Clowns Without Borders - USA

August

Volunteers: Suzanne Santos, Tim Cunningham and Sarah Foster

Journal

Monday, August 10, 2009: Suzanne’s Journal
As we fly into Haiti, it is apparent that the island has been depleted of its natural resources.  Trees and plant life have been uprooted and the brown hills roll on.  I wondered if we would see any life as we embarked on our journey.

When we land, we already begin to clown. We all claim our seats on the Sonje Ayiti bus and we pull of to a field.  Our luggage is an hour behind, so we decide to wait.  It is hot, so all of the windows are rolled down in the bus and a little hand pokes through an opening.  A child who would like some food is trying to engage us.

A pig runs through the field and stops to dig for garbage.  A small child 50 yards away is doing handstands.  Tim begins to speak to the child by the bus in Creole.  Due to my lack of French and Creole I fall back on a language I do know: Clown. I pull out my bag of funny glasses and put them on, the child smiles.  Soon there are more.  They all are hungry, but they are laughing and smiling now.  We smile together, shake hands and make eye contact.  I soon find out that this is the most important kind of interaction I will have in the next two weeks.

Monday, August 10, 2009, Cap-Haitien: Tim’s Journal

We arrived this afternoon after several flights, a short wait for our luggage to arrive on a flight all on its own and a trip through the bustling streets of Cap Haitien, Haiti. Our base for the next five days in the Sonje Ayiti Guesthouse. Jose and Gabrielle Vincent are our gracious hosts, providing us with plenty of drinking water and ample nourishment. While there is a house, with walls, beds, tables and chairs, we have taken residence on the roof top. It provided us with the relief of a cool breeze and a canopy of stars to sleep under last night, as well as a mock-stage on which to rehearse all morning today. Occasionally small audiences peak arund corners, or take a seat on the neighbor’s yard to catch a glimpse of us… new, strange and funny people.

This afternoon we head to meet with the mayor and then to the UN base. Tomorrow performances begin!

Our day was packed with three shows, each quite different. Starting under the heat of the morning sun at an orphanage, the group performed for about 60 children of all ages. At the end of the show everyone played together for quite a while. Some of the younger children were clearly baffled by us, others intrigued and many giggled. We were even entertained by some dancing and two boys walked across the field on their hands. One little boy in orange seemed to just want to be held and to hold on. He gazed at Suzanne’s nose for quite awhile, and then moved to the next new face and new hand.
Writing it was hard to walk away and get back on the bus, does not give the emotions of the first show, the first sounds of laughter and sight of smiles enough justice…more soon, including photos!

Wednesday, August 12, 2009: Suzanne’s Journal
Our first show is going to happen.  I’m remembering my blocking, the order of the scenes, and sweating.  I’m nervous.  This feels like the most important show I will ever do.  We pull up alongside a row of concrete buildings, our first orphanage show.  I hope that the orphanage is in good condition.  I hope that the children are healthy. I hope that we can make them laugh.  I just want to be present with as many of the children as I can.

We walk into a large field covered in manure with all of our gear.  There are children everywhere.  They want to help us and hold our hands.  As soon as I step off of the bus, I have two girls in tow.  Tim, Sarah and I want to make sure that we are facing the sun and the children are in the shade.  It’s a hot day. Not a cloud in the sky.  The energy is buzzing.

There are 300 or so kids at the orphanage, and we will perform for about half.  It seems like they are happy, but there are just so many of them.  It impacts me to see them here in this moment.  I get focused and preset my props.  We start in an empty outdoor hallway out of sight.  Sarah a

nd I wait anxiously for our cue from Tim,  “Veni Clown!”  We barrel out into the sun with the trunk.  My heart is beating fast and sweat is already pouring down my face.  Their little faces get bigger as we get closer.  They’re attentive.  We chase around in circles for the first time and I’m already out of breath, but they are laughing!  I smile wide and find moments to connect with individuals in the crowd.  I see them and they see me.  We really see each other.  Our souls connect. I take a deep breath and check back in with my partners.

