I’ve never participated in a Valentine’s-themed show before, and usually avoid heart-y things because they tend to be… heart-y and sentimental and cliché. But I thought I should come up with something unique for this because, well, just because it’s 2012 and I’m daring to dream. So, here’s what I have in the works so far:

The Original Distorted Heart™ by Live Clay:  The Tread-Upon (vehicle/athletic shoe/stiletto); The Torn; Torn and Mending; Warts and All; Regeneration; Curling In On Itself; and Absence Makes the Heart Grow Warp-y.  As you might imagine, the possibilities are endless.  These hearts were fun to make, and the titles are indicative how they were constructed, i.e., The Tread-Upon (vehicle) was run over with my truck, the Torn and Mending was torn and put back together, etc. Still thinking about how I will finish them (raku or electric fired? Colors? Wood-fired would be nice…), and I imagine some will be pendants while others will be magnets (gender-inclusive). If I’ve really got my act together, maybe I’ll come up with little descriptive cards for each.

Meanwhile, other studio things in progress are small (1″ x 1″) pendants.

I sold these in my Etsy store last year (or was it 2010?), but they’ve been out of stock for a while and a few people have requested. Last year, I also collaborated with the talented Barbara Jacobs of BMJNYC on oval pendants. As a sample, I made a cloud pendant, she created an amazing silver branch frame.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to pursue this exciting idea, but I hope to do so this year.

On the home front (which happens to be right next to my studio), new plans for this year include inviting my young and nimble-fingered nieces over more often to play “The Cleaning Games.” You’d be amazed at how three small girls with toothbrushes and a few sponges can whip a kitchen into shape. Anyone who knows me, knows that I can’t stand cleaning because a) It’s boring and I’m not very good at it  b) I have no time and c) even if I did have time, I would choose traveling or gardening or putting a nail through my forehead over house cleaning.

The most appealing thing to me about cleaning is the book I’ve been compiling in my head for years entitled, That Comes Off?. It’s mostly a memoir-style collection of startling revelations that occurred when, during rare and fanatical house cleansings, some bit of color or texture that I had long-accepted as an intrinsic component of a thing… was revealed to actually be dirt/food/whatever.

Anyway, Cleaning Game challenges include The Vacuum Race, Ice Skating with Rags, and Baseboards Need Love Too. The girls (ages 7, 6, 4) can’t get enough of it. They compete for things like control of the spray bottle or the privilege of crawling all the way into a cabinet to clean the corners. I offer prizes, they beg to play. It’s a win-win for everyone.

And finally, the foodie in me is excited to share a new breakfast that both Isabella and I have been loving.

It’s composed of a couple spoons of Fage brand Total 0% Greek-style yogurt (the only fat-free yogurt that I think tastes good); a handful of blueberries; a scoop of Chia seeds; a little raw, unsweetened coconut; honey; and a side of walnuts (reportedly an excellent ‘brain food’, I need all the help I can get).  It’s a great alternative to nutritionally void bagels or high-carb cereals, packing more than 20 grams of protein and a huge range of vitamins, minerals, healthy fats, and antioxidants into one little dish. I’m trying the Chia seeds for the first time, after reading about them in Born To Run (excellent read, even if you’re not a runner) and a little research into the health benefits. You can find out more about this complex, ancient food here or googling for yourself.

In just a few minutes I’m off to raku fire (outside, in the cold ) but before I go, I thought I’d post some pictures of what’s been keeping me busy in the studio lately.  It’s been nuts lately with 12-hr days and little time to myself because, in the midst of putting in extra hours at the desk job and the end of basketball season and fundraising sales for Isabella’s school and the truck needing a new alternator AND new battery and a bit of shopping and not getting a live Christmas tree because I’m always so conflicted, I thought it might be nice to have a dozen or so new landscape tiles for my Live Clay Etsy shop as well as something special to list just for the holidays (I tried to do this earlier, like in July, but you just never know when inspiration is going to strike and in this case it struck precisely on December 2 when I realized that I’d forgotten to bring in poor, now-dead Last Year’s Poinsettia which had spent a triumphant summer under the apricot tree, I just can’t bear to throw them away) which turned out to be blossom bowls because I’ll tell you, when it’s cold and dark and December 21 the shortest-day-of-the-year is still off in the distance… I think flowers.

I love looking at work before the final firing because they don’t always make it… cracks, glaze snafus, kiln misfirings, misalignment of the stars. I always thank my equipment and the elements before raku firing.

