him a little money to buy some oil, a sack of rice, one container of butter, another of tomato paste, and some beans. He divided his produce to sell to the poor who could afford only a small quantity at a time. He set up a table between the ditch and the road. Like Deland, he was visible and people took advantage of the convenience.

  Everyone knew that Olvè was a Vodouist. One day, he decided to put the extreme poverty of his life behind him. “Better that I die than continue in this state,” he said.

  He went to an houngan who was known to be very powerful. Olvè wanted a “point.” A point is a contract with the devil. One can enter such a contract, but with conditions attached. The devil can make someone enormously rich, but in return for years of life. The benefits that might come from such a contract — money, fame, youth, power, talent, protection — are unimportant in themselves. The devil uses human needs to trap his prey. The conditions are also diverse. You may have to sacrifice a member of your family, for instance. People always think that the devil is stupid, that he’ll take the black sheep of the family, whereas he can take your fondest and closest member. He can take an eye, a leg, or an arm in payment. These payments depend on how much you want and how badly you want it. People think that they can escape the contract. The devil knows better. As long as you live, you are in his service.

  Some people make contracts to travel abroad. Each year, the person must return for a big Vodouist ceremony. Or burn a portion of his money in
an intersection. When the contract includes the loss of an arm or a leg, it is not simply a matter of the houngan taking out a machete and lopping it off. Instead, you may be climbing onto a bus when it is hit by a truck. The other passengers might escape without injury, but you will be gravely injured and lose your leg.

  For Olvè, less than a month after his contract, all of the neighbours were amazed at his success. No longer was he selling little packages of provisions. Now, he was receiving truckloads of rice, oil, beans, tomato paste, and butter. Everyone knew that he had taken a point. Olvè bought up the little houses that people had built on top of the ditch after my father had broken ground. He used these little houses as storage units. He announced that he didn’t need to hire security guards. He said that anyone who tried to steal from his storage units would be sorry. Everyone knew what that meant. His contract came complete with protection. Moreover, no one would accept any gift from Olvè, fearing that they might unwittingly be including themselves in the contract. People feared Olvè, but they did not respect him.

  Olvè’s family changed their appearance, like snakes shed their skin.

  After three years, Olvè was dead. His business disappeared overnight. His wife confirmed to us that he had entered into a contract with a lwa. She was frightened. She and the children fled to Cap Haitien. We in the neighbourhood never knew their ultimate fate. Since they were accomplices in the contract, we knew that they were marked.

  Meanwhile, the Bethesda Shop flourished. The local Catholic school required that children wear uniforms. At the beginning of the school year, Deland was inundated with orders from parents to prepare their children. So much work came in that he needed to hire some apprentice tailors to help him.

  With his new success, he bought another sewing machine for my mother. She joined him in making the uniforms for the local girls. Together, they worked night and day. As the business grew, they were able to rebuild a proper shop with cinder blocks. Behind, he built a real toilet: a concrete floor with a hole that opened onto the ditch. People crouched just as they did outside, but the concrete walls offered privacy. It was the only actual toilet in the neighbourhood. Not only his family and clients, but our neighbours started to visit his shop when they felt the call of nature. With this new luxury, they increasingly rejected the open public toilet.

  In the heat of Port-au-Prince, clients appreciate any business that can offer cool drinks. So, my father sectioned off a small area at the front of his shop with cinder blocks. He bought some soft drinks and then covered them with blocks of ice that he purchased each morning from the ice factory in Simon. He protected the ice from the heat by covering it with old nylon sugar sacks. There were more and more reasons for visiting the shop. The Bethesda Shop became a focal point in the neighbourhood.

  The school uniforms were the basis of my parents’ business. However, those orders came just before the school year began and they swamped my parents with work. My father wanted to attract business during the rest of the year, when he and Cécile were not overworked. So, he stocked the shop with linens of bright colours. He hung in front of the shop examples of designs that he and Cécile had created. Dresses, skirts, and shirts gave his shop a lively and attractive allure. Everyone who passed stopped to admire the samples. Although they could seldom afford to buy a new article of clothing, they could dream. Before long, they would be saving their money in order to buy the item that they had seen everyday hanging in the front of the Bethesda Shop. At the time, Deland was the only tailor to promote his work in this way. Only street merchants of second-hand clothing displayed their work in the open, for lack of a shop. However, Deland had the distinction of both owning a shop and displaying his original work for passersby to see.

  Over the Bethesda Shop, Deland built an awning to offer passersby a refuge from the pitiless sun. Underneath it, he built a bench. Many people stopped for a few minutes to rest before continuing on their way. The shade only added to the appreciation that the local people had for my father’s business. It also helped to increase the activity around the shop, which could only help in the long run.