Our show is going well.  I run back to our “backstage” hallway and put the stilts on.  As I stand up, the red and black stilt pants lengthen down and I’ve grown!  I start to walk towards Sarah with her umbrella and I can feel the audience.  They are with us and loving it.  As the show ends, I feel like I don’t want it to.  I want it to keep living in this field with these kids.  Somehow I know it will.

We exit and I sit down to take it all in.  This was my favorite show I’ve ever done as a clown.  I smile to myself.  As I peak out and walk towards the kids for some one on one interaction, I see Tim already doing his magic and Sarah is speaking with some of the kids.  I seek out some of the kids on the outskirts of the crowd.  There’s one little guy near me.  His caretaker says his name is Junior.  I kneel down and he goes for the nose.  I smile.  He doesn’t, but keeps pulling on my nose anyway. He looks away and holds onto my knees and seems content this way for awhile.  Another toddler walks up and we connect.  I realize that there’s no other place that I’d rather be.

I pick up Junior and he seems to like it.  It seems like the kids all take care of each other and they pick each other up all the time.  They seem to like the positive physical contact.  The caretakers always have a child in their arms and one of them is happy to see me with Junior.  We smile at each other.  Somehow I’m making a small difference in this moment.

I’ve heard a lot about Lakou and Lakay from Tim and Sarah.  We are going to see the street boys in Port Au Prince.  I’m not sure what to expect. This is a running theme for me.  UNICEF is driving us this day and they pick us up from our hotel.  We drive through a busy arterial road covered in garbage, vendors and people.  Our driver tells us that we are going past the market that was once the site for the slave trades.  We pull into Lakou through a metal door, and kids surround our truck.  Finally!  I see the first basketball hoop since we’ve been in Haiti.  I run and interrupt their game and start to dribble and shoot.  We already understand each other.  The boys playing ball swarm me as I dribble.  I love this and so do they!

Eventually, I have to get my clown gear together.  We teach workshops first.  I’m teaching juggling with 3 sets of balls and 3 sets of clubs.  I hope that I have enough.  The boys are in groups of 3 so Sarah, Tim and I take on a group at a time.  I soon discover that even though there are enough juggling props for everyone, that they all want what the other has.  I end up breaking up 5 fights during 1 hour of workshops.  I break them up physically and then redirect the kids with an activity each time. It seems to work.  It also seems like fighting is the norm here.  Even though it feels like a rough workshop, I think that they are connecting with me.

The boys have large scars on their faces and body, one of them is mute, and one of them has had a serious eye injury.  I wonder how many of them have been victims and instigators of violence and abuse.  Most of them do not have shoes or clothes that fit them and it’s hard to say when they last bathed.  I wonder where they sleep at night and if they have enough to eat.  It seems though that their mentors are strong positive people and that they are helping these boys get on track as much as they can.  They love them the best way they can.

We end up doing our show for a large group that also includes young men and women.  Most of the young men and women take vocational classes at this site.  Now, during the show the blacktop was so hot that when I lay on top of it, it burnt the backs of my bare arms and legs.  I was thinking, “This is so hot, why can’t Tim and Sarah do this doctor bit faster.”  Soon it is over and sun is beating down.  How do the kids stay hydrated all day?   The show goes well and at the end of it, I find myself surrounded by a group of boys.  We joke around by making faces.  They try to talk to me in Creole and I try to understand, but don’t.  So we make more faces and do secret handshakes and play copycat games.  One little boy is sticking close by.  I start to base the kids for thigh stands.  One right after the other they jump up onto my legs and we hang onto each other, hands to wrists.

The little boy that has stayed close takes his turn.  His feet are bare, callused and burning hot against my legs.  He’s been standing on the blacktop like this all day.  He does this every day.  His shirt and shorts are too big for him and are dirty and falling apart.  He smiles at me and he jumps down.  Another goes, and then he jumps back up again.  We laugh.  He comes down and I stand up and look the other direction.  Suddenly, I feel arms grab around my waist. I look down and there he is staring up at me, eyes wide.  I hug him back and look into his eyes.  I rub his back and hold back my tears.  I don’t want him to see me cry.  I don’t want him to think that I feel sorry for him.  I just want to love and embrace him in this moment.

