The captain was
convinced we needed to go beyond the Bahamas, to experience true
island cruising. The admiral agreed simply to get it over with, get
it out of his system, and see what she might be missing. The process
of deciding the north coast of Hispaniola or the south coast took
several months of comparing others’ experience, reading Frank
Virgintino’s cruising guides, conferring with him via email, and
finally buying into the idea that the Caribbean Sea is gentler than
the Atlantic. So windward passage, past Cuba, with the only tenable
first rest stop being Il A Vache, a small island off the coast of
Haiti. Technically not Haiti proper. It was 218 miles from the
last Bahamian island to Il A Vache, for us, a 50 hour passage. The
weather was supposed to be windless with almost non-existent swell .
. . but the weather is a bit like the daily horoscope, rarely
resembling reality.
Our first hours
were pleasant, sailing at 6 knots in 12-15 knots of wind. But
pleasant switched to unpleasant as we turned the corner out of the
passage and into the Caribbean. The swell was 3-5 feet from the
southeast, meaning Horizon was smacked on her starboard bow
repeatedly. Sails were useless, so full motor with all the noise and
discomfort that accompanies that. The cats were no longer open to
snacks, it was every being for him or herself between watches. I
prefer dead of night watch because I am not able to see the size of
waves heading my way. The only seat tenable in our cockpit for a
three hour stint is starboard, so the action was a bit close for
comfort in the light of day.
As we turned
into the harbor towards Il A Vache, we felt hopeful even as the waves
continued to buffet us and the fishing buoys threatened to tangle our
prop. It was quite the juxtaposition, a 41 foot sailboat with all
sails down, motor running as the Batiments of Haiti were sailing out
for the day’s catch. These wooden boats are sailed with the minimum
of crew, no power, steering only by the positioning of crew and boom.
I imagined their man overboard protocol, one less mouth to feed.
As we turned into Baie de Feret, the anchorage at Ile a Vache, we
were greeted by a dugout canoe being rowed by Pepe who sidled up to
our hull and presented a letter of recommendation from another
cruiser, in a ziplock baggie. We thanked him and told him we had
read of him in blogs. Little did we know that Pepe was the first of
way too many assistants looking for work and or food . . . depending
on age. We had the dubious honor of having no less than 20
canoe-sized boats with villagers hanging off our safety lines while
we anchored. Of course it took 5 attempts to anchor successfully.
The admiral and captain were hard pressed to attend to the task with
so many requests in English, Creole and French. We politely
explained we were tired, and we would be available demain,
tomorrow. Big mistake!
Post anchoring
and feeding the crew, we slept for five hours, awoken by the sound of
youthful voices swimming near the stern. Our bed is athwart the
stern, with portholes on either side. I came to full consciousness
when a brown haunch was tangling from the lowest rung of the not-
yet-extended swim ladder. This is when the existential crisis
started burbling. I felt violated, yet ridiculous knowing that I was
living in a palace, and someone had simply tried to cross my moat . .
.
I have never
dealt well with people approaching me unawares. I also have never
felt comfortable responding to need that seems much larger than my
ability to respond. Sounds non-Christian, lame even. Jesus’
admonishment, I was hungry, and you did not feed me, reverberated
in my head.
So began seven
days of an experience we were unprepared for. We had gotten together
school supplies to donate to the local orphanage, as suggested by the
guide book. We had small treats to offer children as well. We had
read of another boat leaving Il A Vache quickly because of the boat
boys. We had even queried Frank Virgintino specifically about the
boat visitors. He assured us that no one was hungry in Il A Vache,
and confirmed that the children were no problem, would not harm us.
They were gentle but persistent. The older the visitor, the less
gracious the response was to our negative response. There was no
violence, simply a bitter face. The children moved on the easiest,
the adults were more persistent, one even hanging on the boat
whistling for us for some time.
We were
overwhelmed by the sheer volume of visitors to Horizon, any hour from
sun up to sundown.
We hired many
workers to do work we ourselves would not have otherwise done. Of the
60 visits the first two days, I divvied up labor to those who had
been most appealing, kindest, stood out of the crowd. Pepe was our
guide for the market; Ashley, who had stuck to the admiral’s side
during anchoring, had much English and smelled better than both crew
members, (criteria) was given the job of boat cushion washing.
McKindree and Beethoven gave a coconut to us the first day, they were
given exterior porthole washing. Vildo, who had told the captain he
preferred dealing with men . . . was given the deck and topside salt
wash. Each was paid well. Each came back many times for more work
despite being told we were finished. While aboard, each expressed
interest in some item that was needed, Captain, you have two
anchors and use only one. I can use this one, etc. Mike
clarified the need for a second in hurricane, high winds . . . but
language and need complicated the exchange. It was embarrassing to
have so much, and yet obligatory to have boundaries for our safety.
