Ile a Vache, Haiti (no glossy superlatives).

Resorting to the Oilskins (albeit with shorts)….shocking!

Walking to the well.

 

Gilly hanging on for dear life!

 

Local fishing boat in full sail

 

Ile a Vache

 

Waves hiding a little local fishing boat.

 

As I sit in front of the computer trying to gather my thoughts and impressions about Ile a Vache, there is a hubbub of activity just a few yards across from where we are anchored. Between 8 and 9 every morning there is the same kerfuffle as the long, open wooden ferry boats load up with people, wares, oil cans, bags of mangoes and live chicken, their feet tied together as they are carried unceremoniously like any other piece of luggage. It is always a spectacle. People rushing and shoving; a second pirogue circling in case a second boat is required. Loading is an exact science and involves shouting from the Captain for people to move position to balance the boat. Then the stuttering outboard engine is cajoled into life. In any other harbour this would not be noteworthy, but off Ile a Vache there are very few outboard engines – all the fishing boats here are sail-powered alone going about their business with silent skill. The first ferry is passing our stern now…loaded to the gunnels with people (about 25 seated across the boat three a-breast on horizontal planks). The protective tarpaulin is being unfolded which will give a modicum of protection to those unlucky enough to be sitting on the windward side. Getting wet is an inevitability unless the waters between here and the harbour of Les Cayes on the Haitian mainland is flat calm – unlikely at this time of year when the Christmas winds are still making their annual uninvited presence felt. Yes, the second boat is required as the late arrivals crowd the beach, shouting to the second boat to come as close as he can. No fancy ferry terminal here – just a patch of shallow beach where it is easiest to wade across to get into the boat. This daily ritual is one I have come to treasure about being here; so untouched by modernity, so unchanged by the centuries, so Ile a Vache.

But I am so impatient to tell you about this extra-ordinary place that I have forgotten to appraise you about our momentous five day voyage to get here. We both felt the need to get away from Curacao. Oh yes it is a beautiful and sophisticated place and we had a good time there but somehow, like so many of these Caribbean islands who have completely turned themselves over to tourism, it lacked a soul and reminded us only of our many years sailing in the Netherlands. We have not come all this way, we said to ourselves, to be back in Holland (albeit with sunshine of course). However, the aforementioned Christmas winds were more than apparent in our anchorage in Spanish Water and Common Sense was shouting at us to wait until they had abated before heading out for a long passage. When have they ever listened to Common Sense I hear you say ruefully. All too true. Having studied the forecasts endlessly and asked the advice of our weather guru, Chris Parker, we set off with a Plan B firmly in place. Plan A would be to go to Ile a Vache, but, if we found the wind and seas off Curacao too taxing, Plan B would be to go a bit further to windward and return to good old Bonaire only 30 miles away. Of course, having geared ourselves for Plan A, deferring to Plan B would come with some feelings of defeat……and being a long standing British Army Officer, Colin doesn’t do defeat.

So it was that with a marginal forecast we left the shores of the ABC islands without much regret. We had the wind (force 5-6) on the beam with swell about 6-8 feet – just about comfortable. So it continued for our first two days but then Chris Parker informed us we would be meeting a trough. Great. All through the night we could see flashes of lightening getting more and more prevalent. There was something rather sinister about it – like the build-up to a shocking scene in a Hollywood movie. Our shocking scene was not in a movie.   With relief morning and daylight eventually dawned. As Colin was talking on the SSB radio to Chris Parker early the next morning Gill was on the helm as we approached a massive black cloud. The wind suddenly changed from about 25 knots from the east to 40 knots from the west. Gill shouted for assistance from below and we had to leave Chris Parker on the public airwaves wondering what was going on. After a few minutes we had shortened the sails and got Resolute under control again as the heavens opened and Gill got back on the radio to tell the masses we were in fact fine. From Colin’s perspective it went like this:

Colin to Chris Parker (CP) – Our position is XXXXX wind XXXXXX but with some squalls and the odd thunder storm in sight.

CP – Oh that is strange as the Caribbean is very dry at the moment – let me zoom in (on his all singing all dancing weather map I assumed) Ah, oh dear, there we are, Resolute there is one box of squalls in the Caribbean Sea drifting east and you are in the middle of it. Bad luck.

Gill – (from on deck) looks like a big squall coming.

Colin – Ok I’ll be there just need to finish this.

