Building Schools from the Ground Up

How recycled tires, bottles, and rice bags became hurricane-proof classrooms on La Gonâve.

When visitors first see our classrooms, they often stop in surprise. Circular walls of stone and glass bottles shimmer in the sunlight. The air inside is cool and still, even on the hottest Caribbean day. Outside, the sea laps quietly against the shore. Children sit around tables, reading, writing, and laughing in a space built not from concrete or steel, but from what most people would call trash.

These are our Earthship classrooms—structures made from recycled materials that have survived hurricanes and earthquakes when other buildings have fallen. They are proof that sustainability and resilience can grow anywhere, even on a small island off the coast of Haiti.

The Spark

I first learned about Earthship Biotecture in 2011, not long after the 2010 earthquake. At the time, we were still teaching in a large open pavilion—a great room overlooking the sea where three classes met together. We built our own plywood tables, varnished them by hand, and used chalkboards hung on the wall. The pavilion was beautiful but temporary, and I knew that one day we would need proper classrooms.

That same year I went to Grassroots United in Port-au-Prince, where groups were experimenting with alternative building methods for Haiti’s reconstruction. I spent three days volunteering there so I could learn firsthand. What I saw fascinated me: sandbag igloos, hay-bale walls, and rubble blocks made from crushed concrete.

Then I met Michael Reynolds, founder of Earthship Biotecture in Taos, New Mexico, and his crew of five builders. They were using discarded tires, bottles, cans, and bags of trash to create self-sustaining buildings—structures that stayed cool without air-conditioning and strong enough to withstand hurricanes.

When I asked about bringing the idea to La Gonâve, Michael’s answer was firm:

“Do you own the land?”

At that time, we didn’t.

“Then we can’t build for you yet,” he said. “Own the land first, then we’ll talk.”

So I tucked the dream away and waited.

Building Begins

Years passed. Eventually, we bought our land for the school. Once we owned it, I started calling the Earthship Biotecture office again. It took many attempts—messages left, calls unanswered—until finally I reached Phil Basehart, one of the lead builders I had met years before. He remembered me.

Together we planned our first Earthship build in 2020. It would be an international workshop, a month-long training where people from around the world could come to Haiti, learn, and help us build.

Thirty participants arrived—from South America, Europe, the United States, and Canada—along with Phil and his crew of five teachers. We invited thirty Haitians from Anse-à-Galets to join them as apprentices. For a month, Thirty people camped on our land, living in tents, working side by side.

It was an amazing community. Haiti isn’t a usual workshop destination, but everyone who came was excited to learn and contribute. The local community was proud to see so many Haitians included on the crew. Together, they built our first Earthship classroom—one circular building that would allow our school to grow.

How an Earthship Is Made

The process is unlike anything most people have seen.

First come the tires. Each is filled with earth—rammed solid until it weighs more than 100 pounds—and then stacked like giant bricks. The tires form a honeycomb wall nine tires high, about six feet. The wall cannot be moved; it’s that solid.

On top of the tire wall goes a frame of rebar and mesh, then a layer of cement. Above that, another frame is built about two feet higher, and the space between the two frames is packed with rice bags filled with inorganic trash—plastic bottles, cans, and clean paper that won’t decompose. The children helped collect it, walking along the coast with rice bags in hand, gathering bottles and plastic from the beaches.

Each building uses around 200 tires. La Gonâve doesn’t have many cars, so we paid people on the mainland to collect used tires from roadsides and ravines and ship them across on the ferry. We paid about 70 cents per tire. Nothing new—only discarded materials that would otherwise pollute the landscape.

Whole bottles and cans are used differently. Bottles form decorative bottle walls beside doors and windows, letting light filter through like stained glass. Cans are used to shape the chimney-like vent in the center of the domed roof, allowing hot air to escape.

Below, a ventilation tube buried under the ground brings in cool air from the earth. The combination keeps the room at about 72 degrees Fahrenheit year-round, without electricity.

The design is beautiful in its simplicity—strong, cool, and filled with natural light.

From Skepticism to Belief

At first, some people in the community were skeptical. They had never seen a circular building made of tires and bottles. To them it looked strange, even fragile. But over time, the Earthship proved itself.

During one hurricane, our staff and their families took shelter inside the classrooms. The wind howled all night, but the buildings held firm. Nothing moved, nothing cracked. When morning came, they emerged to find everything intact.

Later, when an earthquake struck, families again turned to the Earthship classrooms for safety. Many Haitians fear sleeping in their homes after an earthquake—concrete block houses can crumble because they’re often built without proper rebar reinforcement. For weeks afterward, people slept inside our Earthship classrooms at night and rolled up their bedding each morning so classes could continue.

Those experiences changed everything. The community that once questioned the design began to see its value. Now, people talk about wanting more Earthship buildings on the island.

Growing the Vision

The first Earthship classroom allowed us to expand from three classes to four. The next year, we built a second building—this time with fewer international volunteers and a trained Haitian crew of 30 from the previous workshop, plus about 15 new learners. By the end, we had two finished buildings, enough for multiple grade levels.

We began a third classroom, but by then the political unrest and gang violence made travel and transport dangerous. Phil and I still managed one final trip in May 2023, flying together to the Dominican Republic and then taking a Caribbean airline into Port-au-Prince before crossing to La Gonâve under tight security. That was the last time I set foot in Haiti.

The third building remains half-finished—the dome roof complete but unpainted, the door not yet installed. Our teachers, determined as always, decided to use it anyway. They preferred that space to crowding four classes into the pavilion. So today, lessons continue inside an unfinished Earthship—a symbol of resilience and hope.

From the original group of 30 Haitian apprentices, we selected five of the most dedicated builders to form a permanent construction crew. Before work was paused, they built three small homes in the community using the same Earthship principles. Phil would visit periodically, spending a week teaching improvements and adjustments. Each time, the crew grew more confident.

Our dream was to build six classrooms in total—one for each level—so the pavilion could become a cafeteria and community hall. For now, that dream waits for safer days.

Proof in the Pudding

What convinced everyone that the design truly worked wasn’t the workshops or the diagrams. It was the storms.

When the hurricane came and people huddled inside, the classrooms stood solid. When earthquakes shook the ground, they stayed upright while other buildings cracked. After that, there was no more doubt. People began calling the Earthship buildings “the strong ones.”

They’re not just classrooms anymore—they’re shelters, meeting places, and symbols of safety. Some families near the school bring their children there whenever a storm warning is issued. They know it’s the safest place to be.

Reflection and Pride

Looking back at the photos from those builds still brings me to tears. The mix of faces—Haitian builders and international volunteers working side by side—tents pitched on our land, laughter echoing over the sound of the sea. The bottle walls glowing in the sun. The moment we finished the first dome and everyone cheered.

Two complete buildings, a third nearly done, a trained crew of Haitian builders, and classrooms that have already protected lives. It’s more than I ever imagined when I first walked into that workshop in Port-au-Prince all those years ago.

Today, the island is quiet but tense. Travel to Haiti is still unsafe, and we can’t continue construction until conditions improve. Yet the Earthship classrooms stand as reminders of what’s possible—proof that creativity and community can thrive even in hardship.

When I see our students studying beneath those curved walls, sunlight streaming through bottles, I’m filled with pride. We built something lasting—something strong enough to shelter learning, and strong enough to shelter life.

One day, we’ll finish the remaining classrooms. Until then, we’ll keep teaching, keep believing, and keep proving that even in the most difficult places, progress can grow—literally—from the ground up.