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a1915: Another Furcy to Seguin story (fwd)





From: "tminsky@ix.netcom.com" <tminsky@ix.netcom.com>

A couple years ago [2000] Corbetteer Ingy Petersen and I huffed and puffed our way up the path from Furcy to Seguin just at the beginning of the time the path was being bulldozed into a road which it now is. Here is our story which is also on Guy Antoine's Windowsonhaiti.com website with accompanying
photos.


Walking Haiti's High Ground-- Two Women's Experience [February 2000]

     Tequila Minsky


     At 7:30 a.m. fellow Corbeteer and  walking companion, Ingy Petersen          and I are dropped off by a taxi (and a series of heated negotiations) at      a crossroads in the hills high above Port-au-Prince near Furcy. The
     newly graded fork to the right leads to the Massif de la Selle (Big
     Saddle Mountain Range). Two days later our plan is to be at the sea
     on Haiti’s southern coast. I am ecstatic commencing the walk that
     many a Haitian had told me they had always wanted to do. I had no idea
     really what was in store.

     We have not walked far when we are halted by huge Caterpillar
     earth moving equipment chomping into the mountainside, grading
     for what will turn this path into a vehicular road. With the peasants
     we wait for a break so we can walk the narrow rocky ledge of this
     construction zone and then really begin the trek.

     It’s all uphill from here.

In the morning cool air, women traveling this hard-baked, dusty footpath, stop  and gossip, some with donkey in tow, and then continue on. Sunshine
floods the path. A lone remaining tree storing feed high away from hungry
     ground animals is the only break in the eyescape.

     This path is the foot highway connecting mountain villages for
     machann (market women), bringing produce to Kenskoff,
     supplying the vegetable needs of the capital, and providing
     access to the cities. The intermittent stream of foot travelers
     passes both ways. A Sunday-dressed family has 2 hours of
     walking before they can catch a bus to Port-au-Prince’s uphill
     suburb of Petionville.

     Descending into a valley, waves of terraced mountainside grow
     carrots, leeks, and cabbage. Golden paths of red earth snake to
     the few scattered settlements. As we walk I wonder how these
     peasants, so remote, meet their water and supply needs.

     This entire path is scheduled for transformation to a car road. A
     lot of dynamite, I’m thinking. Once accessible by road, what
     changes will take place?

                             Haiti’s women carry the economy on their
                             heads with such panache it's easy not to
                             recognize how heavy these bundles are
                             and the skill it takes to travel miles by
                             foot. Over 50% of Haitian women are
                             market women. A troupe of three women
                             walk toward us, each with over 60
                             pounds of produce on her head. They
                             pause as one woman leans her bundle of
                             yams against the eroded mountainside to
                             relieve the weight. As she falters in her
                             effort to upright the load, her two friends
                             both heavily weighted themselves, Ingy
                             rushes to successfully assist in the
     rebalance.

     The day heats up; there is no relief from the sun. Trees have long
     found their way into fueling someone’s cooking. The eroded
     mountainside provides four square feet of shade which I duck
     into. Load laden women zoom past on their way to a small village
     market.

     The path becomes rockier and steeper and we pass a courtyard
     and grounds defined by stone fences, a terrain remarkably
     different from any other I’ve seen in Haiti. This uphill rock path is
     endless! I sit gasping. Market women stop in concern. "Maybe it's
     her heart," one machann comments in Kreyòl. Maybe I’m out of shape, I’m
     thinking. It is here at this moment that the Haitian proverb comes
     to life, Dèyè mòn gen mòn. Beyond every mountain there is another      mountain. No crisis, they pass us by.

     The up mountain end of this walk is Seguin, a village crossroads,
     over 5,000 feet in elevation. We look forward to a bed & breakfast
     there with promises of a hot shower and other amenities.

     Finally the rocky up-path spills onto a plain. The women at the top
     are used to seeing bedraggled hikers and keep offering to carry
     our packs, a way to earn some money. Admittedly, I had not
     outfitted my sneakered feet properly; I feel every rock in the
     terrain.

     A man with a horse overhears our exchanges with the
     enterprising women and understands my predicament. "Come
     on," he pipes up and hoists me onto his wooden saddle pack
     horse. Ingy is hardier and keeps on walking.

                                                         He tells me
                                                         his name is
                                                         Jean-Claude
                                                         and works as
                                                         an
                                                         agricultural
                                                         assistant for
                                                         international
                                                         organizations
                                                         and his family
                                                         lives in
                                                         Seguin.
                                                         Eating fresh
                                                         bananas
     we’ve bought from a woman selling on the path we then enter a
     mirage--a pine forest. Trees in a treeless country. We are
     surrounded by coolness and the essence of pine needles
     covering the ground. Spiked cactus is growing amidst the pines. A
     mystical portal? We are totally unprepared for this gift.

