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

by Vilmond Joegodson Déralciné

  Annie, with the nurses in front of her, forgot the name we had chosen. She called me over and I wrote it on a piece of paper so that they would get it right: Naara. They gave us a birth certificate. We went home.

  It was thanks to the hundred gourdes that Mardi had given me that I was able to get a taptap to return to Delmas 33. We three entered our little room for the first time.

  chapter forty-five

  AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE, Paul created a website so that I could post blog entries about what was going on in Port-au-Prince. When Naara was a few months old, we thought about writing a book. We wrote a proposal and sent it to some publishers. When they accepted the project in principle, we decided to put our website on hold. Now Paul and I would have to get together again to talk and write full time.

  Since Paul had already lived in Haiti in 2006, he preferred that I come to Canada for the work. I went to the Canadian embassy to inform myself about how to enter Canada to work temporarily.

  I went to the big Canadian embassy on the main avenue that cuts through Port-au-Prince, Rue Delmas. The embassy was closed for a holiday. But in front there was a board with some announcements along with brochures that explained the services offered. I took the relevant ones: instructions for applying for a temporary visa along with the Internet address for more information. While I was reading the information, a number of people came to see what I was looking at. I had a pen and was taking notes. They lived nearby and passed every day this huge building with the white (actually grey thanks to Haitian dust) and red Canadian flag flying above. But that another poor Haitian was taking notes might have prompted them to stop to consider its potential value for them. When I went up to the board, I was alone. When I had my information and left to go home, there was a small crowd searching for what it was that had so interested me.

  Paul called me in the evening for an update. I told him that everything was on the Internet. Since he had access and I didn’t, we decided that it made more sense for him to do the research and report back to me. We could see that the Canadian government intended to make the process difficult for the poor. First, the rate of illiteracy is high in Haiti. A bulletin board is already a challenge for many people. For those who pass that obstacle, there is next the problem of the Internet. Few Haitians have computers. We have to pay at an Internet cafe for a connection. The service is outdated and unreliable. Few poor Haitians see the value in wasting money — that they could otherwise use to buy food — to learn to surf the Web. By sending Haitians to the Internet, the Canadian government is saying that it is either insensitive or doesn’t want the poor to even apply for visas.

  Paul found the requirements for entering Canada from Haiti on the government site. I needed a passport, a bank account at least six months old with evidence of activity, photographs, a certified cheque for $75, letters from my employer, and a letter from my Canadian sponsor.

  I had opened an account in 2006, but it had lapsed from lack of activity. My passport too was within a month of expiring. Paul sent me money to renew my passport and another $500 to open a bank account. He sent me the forms by email. I went to an Internet cafe to print them. Often, the Internet cafes have no service during the days because there is no reliable electric current. If you do find electricity, the signal is so tenuous and slow that much time and money can be wasted. Every thirty minutes, I had to pay again to keep trying to download the documents. Finally, I had them.

  On the day before I had to submit the documents, I went to the Capital Bank, where I had opened an account, for the certified cheque for $75. They said that it was not possible. The teller said that I needed to have an account for six months before they would issue me a certified cheque. I was discouraged. I told the teller that I had a rendezvous early the next morning. The embassy would not accept cash. It needed to be this cheque. Zafè kabrit pa gade mouton — a sheep doesn’t care about a goat’s problems. I called Paul in Canada. He said it made no sense that they would not give me a certified cheque. He checked their website to see that the service was offered. So I called the manager. He repeated what the teller had said. And there it ended. I just took out $100 with the hope that I might find another institution to write me a certified cheque.

  I walked the streets without any clear objective. Which of these banks would write me a cheque? Finally, I tried my luck at the Banque Nationale de Crédit. It was my last chance, since time was running out. I asked the receptionist. She asked if I had an account in the bank. No. She said that I would need to have an account there. When I explained that it was urgent, she said that I could open an account and come tomorrow for the cheque. But the rendezvous at the embassy was set for eight o’clock in the morning. Was there anything that she could do for me? She said that the charge for a certified cheque was twenty dollars and that the account would need to have twenty dollars in it after the cheque was issued to remain open. That meant that I would need to have $115 to get my cheque. All I had was $100. It seemed hopeless. There were only ten minutes left until the bank closed its doors on my chance to realize my goal. Just at that moment, a member of my church choir entered the bank. I quickly explained the situation and he handed me the fifteen dollars. I would repay him later. I had my cheque.

  I returned home in triumph. I thought that for once things were changing for me. I wondered if this was a sign that it was God’s will that I succeed in getting to Canada to finish our work. It seemed a miracle that my friend from church should appear at that precise moment.

  My head was alive all night long. I couldn’t sleep. I projected myself into the near future. If this worked, I would be in Canada. What would it be like? How would people see me there?

  The day arrived after a long night. My fantasies seemed out of place in the harsh reality of our little room in Delmas 33.