Gill – no you need to be here now (enter stage left…rain, thunder and 30knts of wind from the opposite direction to how it always blows in the Caribbean).

Gill To CP – We will get back to you!

The squall lasted for an hour and was followed by a second. By mid-morning we had no wind and the motor went on. The rain continued – the skies completely grey. There was no option but to get ourselves into our Oil Skins and make some soup for lunch. During the afternoon the sky got progressively less grey but we could have been in the North Sea – which was an improvement on the N Baltic where I thought we had returned to initially. At midday the solar panels (that normally put 30 – 40 amps into the batteries on a sunny day) were only making 0.2 of an amp!

Eventually we managed to get out of Chris Parker’s ‘box of squalls’ but following it the winds built from the east as did the seas. Our second problem, now we were less than 24 hours from Haiti was that we knew we could not arrive after dark because of dire warnings about the sail driven unlit fishing boats and the hundreds of fishing buoys which litter the coast – asking to get themselves wrapped round a propeller. No, whatever happened we had to approach Ile a Vache in daylight, so in less than ideal conditions we had to kill some time at sea. We decided to do this by heading into the huge bay adjacent to the island and get as close in to the coast as we could to get out of the increasing swell. The next morning on the radio Chris Parker concurred with our plan to tuck into the coast as soon as possible. Meanwhile we had to put up with the tail-end of the trough and squalls which were still producing, gusts to at least 30 knots and enormous waves rearing up across our beam. Resolute, as always took most of them in her stride but we did deploy the washboards nonetheless….something we have not needed to do since leaving Norway. As promised, much to our huge relief, the closer we got to the coast the more the waves modified. And eventually as night fell we turned our stern to those waves (still about 8 feet) giving us a much more comfortable ride. The worst was over and Ile a Vache was about 50 miles away on the nose.

Both greedy for a decent sleep after some stressful days we took it in turns for some shut-eye. Then as dawn approached we could see our destination ahead and the little triangles of sails became bigger. The fishermen, despite the big seas, were out in force, waving as we approached before disappearing behind another wall of swell. Their seamanship was incredible – making us feel humble and rather guilty in our large heavy boat with its engine and all mod cons. for feeling so intimidated by the sea conditions we had faced. We continued under sail for as long as possible, as fishing buoys, presumably lobster and crab pots, as promised were everywhere – often only marked by a seemingly innocent lemonade bottle floating on the surface swell. Once behind the island and out of the wind the engine had to go on, so Gilly was eventually tasked to stand at the bow keeping a beady eye out. Eventually here we were, turning into the sheltered bay with many other masts becoming visible. The welcoming committee soon began to arrive: children in small dug-out canoes who were having to bail out the boats as often as they were rowing with their palm paddles. Others were in slightly more sophisticated vessels – and one had an outboard motor. The young chap with the outboard introduced himself as Felix and advised us where we could anchor or moor. With about 10 boats now in our flotilla – with some hanging on to our guardrails as we slowly proceeded we decided for the time being to pick up a mooring buoy. Throwing the anchor with this crowd around us was just too risky. Felix helped us onto the buoy, we gratefully turned off our engine and tried, amidst the cacophony of voices to revel in the joy of having actually arrived.

It soon became apparent that none of the welcoming committee were going to leave us without first having prevailed upon us the unique service which they could provide. We decided to make a list. Here was William who could offer a dongle for Wi-Fi on the boat (which seemed incredible); Vilna who could scrub and polish our sides; John who had paintings and could take us ashore; Felix who owned a small hotel and who could give us dinner there….and dozens of teenagers and children desperate to show off their few words of English and astounded when we were able to conjure up a little French. They were offering everything from garbage collection to coconuts, mangoes and volunteering their mothers for laundry. We promised them all due consideration, meticulously writing their names and services in our book then pleading with them to come back a little later to give us a breathing space for some sleep. Oh that sleep was bliss. No waves crashing, no stress, just peace and blessed calm.

That evening William (the dongle man) returned to explain the internet deal and we almost bit his hand off! The thought of having internet access on the boat over Christmas was definitely something worth paying a premium for. Felix also arrived on his boat (with an outboard…..there’s posh!). We had thought he was going to bring us dinner on the boat but in fact he had come to collect us for dinner. Still feeling in a surreal haze we gladly got aboard and he took us to his little half-completed hotel (www.worldtreasurehotel.com) proudly showing off the two double ensuite rooms that are completed and trying to hide the building site which will be the other rooms he hopes to build. What makes this little enterprise such a treasure is the view. We sat drinking local beers on the patio outside his rooms with palm trees and beach a few feet from our toes and a view over to the mountains on the Haitian mainland. Literally awesome. Then, delight upon delight, Beatrice (Felix’s girlfriend) produced the lobster, rice and beans, salad and fried plantain. Such a wonderful meal, in such a wonderful place with wonderfully obliging, kind people. We had really arrived.