Minutes pass and we let each other go. He holds my hand and I walk towards the truck.  Dianna is taking pictures.  Another fight.  I break it up.  Group pictures. Hugging.  Smiling.  Patting. Laughing.  We load the truck.  I sit down and take a deep breath.

Friday, August 14, 2009, Cap-Haitien: Tim’s Journal
It is 2:30 am. The shrill cry of a rooster echoes from blocks away, then another and another. A call and response of rooster shrieks fills the neighborhood and finally the rooster in our backyard lets our sound that resembles a child waking from a terrible nightmare more than a bird. I awake to see that the moon has come out from behind a thick cloud cover—maybe the roosters think it is sunrise? The moon lights up the night sky of Cap Haitien, the second largest city in Haiti, and makes the rooftop upon which we are trying to sleep glow an eerie grey hue.

We are sleeping at Sonje Ayiti (Remember Haiti), a non-profit that facilitates a goat micro-loan program and various other feeding programs for Haitien families. Our hosts Jose and Gabrielle have opened their home and office to us. Their roof is our bedroom and rehearsal space, the six of us share one bathroom with bucket plumbing, and we have a mini-school bus that Sonje Ayiti has made the clown car for the week.

Sun rises between 4:30 and 5:00am and we are up by 6:00am. The bright sun coupled with heat in the mid to high 80’s this early augured well for a hot day. Our day of performances begins around 9:45 when we head out in the bus to a nearby school. The show opens with me getting my foot stuck in a metal bucket and the schoolchildren in the audience shake the walls with laughter and cheers. They devour the pratfalls and Suzanne’s rubber chicken.

After we finish the show we are invited to sit in the audience and watch an interpretive dance depicting the history of Haiti. The 10 students performing all wear costumes pertaining to a different time period of Haiti’s history. The piece ends with a girl dressed in the colors and design of the Haitian flag entering the stage and falling ill. Another girl with stethoscope and medical bag enters flanked by a student dressed as a traditional healer. Together, modern and traditional medicine ‘cure’ Haiti and help the flag rise again.

Our hosts invite us to perform our show a second time because some children came late; unfortunately we are behind schedule for our next performance so we opt to do the introduction and chiarivairi, improvise a little change of status and then run off stage as the audience howls in laughter. We jump back on the bus and rush to meet a group of UN soldiers who have offered to take us to a rural orphanage. Because we’re late we decide to meet them at the orphanage. The problem is no one really knows exactly how to get there.

After an hour of searching in the region where we think the orphanage is and after asking many people on the road, an elderly woman volunteers to jump on the bus with us and show us where she thinks the orphanage is. We continue onwards until we try to maneuver past a hole in the road half the length of the bus and no idea how deep….BAM! We smash the rear bumper on the edge of the whole and compress the tailpipe.

We pull over and a crowd follows. Children are calling out “Blan! Blan!” While our hosts seek out tools from community members to fix the exhaust pipe, Sarah and I jump off the bus in full clown regalia and start an improvised show of bubbles and juggling. 3 generations of community members are watching and cheering us on.

Before we know it the bus is fixed and we go to climb on board. An older gentleman from a nearby house front calls out to me and asks “Ou Pedi?” (Are you lost?) and I tell him we are. He then asks if I am an Olympic athlete from Mexico. I tell him that I’m not, I’m just a clown from the US working with a group called Clowns without Borders. I tell him I wish I was an Olympic athlete and he says to me “With clothes like that, I think you could be!”

