Tag Archives: port au prince

All Souls’ Day

Haitian Vodou is based upon a merging of the beliefs and practices of West African peoples with Arawakian (native peoples of the West Indies) religious beliefs, and Roman Catholic Christianity. Vodou was created by African slaves who were brought to Haiti in the 16th century and still followed their traditional African beliefs, but were forced to convert to the religion of their slavers. The principal belief in Haitian Vodou is that deities called Lwa (or Loa) are subordinates to a god called Bondyé This supreme being does not intercede in human affairs, and it is to the Lwa that Vodou worship is directed. Other characteristics of Vodou include veneration of the dead and protection against evil.

We were interested in All Souls Day traditions in Haiti, where I expected to see celebrations similar to our Dia de los Muertos. Instead, they seemed mostly Vodou-oriented. (According to a recent travel documentary, Haiti is “80% Catholic, 20% Protestant, and 100% Vodou”.) On November 1, on our way to the Jacmel bus, we encountered a rah-rah (parade, of sorts) headed for the main cemetery in Port-au-Prince.  We decided to fall in with them to see what it was all about.


Just outside the cemetery entrance were displays of Vodou art, flowers for sale (especially marigolds), and an area set up for music. Above the large, arched stone entrance was the statement in French, “Remember You Are Only Dust.”


Inside the cemetery, everyone marched in sweltering heat up the main hill, past painted tombs and sellers of various things–soda, cigarettes, flowers, and trays of I-don’t-know-what.

People brought offerings of coffee, candles, bread, alcohol, corn, printed paper and other items to the tombs.

In the Haitian Vodou tradition, it is believed that spirits are all around the living and they can be communicated with, but only if living family members know where they are buried. The mass-graves created after the earthquake pose a terrible problem in this regard.

This woman was slapping a tomb (likely that of a relative) and calling out in Creole. Many of the women wore purple or white headscarves and white dresses.


Later that evening in Jacmel, Blaise took us on a detour to a Vodou ceremony in someone’s back yard as we walked home from dinner. There was a typical open-air temple with a blue post in the center, around which offerings were brought for the spirits. A traditional Vodou service includes a day or two of preparation setting up altars, ritually preparing and cooking fowl and other foods, etc. The actual ceremony begins with a series of prayers and songs in French, then a litany in Creole and African langaj that goes through all the European and African saints and lwa honored by the house, and then a series of verses for all the main spirits of the house.

An Houngan (priest) or Mambo (priestess) presides over the ceremony. The Houngans and Mambos are usually people who were chosen by the dead ancestors and received the divination from the deities while he or she was possessed. His or her tendency is to do good by helping and protecting others from spells, however they sometimes use their supernatural power to hurt or kill people.

As the songs are sung, participants believe that spirits come to visit the ceremony by taking possession of individuals and speaking and acting through them. When a ceremony is made, only the family of those possessed is benefited.

We saw women carrying candles and offerings around the temple/yard, singing and dancing, but no possessions (that we were aware of). The Houngan was welcoming to guests (us) and it’s apparently not unusual for outsiders to observe ceremonies. We were there for about 45 minutes and then headed back to the hotel.

Next up:  Aly and Paper Turtle artisans in PaP

Haiti Day 2 – Jacmel

There is so much to say about Jacmel that I think I’ll split this into two posts, getting to Jacmel and being in Jacmel. But before I can start with any of that–

6:00 a.m. Shower

Believe me when I tell you there is nothing quite so disturbing as getting up early after a poor night’s sleep, turning on a shower that you’re really looking forward to because you’re covered in yesterday’s grime, discovering there’s no hot water, and, as you curse softly to yourself under the freezing stream… a man’s voice replies from the shower in the next room.

‘Scuse me?

It is particularly disturbing when the man’s whispery voice is filled with self-congratulatory gloat because he didn’t want to stay in this hotel in the first place. You’d think the newspapers stuffed in the cracks in the wall would provide more privacy.

We will be moving to the Kinam in Pétionville after our overnight to Jacmel.

