Source: http://issuu.com/embodiedeffigies/docs/embodied_effigies_issue_two/87
The Smell of Camphor and the Fragrance of Mustard
The sun has just set on this tiny Caribbean nation of 9 million people. I’m so far away from home, yet the sights, sounds, and odors are familiar. The television in the lobby of the guest house leaks out loud music; the neighbor’s TV plays a soap opera, at once recognizable by the high pitched squeals from the lead female character. A constant din of activity outside-bikes on the road with silencers that don’t silence, stray dogs yelping and dodging the wheels of the taptap, and then the breeze that gently caresses the ornamental palm
fronds placed at strategic corners of the guest house lobby here in Petion-Ville, Port-au-Prince. The breeze gently nudges the stacks of work-related papers strewn about on the dinner table. I miss this.
I miss the ambient noise, the competing blares from the television sets, the recalcitrant motorbikes on the street, and the warring dogs. As the aroma of fried plantains wafts through the twilight air, I can
almost smell the steam rising from a pot of freshly cooked white rice, of black mustard hitting the sesame oil on the iron wok, of garlic and onions fried in clarified butter. I miss this, this simultaneous assault
of the senses. I miss the varying decibels of the human voice—laughter, street fights, infants crying, sermons pouring out the loudspeaker attached precariously to the power line poles. I can see the dust on the tabletop, the imperfections of the paint on the stucco walls, the tell-tale signs of wear and tear on the curtains adorning the window, with one panel not quite matching the other. I like that all I need to do is walk across the street into the pastry shop to grab a quick snack. The Haiti of today stirs a longing, nostalgia for home, home where my parents are, home where I grew up safely ensconced by the cacophony of TV, bikes, dogs, street fights and crickets. The power may go any moment now, but the noises will continue to give you
company.
Haiti gives me the same sensory stimulus as the Madras/India of my memory. All that is missing here is the smell of camphor, the timbre of temple bells and the fragrance of black mustard. It’s the Pac season in Haiti. A season for Rara, the street music procession unique to Haiti and this season. I hear one such procession
outside the gates of the guest house. The sounds of bamboo horns, trumpets, drums, shuffling human feet, and the sights of intoxicated local youth swaying to the beat of the drums and the seductive bamboo horns takes me back to the thiruvizhas and theyru processions in the Madras of my memory. Men and women alike shuffle along, caught up in the fervor of the celebration. Nostalgia though, is at times dangerous. It glosses over the unsavory, the dirty and the unpleasant. Reality in Haiti also forces me to acknowledge other similarities. At dinner the other day, I sat in awkward silence as my friends and co-workers counted off the
number of servants each had at home. I chimed in insincerely, adding that Indians today too have as many maids. Insincere because that Indian is middle-class Indian, one of several 100 million. But the Haitian is still upper class and elite and perhaps a few hundred in number. As they exchanged stories of misbehaving maids and errant help from the countryside, I cringed, my sensibilities being forced to play dumb. They are people too, I wanted to scream. Perhaps if you treated them as service providers and not as imbecile country
bumpkins, perhaps then things might just be a little better. I cringe some more when we talk about the “gay people” and the underground gay bars. He made passes at my father, would you believe that, my friend exclaims.
The street soundscapes ebb with the ebbing sunlight. As darkness sets in, the television sets grow quieter. The dogs rest. The last of the street-hawkers hop on to the tap-tap for the long journey home. My nostalgia too is now wearing off. Perhaps now, the freedom of thought, expression, and the right to flaunt denim cutoffs in my adopted homeland in the United States outweighs the nostalgia for barking dogs and the smell of camphor.
The Smell of Camphor and the Fragrance of Mustard
The sun has just set on this tiny Caribbean nation of 9 million people. I’m so far away from home, yet the sights, sounds, and odors are familiar. The television in the lobby of the guest house leaks out loud music; the neighbor’s TV plays a soap opera, at once recognizable by the high pitched squeals from the lead female character. A constant din of activity outside-bikes on the road with silencers that don’t silence, stray dogs yelping and dodging the wheels of the taptap, and then the breeze that gently caresses the ornamental palm
fronds placed at strategic corners of the guest house lobby here in Petion-Ville, Port-au-Prince. The breeze gently nudges the stacks of work-related papers strewn about on the dinner table. I miss this.
I miss the ambient noise, the competing blares from the television sets, the recalcitrant motorbikes on the street, and the warring dogs. As the aroma of fried plantains wafts through the twilight air, I can
almost smell the steam rising from a pot of freshly cooked white rice, of black mustard hitting the sesame oil on the iron wok, of garlic and onions fried in clarified butter. I miss this, this simultaneous assault
of the senses. I miss the varying decibels of the human voice—laughter, street fights, infants crying, sermons pouring out the loudspeaker attached precariously to the power line poles. I can see the dust on the tabletop, the imperfections of the paint on the stucco walls, the tell-tale signs of wear and tear on the curtains adorning the window, with one panel not quite matching the other. I like that all I need to do is walk across the street into the pastry shop to grab a quick snack. The Haiti of today stirs a longing, nostalgia for home, home where my parents are, home where I grew up safely ensconced by the cacophony of TV, bikes, dogs, street fights and crickets. The power may go any moment now, but the noises will continue to give you
company.
Haiti gives me the same sensory stimulus as the Madras/India of my memory. All that is missing here is the smell of camphor, the timbre of temple bells and the fragrance of black mustard. It’s the Pac season in Haiti. A season for Rara, the street music procession unique to Haiti and this season. I hear one such procession
outside the gates of the guest house. The sounds of bamboo horns, trumpets, drums, shuffling human feet, and the sights of intoxicated local youth swaying to the beat of the drums and the seductive bamboo horns takes me back to the thiruvizhas and theyru processions in the Madras of my memory. Men and women alike shuffle along, caught up in the fervor of the celebration. Nostalgia though, is at times dangerous. It glosses over the unsavory, the dirty and the unpleasant. Reality in Haiti also forces me to acknowledge other similarities. At dinner the other day, I sat in awkward silence as my friends and co-workers counted off the
number of servants each had at home. I chimed in insincerely, adding that Indians today too have as many maids. Insincere because that Indian is middle-class Indian, one of several 100 million. But the Haitian is still upper class and elite and perhaps a few hundred in number. As they exchanged stories of misbehaving maids and errant help from the countryside, I cringed, my sensibilities being forced to play dumb. They are people too, I wanted to scream. Perhaps if you treated them as service providers and not as imbecile country
bumpkins, perhaps then things might just be a little better. I cringe some more when we talk about the “gay people” and the underground gay bars. He made passes at my father, would you believe that, my friend exclaims.
The street soundscapes ebb with the ebbing sunlight. As darkness sets in, the television sets grow quieter. The dogs rest. The last of the street-hawkers hop on to the tap-tap for the long journey home. My nostalgia too is now wearing off. Perhaps now, the freedom of thought, expression, and the right to flaunt denim cutoffs in my adopted homeland in the United States outweighs the nostalgia for barking dogs and the smell of camphor.
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