There are trips you prepare for with a packing list, and others you have been preparing for years without knowing it. This one was both.
It had been more than eight years since I last set foot in Haiti. And more than seven years that I have been working at Fondation KANPE, telling the story of how the organization’s work is transforming communities in the Plateau Central: agriculture, environmental protection, health, youth leadership, women’s empowerment, water that finally arrives close to home. Seven years writing about a country I carry inside me without being able to touch it. The upheavals Haiti has lived through, the pandemic, life moving fast: the years went by quickly, and the return kept waiting.
So when the plane began its descent toward Cap-Haïtien on August 3, I admit I held my breath. Eight years of absence evaporated the moment I stepped off the plane: the sun, the faces, the Creole, the landscapes.
The road to Papaye
The next day, four hours on the road between Cap-Haïtien and Hinche. Four hours of emotion, too, seeing again the people I spent so much time among back when I was a journalist in Haiti. Children at the roadside waving to travellers, endless mountains and, above all, the green. So much green, contrary to everything you read about Haiti.
My finest reward was waiting for me when I arrived in Papaye, where the camp was to be held: the welcome. Nothing can prepare you for it. From the moment I walked onto the site to the sound of the Baille Tourible marching band, to the thousand small kindnesses of my hosts and of everyone I spent time with during the stay, that welcome never once wavered.
On site, what strikes you first is an atmosphere. The laughter, the music drifting out of a workshop, the colours of the painting and the screen printing, the smell of meals being prepared. Here, welcoming people is not a formality: it is an art.
And then there were the young people, the 73 boys and girls who took part in the camp. Their curiosity first: “What is this camera? Can I try it? Take my picture here!” Then their energy, which carries you into a world where you no longer see challenges, but communities eager to move forward and create opportunities for themselves. We often talk about resilience; I found something better: momentum.
In the music workshop, the young people took to the guitar with disconcerting speed. And you had to hear the questions they asked during the workshops and talks, and see how comfortable they were speaking up.
Bassin Zim, the farm, and what the eyes finally understand
There was the outing to Bassin Zim: that turquoise waterfall, those caves where the Taíno carved their passage centuries ago. An out-of-this-world experience. I found it hard to believe that a site of such beauty is not teeming with tourists who have come to discover this marvel. There was the farm in Cerca-Carvajal, Dr. Foblas Joseph’s farm, where young people growing up in farming families saw, in concrete terms, that agriculture can be a future built right here.
And then there was Baille Tourible. Meeting nearly all of the local leaders was deeply rewarding. These meetings let me take the full measure of the changes that KANPE’s support has brought about over more than 15 years. They also made me understand the expectations even more: the people have the right ideas and they are ready to move up a gear. All they lack are the means to get there.
I had the chance to sit down with the committees, the women’s associations, the clinic staff, the people responsible for the model forests, the young musicians of the marching band. Leaders who come from the community, and there are more of them with each passing year: not long ago, most of Baille Tourible’s teachers came from elsewhere; today, almost the entire teaching staff is from the community itself.
And at every one of these meetings, they were there, at my side: my Haitian brothers and sisters in the field, the people who for more than 15 years have been working alongside communities to change daily life and to accompany them on the road to success and autonomy. No more Zoom calls and messaging threads. We met community members together, thought things through together, walked the mountains at first light together, ate lunch together. They were no longer remote colleagues. They were simply colleagues.
What I am bringing home
In my bags on the way back, there are full memory cards and gifts. But what I am really bringing home weighs nothing in my luggage: it is the certainty that everything we tell from Montreal is not only true, but falls short of the reality. The words “autonomy,” “dignity” and “community” now have faces, voices and landscapes for me.
KANPE means “to stand up.” I spent two weeks surrounded by people standing up, working tirelessly. This trip reminded me why I do this work from Montreal, and why these communities deserve nothing less than the moon.
Hugo Merveille
Communication Manager
The KANPE Foundation