Boarding A Bus In Port-au-Prince

Imagined  We arrive at a small station, buy tickets, and wait to get on a bus that resembles a Greyhound (but perhaps smaller and older). Hope we don’t have to wait too long between scheduled departures.  We each take a seat, having placed our belongings in the bus luggage compartment, and enjoy the air-conditioned ride to Jacmel.

Real  The “buses” are “vans” that arrive at random times to the teeming marketplace in downtown PaP. We sit in the Mitsubishi until the next van gets close, and then we are instructed by Aly to go to the bus.  The front door of the van-bus is swarmed by people pushing to get seats, not unlike fans rushing a concert stage, and I am trapped. As I am not aggressive by nature, and sort of stunned thanks to being smacked in the face by Gabe’s backpack as he boarded (he says it was an accident), Jean-Claude advances me in the right direction. I am in the bus. People are yelling in Creole, pushing and shoving and trying to sell me things, I am hunched and hovering over a man and his box in the front seat.  He’s in the middle of the seat and will not move.  I am suddenly too big for the space, a great white insect with too many appendages, long and unwieldy, bottlenecked, unable to move forward or back.

I come to understand that I should sit in the window seat on the other side of the man in the middle, a 10″ x 10″ square that I’m pretty sure my butt outgrew 25 years ago. Still unable to move, I decide that tossing my bags to the floor in front of my prospective seat might propel me forward by some method of physics–like a fishing weight gracefully pulling the lure into the water. This does not happen. I am still stuck and I’m certain the van-bus has shrunk, I’ve swelled, the air has been sucked out of it so the air-sellers can sell me more. No one else can board until I move. Lots of yelling. Finally out of options, I sit on the man in the middle, the great white sweaty insect has landed.  He wriggles with considerable effort out from under me, moves his box, and I take my seat near the window. Cameron drops in beside me. I have never been so happy to see him.

Eighteen of us are wedged firmly in place, Gabe and Aly in the back, Cam and I in the front.  We sit in the heat and humidity and our own trickling sweat for another 20 minutes while the 19th seat is negotiated, street vendors push things into the windows–food, soda, water, sunglasses.  A final seat is added at the end of our row, the 19th passenger sits down, the blessed A/C comes on, and we move.

Once out of PaP, the road to Jacmel is long and winding through the beautiful, but deforested mountains.

The main reason for deforestation in Haiti is that trees are the only source of fuel. Trees are cut down and brought to large fire pits where they’re turned into charcoal. It takes about 50 trees to make one of these bags of charcoal.

There are no speed limits on the road to Jacmel. Rather, every so often at a village there are enormous, undercarriage-devouring speed bumps (unpainted and therefore invisible until you are upon them). This is where an experienced driver is a must.

Two-and-a-half hours later we arrive in Jacmel, get off the bus, and quickly (before I have time to panic) jump onto four moto-taxis that take us to the beach.

Tomorrow:  Jacmel Part 2

Haiti Day 1: Port au Prince

Welcome to Haiti! Here’s little tour of our first day. Wi-fi is spotty so I’m not sure how often I’ll be able to write, but for now:

We arrived at the tiny airport around 10:30 and grabbed our bags.
Aly met us at the airport with a car and driver, Jean-Claude, who is also Aly’s childhood friend. The five of us piled into Jean-Claude’s Mitsubishi and headed out to see some sights in PaP (estimated population of metropolitan area = 3 million, nearly half the country’s total population). Driving in Haiti is complete mayhem: no traffic laws, no signs, no speed limits, very few stop lights. First impression: people and more people stuffed into cars, motorcycles, trucks, women carrying bundles high on their heads, street vendors selling every imaginable thing, and the occasional dog or pig, all negotiating for space, all vibrating against a backdrop of high heat, humidity, diesel fumes, noise and urban detritus. Just when I was sure we were going to hit one or five people, the flow of chaos moved around us and we continued on.

