"The trail Taylor and I walked down was rocky and uneven, begging us to watch each
step’s placement as we traced our way down the spine of the mountain’s ridge. As soon as we
started down the path, we were followed by the observant eyes of the locals who travelled daily
between their homes and the marche, or village market, on this trail carrying their daily harvest
and in shoes much more worn than my touristy Teva sandals. We hadn’t been walking long when
a six-year old boy joined us in happy conversation. My friend Taylor had been living in Haiti for
over a year, taken Haitian Creole at IU, and had visited the country several times before moving
to Port-au-Prince, so she was able to carry a lilting dialogue. She translated bits and pieces for
me, conveying the local crops that were in season in late December in the rural mountains of
Kenscoff. This produce is sold through a network of marches throughout the city, despite the
growing competition created by US imports.
The sparsely spaced trees revealed an enveloping vista of the surrounding mountains.
Walking through them at that moment, I realized how little undergrowth there was. Instead of
thriving vegetation sending roots down into the topsoil, securing it from rain on the steep slopes,
there was only a clay-colored, dusty surface that looked like it could barely support the few trees
left standing.
At one point, the boy disappeared into some brambles and skipped back to us with a
proud look on his face. He opened his cusped, callused hands, offering us fruity treats from his
homeland. We excitedly popped the berries into our mouths, as if we were back in the
Analytical Essay: Visual/Digital and Sustainability Communications
community garden, SPROUTS, that Taylor and I had both participated in together in
Bloomington. We were immediately immersed in the familiar sensation we had experienced
together in the past – freshly picked berry juice taking over our taste buds – true harvest ecstasy.
Almost immediately, however, our sweet nostalgia was replaced with a strange, unpleasant
chemical aftertaste that lingered on our tongues. We turned our heads and looked more closely
at the brambles he had picked from and realized the entire plant was covered in a thick, white,
pasty looking substance. Even the blueberries themselves were tinted white. When we asked
who planted the berries, he informed us that these had been planted by USAID, a U.S.
government agency responsible for administering civilian foreign aid.
From my time working with the Wynne Farm Ecological Reserve, I knew that USAID
agricultural techniques differed from the Wynne Farm philosophy of organic growing. It was a
strange, stomach-knotting feeling to see the boy’s eyes light up with hope and excitement at
sustenance that should have been natural and unpolluted, but I knew was detrimental to his
physical health- one of many harms inflicted as a result of post-colonialism and the subsequent
consequences of deforestation and soil degradation plaguing Haiti."
-- The ethnographic epigraph that opens my analytical capstone paper. This scene is reflected in the photo listed above.
-- The ethnographic epigraph that opens my analytical capstone paper. This scene is reflected in the photo listed above.
