Haiti, Pt. 2

The other night before bed, we heard the unmistakable sound of machine gun fire down in Port Au Prince. We learned later that a group of five Haitians were on the way back to the beach and got shot up by one of the gangs: one death and the rest injured. Safe--or relatively so--up in the compound, it sounded like the fireworks of celebration.


In the morning, we went from Petion Ville to the edge of Cite Soleil--one of the most dangerous places on earth according to the UN. Our destination was well to the west of the red zone, but anything can happen quickly here (our Security Officer used the metaphor of the frog in gradually boiling water.) 

We found our way to the distribution point toward the back of the tent city. Today's distribution was "hygiene kits" (a black pail, two blue 10-gallon jugs, and two bars of soap). Ten or so well-armed MINUSTAH (United Nations) soldiers patrolled the area and gathered closer as tension built at the front of the line. Fear of running out of goods is a constant concern and the situation can turn violent immediately, a situation exacerbated by the growing presence of gang members gathered around the back of the truck.  They were demanding hygiene kits despite having no coupons, as trucks were gathered outside the gates to buy them as soon as they were distributed. Once the truck was empty, we cleared out quickly, as instructed.

It was heartbreaking to see the proud, preternaturally resourceful Haitian people lining up and moving through, glad simply to have made it through today's distribution: old men and women in American novelty t-shirts, babies in arms, young women still trying to maintain stylish hair, all with cellphones. Stay tuned.

Arrival In Haiti

Yes, I am in Haiti and why I'm here has nothing to do with paddling. It's for work and hopefully it will lead to something that will help these people, but that is a long way off. The first question people ask as they fly into Port Au Prince is "Where are all the trees?" The short answer is that the trees in Haiti have been deforested. Who knows why but the only ones I've seen in are in some of the neighborhoods and up in the estates at the top of one of the many hills that cup the city.

Friends warned me of the gauntlet I would face after getting my bags and walking down the long sidewalk to where the truck picked us up. Hundreds of men in matching plaid shirts nearly tear the luggage from our hands, but we keep walking as instructed. Young boys and teens with desperate faces stand behind the fence and yell at the women who pass. "I love you, bebe!" and other phrases I cannot decipher. Although no one but our driver touches our bags, there is near fist fight over who is to get paid for "helping" us. But we drive off and let them settle it amongst themselves.

The drive up to where we are staying (Baby Doc Duvalier left mere days before we got here) is nothing I have ever witnessed in even the poorest parts of the poorest countries I've been to.  Trash and rotting vegetables float down or clog the gutters, and numerous tent cities line the stone walls behind them. What appears to be wreckage can actually be a working business. And the people are everywhere: in the streets, on the sidewalks, hanging from colorful buses, trying to make eye contact with the white men in the new truck. I fight the guilt as we head up the hill and into the gates of the estate that we will call home for the next week. Guilt does nothing, but the contrast helps focus me on what I am here to do. Stay tuned.

The Ichetucknee Is Great All The Time..

...except on hot summer weekends when it carries a surface of flesh, rubber, sunscreen, and the various effluvia that only 6,000 humans per day can produce. But then I digress before I even get started. Today was not one of those days and the worst I had to contend with was eight folks, each with kayaks twice as expensive as mine (and mine wasn't cheap), getting out as I was putting in. They had all the kayaking accoutrements too, bilge pumps, special booties, kayaking vests...you know, the stuff you never actually need.

After that, I had that big beautiful river all to myself, and so I took my sweet time meandering and drifting and checking out the scene under water. After it has had a few months to recover from the summer onslaught, there is nothing quite so pristine as the Itchetucknee. I've sampled my share of spring-fed rivers, but none compare to this one.

My first interface with the Ichetucknee was as one of the floating hoard many years ago. As soon as we passed the last pullout before the end, the skies opened, and there was nothing to do but drift in the cold, needling rain. I loved it, but my friends did not. I see that trip now as a life lesson: no matter how hard I paddled with my hands, I could go no faster than the current carried me.

And that current today is formidable, especially at the North End. My paddle may have touched water five times at the most on the way downstream. Upstream was the slog I expected it to be, especially when I hit the gushes of spring water fresh from the aquifer. My paddling chops are better than they were months back when I did this run last, so I made it back even faster than it took me to do the downstream leg. I don't expect to do it again until after the tourists have had their way with it.

Rain, Rain, Beautiful Rain

The bottom of my kayak is a document of just how often I have scraped the bottom of every waterway in North Florida. I figured low water, like having to pick up others' trash on the river, was the price I had to pay to do what I love. So unlike pretty much everyone else in Gainesville on Monday, I greeted the rain with praises of thanksgiving, because I knew it meant high, blessedly navigable water. Where there is high water, there are new places heretofore unreachable.

So imagine my disappointment when I rushed out to the Santa Fe just south of Worthington Springs only to find the sign above blocking my progress. If the water was now too high and really too low before, then where was the magic middle ground? Was this simply a budget thing, to take any opportunity to close the "park" to save money? To my eyes, the water wasn't too high at all. In fact, I would go so far as to say it was perfect.

But with no gates blocking the New River right around the bend, I did not go unrewarded yesterday and, yes, I did see a new part of the New River. The river east of the bridge usually chokes out from debris in times of low water, but I was able to get through a few hundred yards of it with my formidable paddling skills and a rusty machete. The prize for all this work was a place of sublime isolation and beauty. The sun was going down and everything fairly glowed between the long shadows. I sat and listened to the water spill over new places in the river and when it started getting dark and I paddling easily back to the car.


Note: I will be leaving the country soon for a short while and plan to use this space to document my experiences. I won't be doing any paddling there that I know of, but I hope that what I write about will be germane to everyone who reads it.