Traffic etiquette here seems to be watch where you’re going, pedestrians have the right-of-way, use your horn to communicate all things, miss the pothole (where’s the road?) don’t get smashed by the tractor, ooooo that was close. Similar, I suppose, to driving in other developing countries. But there were just so many people, so very many people.

Aly pointed out the tent cities that had sprung up in parks and public spaces after the earthquake. The biggest cathedral in PaP was totally demolished. I thought the ruins were still beautiful.


Haitian people were happy when the Presidential Palace was damaged beyond repair in the quake because it’s such a symbol to them of political corruption and abuse of power.

We stopped at the Ecole Nationale des Artes (ENARTS), a free school for performing and visual arts.  Students learn theater, music, painting, sculpture and dance.  Josué Blanchard was kind enough to give us a tour.

He was recently featured in this publication for the fiberglass sculpture he created of a woman peeing in a bucket, which was viewed as scandalous.  He said the subject matter is just part of life in Haiti.

ENARTS re-opened only two weeks ago after being shut down 5 years ago (plus damaged in the quake) due to instability in the government(s).

One of the most interesting things at the school was the defunct foundry. This was the very first foundry in the Caribbean and it was once used to cast bronze sculpture.


The crucible was fueled by wood and kerosene that heated boilers for the pour. (I know there’s a more eloquent way to describe that but the words are escaping me after only one rum punch. And the power just went out as I’m writing this, so it’s dark.)


I was required to dispatch this little mouse with a good stomping before Gabe would set foot into the old foundry; and even then, he refused to go much past the doorway and was ready to jump on the blue chair at any moment.

After ENARTS, we checked in at the hotel to rest and eat for a while.

The Oloffson is full of *charm* and *character*, but this did not appeal to Gabe, who complained that it was old, the beds didn’t have mosquito nets and you could see under the walls between rooms (discovered later).
Cam and Gabe discussed the appeal of character and history vs. more modern conveniences at a hotel in Pétionville where Gabe wanted to stay
such as wi-fi in the rooms and hot water (also discovered later). Gabe was ultimately out-voted 2:1 and we checked in. Cam and I wouldn’t have dreamed of visiting PaP without staying at the famous Oloffson.

We had sandwiches on the front porch and Cam and I made plans for the rest of the afternoon. Gabe announced (12 hrs after arriving) that he would not be visiting Haiti again “because I have other places to see, like Smyrna.” He never re-traces his travel steps. I was about to argue but he broke into song, “I’ve been to paradise but I’ve never been to me” and I was stunned into silence. Unbelievably, he knew all 4 verses.
Cam enjoyed reading Amy Wilentz’s book outside of their room, named after the author.

In the late afternoon we went to Pétionville, a relatively affluent suburb located in the hills east of PaP. It was named after Alexandre Sabés Pétion (1770–1818), the Haitian general and president later recognized as one of the country’s four founding fathers. It is one of the wealthiest parts of the country, where many diplomats, foreign businessmen, and a large number of wealthy citizens do business and reside.


The central park in Pétionville is now a tent city. Near the park, there was a high school above a flower market and lots of people selling all kinds of art on the streets. I was shocked by how many hundreds of original paintings (not prints) covered the walls.

We ate dinner on the way home, not far from our hotel.  There are street vendors all over Haiti selling food–cooked, packaged, dried, fresh. This woman and her daughter or friend were set up across the street from our restaurant selling hot dogs.

There weren’t a lot of vegetarian options among the fried goat, chicken and pork on the menu, so we had a veggie pizza for dinner while we watched various things on TV, including Haiti’s musician-President, Michel Martelly’s, music video.  And now, here I am, trying to finish this post at the end of the day in the lovely Oloffson (famous for rum punch) Lounge. Bye for now.

Tomorrow:  Jacmel.

Haiti – on the way

I’m in Miami staying overnight with some friends of my two traveling buddies, Gabe and Cam. Our flight to Haiti leaves Miami at 8:30 tomorrow morning.

