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Articles and Essays by Donato (Danny) Pietrodangelo

HAITI : CHINA :  DOGS : MY FRIEND BOB : HAITI : YOU CAN'T REBUILD 58 YEARS : THE 60s :

THE SHELTER : THE VICTORIA'S SECRET SPECIAL : CANAL : OTHER (PDF)

Haiti Donato "Danny" Pietrodangelo • My View • January 24, 2010  

Haiti is an enigma — at once beautiful and horrid, an island where daily life is a perplexing tangle of struggle, irony and contradictions.

When search-and-rescue ends, the dead are buried and the rubble moved, the real challenge of helping Haiti rebuild itself will begin. Nature's cruel and indiscriminate destruction may have brought with it a pivotal opportunity for the world to help Haiti fix what was wrong well before the disaster: a complete lack of infrastructure.

For generations, and despite billions in international aid, Haitians have struggled to survive an brutal daily existence, exacerbated by impassable roads, washed-out bridges, few hospitals, little clean drinking water and only scattered dependable electricity.

To envision a future for the country, you have to understand the pre-earthquake past.

Haiti is a land so squalid and disease-ridden that the average man barely lives to be 60 and lives on as little as a dollar a day — unless he dies of tuberculosis. Like the most Haitians, he probably doesn't have a job, medicine, running water or electricity and can't read or write.

In one word, Haiti is people — hundreds and hundreds of thousands. An incalculable mass of humanity lives in a Port-au-Prince ghetto, crisscrossed with slime-filled trenches, dirt paths, gagging smells and row upon row of shacks made of tin patches, scrapes of wood and paper. Ironically, it's called Cite Soleil though it's one of the most dangerous ghettos in the world. (Even more bizarre, "Baby Doc" Duvalier had it called Cite Simone, after his wife.)

A world away, but really just a few miles, the upscale suburb of Petionville looks down on the capital. Here businessmen, government officials and diplomats live in $300,000 homes and enjoy fine restaurants, hotels and golf courses. Here a topless French tourist sits by a sparkling swimming pool and later showers in fresh water for lack of which children elsewhere are literally dying.

Not far away, gossiping, laughing young women beat clothes on river rocks, doing laundry as they have for centuries — in a rural stream in one of the country's few patches of forest. (Most of the country is deforested, barren rock, the trees having been cut down to feed cooking fires.)  

Haiti is a land of children — they make up 40 percent of the population. Like anywhere, they giggle and clown, they pester and charm, in the decrepit slums they call home. And they are the lucky ones. In a country where dengue, malaria and diphtheria — diseases mostly unknown in the U.S. — are endemic, about one in 20 Haitian infants die at birth, one in five children is severely malnourished and most have intestinal parasites.

From the beginning, turmoil and bloodshed found a home in Haiti. And it all began when white Europeans claimed an island nobody had lost, populated it with kidnapped black Africans, gave them Christianity, then fought to keep their island and slaves from a changing cast of other white Europeans

The indigenous Taino and Arawak people were eradicated in late 1400s by Europeans diseases and Spanish swords. What followed was a 500-year political legacy of murder, treachery, persecution and terror. In the early 1800s, a slave revolt against French colonialists spawned the Republic of Haiti — the Western Hemisphere's first independent black nation. Unfortunately, over the next two centuries, self-serving politics and wretched social conditions put the island nation on a spiral into hell, as the country was victimized by foreign occupations, brutal father-and-son dictators, military coups, extreme government corruption and growing gang violence.

Now there's the earthquake.

Haiti is at once depressing, enchanting, angering and harmonious. Amid the endless flood of humanity, the depths of poverty and political corruption, the country possesses an inherent beauty. Outside the urban chaos, you'll find a people of dignity, quiet resolve and spirit; a diverse culture of strong beliefs; and a society of vibrant, effusive color. Early 20th century Haitian art, coveted by public and private collectors, is both stunning and distinctive.

