Zanzibar (suite et fin)

Internet access in Z’bar being at best sporadic, I have to update you about the trip from the comfort of a borrowed office in DC.

As the last post presaged, the week in Zanzibar turned out to be an awesome experience all the way through -- well save from a bout with a stomach parasite that I hope I have not unleashed, Alien-style, on the Western world.

Most of my time at the hotel was spent in meetings where I met colleagues from the US, Africa and India. The sessions took most of the day and allowed me to figure out in a bit more detail what the hell I am supposed to do in Haiti. Much to my disappointment, it seems to involve quite a bit of hard work and precious little general lounging about on desert beaches.

In the evenings, expeditions were made to Stone Town and its intriguing nightlife. One of the highlights was heading to the waterfront where dozens of street food stands are erected and locals grill anything from prawns to liver right in front of you. Cost of a full meal (meat, fries and some of the best naan-style bread I’ve ever had): $1.

When staying at the hotel, we could always walk on the beach and take a look at the activities of the fishermen and look at the ridiculously beautiful sunsets. Also, a good bit of Tusker beer was consumed.

On Friday, a few of us hit the local bars, starting with what I took to be a student hang-out, an old, worn-out joint devoid of fans or mosquito screens, but home to a busted pool table where I got creamed by the local champion who celebrated each victory by performing the splits. We went from there to an open-air disco a bit away from the center of town. There again, pool was the most popular activity as dancing, we were told, would not start until morning neared.

The following day, our only full free one of the stay, seven of us headed to the northernmost point of the

island and a beach called Kizim-Kossum (or something like it) from where we boarded boats taking us to swim with wild dolphins. This actually happened, although I was a bit miffed that none would let me ride them like this guy:

And that’s pretty much it. The next day I left for the long trek back to DC, getting the chance to snap some pretty lucky pictures of Mt. Kilimanjaro at sunset along the way. Thirty-eight hours later, I was back in Adams Morgan for a few days of work at HQ and the chance to go home for Thanksgiving. Next post: finding a place to live in Haiti.

Trippin'

Greetings from the Indian Ocean!



I am writing this on the island of Zanzibar on the coast of Tanzania. This is actually the view as I compose this entry. It sort of beats the scenes of Port-au-Prince I captured on my way to the airport. Speaking of which, let me tell you about how I came to be sitting here.


My company always hosts its annual meeting for people involved in the AIDS Relief program in member countries. This year my colleagues and I have travelled from the four corners of the world to Zanzibar, a place I have always dreamed of visiting. But first I had to get there. Leaving my office in Port-au-Prince (see the pictures below) on Wednesday morning, I was driven to the airport for a flight to DC via Miami. I had the chance to spend the night in the capital and see some of you then (and hope to see more of you all when I swing back on Thanksgiving week).











Friday saw me go to Dulles and catch a flights to Amsterdam and Nairobi where I arrived in the evening, sadly too late to take any pictures of the city and its surroundings. So this shot of the hotel lawn at dawn will be the only picture of Kenya you will get to see on this blog (at least for now). It was taken on Saturday morning, just before leaving for, you guessed it, the airport. The final flight of the journey brought me to Zanzibar, but not before flying right by Mount Kilimanjaro, and I promise to take a picture of the view on the way back.

Zanzibar turned out to be all I was hoping for and more. The hotel, the Zanzibar Beach Resort, is quite nice and, as you saw, boasts some pretty beautiful views. But the real gem is the old city of Stone Town, pictures of which you will find below. A major center of trade between the Middle East, India and Africa, the population of the island is an exotic mix of ethncities and religions. You can see all of these influences in the narrow streets of Stone Town, a combination bazaar/souk/commercial center, where every doorway leads to a shop and every street smells of spices. You can see the pictures I took during my first foray there yesterday and you can rest assured that more will be forthcoming.





























































I think I'll leave it at that for now and wait for some more stories to develop before my next entry.

First Day

Bonjou zanmi mwen!

(I think that means “Hello my friends” in Creole).

Well I am here safe and sound in Port-au-Prince, Haiti despite an exciting first day.