Monday, August 17, 2009, Port Au Prince: Sarah’s Journal
Our first day of shows in Port-au-Prince! Haiti wakes up early and so do we, between 5 and 6:30am, to the sounds of traffic, shouting, roosters, music … Tim and Suzanne and I put on our costumes, string red noses around our necks, and bring the trunk, stilts, trombone and umbrella downstairs to the driveway. Maude from UNICEF drives up at 8:30am. We load ourselves and our gear into the cab and back of the pickup, and head out for a day of shows and workshops at Lakou and Lakay, two centers for street youth in Port-au-Prince.

Lakou is a drop-in center and vocational school for kids and young adults who have chosen to leave bad situations at home to fend for themselves on the streets. The younger ones, a group of about 30 boys ages 8-14 or so, are assembling in a large sunny courtyard when we arrive. By the time we unload our gear, meet the administration, and start our morning of workshops, we have about 50 students. They are a little shy and hang back a bit as we begin with some breathing, and warm-up movement. They have pretty clearly never been asked before to do things like “make a big shape with your body as you say your name.” Tim and I have never tried to say such a thing in French or Haitian creole, either. But we do our best, and so do they. Many of them strike tough karate stances as they say their names. The adults in the circle chime in enthusiastically as well. After each name, the whole group repeats the name and movement back to them.

After warm-up we break into three groups: Suzanne teaches juggling in one corner, I work with another group on acrobatic balancing, and Tim does physical comedy workshops. As the groups rotate through, the boys are relaxing and playing more. They are proud of the simple weight-sharing leans and pulls we try in pairs, and then climb fearlessly into pyramid shapes with each other, despite the hard cement ground under their knees. Over in Suzanne’s corner I see juggling balls and clubs flying. Every so often we all look up as Tim’s group sends up a wave of laughter.

At 10:45 the older kids have a break from vocational classes, and come to join us for a show. The two sides of the courtyard with a canopy and shade become the audience area and fills with about 200 kids and youth. We play our show in the sun of the courtyard.

This audience is comprised of tough kids who have survived and fought their way through a lot already in their short lives. This seems to be reflected in their reactions: during the show the laughter comes in shrieks and ragged bursts. There are a couple of kids who have trouble staying in one place to watch the show. Each time one of them starts walking over to the other side of the audience Tim chases them across the stage, prompting roars of laughter.

After the show we stay to play informally with the younger boys who crowd around us. It is interesting to see how they interact when not immediately engaged in something like a show or workshop. They are small and ragged and fierce. In the context of an acrobalance workshop this translated into bravery to try new moves and balance on each other. In a less structured setting they are quick to push each other and fight. Little skirmishes erupt at intervals around the courtyard, smoothed over by the Lakou staff. At the same time, we see these boys looking for love and connection. They crowd around us to mimic our movements, try thigh stands, and play hand-slap games. A boy comes up to me and tells me he is sick. He picks up my hand and puts it to his neck so I can feel how hot it is. His eyes are watery and glazed. I stand next to him for a while, leaning against a wall, watching the other kids play. I start doing little silly things with my hands until he smiles. A small boy throws his arms around Suzanne. She hugs him for a long time until he lets go.

Friday, August 21, 2009, Martissant: Sarah’s Journal
To get to our first show of the day, we are to parade for half an hour up an enormous hill. When we climb out of the car and into the heat of the sun at the bottom of the hill, a group of kids starts to form around us. I look at them, look away, and quickly look back again with wide eyes. They smile. I do it again and they laugh. I walk with a funny walk around to the back of the car and the women across the street laugh. They watch me put together my trombone, piece by piece. Tim hangs his battered bucket drum around his neck. Suzanne has the bubble bear. The rest of our gear goes up ahead us of in the car. We are off!

Martissant is one of the most dangerous areas of Port-au-Prince, rated by the UN as a “red zone” because of the lack of control their peace-keeping troops have here. It is also one of the poorest areas of the city, incredibly densely populated. Houses made of cement blocks, tarps and rusty tin are stacked up and up the hill as high as we can see. The high levels of poverty and violence here make it feel more important than ever that we do a fantastic show today: mainly because the kids here deserve a bang-up, hands-down hilarious show. Also because, although we do not feel in immediate danger, and trust the NGO that brought us here, making people laugh keeps potential violence at bay.