  The rendezvous was for eight. I arrived before that, but there was already a long line-up in front of the embassy. Some were tired. They were crouching on the ground. A security guard was giving instructions. He called to me and asked what I was doing here. I explained that I had a rendezvous. He wanted to see the documents that I had brought with me. He told me that I needed to have copies of my passport and my national identity card. I scurried around looking for a place that made copies. I returned with them and saw that the people who were scheduled for the first rendezvous were already entering. I followed them into the big building.

  A security guard took my identity card and noted my presence in a book. He gave me a key to a locker where I had to leave my cellphone. I followed the others up to the second floor.

  Inside was a big room with comfortable chairs. There were a number of places where we could speak to people through slits in windows. A guard asked if I was there for an interview. I said yes. So, he showed me where to sit.

  After a few minutes, I heard a voice call out the names of those who were there for an interview. Mine wasn’t among them. So I asked the security guard for help. He asked again if I was there for an interview. I said yes, but since it was my first time, I wasn’t really sure about the procedures. He took my passport and went to find out where I should be. He returned to tell me that I was simply there to hand in my documents. That wasn’t, it turned out, an “interview.” Who knew? He led me to another office where I was to hand in my documents. He introduced me to the woman there, saying condescendingly, “Here’s a young man who thinks that everything is simple. He thinks you just walk into the embassy and they send you to Canada.”

  I didn’t think that.

  I waited in line. When it was my turn, the clerk told me that I was missing a document. She didn’t tell me what it was, just that there should be another document. She said that if I could get it and bring it back by noon, then she could accept it. She never suggested that the document was available in the embassy. Why would the embassy not just hand me the form? I didn’t ask even such logical questions. I had to go to an Internet cafe to find it, download it, fill it in, and return it. I called Paul and he discovered th
at there were new documents required now. Applicants from Haiti now had to give a detailed description of their work history for the last ten years and, in another document, they had to list all of their brothers and sisters along with their jobs and criminal records.

  I went to all the Internet cafes in the area. None of them had the program that could download the document I needed. It was the rainy season and, as usual, it was coming down in torrents as I searched for an Internet cafe that could print the document. I finally was able to download the document, but, by now, I was so far away from the embassy that there was no way to return before noon.

  When I arrived, the security guards at the main gate said that it was too late.

  I walked home in the pouring rain, having no more money for a taptap. I had all my documents with me, including the cheque. I was more than discouraged. I didn’t want to go to Canada. That meant that I wouldn’t finish the project. I was feeling very low.

  I called Paul to explain. “Isn’t there another way we can finish our book?”

  Paul reprised what had become a common theme, “You are discouraged. It’s obvious. They are putting you through nasty hoops. The treatment at the embassy has been conceived to discourage you. To make you give up. But, especially because it is uncomfortable for you, you should keep going to the end. To see what happens. Don’t give up. We’ll make another chapter of our book describing your experiences at the embassy. But you have nothing to apologize for. You have done everything they ask, even where it’s humiliating. You have a letter from Canadian publishers saying that they are waiting for the manuscript. You will be contributing to the Canadian economy. It makes no sense that this particular government, obsessed with economic growth, should discourage you. Just try to get through this. Take it like another obstacle. Think of all you’ve been through. Finish with the embassy and we’ll decide what to do after that.”

  I agreed. But Paul’s pep talk hardly softened the unpleasantness of dealing with the embassy. It was clear that they were trying to humiliate me. It was working. I felt ashamed. They asked me every question that might demonstrate that I was poor and that my family was poorer. Why did they want to know that my brothers and sisters were all unemployed? Why did they need to know their level of education? It seemed that they wanted me to say it. Why did they ask for the criminal records of each of my brothers and sisters? Why did they want to know whether I had a good job? Would they acknowledge that I was a skilled furniture maker? Would they acknowledge that I was creating my own employment by writing about life in Haiti? Why did I feel so debased, miserable, and utterly hopeless every time I approached the embassy now? I felt like they were trying to prove that, on paper, I was worthless. It was demeaning. The security guards snickered and made fun of me. But I decided to carry on as Paul suggested. He said to try to keep my distance from them. From now on, I should think of the Canadian embassy as an experiment. I should have no expectations. The goal was now to put them under the microscope, to judge them while they were judging me. I would try.

  I got another interview for the following week. I knew now that I had all the documents required and that they were filled in. I also had letters from Paul in Montréal and his mother in Toronto who would sponsor me while in Canada. And the letter from the publisher; though, not ultimately, the actual publisher. I took everything to the embassy for the second time. This time, the receptionist took all my documents. She kept my bank account book and my passport along with all the forms. She set up a rendezvous for the following week.

  This time, I started to think that the answer would have to be affirmative. I had fulfilled all the requirements. I had filled in all the forms. I had sponsors in Canada. I had a bank account that had recently had 500 Canadian dollars in it. I had a letter from Canadian publishers. The more I thought of it, the more I realized that they would have to agree to my request. I was asking to visit Canada for only three months to complete our project. Especially after we talked and they understood, Canada would open its doors to me.