I wonder how many of these pieces will turn out? Unfortunately, this tiny urn didn’t fare so well due to moisture trapped in the foot. It was an “extra,” in case the first one doesn’t survive the raku firing. Wish me luck.

That’s the thing: for every one piece that makes it to a gallery or store, there was time, effort, and emotion (not to mention 20 years experience) invested in others that didn’t survive one of the many trials and tribulations faced by an emergent piece of ceramic art. I hope people realize that when they wonder why a piece is priced the way it is.

So, here we are. I hope you are having a wonderful and busy That Time of Year Again. I will leave you with my 2011 Christmas card, a picture I took of a painting at the Oloffson Hotel, presumably of The Last Supper (click to enlarge).  It’s a perfect example of the way Christian traditions were absorbed into native religion. I especially love the spirits in the trees, cats under the table, and the girl feeding a mango to a bird. Makes for a much more festive Last Supper, don’t you think?  The message I wrote inside is, simply, CELEBRATE. Thanks for reading, and see you next year.

Granted, St. Mary’s was a tough team and I can understand why the coach would not want to sacrifice too many minutes to Isabella’s special tendencies (getting rid of the ball like a hot potato as soon as it’s passed to her; repeatedly stepping on the line when throwing the ball in-bound; observing rebounds rather than actually jumping to get them), but she does helpful things too. And at this level, the game should still be about having fun, not winning.  There’s plenty of time for winning and worst-players-never-play in high school, college, and beyond.  I spoke to the coach about this once before, early in the season when he did the same thing to Isabella in two other games.  We apparently have a fundamental difference of opinion about the nature of middle school sport.

Isabella felt so humiliated at the end of the game that she was crying, which the team misinterpreted as tears of joy (they won by 5 points).  The coach tried in vain to explain his choices, which made as little sense to her as they did me, “You did great for those 11 seconds [then why'd you take her out?],” “sometimes being on a team means you’re the cheerleader [huh?]“, “you have to understand what being on a team means [yes, to us it means that you don't sit one player on the bench for the entire game, even when you're ahead by 12 points]“.  Like I said, fundamental difference of opinion.

To cheer Isabella up after the game, I took her on a tour of my personal Middle School Hall of Horrors & Humiliations, arranged in progressively ghastly order:

Rm 101 Caught by Sister Annette copying someone else’s homework. Both of us reported to the teacher whose class the homework was for, friend hated me.

Rm. 108 Two best friends and I were wandering around after school one day and found Room 108 still open, inside of which, much to our delight, the lock on Greg Williams’ locker was also still open. Decided to rifle through Greg’s belongings and read everything we could get our hands on, as middle school girls with crushes will do.  I, and only I, was caught red-handed by Mr. Ortiz (we thought he was gone for the day), who later told Greg about the incident. (Was that really necessary?) Pretty much killed any hope I had of being Greg’s girlfriend. Ever.

Rm. 210 Sister Mary Dorothy intercepted a survey passed around by Doreen in *religion* class about her former best friend, Charlotte:  Who Thinks Charlotte Sanchez Is A Whore?  Doreen was a force to be reckoned with: sturdy, heavily made-up, *well-developed*, not afraid of a fight. Not wanting to invoke the wrath of Doreen, everyone signed the petition (including me, I’m ashamed to say), except for my best friend Cynthia. She was the only one who had the courage to stand up to the peer pressure. Sister Mary Dorothy read the names out loud and confronted every single one of us, individually, about our choices.

Downstairs Hallway  Scene of the Furry Golden Chicken Halloween Fiasco.  This deserves a post unto itself.

We ended the tour back in the now-empty Gym, place of unfulfilling Valentine’s Day Dances, my failed 6th grade cheerleader try-outs, my own brief and mediocre basketball career.

I took this picture of Sad Legs in front of the very same mat that had interrupted many-a forward trajectory as I flew across the gym in sporting enthusiasm.

While I liked basketball much more than Isabella does, I fear we share the same athletic prowess and I never made it past the middle school level. In fact, my career was tragically cut short when I was the single person cut from high school tryouts via a list posted on the gym door.

Number 12, with my aggressive game-face on.

That's me on the right. I went ahead and completed the picture with my likely posture just before it was taken.

It was rather emotional for me to be back at St. Mary’s after all these years, because, I suppose, it was a place of so much adolescent life–that time of extreme vulnerability when stepping out of childhood and into adulthood. Plus, I was sad for Isabella.  I’m sure there were lots of good things that happened during my middle school years too, but those aren’t the most powerful memories. No, it tends to be the embarrassments, humiliations, failures and rejections that shine the brightest. Maybe it’s because those were the hardest lessons, deepest scars, broadest wells of regret and growth?