Kids pile around us as we parade up the hill. They pop out of doorways and join the crowd. People here rely on kids to do work and carry water, and I worry a bit that adults will be angry that we’re pied piper-ing their helpers away from their houses, but when we greet adults along the way they usually smile. Some women dance to the music as we go by. When I dance they laugh. It seems important to look people in the eye and greet them as we go by, so that they feel a personal connection beyond just seeing a ragtag troop of weird sweaty white people parading past. I alternate between playing the trombone, greeting people, dancing, singing, and catching my breath. We are climbing the hot hill in a tide of kids now. They attach themselves, holding onto my elbows and the sides and back of my skirt. I feel like I am half pulling a pile of kids up a giant hill, half being supported up the hill by them.

“Ou bouke?” says the girl who has attached herself to my right elbow. I just learned this creole word yesterday. One of the most common graffiti phrases on the walls of Port-au-Prince is “NOU BOUKE”. It means “we are exhausted,” or “we are fed up.” When the words are spray-painted on walls it means that Haitian people are fed up with the way things are, with their ineffective government, with the lack of food and water and infrastructure. When this girl says “ou bouke?” she is asking me if I am tired from the climb. “Mwen bouke!” I say, wiping the sweat from my face and pretending to lean on a little boy’s head for support. Then I take a deep breath and look around. “No, m’pa bouke” (I am not tired), I say. “Nou bouke?” (are you all tired?) “No!” they say. “Nou pa bouke!’ (we are not tired!) I say. “Nou pa bouke!” they reply. We keep climbing. I start a new trombone riff to the beat of Tim’s bucket drum.

More and more kids join in as we climb our way up. “Bon jou,” I greet them. “Bon jou!” they reply to the beat of Tim’s drum. Again, in rhythm, “bon jou!” I say, and “bon jou” they reply.

“Bon swa!” I say, which is the greeting for the afternoon and evening, and the wrong one to say for the morning.

“Bon swa!”

“No, bon jou!” I shout.

“Bon swa!” they say.

“Bon swa?”

“Bon jou!”

“Cuckoo!”

“Cuckoo!”

“Whoohoo!”

“Whoohoo!”

We continue this absurd call and response chant for a while, then more music and more dancing, all the while climbing. One of brightest rays of hope that I see in this country where so much is wrong is the way that people are so ready to laugh and to play. So, so often the joy is there, right under the surface. The smallest hint of a game becomes a massive game. Three clowns and a bucket and bubbles and a trombone becomes a parade. Women dance in the street.

Maybe a lot of people in Haiti are bouke a lot of the time. But right now we are on our way up a hill to a show, and despite all odds we are not bouke at all.

Friday, August 21, 2009, Port au Prince: Tim’s Journal
Yesterday we had two raucous performances in Cite Soleil, a slum roughly 9 square miles, at the wharf of Port au Prince. Until a couple of years ago, the UN would not even go into this area controlled by various gangs and block lords. Cite is now rated as an ‘orange zone’ a step up from ‘red zone’ status, the worst possible status.

Today, we went into a ‘red zone’ called Martissant. Again we partnered with AVSI, an Italian NGO aimed at improving the psychosocial well being of children in slums by advocating against child trafficking, child slavery and for play and letting a child be a child. Martissant holds over 100,000 people living in its crowded perimeters. Gang leaders run the various parts of town and have recently killed the acting police chief for the area to remind all who are in charge.

In town there are two water pumps–two. Two pumps for over 100,000 people.

When we got into the region we saw children playing all around the streets. In their hands were no toys, but water jugs. Each child had a water jug proportionate to his/her size and it was clear that these children own the responsibility of providing water for themselves and their families. A trek to the public wells is no simple task. We hardly encountered any level ground in all of Martissant—the community is nothing but steep hills dropping to sea level.