  Deland and Cécile slept in the home across from the shop with the youngest kids. My brother James and I slept in the shop, on top of piles of soft fabric, along with the apprentices who now worked with my parents. One evening, some people came by to try to set the wooden door of the shop on fire. That might have spread to consume the fabrics and clothing inside, not to mention my brother and me. My father’s success was provoking jealousy and resentment among some of our neighbours.

  Sometimes, we awoke to find vèvè traced in the soil in front of the shop. A vèvè is a Vodou symbol that is used to communicate with the lwa. Each lwa has his own vèvè. They are used to call forth a lwa, but there can be a number of intentions. Sometimes, vèvè can be traced out of white flour. When people see a vèvè before their door, they might respond with fear. In that state, they are more vulnerable to falling victim to misfortune. They know that a spirit has been called forth to act upon them; that can’t be good news. But Deland simply swept the vèvè away and carried on with his life and his business.

  Finally, Deland was able to rebuild the old shack where the family lived. He bought cinder blocks and constructed two rooms across from the business. That was now our family’s home in Simon, a section of Site Solèy.

  Fortunately, Cécile was not materialistic. She was content with her two rooms and family. At the time, local produce was not expensive, and it was nutritious. Deland sometimes returned to Saut d’Eau to collect a part of the harvest that came from the land he still owned. He would return and stock our home with manioc, legumes, potatoes, corn, and other foods that had a reasonable shelf life. Moreover, it was what Cécile and the family were used to eating. During this period, when the Bethesda Shop was flourishing, my mother economized and we ate healthily.

  Deland and Cécile were one in working for their family. Our home was separated from our next-door neighbours by a flimsy wall of corrugated iron. When our produce arrived from Saut d’Eau, Cécile used to share it with our neighbours. The two families often ate together. This worked as long as both families shared the same spirit as well as the actual things that passed between us.

  Eventually, the administration of Site Solèy came by to mark all of the buildings built over the ditch for demolition. The Bethesda Shop was marked in red. We were told that city hall intended to enlarge the road. Those in the neighbourhood who were jealous of my father’s business were content. Some prepared to begin the destruction with the Bethesda Shop.

  Some people were sanctioned by city hall to carry out the demolition. However, a number of others wanted to participate so that they might recover the iron bars and other materials from the wreckage.

  One of our neighbours whose home was also marked for demolition was a policeman. He placed himself in front of his door with a gun, threatening the crowd, “The first person who advances on my house will be shot.”

  The crowd backed up, deciding to leave the home of the policeman alone and to concentrate on the others. Makak sou konn sou ki bwa li fwote — a drunken monkey knows what tree he is rubbing against. Only the policeman’s home remained standing. In fact, it is standing today. He lives there still with his family.

  No one was compensated for their loss. Everyone had to start over again. Construction began on the road six years later.

  My father was discouraged and sad. He thought of all that he had invested in the Bethesda Shop. It was destroyed. He had little to show for all his sacrifices. He got sick.

  He thought of returning to Saut d’Eau. But given the problems that had precipitated our family’s departure several years earlier, it seemed unfeasible. Moreover, my father had already sold his home there. But he decided to return to Saut d’Eau to work the land for a few months in order to return to Port-au-Prince with provisions.

  Meanwhile, my mother took charge in Site Solèy. The house was still standing. She put her sewing machine in front of the hous
e and continued to receive clients there. She managed to cope with the setback and to keep us all alive while Deland worked in Saut d’Eau.

  Eventually, Deland returned with enough provisions to last several months. My parents decided that Cécile would continue to receive clients in our home while my father would go to work in a foreign assembly plant in the Industrial Park. He made fifty gourdes a day (about $3 US) if he succeeded in achieving the quota. Even if he made the quota, his pay was far from adequate to support his five children.

  He intended to work for several months to earn enough money to rebuild his shop from scratch. Nothing had changed in the factories. He arose at five o’clock in the morning to walk a few kilometres to arrive at six o’clock. If he was fifteen minutes late, either his pay would be docked or he would simply be refused entry for the day.

  In the factory, Deland was required to stand for the entire twelve-hour day cutting slacks out of the fabric. He was exhausted at the end of the day. When he returned home, he had to help my mother with her work.

  After five months, he could no longer stand work in the factory. It was time to rent a room somewhere in the neighbourhood to rebuild his old business. He found a room for 5,000 gourdes (about $330 US) a year that was closer to the road than our house. Even with the money he had saved from the factory and that my mother had managed to put aside from her sewing work, he still needed to borrow from our neighbours to rent the room.