 It is a land with a deep and steadfast spirituality built on an intertwining of missionary imports and the vestiges of African heritage. On a crowded hilly road, women in pristine whites and gentle pastels walk in the sweltering heat with men in dark coats and ties, to attend Mass. They're coming from the same hills where, at night, you might hear ceremonial drums in the distance. The people of Haiti are not to be pitied. They are to be wondered.

Since 1990, Haiti has received more than $1.5 billion in aid just from the U.S. and billions more from other public and private sources. Too often aid came — like the still crated X-ray machines in a university hospital — without instructions or instructors. Fostering development carries the risk of fostering dependence. Every year, hundreds of missions bring thousands of foreigners to Haiti to help. Though well-intended and a "feel good" experience for the visitors, too many of the pilgrimages end up giving away fish, when they should have been passing out poles and giving fishing lessons.

Which brings us back to the future.

For decades, Haiti has teetered on the edge of becoming a failed state. Well before the earthquake, abysmal or nonexistent infrastructure, along with an international blind eye to corruption, has allowed aid to be squandered and stolen. That needs to and can change. It's now more imperative — and possible — than ever.

In the aftermath of this horrific catastrophe, concurrent with humanitarian relief efforts, the world's governments, organizations and people have a chance to do it right. We need to provide relief and hope to the people of Haiti, but most of all guidance, tools and training, while fostering the empowerment Haitians need to rebuild their nation.

For those of us raised in the 1950s, '60s and '70s, China had always been, first, a mystical  abstraction: Confucian temples, incense, chanting monks and big-bellied Buddhas.  And, second, a confluence of stereotypes: Charlie Chan, Kung Fu masters, pasty -faced women with big hair and small feet, suicidal infantry in the snows of Korea, Mao and a sea of red book -waving followers bent on nuclear Armageddon, tanks in Tiananmen Square, lead-laden toys and the people who make nearly everything sold at Wal-Mart.

I've been as guilty as anyone.

Which makes you wonder, over the years, have the Chinese seen us as an amalgamation of  Southern Baptist revivals, Jerry Lewis, Ali versus Foreman, Britney, Gettysburg, the Silent Majority, Kent State and the people who will buy just about anything at Wal-Mart?

Will that all change with the Olympics? No doubt, some. But let's keep in mind that, aside from the games, Olympic festivities are an extravagantly staged halftime show; a spectacular break, an entertaining diversion from what went on before the show and what happens after it ends. And, as with any performance, what you see or don't see is up to the sponsors.

Just back from nearly three weeks in rural China, I realize that what we don't know — beyond smogged-in Beijing — about a place several millennia old, home to one out of every five earthlings and the emerging epicenter of the planet's economy, is embarrassing and more than a little dangerous.

We traveled by plane, boat, train, minivan and oxcart through the Southwest provinces of Guangxi and Yunnan, which are predominantly rural, relatively poor and more than 1,200 miles from the Olympic frenzy.

The 13th -century Mongol invasion, Genghis and Kublai Khan, Marco Polo, the silk trade, the horrors at the hands of Mao's Red Guard, the brutality of the Japanese occupation, and the heroics of U.S. pilots of the Flying Tigers squadron are all colorful threads in the tapestry of this region's past.

In these provinces, we were able to experience two very different sides of China: the velocity of tumultuous mega cities such as Kunming (population 7.5 million) and the country’s remote, rural roots -- villages and hamlets, tucked into tropical forested valleys , cloud shrouded mountains or overlooking miles of terraced, rice fields. Frequently, we were the only Westerners in town.

Most importantly, we caught a glimpse into the impending collision of history, culture, class and economics threatening China. Through a small window, we witnessed the odd and ironic convergence of East and West, and the uneasy balance of creeping capitalism under Communist governance.

China has gone from zero to 60 faster than a Lamborghini.