In any case, there are so many hurtful things happening in the early teen years that are out of adults’ control, but this situation wasn’t one of them. It was a choice.  We left the gym in the freezing weather, went home to a black-out, and eventually sat around by candlelight laughing about my Where’s Isa-BELLA?! call during a silent moment of the game. A call that caused the coach, in Isabella’s words, to “look around with pupil-shrinking fear, and then he saw it was you...” and the assistant coach to wonder aloud, “Do we know her?“ Yes, I’ve turned into that parent, that person, one of a long, proud ancestry who have always stood up for what they saw as unfair or wrong, even when it would be easier to just let it go (thanks, mom).

For those who don’t know about the  partnership I’ve formed over the past two years with Aly Abraham, a small-businessman and art designer in Port-au-Prince, you can read more about it on our web site here.  Our partnership, Paper Turtle, grew from my initial contact with Aly in 2009, shortly before the earthquake, when I found him online and commissioned him to create a papier-mache version of my clay turtles.  What began as a one-time job has grown into a trans-Caribbean partnership, small business, and “friends for life,” as Aly contrived.

I met Aly in person for the first time this past August, when he was able to travel to the US and join me in New Mexico for a few days. My trip to Haiti in October was the first time I’d been to his country to see where he lives and meet the artisans who work so hard to create the beautiful sculptures we sell.

Before the earthquake, Aly had a workshop where everything was done under one roof:  metal sculpture, painting, papier-mache.  But the building was damaged in the quake and all of the sections had to be dispersed.  Since the focus of Paper Turtle is papier-mache, we visited Barthold, the master sculptor who works with Aly designing, sculpting and making molds.  Barthold attended the Ecole Nationale des Artes (ENARTS), where we visited on our first day. He enjoys his work very much and is the talent who brings our designs to life, as well as his own wonderful creations.

The entire papier-mache operation is now located at Barthold’s home in the hills of Martissant, a district of Port-au-Prince.  We stopped there on the way back from Jacmel, navigating ungraded roads and the usual plethora of cars, people and street merchandising to get there. The actual road to Barthold’s house is so rocky (eroded down to the bedrock) that it’s unnavigable by car. So we got out and walked up the hill.

Then another hill.

And one more. It was hot and very humid and I cursed my jeans every step of the way (what was I thinking??)

One-third of a steep, sweaty mile later, we arrived at Barthold’s house, where children were running around (he has five), and a helper was painting excellent tropical ant-spiders.

It was my great pleasure to meet Barthold in person–the shy and soft-spoken artist I’d heard so much about. I was able to bring profit-sharing from our Paper Turtles Etsy store and, just as importantly for me, I was able to tell Barthold (through Aly) that what he does matters. That his art is beautiful and people admire it, that I appreciate how hard he works, and I’m working hard for him and Aly, too.

My appreciation for what Aly and Barthold do grew by about 1,000% when I looked around and took in the workspaces:  an open-air painting station under a tarp; and a 20′ x 20′ or so very-hot-hut made of US AID tarps, crammed with work in various states of finish.

A beautiful deer in progress.

Sculptures dry outside on the wall, an obvious issue when it rains.  Aly wants to buy Barthold a fan so he can dry things more quickly under the tarps.

Incidentally, when I got home, I found that an awesome customer sent us a $100 donation (thanks Cindy!) which will be used to buy a fan.

Three artisans help Barthold with the papier-mache, as well as his older kids who sometimes help after school, and his wife, Anneleese, who paints.

Cement molds. Sculptures are a combination of molded and hand-cut pieces.

A fish and a turtle in progress.

A fish in progress. The sculpture is made of recycled cement bags or newsprint.

Papier-mache paste is a combination of glue and starch from manioc, or cassava, a tropical shrub whose tuberous roots are packed with carbohydrates and harvested for food.

I also occurred to me that every time Barthold finishes an order and is ready to ship, either he must carry the boxes down that 1/3 mi hill, or Aly must climb up and carry them down.  Aly’s truck was smashed in the earthquake, so he takes a bus or rents a car to get to Barthold’s neighborhood. I was amazed that anything at all happens there, let alone the production of work in the amount and quality I receive. It’s truly stunning.

At the end of our visit, Barthold gave each of us a sculpture to take home and Annelesse walked us back down the hill.  She told Aly that neighbors had already come to their house asking for money because there were white people there. She said the same thing happens when the neighbors see boxes being picked up or walked down the hill.

idea: if Paper Turtle grows big enough, maybe Barthold can give them jobs? Maybe we can find a larger space, indoors with lots of fans?