The next few days were quite a blur of activity. As it was the weekend we could not go to Les Cayes on the mainland to clear in with Immigration until the Monday. With Resolute desperately in need of a spruce up we took advantage of all the offers of help from our list of people desperate to work. Vilna and Ashley had the job of cleaning and polishing the sides and top-sides; Mark and Michelin (M&M to their friends) undertook to polish all the metalwork and Winsen cleaned and re-stained the woodwork. We carefully agreed prices for the work before it was undertaken and soon realised that labour came very cheap here. Amidst the frenzy of this work our neighbours came to say hello. There were about 8 other sailing boats in the bay – some of which, we learned had been left (whilst their owners flew home) tied well into the mangroves by their owners under the auspices of William and some of the other senior locals. A bearded American pastor introduced himself from a nearby boat. He explained that he had been running an evangelical mission from his boat in Haiti for 30 years, establishing churches, schools and clinics. He was weary of some of the local politics but we were far too enamoured with the place to take much notice of his moans and groans about some of the locals. On the Sunday morning some of our trusty workers had promised to come back to finish their jobs and we noticed the whole of the anchorage and nearby village emptying as everyone went to church….oops. Working on the Sabbath was probably not viewed favourably in these parts but we were totally unaware.

Monday meant that we needed to get the ferry to Les Cayes. John (the artist) had promised to meet us ashore at 8 (unbeknownst to us we had arrived at 7…until John arrived and told us our watches were an hour wrong – we were not aware we were in a different time zone). As I have already alluded to, this is just an open wooden boat designed to take about 20 people….but ours was full to capacity with at least 25….as well as a tiny baby swathed in a thick towel, chickens, luggage and large fuel containers. After shuffling and re-arranging ourselves as directed by the captain at the stern, the outboard was persuaded to start. Alongside the chug of the engine was the constant scrape and splash of water being bailed……John assured us that this depth of water sloshing by our feet was usual on this ferry. We tried not to be concerned reminding ourselves that this boat set off across the waves and back every single day.

Off we went, with the level of the water alarming close to the shallow boat’s sides. Then, to add to our disquiet, a huge tarpaulin was unrolled by a chap on the bow and unfurled down the starboard side, each passenger in turn careful positioning it around their shoulders or even over their heads. As we left the protection of the island into the blue stretch of sea between us and the mainland the white capped waves made it clear why the tarpaulin was going to be necessary. The Captain skilfully motored across the swell endeavouring to keep us all dry by cutting the engine revs or accelerating with the wave pattern. Despite his best efforts we were splashed and slopped perpetually. Now we knew why the little baby was so tightly wrapped in that towel! It was a relief then to see the town coming closer into view and we spied the town quay assuming that was where we were heading. How wrong could we be? Our destination was a scruffy, litter-strewn bank – chaotic with wooden boats and people disgorging themselves and their loads. The swell here was at least 4 foot high and breaking against the shore line causing confused seas – there was nothing sheltered about this bit of coast. Another wooden boat came right alongside us and John explained that we needed to decant into it to be rowed ashore. Now this boat was bobbing madly in the swell but somehow we clambered into it and the man punted us as close as he could get to the crowded water’s edge but we were still a good way off. With some alarm I suddenly realised then how everyone was getting from these boats to land – human muscle power. A burly young chap beckoned to me and before I knew it I was being piggy-backed ashore – through the swell which reached initially to his waist and up the crumbling quayside! Then off-loading me gently to my feet, without a pause he went back through the surf for Colin. What an introduction to the total avant guarde of Les Cayes.