Take development. As you enter even medium -size cities, the view is mind-boggling. Under construction superstructures in clusters of three, four or five piercing the skies. These aren’t affordable housing for farmers turned factory workers. They’re 20- to 30 -story condos, office buildings, five -star hotels and apartments, compliments of foreign investment — $70 billion last year — and ready for the investors and their entourages already arriving. Some of the units are expected to rent for $2,000 per month. That's about six months' take-home pay for a Chinese middle manager, or half the price of a new car. 

But there doesn't appear to be a master plan for this spiraling urban expansion: A 12^th -century temple sits in the shadow of a new skyscraper; the view from a luxury hotel's 15^th floor is laundry drying on the roof of crumbling, concrete -block apartments.

An interesting and ironic convergence of China’s old and new: scaffolding surrounding the multi-story construction projects is made – not from steel – but from large, lashed bamboo poles.

Newfound prosperity over the past 10 years has spawned a unprecedented middle class. Earning as much as $10,000 per year, as opposed to the average per -capita income of about $2,000 a year, they have disposable income, a healthy habit for consumer goods and an anxious need to keep up with their neighbors.

The result is disorienting — the best and worst of the West in Chinese.

Backpack -carrying teens in acid jeans and T-shirts shop for stylish shoes, fashionable clothes, jewelry and rhinestone -covered cell phones. Girls giggle and gossip over lunch – bowls of noodles -- not burgers, while boys check them out; young moms survey what’s available in kids wear, while young families ponder which model washing machine to buy.

Like Saturday in any mall in America. Between open front stores, there are stalls enjoying brisk business, selling pork shish kabobs, fried chicken feet and baskets of exotic fruits and vegetables. Old, blind women tell fortunes on the sidewalk, while behind them, hungry shoppers can choose from bowls of rice or noodles, small fish-on-a-stick and lots of things I didn’t recognize A few blocks over, an amused and friendly salesman invites us to sample his fare — a table spread with ready-to -eat pig snouts, duck heads, snakes and lizards.

At night, the action continues in garish pall of an endless row of neon signs.

A piece of China few Olympic visitors will see is the rural countryside. While I hate cliches, breathtaking doesn't do it justice.

Take the Li River. It winds through towering, forested, limestone mountains that the Chinese liken to dragon's teeth. Rising from the river's edge — sometimes reaching up through a soft halo of clouds — these towering, cylindrical formations are extraordinary wonders of nature. Stretching far into the horizon, no two peaks are the same.

Farther west, the rural center of Yunnan province is a region frozen in time. In a village called Yuanyang, the women are known for their intricately embroidered, vests, wraps, tunics and hats. The stitch work is intertwined in rainbows of color. These are everyday outfits worn by young girls walking unabashedly with friends dressed T's and jeans. Merchandising has made its inroads here as well. Shops with stylish clothes and sportswear sharing ancient cobblestone roads with butcher stalls and food vendors.

Again, breathtaking is insufficient to describe the rice fields of Yuanyang. Terraces are carved into the slopes of hills, creating cascading rows of brilliant green ribbons. The terraces themselves are subdivided -- with low rock walls and small patches of other crops – which create curved parcels of growing rice, individually laid out to fit the unique shape of a particular terrace. The stepping stone-like ridges, are tended as they have been for centuries – by hand, with cycles and water buffalo drawn plows.

Viewed from above, there's peaceful symmetry to the scene, a design that seems uniquely Chinese, in which farmers shape their crops to the land, rather than the land to their crops.

Sad to say, it's a way of life that's quickly vanishing — and the loss poses multiple problems for the Chinese government.

While Mao envisioned a classless society, capitalism doesn't. Rural regions enjoy very little of China's new prosperity. While urbanites earn an average $2,500 per year, rural residents make less than half that, and six out of 10 make less than $600 per year. These oppressively low wages cover little more than subsistence. For instance, more than nine out of 10 urbanites own both refrigerators and washing machines; in rural areas its three out of 10.