The AVSI volunteers dropped us off near one of the public wells and their child friendly playing space. This is a small building with three rooms. One is the size of a two-car garage and is used for arts, crafts, performance and play by the children. Another room is a small office for a child psychologist and another room is a tiny administrative office. This place is open to children at any time and there they are encouraged to play, create and be children.

We met about 50 children at this office and were pointed up to where the show would be. Imagine Lombard Street in San Francisco, but straight up. Bucket drum around my shoulders, Sarah with her trombone and Suzanne on child/bubble patrol, we embarked upwards. We created a parade and played music for 30 minutes as we climbed through the streets, up alleyways through narrow corridors that opened up to a busy truck route. We marched like the Pied Piper drawing children from rooftops and hidden corridors. Along the way we passed families who came out to see the commotion and began to dance. It was about 105 F, we were gushing with sweat. By the time we reached the pinnacle, a UN barracks with a basketball court run by members of the Sri Lanka military; we had a crowd of almost 200 anxiously anticipating a show.

At the top of the climb there was precious little space to get away from the children while we prepared for the show, so we did our best and gently asked the kids to wait 5 minutes over at the UN’s basketball court and we would soon arrive. This idea failed, so we prepared our show with kids gazing on and then led a chaotic procession to the center of the basketball court. My arms were shaking during the first acro bit, perhaps from fatigue from the march or maybe just excitement. We had a great show; the kids loved it, but truly felt like we were running on fumes.

Fortunate for us, there was a drivable road back down to the site where we began and so we had a little break in our car driving down the steep slopes of Martissant. On our way we came upon a broken down truck blocking the one lane dirt road. An impromptu bubble show followed as Sarah and I played with a local family who looked at us as if we were crazy blans. I guess we might be.

Lunch and then prep for our second show. We drove about 3 minutes to a market and were dropped off. Another hike ensued and this time up a ravine formed by sewage and run off. Dodging goats, pigs, children and human waste, we paraded our way up the slippery slope to a dirt quarry in which we had a mud-caked clown extravaganza. Another 200 people showed up, some standing 20 feet above us looking down and laughing. All ages were here looking on.

Despite falling from a rock wall and nearly clocking our camera person with a chunk of stone, I think the show went really well. We finished and Sarah and I decided we had to parade back, no questions, no options—the show needed it. We began our dirt stained, sweat soaked march down the sludge and sewage road. This time we had children clinging onto our costumes, some pulling some pushing.

At one point on the march I looked to my left down a small corridor between two concrete shacks. It was barely the width of two people standing shoulder to shoulder; in it stood a small child, perhaps three years old. He had sunken eyes and a distended belly. His only clothing was what looked like rags tied up with a piece of string. As we passed, he and I made eye contact and I stopped for a minute to play a little beat for him. At first he took a step toward the parade and me as if to join all of the other children playing in the street, but then he hesitated. In the same manner, it looked as if he started to smile but again withdrew his attempt. It was like an invisible force was preventing this child from coming out of the shadows to play with us. For some reason he felt he was not able to be a part of the fun.

The parade had begun to push me forward and I had to move, but for the rest of the procession I was haunted by the image of this malnourished boy.

We try our best to bring shows to remote and urban areas in efforts to reach as many children and their families as possible. This boy in the corridor was a reminder to me though that there are still so many children in the shadows who also deserve to play, to be children. But for whatever reason, be it poverty, be it child slavery or abuse, be it sickness, be it gang warfare, they cannot come out and play.

This hot and dirty day was the most exhausting of the trip yet and by far the most fun. The memory of this child is fuel to encourage me and my fellow clowns to continue our work and strive to allow children be children.

Please consider making a donation to support this and future Haiti projects. We greatly appreciate your support.

We will be updating this page with journal entries from Haiti. When we return we would be happy to come and speak and share photo and video documentation to your school, office or even family and friends about our work in Haiti. Please contact Dianna if you are interested in scheduling a presentation for this fall.

Photos from the first week in Cap Haitien

12►