  I arrived the following week an hour before my rendezvous. There was already a large crowd in front of the embassy. There wasn’t a hint of shade and the sun was pitiless.

  I started to forget about my humiliations and think about the poor people in line who would be disappointed. I thought about how these people, standing out in the open like they were, would be vulnerable to thieves who could target people in front of the embassy. If they were asking for visas, then they had some wealth. But, talking with the people in the crowd, I came to see that they were just like me. They had spent their money to buy some humiliation from the Canadian embassy.

  In my first conversation, I met some people who had left from the countryside before sunrise. They had sold land and livestock to find the money to go to Canada. Unfortunately, they wore their poverty on their Creole faces. They were not visa material.

  From inside their air-conditioned embassy, the functionaries would have seen us all wiping the sweat from our brows. We couldn’t keep ourselves dry and our handkerchiefs were drenched.

  Many in the crowd hadn’t had the time to eat before beginning their trek to the embassy. They bought little things from the passing street merchants. Not real food, but soft drinks and candies to keep from fainting. The boys who sell packets of water surrounded us, singing out “Dlo, dlo, dlo.” We were easy marks, and they stayed close by to make a gourde from us when we could no longer stand the sun.

  Finally, the security guards came out in front of the gates. They asked us to form two lines: one for those like me who had come to receive their results; the other for those who were handing in their documents, as I had done the previous week. Our line was allowed to pass the gates and enter the grounds and then the embassy. They gave us our responses. Everyone separated him or herself from the others to go into a quiet corner to read the results of their requests for visas to enter Canada. There was a general hush of anticipation.

  On my document was written that I hadn’t “convinced” the authorities that I would leave Canada at the end of the time permitted under my visa application. So, my request was rejected. However, I had no idea what arguments would have “convinced” them of my integrity. My visa application was for three months, the time it would take to complete our work. They assumed that I would stay in Canada after that date. Why? Did they assume that only a fool would remain in Haiti to work for Canadian clothing manufacturers for three dollars a day under the conditions I knew only too well? Did they know that only a masochist would accept living in a country whose economy was conceived to enrich a minority of Haitians and their Canadian and American collaborators? In fact, they had me wrong. I would have returned to my life in Haiti, such as it was. But it did tell me something about what the Canadian authorities thought about people like me. The entire process had been about discovering what class I belonged to. Then, they argued that my class would stay put.

  chapter forty-six

  IN JULY, I HAD TO TRAVEL TO SAUT D’EAU. It was during the time when pilgrims start to arrive for the big festival, but for me it was not a celebration.

  Suzanne, my grandmother, was very old. She was Deland’s mother. She had saved him and my aunt in their youth when our family lwa turned against us. Now she was blind. She needed an arm to hold on to even to move across the room. She lived alone. Her little house in Saut d’Eau was falling apart; the mortar that the peasants concoct to hold the stones in place had been disintegrating for some time. It was getting dangerous. Dad and I had been planning to repair it. Then Deland died. As for me, I had so many concerns when Naara was born that I pushed my grandmother’s need into the background. But I knew that she was there and that she needed me.

  Burying her son Deland was unbearable for her. She suffered a stroke and stopped speaking. Then she stopped eating until her body expired. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t walk. She couldn’t speak. But I fear that she could hear. It was what she heard as she was dying that ate away at me.

  She had si
x children. Five were still alive. The youngest daughter, the aunt whom I had lived with after my mother died, lived in Port-au-Prince; four others lived in Saut d’Eau. She had dozens of grandchildren. When she was a young woman, Suzanne bought a piece of land for seventeen gourdes — just a few pennies. Now it was valued at 60,000 gourdes ($1,486 US). She wanted the plot to go to her youngest daughter in Port-au-Prince who otherwise would have no land in Saut d’Eau and would lose her connection to her birthplace. The other plots of land that Suzanne had owned were in the possession of her other children. This final plot was especially valuable. It is centrally located and fertile as well. It could be profitable for tourism or for agriculture, or both.

  My aunt, Deland’s eldest sister, wanted it for her family. And so my relatives divided into camps, each vying for the property. The struggle for the plot of land had become so acrimonious that no words passed between the two groups. When Deland was buried, his eldest sister watched the funeral from her yard because she refused to be in the presence of those who refused to accede to her claims to the property. My grandmother was too disheartened to enter the argument raging around her. Literally, dis-heartened. Her blood pressure rose to cause the stroke. She stopped eating. I think she wanted her heart to stop beating.

  There are no morgues in the countryside and so funerals have to take place soon after death. Such was the case with Suzanne. Normally, the plot of land should have been sold to pay for the funeral if no other means were available. That was the case. But the plot was neither sold to pay for the funeral nor left to the youngest daughter.