The disparity is causing discontent — sometimes violent — and an exodus from farms to the city with hope for a factory job and dreams of better life.

According to the government, every year, about 12 million farmers or their off-spring move to the city. With 9 million city dwellers currently without jobs, and the unemployment rate at 10 percent and climbing, there are more and more shattered dreams. Another problem for China is that, according to some estimates, dwindling farm life meant rice production was lower in 2005 than it was in the year 2000. Since then, the decrease may have accelerated.

One of the most rewarding aspects of this eye-opening journey was the people of China. Everywhere we went, without exception, people were gracious, friendly, inviting and frequently curious. Kids looked at us in wonder, as if we were extra terrestrials; moms smiled proudly and encouraged us to take pictures of their beautiful babies. We helped college students practice their English on the train, and new friends helped me hail a village taxi — OK, an oxcart — after making me join them in way too many toasts with very potent Chinese rice wine.

As the self -appointed local U.S. Ambassador of goodwill from Tallahassee, how could  I refuse?

Donato – Danny – Pietrodangelo is a photographer, freelance writer and longtime resident of Tallahassee. He made this journey with his good friend Jim Kemp an Asian Studies scholar who speaks fluent Mandarin, Jim’s friend, Larry Crider, and John Kish, his best friend since first grade.

Dogs

It’s pretty clear they own him – and it stinks like a week old litter box. I’m talking about Democrat feature writer Mark Hinson and the feline lobby. He shamelessly promotes cats in his weekly column, slyly trying to endear us to these creepy creatures. I’m calling you out Mark. What’s the deal? Those lobbyists feeding your catnip problem? Giving you free tickets to the Pussy Cat Dolls concert? We’re onto you, you otherwise talented furball.

Every dog has its day my friend and that day’s today. It’s all about fair play.

You see, dogs know all about play.  Cats? Not likely. Ever hear someone say “I’m going outside to play with the cat?”

Unlike cats, dogs are really versatile: You’ve got your house dogs and your yard dogs; huntin’ dogs and sock-gatherer dogs; Lap dogs and bed-hoggers; little dogs that ride in Paris and Brittany’s purses (probably cats in disguise) and real dogs like the soldier dogs serving in Iraq or K-9 dogs protecting us here at home and the beagles who work in the Miami airport bravely sniffing out contraband fruit and vegetables for our safety.  

For me, dogs are an adult acquired habit; my wife, a former psychiatric nurse, says I suffer from dog deprived childhood syndrome. Like so many other victims, it’s not my fault. You see, as a child  my father was a mailman  – back when they rode those slow, one-gear, one ton bikes. Pure dog bait.  I had to settle for Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin.  For the longest time I thought dogs only came in black and white.

Let’s go back to the matter of play. Now living with three labs, I’ve learned, to a dog, everything’s a toy and, when they’re home alone – its playtime. Imagine the fun of unstuffing the couch; the challenge of gnawing the leg off a dining room or turning that tiny, upturned corner of wall paper in to a naked kitchen wall. Dogs  enjoy equal opportunity fun:  the new Cole-Haans just as engaging as your old Nikes.  And you know she’s been having a heck of a good time when she greets you at the door -  dripping with syrup and covered in flower - after a fun filled afternoon pantry raid. Get that kind of entertainment Felis catus. No way. Dogs really know how to have fun.

Now talk about self assurance. What says social graces be damned more than a creature lying spread eagle on his back, a drooling tongue hanging out of his mouth, paws peddling the air, chasing a cat – or maybe my father -- in doggy dreamland.

You’ve got to admire a dog’s agility and determination. Just the other day I was playing catch with our yellow lab Zoey. Tennis ball in mouth, happily scampering back, she deftly scoops up another ball -- barely breaking her stride - than skids to a dead stop. Intensely, she turns her head from side to side, studing yet a third tennis ball hidden under a bush. Every lab owner (and I use the term “owner “loosely) knows what she’s thinking: “Sure my mouth is bulging with balls. But I can do this. It’s just one more. No big deal. No problem.”    