I thought I ‘d take a minute before I go to bed to tell you a little about my traveling companions and the hotel where we’ll be staying in Port-au-Prince because it has a really interesting history.  First, Gabe and Cam:

Since it’s late, I’ll go with wellness.com’s description of Cam:  ”… a Critical Care Surgeon located in Albuquerque, NM. A Critical Care Surgeon, acute care, emergency medicine, surgery, surgeon, respiratory failure, shock, renal failure, sepsis, life-threatening illness, ICU, intensive care. 

I feel pretty confident that my various organs would be in good hands with Cameron in an emergency situation.  Plus, he’s been to Haiti before and speaks French so technically he could be a tour guide.

Gabe is an Engineer-Lawyer-MBA, who I suspect will be fairly useless in Haiti despite his considerable academic achievements. I base my assessment on the following criteria:

1. Is Gabe a hypochondriac?
Yes.

2. If Gabe walked into a room full of power tools, what would he do?
Ask me what they are.

3.  If someone tried to abduct me, what would Gabe do?
Run.

4.  If a mouse ran across the floor, what would Gabe do?
Jump on a chair and scream like a girl.*

5.  If Gabe caught a mouse in a live-trap, what would he do?
Call me to come and take it away.* 

But he is my friend and I love him despite his obvious shortcomings.  Plus he’s a guy, he’s tall, and he can probably carry heavy things for me advise me on how best to carry heavy things.
*actual events

Hotel Oloffson

The hotel was constructed in the late 19th century as a private home for the Sam family.  The head of a
prestigious and influential family in Port-au-Prince, Tirésias Simon-Sam was president of Haiti from
1896 to 1902. The mansion was built by Tirésias’s son, Jean Vilbrun Guillaume Sam. The Sams lived in the mansion until 1915, when Guillaume himself was selected from among a group of powerful politicians to assume the post of president, the fifth president in five years. Guillaume would be president for a scant five months, however, before being torn to pieces by an angry mob.

United States President Woodrow Wilson, concerned that the Haitian government might be seized by Rosalvo Bobo (who was thought to be sympathetic to the Germans) ordered the United States Marine Corps to seize Port-au-Prince. The occupation would eventually extend to the entire nation of Haiti. The Sam Mansion was used as a US military hospital for the duration of the 15-year occupation.

In 1935, when the Occupation ended, the mansion was leased to Walter Gustav Oloffson, a Swedish sea captain from Germany, who converted the property into a hotel with his wife Margot and two sons, Olaf and Egon. In the 1950s, Roger Coster, a French photographer, assumed the lease on the hotel and ran it with his Haitian wife, Laura. The hotel came to be known as the “Greenwich Village of the Tropics”, attracting actors, writers, and artists. Some of the suites in the hotel were named after the artists and writers who frequented the hotel, including Graham Greene, James Jones, Charles Addams, and Sir John Gielgud.

A Connecticut native, Al Seitz, acquired the hotel lease in 1960. During the 1970s and early 1980s, the hotel enjoyed a brief period of fame and good fortune. Celebrities such as Jackie Onassis and Mick Jagger were regular guests, and like Coster before him, Seitz named favorite rooms at the hotel after the celebrity guests. After Al Seitz died in 1982, his widow continued to operate it. As the grip of Duvalierism closed over the country, however, the foreign tourist trade dried up. The hotel survived by serving as the desired residence for foreign reporters and foreign aid workers who needed secure lodging in the center of town.

In 1987, with the help of his half-brother Jean Max Sam, Richard A. Morse signed a 15 year lease to manage the Hotel Oloffson, then in near ruins after the final years of Duvalierism. In restoring the hotel business, Morse hired a local folkloric dance troupe and slowly converted it into a band. Richard Morse would become the songwriter and lead male vocalist and the name of band, RAM, comes from his initials. Throughout the political upheaval of Haiti in the 1990s, RAM’s regular Thursday evening performance at the hotel became one of the few regular social events in Port-au-Prince in which individuals of various political positions and allegiances could congregate.