As I had been warned, the arrival at Toussaint-Louverture Airport is pretty chaotic and in the general mêlée that greets the new arrivals after the baggage claim, I wasn’t able to find the driver sent to pick me up. With nighfall fast approaching (the sky is dark by five thirty these days) I had to scramble to find a taxi to take me to my hotel, something I had been warned repeatedly against doing. Fortunately Edouard the cabby proved to be a trustworthy sort, although he probably should have introduced me to (or just mentioned) his very quiet friend sitting in the backseat right behind me before I had a chance to discover his presence while driving near one of the city’s most notorious crime zones.

Port-au-Prince on a rainy night is definitely not a very welcoming sight, what with the little man-made light coming from roadside burning piles of trash and headlights careening towards you on narrow decrepit roads illuminating a landscape of concrete blocks and steep dark barren hills. Even in the relatively posh neighborhood of Pétionville electric lights are barely able to make dents into the night, though they and your headlights do reflect on a great number of people walking and congregating on the sidewalks.

The Hotel Kinam (www.hotelkinam.com) is well hidden in the middle of the suburb, near the bustling Place St. Pierre. It is a converted old “gingerbread style” house/complex and it is a welcome haven at the end of this day. Improbably, I fall asleep watching Sealab on satellite TV.

Morning brings a much cheerier outlook, with the early sunshine sweeping through the hillsides. I can now make out the view outside my window and its vivid illustration of Haitian urban economics (shoutout to Will) with the hillcrest mansions dominating increasingly more modest dwellings below.

The Catholic Relief Services (CRS) driver arrives a bit below nine to take me to the office. Taking the back roads to the main artery of Delmas, I discover a world much more habitable than the one I saw the night before. Dark facades have turned to colorful store fronts. Judging by their wares I would guess that Haitian life revolves around hair care, cell phones and personal finances – a nation of high school girls. Most transactions, however, appear to take place on the sidewalk, with people peddling everything from perishables to paintings.

The CRS offices are located just outside of the chaotic Avenue Delmas, the main road linking Port-au-Prince to Pétionville. The small complex is completely encircled by high walls and manned gates. As at the Kinam, the first person I see upon entrance is wielding a shotgun, his clothing adorned by clusters of shells. Once inside the building I am shown to my office, a nice air-conditioned space on the second floor.

Due to the occurrence of two major holidays this week (All Saints and the Day of the Dead), most of the CRS staff is away. While I do get to shake a couple of hands, my morning is mostly occupied with getting set up in my new space. Soon enough, however, I get word that I am scheduled to meet my predecessor before lunch. Now the only thing I know about this man, a local, was that he learned of his dismissal only a short time ago and that said dismissal was less than voluntary. Of all the things I had a mind to dread on this first trip, meeting Dr. Gustave Jean-Michel was the most likely to actually live up to my fears.

As it turns out Gus (as he insisted I call him) is about as disgruntled as a Wheel of Fortune winner. He is happy to be spending more time with his family (they are headed to the beach the next day) and to resume his work in more general public health programs. That makes our main task of the morning (signing over the company bank account to my name) much less apprehensible, my mind completely at ease as we park on the sidewalk of the Unibank’s Turgeau branch.

The interior of the bank is rather unremarkable: industrial tiles on the floor, aging promotional posters on the walls three harried tellers behind a chest-high counter, the now-ubiquitous armed guard patrolling the space. The only unusual thing about the scene is the incredible number of people that had decided to take care of their banking needs at that very moment. Every square foot of the space was occupied by pairs of feet, each, it seemed, pointed at a different direction. Despite the outward chaos, things are surprisingly quiet inside and the apparent disorder of the tableau had rearranged itself into a system of waiting lines, so that Gus and I, having arrived at eleven-thirty are able to leave the place by two, an apparently quite respectable time for a financial transaction in Port-au-Prince.

Back in the office soon thereafter, I am driven home by four-thirty as most of the staff elects to leave before sundown. A bland hotel dinner is followed by some reading and bed, a quiet end to an eventful first twenty four hours in Haiti.