Annelesse walked back up the hill, we piled into the Mitsubishi and started back the way we came.

View from Barthold's house.

Part 2 of our final day will be a short wrap-up of the Haiti series: Aly’s house, the Kinam Hotel, and fried bananas on the way to the airport.  Until then, thank you so much for reading, and if you are interested in purchasing sculpture from Paper Turtle, please visit our Etsy store.

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

Jacmel was founded in 1698 as the capital of the south eastern part of the French colony Saint-Dominique. The area was Taino territory ruled by cacique Bohechio. With the arrival of the French, and the later establishment of the town, the French renamed Yaquimel as Jacmel. The town has not changed much since the late 19th century when it was inhabited by wealthy coffee merchants, who lived in gracious mansions that adorned it. These mansions would later come to influence the home structure of much of New Orleans.  The town’s architecture boasted cast-iron pillars and balconies purchased in France.  

We spent only 24 hours in Jacmel, but during that time we saw some amazing local art–papier-mache, steel drum art, wood carving, painting, Vodou sequin flags–and early 19th c. architecture that, although faded, is still beautiful.  Jacmel (pop. 40,000) is considered one of the safest, friendliest, and most easy-going cities in Haiti.  It’s an arts and culture hub with its own annual film festival (est. 2007), a vibrant music community, a renowned Carnival (distinguished by its papier-mache masks), and over 200 resident artists. It sustained considerable damage in the 2010 quake but repairs are in progress. Here is a photo tour of our visit:

An artist in a different location (above Blaise’s shop)  painted a zebra. A smooth surface is achieved by using something similar to white gesso (primer) and sanding before painting. Blaise is the lead papier-mache artist  for Carnival.

The art of papier-mache was originally brought to Haiti in the mid-1800s by the French to make home decor items, and was later used to make masks. According to the artists we talked to, a Haitian artist later went to Germany to study their method of papier-mache and brought back the new skills to Haiti.  It has only recently been created for the tourist market. The man above (unfortunately didn’t get his name) is one of the last of the first generation of artists to start making papier-mache for sale (as opposed to personal use).

After visiting artists, we checked into the Hotel de la Place ($80/single) and walked around the central market area.

 We were told that the market refuse is cleaned up at the end of each day.

Next, we headed for the beach.

Just beyond these boys playing soccer was a row of outdoor cooking huts with tables and chairs set up under tarps and grass tiki huts. Cameron had a delicious fish ($5). I declined fish based on the presence of a head and tail and stuck with my new favorite Haitian food, fried potatoes and plantains.

Gabe was deeply satisfied that he was the only one who received a straw.

The next morning, we encountered Berlotte the Tarot Reader-Painter. What’s a visit to Jacmel without a $10 reading by Berlotte?

We left Jacmel around noon after buying some gorgeous art to take home, including papier-mache roosters, a hen, and a sequined Vodou flag. This was the stoic moto-taxi driver who took me back to the van-bus stop.

Riding a moto-taxi in Jacmel is a little frightening, but the good thing is, there aren’t many cars to run you over.  I attempted to communicate my safety needs to the driver along the way, combining, in my anxiety, all of the foreign languages I know (Spanish, sort of) with the little bit of French and Creole I’d picked up, “Merci que mwen continuar de vive,” Thank you that I continue to live.

Tomorrow:  All Souls Day in Haiti

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 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 with 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 on 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 that 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 in through 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 thank-you-Jesus 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. Now we’re off to see some traditional art.

Tomorrow:  Jacmel Part 2

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 small, 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, conveniences 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 (4 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

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.

And here is my favorite recipe for roasted pumpkin seeds (as seen last year).

In a 10- by 15- inch baking pan, mix:

2 cups unwashed pumpkin seeds*, 1 1/2 tablespoons melted butter, 1 1/4 teaspoons salt, and 1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire.

Spread seeds out in pan. Bake in a 250°  oven, stirring occasionally, until browned and crisp, about 2 hrs. Serve warm or cool. You can store the seeds in a baggie or container (let cool completely first).

*The deliciousness of this recipe comes from not washing the slime off the seeds before baking.  The orange bits of goo combine with the butter to make a crispy yum-coating.

Last but not least, some new images from the best pumpkin carver in the world, Ray Villafane (for all you Villafaneophiles, he was funded on Kickstarter this year to make a tutorial DVDs, get ‘em while they’re hot!).

Have a great holiday, see you in Haiti!