John guided us deftly through the criss-cross of shabby streets. As we wove our way on foot into centreville the pre-Christmas crowds grew and the dirt track roads filled with motorbike taxis with their passengers and some cars and trucks. It was frenetic and loud – such a contrast to Ile a Vache where there are no vehicles except the odd motor-bike taxi. This was a big town, but many of the buildings were pockmarked and crumbling. In front of them stall-holders sold their wares noisily. Eventually we found ourselves outside the bank but were dismayed to see a long queue for the ATM at the bank’s door. John advised us that as this was the only bank, we should join the end of the line. This could be a long haul we realised and we still had to go to immigration and do some shopping before our return ferry left at 2. Patrolling the bank queue was a no-nonsense security guard with a gun at his hip. John approached him and said a few words – gesturing to us. The guard then motioned for us to follow him and whispering our awkward apologies as we went we jumped the queue in his wake – being shown straight into the bank itself which was as busy inside as out. Lines of people at every counter and desk all patrolled by yet more security men but this time with pump-action shot guns. The procedure for obtaining money especially from a European account is bound to be tortuous but eventually we were helped to jump several other lines of hot people at every counter and had our combination of US dollars and local currency counted out to us. The local Haiti gourdes came, as we had requested in small denominations and we loaded the wads of notes into our rucksack like bank robbers – feeling self-conscious and hoping no-one was taking too much notice of our huge amount of swag.

Guarding our rucksack carefully we then headed to Immigration – an oasis of calm at the top of a colonial building where, after parting us from $40 of our newly minted stash, our passports were stamped and we were legal again. Then to the welcome shade of the undercover market for some fruit and vegetables haggled for us mercilessly by John. The supermarket turned out to be decidedly un-super but nonetheless we managed to find some essentials and thanked our lucky stars that we had taken heed and provisioned ourselves well before departing from the ABC’s.

After a cool beer and a quick lunch it was back to the quayside where my muscly hunk was waiting to return me to the rowing boat. This time the piggy-back was a fireman’s lift (thank goodness for Lycra!) – then another athletic leap into the main ferry boat. We were nearly home but certainly not dry as the return trip proved to be more to swell-ward. We all got very wet despite the best efforts of some who wanted the tarpaulin completely over their and our heads – ensuring that others with no horizon in sight and the overpowering fuel fumes from the now full fuel cans, heaved their lunches over the side – not us hardened sailor types I hasten to add. Pushing the tarpaulin back unceremoniously, Gill expounded loudly to the assembled aqua-phobic masses – “oh for goodness sake, it’s only water!” How to make friends and influence people, lesson one, failed.

As if that was not adventurous enough, the next day found Gill riding pillion on a motor-bike taxi – her first outing ever on a motorbike. Felix had organised this trip for us – the aim of the trip he had explained excitedly, was to see the airport on Ile a Vache. It was news to us that such a tiny island had or could accommodate an airport, but as Felix feverishly explained, it would be a tremendous boost to the tourist trade and prevents people having to see the impoverished environs of the capital Port au Prince – as they currently have to do. The trip was anyway going to give us a cross-island experience of rural life and indeed we were transported at speed along the dusty rucked tracks not just to the other side of the island but back in time by centuries. Mules carried straw panier loads of everything from sugar cane to breeze-blocks; women wandered along the tracks with their loads atop their heads – deftly balancing their burden in an exhibition of perfect deportment. Bare-foot children ran to the communal wells with their water containers; at some water-holes women did their washing, and each hedge and tree was strewn colourfully with garments drying. Vegetation was lush and plentiful everywhere – in some places cultivated in fields, but elsewhere just trees laden with mangoes, passion fruit, avocados and other strange prickly fruit we did not recognise. Bony cows grazed at the sides of the roads tethered to trees. Then suddenly the landscape changed. The rough road ahead became wide and broad – cutting a scar-like swathe ahead of us. This, we were told, was The Road To The Airport. Eventually, we arrived at an even larger flat piece of newly dug ground and as we surmised, this was The Runway. Gosh. This airport was indeed in production though no obvious advancement of the plan was in progress that we could see – no tarmac, no buildings, no fuel, no electricity……a way to go then. But the pride and hope on our guide’s face as we stood there saddle-sore on the wannabe runway was not to be displaced by our first world attentions to detail. All Felix could see were the potential crowds of eager dollar-laden tourists being met by him in future years and taken to his completed hotel. Who were we to devalue his hopes and dreams.