The presence of
visitors was announced by the sound of the wooden canoe hulls bumping
against Horizon’s hull as the villager was saying Hello, my
friend, hello. Not Neil Diamond, but certainly an intro. The
introduction was humorous when we met another American couple at
anchor. They too had given away many treats, and warded off many
offers of help. They had not hired any work, but maintained as many
visits.
We said no many,
many times, feeling guilty, feeling bothered, watching for a fair
wind to leave. The second day we had 40 visitors to the boat, most
saying “you said yesterday . . . “. As we hired men to scrub the
boat, clean the portholes of salt, mend a sail, more came. In seven
days we had at least 15 people asking for work or food on all but the
last day. Some came three times in one day despite the “no,
finish, no more work”.
Children were not
in school. When queried, “school costs $25 US dollars a quarter,
can you give me work, buy my almonds, my mangoes?”A fellow named
Henry gave us two days of security for $5 a day, including free trash
disposal. His strength was his receipt book. We jokingly called him
the mafia, nice dinghy, several youngsters as collectors. Jean Jean,
known for his restaurant, excelled at sail repair, hand sewing
the entire foot seam of our mainsail. We gave him a surplus outboard
in payment, along with fuel and maintenance supplies. He was back a
day later for shoes. We ate at his restaurant, a simple dirt floor
porch, an excellent meal of grilled lobster, fried plantain, salad,
peas and rice. His youngest, Kathy, took my heart as she flirted and
crawled into my lap to braid my hair. Jean Jean placed the outboard
in their bedroom, also open air with a simple bed on the ground.
We would try to
tend to above deck chores quickly predawn or post sunset, if a head
emerged, the dugout canoes paddled as quickly as possible to speak
with you. Sadly by day three, we hid below decks unwilling to engage
in the hopeless exchange. To no avail, one fellow hung on the safety
lines whistling for us to come forth. The youngsters would come, hang
on the life lines, and whisper when you did not come up.
The encounters
could be enlightening. One boy asked for headphones, using hands to
express the need, when I said I had none he offered to bring me a
chicken. I told him his mother may not like this trade, one can
eat a chicken, not headphones. Another wanted spaghetti, for school
lunch. I was surprised at the specificity of his need. Granola bars
and chips were accepted.
Pepe was a most
excellent guide on a 4+ mile walk to the town of Madame Bernard, for
the local market. We were very glad we choose to venture off the
boat because we were amazed at the vivid color and culture we
witnessed. The trip helped us see why we had visitors so frequently
and reinforced our own abundance. This is understatement. There is
no politically correct way to divulge just how much we took in on our
trip with Pepe. The pride, the colors, the adaptability, the
determination, the livestock, the lifestyle.
The supplies we
had for the orphanage were consumed by the village when Pepe released
them to one of his friends. He said they would be well used here, the
orphanage being five or more miles away.
Yasmin came late
the second day, after I had divided all the jobs. He was convincing
and intense. I could not say no, so instead decided as a student
needing money for school books, I would have him write in a journal.
He said he could only write in French which I accepted. I gave him
five topics to write for my grandchildren, should I have some one
day. His journal was short, his dreams specific, he wants to finish
school so he can be an asset to his family. Because family is the
most important thing. It was a good commentary on the sights we
had seen in Madame Bernard’s. Many children, many pregnant women,
few resources . . . spread very thin.
Lingering
questions: How is it that a fair and just creator has one culture so
desperately needing and another so ridiculously wealthy? I can’t
see it as karma. I could not respond as I thought I should. As I
gave out treats to the children, I felt I was perpetuating a problem.
Who would pay to send a child to school when his begging reaps food
for his belly?
What kind of
government does not provide education? Is this the parable of the
talents in the Bible? What faith can respond to this? Mike and I
did the mitzvahs we could, but it was not enough. We felt exhausted
by the continuous violation of home space, even though they were
gentle and friendly.
We left the
harbor as soon as the wind was tenable, willing to face nature’s
quirks rather than continue to cringe in our home. I am not sure that
the impact of the Mona Passage on the north route would have been as
profound. I do think we may have been better prepared.
We will research
the Canadian non-profit, Friends of Il A Vache, even though a
cistern they had put into work at one village lay broken and
mis-used.
There are rumors
of moorings being put into the harbor. Could the money generated
meet the need? No answers.
We entered the
Dominican Republic pessimistically hopeful that it was in better
shape. My daughter tells me there are only two categories of
countries now, Developing and Developed. There are severe gradients
in those two categories. Our DR guide tells us that the Haitians try
to cross the mountains, many are shot. He speaks disparaging of
Haitians. If I lived there, I would cross the mountain with my
family for a better life, as would he.