     Word spread to the bed & breakfast, Auberge de la Visite, before
     our arrival. Gerald, the onsite manager, greets us on the path and
     points the direction to the hotel. I’m shivering in tee-shirt and
     shorts, the temperature has dropped as the altitude rose.

     Our hike is half complete. 4:30 p m, it's time to rest and recover.
     Tomorrow will be downhill. Patrick Slavin's name in the guest book
     surprises me; I didn't know he had  done this walk just months before.     The bed is a great comfort.

At the crack of dawn, the smell of coffee being made, I emerge      outside into a diffuse morning light, a mountain air; the sun fighting its way through the mist, Horses pasturing on the grounds are available for
rent. This feels just like a peaceable kingdom. Once the fog is burned off, the flood of sun glints everywhere and the main building is aglow.

                                                         Cement
                                                         tombstone
                                                         graves sit
                                                         amidst
                                                         out-croppings
                                                         of karst,
                                                         sculptural
                                                         rock shapes
                                                         from
                                                         dissolved
                                                         limestone.
      The surrealism here, this rock garden leave me wide eyed and gasping.       The locals call this krase dan (breaking
     teeth). Both Ingy and I have never seen anything like this in
     Haiti. We should have allowed another day of exploring the pine
     forest and limestone caves that we had so quickly walked past
     the day before.

     We are off for an early start. Gerald guides us for a fee to the trail
     head through these croppings, walking along with children on
     their way to school and women getting water. This takes us
     through the village of Seguin, a cluster of eight buildings.

     There’s a lot of activity on market day. We’re happy to see
     people registering to vote for an upcoming election. An instant
     camera photo and receiving a laminated registration card is part
     of the process.

     We pass schoolchildren even here in this remote plateau. It's
     recess, they're out playing. In the distance is a konbit, collective      farm working group, a konbit. They pose for a photo. We pass a rare settlement. Mountains surround us.

     What goes up must come down.

     Our path becomes increasingly steep, Haitians run down. I tread
     gingerly, step by unsteady step. The people's route, this steep
     mountain path, is speedy for those using momentum. It's snail
     paced for the wary. Yesterday’s aerobic uphill now contrasts with
     this downhill challenge to thighs and toes. A hiking boot is
     necessary for this rocky descent; I curse my sneakers.

                                                         Distance in
                                                         Haiti is
                                                         measured by
                                                         time and the
                                                         reports from
                                                         Haitians on
                                                         how far it is to
                                                         the bottom
                                                         are
                                                         unreliable. No
                                                         matter where
                                                         we are we
                                                         are told "it’s
                                                         one hour from
     here". We walk for hours and at each inquiry the response is the
     same, one hour. If only!

     A local woman helps us find the only food along the way, Haitian
     grapefruit, shadek. We buy 6 from a local. The peasants bring
     wicker cane chairs for us to sit while they machete peel and slice
     the shadek.  While the juice streams down our face and arms, we're too
     hungry and tired to show manners as we the devour the fruit.
     Afterwards, they bring a bucket of water and a towel to wash.

     When the endless rocky decline eases, we're at the village of
     Jean-Noel, a cluster of homes, a school, a church in construction
     on a packed rock road. People nod, speak and even walk with us
     for a bit. Children gather in their yard to watch those crazy
     foreigners who find recreation in walking. There are no vehicles,
     no traffic.

     There are another few miles down, a river to cross, another
     village, to get to public transportation; the sun is sinking as we
     press on. Peridot, the easternmost tap-tap point along the
     southern coast which traffics into Jacmel is our end point.

     A pick up truck/tap-tap having just discharged passengers from
     Jacmel sits in Peridot’s center and we gladly climb in. We're tired
     yet elated, it's almost dark. We wait for the tap-tap to fill; a
     teacher, a market woman with bags, students, a worker stashing
     his tool behind the seats. I practice my Kreyòl with the fellow who
     sits next to me. The bench-seating fills up, we think. People sit on
     each others laps, it fills some more. It’s dark.

After dropping off and picking up more in Marigot we're off riding
along the coast, the unseen sea to one side, the open back
tap-tap refreshing us in the cool night air. We’re driving to Jacmel,
chatting with others in the tap-tap,  exhausted but now totally fulfilled. We finished the challenge and now looked forward to real comfort in Jacmel.

     ©2001 Tequila Minsky tminsky@ix.netcom.com



The website http:// Windowsonhaiti.com has this and Corbeteer Patrick Slavin's walking experiences on the Furcy=Seguin path.

With photos. Here are the links.

http://www.gajma.com/windowsonhaiti/seguin/seguin.htm

Two men's experience:  http://www.gajma.com/windowsonhaiti/seguin/sg03.shtml

Two women's experience:  http://www.gajma.com/windowsonhaiti/seguin/womenwalk.shtml



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