Another frenzied motor-bike trip to the local market at the biggest town on the island called Madame Bernard (I wonder who she was?) followed a few days later on Christmas Eve. This time a young chap called Jasmin who owned his own motorbike took us with a taxi-bike friend. Strewn on tarpaulin sheets on the ground the crops and fruits that we had glimpsed were all for sale for a few gourds. We were possibly the only white people (Blancs) there as Jasmin skilfully directed us to the best stalls and drove a hard bargain for the fruit and vegetables and chicken legs. The butchery department of the market was not for the squeamish! We saw 3 pigs being led in on the hoof and not 10 minutes later there was 12 pork quarters along with 6 ears, 6 cheeks and associated offal available for inspection on the only stall with an enclosed space (old ISO container) behind it. No doubt then that the pork was fresh – just a little too vocally fresh for us. No such privacy was afforded the chickens but then they were dispatched somewhat more easily and were therefore within our comfort zone. They tasted very good and were also…..fresh.

The mainstay of our diet here – for all the above reasons – has been lobster. Poor us! The fishermen come to the side of our boat daily with their catch which consists mainly of lobster, massive crabs and dreary old fish (in comparison) of various shapes and sizes. They are happy to part with their catch for a handful of gourdes. With that and the fresh fruit and vegetables from the market we are able to eat well. This was borne out by the feast us yachties managed to produce for a pot-luck (everyone brings a dish) Christmas lunch at Felix’s gorgeous nearly-hotel. What a special Christmas lunch with the amazing view and mountains of delicious food. The night before we had got together at the only little bar in our bay and had some beers along with a goat stew (again, definitely fresh as when we had wandered past in the afternoon the said goat was tethered outside the bar…..complaining loudly as you would if you suspected you were on death row). Our Christmas meals were a good opportunity to get to know our neighbours better. There was an American couple with their two teenage sons aboard anchored near us and they told us nonchanently over our goat stew that they had ‘inherited’ an orphanage in Haiti. Apparently a friend of theirs ran this orphanage and they had for some time sponsored it. The friend suddenly died and they felt the need (they are Messianic Jews) to take up the baton, sell their house in the States, buy a boat, sail it to Haiti, live aboard and run the orphanage from there. Some very ordinary and lovely people doing an extra-ordinary and lovely thing. The American missionary had another part-time pastor and his wife and son on mission too. Chris, the visiting pastor (he came to help out twice a year for 2 month period) explained about the church-building programme, the adjoining clinics their hopes for fish farming the political frustrations and the need for pews! All extremely interesting not to mention humbling.

Perhaps you can see from the way we are waxing lyrical about Haiti that it is a unique and special place with unique and special people…..and it always has been. The strong touch of French in the Creole (Kreol) the locals speak betrays their colonial roots.   Haiti , (Ayiti in Creole – meaning the land of mountains) is in fact a thorn in any Frenchman’s side. It seems that here under French colonial rule, slavery was taken to a new low of cruelty and indignity in the late 1700’s. At some point the slaves decided enough was enough and they revolted (as was the French fashion at the time!). This revolution though, Napoleon felt could be put down easily and he sent an Army of 50,000 so to do. After a decade of fighting, in 1804, the French army was defeated and the Republic was born and immediately let democracy take its course in finding a strong leadership. It was the only Black Republic in the history of the New World and news of its formation spread shock waves amongst all those who held slavery dear in the United States and Europe. A conspiracy of myths and discretisation ensued – the Haitians were labelled as cannibals and evil-doers. The French maintained that reparations were due to them for becoming independent which immediately put Haiti into a debt-ridden economic state which continued until this ‘debt ‘was paid in full to the French in 1947. Since then there have been ‘puppeteers’ working to take Haiti back by stealth – putting dictatorships in place, syphoning off aid, hindering rather than helping the determined populace. In 2010 of course there was the terrible earthquake which killed over 20,000 people which has touched everyone here. Hurricanes are also a frequent visitor, devastating the progress of crops and infrastructure. Underlying all this though is a strong spirit of determination and independence which has seen these people time and time again pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and turn towards hope once more. That is why Haiti is so unique today. Yes, the people do not have much, but the island provides many natural resources; things are bartered and swapped, expertise is shared, co-operatives are formed, children are well-educated and are very self-reliant from a young age. There is no place for self-pity or malaise.

So, now it is nearly time to leave this marvellous place and we count it as a privilege to have shared with the special people here the essence of their lives. Some of the people we have got to know have insisted we join them in their homes and meet their families – graciously sharing the little that they have. There is a constant stream of knocks on our hull – people selling fruit, fish or just saying hello. It has been an education and adventure for us lily-livered Europeans from the Land of Plenty to experience some of the rough and tumble of it all. This is the authentic Caribbean we sailed all this way to see…..no sugar frosting here, no glossy superlatives.