But not all dogs are destructive – or exceptionally agile. Take Buddy, the dog formerly known as Prince (his name until we liberated him from big dog rescue.) At two, Buddy’s a sweet, loveable 80 lb black lab who’s well, not exactly a candidate for Mensa. He must have missed ball-catching day at lab school, “Buddy, it’s not supposed to bounce off your head. You’re supposed to catch the ball.” But offer him a treat and he’ll recite multiplication tables.   And, puppy that he is, when it thunders, this big palooka slinks up to the top of the bed so he can wrap his lanky body around the safety of your head.

Growing up dogless has its benefits. I was spared the terrible sadness of knowing I’d outlive my friend. Sally, our third lab and the sweetest dog ever born is 14.  She can no longer jump on the bed, which she accepts with dignity – while it tears at my heart.

I absolutely hate the expression “putting a dog down.” You put down a coffee cup or a newspaper, not a friend who’s given so much. “Putting your dog to sleep” might be a naïve expression, but it slightly lessens the awful pain of leaving the vets office, after you stood there, rubbing her head, as I did for our yellow lab Abby, as she sweetly drifted away.  Yes, being there at the end breaks your heart, but at the very least she deserves it and together you find closure, knowing  you’re a better person for having had her in your live.

Besides, all dogs go to heaven and before long, when you’re ready, another little ball of fur will come scampering into your life.

Because as a dog lover knows: there’s nothing softer than a dog’s ear, colder than a canine nose, toaster than a fur bearing foot warmer or wetter than a, “I’m up, you need get up so we can play,” lick . A cat?  I don’t think so.

My Friend Bob

(Is depressed)

I have a friend - let’s just call him Bob - who’s depressed.

Now, I’m not talking about the I’m so bummed and blue, my dog ran off with my pick-up, my wife and my best friend kind of funk. .

No, Bob’s got the real deal – bipolar disorder they call it, aka manic-depression. So, even if his dog brings back the truck and his wife, and he gets a new best friend, the funk doesn’t magically flee. Bob’s still depressed. Some of the time.  But not always.

And that’s the rub. Because what really drives Bob crazy (well, more than he already is) is how the media makes it all sound so simple.

First, the news media. Every year on national depression day there’s another inspiring celebrity depression confessional. It's a moving article about how a celeb “came down” with depression, but after a courageous battle, as well as perseverance and treatment, gets cured – and a new TV sit-com. It’s a nice story, but hardly the full story: the celeb has a health insurance policy with a two cent deductible and full coverage for a 30 day stay at a “wellness” spa. You too can get better provided your insurance covers mental health services – if you have insurance at all.

Then we have the ads, “Do you wake up in the morning and want to get under the bed instead of out of it? When you look at your apartment’s dirty windows do you think about jumping through one rather than cleaning it, then rule it out since you live on the first floor? You may be depressed.” (Ya think?) “Ask your doctor about Feelgoodaril.” Pretty soon you’ll be dancing in a field of butterflies and singing to the critters like Sleeping Beauty in the forest.

Sounds good to me. While I’m there I’ll ask the doc for some Singular and Cialis too. Then, I’ll be happy, with clear sinuses, and ready to score.

Ahh, were it that simple.

So, depressed Bob asked me to fill in some what’s left out of the celebrity success stories and the advertised pharmaceutical miracles (and, remind you he is neither a physician nor a mental health professional).

First and foremost, you can’t cure depression. You can only treat it -- more specifically, you can treat the symptoms. No one really knows what causes depression, other than speculating  that the chemistry set in your brain has something mixed-up or missing.

Medicine typically works – or not. And no one really knows why. Sometimes, it makes the darkness go away in a couple of weeks.

