Haiti is a raucous country. Sounds are everywhere. It's noisy. Wild, even. Sitting on the roof of St. Joseph's, stories above the rest of town, I watch the sun come over the mountain. Haiti doesn't seem to sleep. Roosters scurry across tin roofs and women scrub clothing before beating it and laying it across wires to dry. Children are everywhere and the playgrounds exude a ferocious joy that is only palpable on a playground, as a child. The echo of churches is everywhere. Everyone is singing, going, working. Living. The act of survival. In its most basic form. Love and sex. Music and dance. Work and family. Basic needs. Raw existence. Joy. And I ask myself, far from the expensive clothes of Anthropologie, and the fine dinners at balliceaux,
Who on earth do you think you are?
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