But if the first drug doesn’t work, you might be prescribed another – and sometimes the second doesn't work. Or the third. Be prepared for some potentially rough times. Trying to find a solution can be frustrating, exasperating and depressing in itself – and can take weeks, even months.

Most importantly, when you start felling better, don’t stop taking your medicine because you feel better. Duh. You think it might be the medicine?

No avoiding this one: the effective drug may have side effects. You might have to choose between the lesser of two evils. Is feeling better (“normal”) worth gaining a little weight? Or, when you’re sitting in your bathtub, watching the sunset, it might not be a matter of the right time. It might be more like when it is the right time will I be up for it? (ALT: It might be more like when is the right time, can I make it the right.)

If you have symptoms of depression, see a specialist. Yes, your family doctor has some training in treating depression, but if you break a bone, you go to an orthopedic surgeon. So if your psyche needs tweaking, see a psychiatrist.

You have to be comfortable and confident with your shrink; if not find another. Just be sure you’re not shopping for easier solutions.

Drugs alone may not work. Bob recommends therapy as well. Counseling can help you work through things getting in the way of treatment – things you’ve done, haven't done, or had done to you.

Exercise is a must. Yes, if you’re depressed, who wants to go to the gym?  Make yourself. You’ll feel better. 

There are other treatments – some seemingly a bit bizarre but promising: massive amounts of fish oil, a supplement called Sam-e, Folic acid, Vitamin B Complex, light therapy and more.

And finally Bob wants to remind you: Hang in there. Don’t give up. No one said finding a treatment that works is easy. Just ask someone with cancer.

Haiti

It’s a land so squalid and disease-ridden that the average Haitian barely lives to be 50. Yet, he conveys a sense of complacent dignity in the garbage-filled Port-au-Prince slum he calls home.

It is a country having little serious crime, but a 500-year history of death, treachery and terror. It is the site of an early 1800s slave revolt that spawned this hemisphere’s  first independent black republic -- later followed by yearly presidential assassinations, foreign occupations, brutal dictators, military coups, foreign interventions, corruption and fixed elections.

It is a topless French tourist in a resort swimming pool – who later showers in water unfit to drink – and laughing young women beating clothes on river rocks, as they do their laundry in a rural stream.

It is people, thousands and thousands of them, living in one square mile of Port-au-Prince, covered with slime filled trenches, dirt paths, gagging smells and row upon row of shacks made of tin patches, scrapes of wood and paper, lined up side-by-side like booths in a decrepit carnival.

It is a land with a deep and steadfast spirituality built on an intertwining of missionary imports and the vestiges of African heritage. The icons of Christianity – a crucifix, a mulatto Jesus – sharing a painting with Damballah, the loa or voodoo spirit of life and wisdom. It is a crowed road with women in pristine whites and gentle pastels, men in coats and ties in the sweltering heat, coming out of the hills to attend mass. Hills where you will hear distant ceremonial drums tonight.

It is a land of children – they giggle and clown, they pester and charm – having beat the odds, since one in six born don’t see their first birthday. And, it is a woman, proudly putting a dirty dress on a child, smoothing it for the photographer, smiling

Haiti is at once depressing, enchanting, angering and harmonious. Because, amid the endless flood of humanity, barren treeless mountains, the pains of underdevelopment and the depths of urban poverty – there is an immense beauty in Haiti.

Looking beyond the squalor, extreme poverty and sensational news stories, you find a land in the shadow of a rich and complex history,  a people of dignity, quiet resolve and spirit; a diverse culture of strong beliefs – and a society of vibrant, effusive color.

In spite of the struggle and want, the people of Haiti are not to be pitied. They are to be wondered.

(NOTE: This was written in 1983, when Jean-Claude "Baby Doc" Duvalier was in power. Having visited in the late 90s, after his exile -- and the US military intervention, nothing had really changed -- except a skyrocketing crime rate.

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