Journals from Haiti

Because this was the last day we planned to be at the clinic, I took a bag of trail mic I’d brought with me and went and sat down in the middle of a group of children by a tree. They looked at me with big, sad eyes like I wasn’t going to share. I opened the bag and held it out to them. Slowly, timidly they came and took handfuls until it was gone, smiling at me. Even the surrounding adults and they young people passing by on the road, who recieved nothing from me, smiled with deep gratitude for such a small act of kindness.

A bit later Pat and Abby and I went to distribute the crocs to a few elderly people living nearby. Valery came with us and we picked up his friend Josnel so they could show us where to go.

We parked the truck and walked along dirt paths to get to a few houses out in the countryside. I remember stick fences and some kind of plants that resembled small palm trees. Josnel, who was walking in front of me, said something quietly to Valery (probably asking how to say “koumann ou rele” in English) and then turned and asked me, “what is your name?” I told him and then asked his name (another moment of failing to think; I already knew his name).

The families we visited lived in little concrete shacks like the ones I described earlier - dirt floors, probably sheet metal rooves, and curtains for doors. The people were sitting or standing outside. They were very grateful to recieve the shoes, but told Pat they had nothing. One elderly man told her he had not eaten that day, and sadly we had no food with us.

Next Pat took us to the place where they make cassava bread so we could see how it’s done. They start with cassava - a potato-like root - press it to drain out the liquid, which is paralytic, grind it into flour, and bake it on round metal plates over fire. It comes out looking like a huge tortilla, maybe four feet wide. They sometimes add sugar, coconut, or ginger.

As Valery and I continued to paint, some U.N. vehicles appeared on the road. Just as I noticed them, Valery said something in his thick Creole accent that I did not understand. After he’d repeated it several times, I finally understood him - “United Nations.” I apologized, with very incorrect grammar, attempting to say that my Creole is not very good. I then realized that this made no sense because he was, in fact, speaking English.

Meanwhile, the U.N. soldiers had parked their vehicles across the road. They came over and began to photograph us and our work. Pat had told us earlier, when I was gushing about finally catching a photo of a tank, that many of the U.N. soldiers are Chiléan and that they like to photograph us too.

Valery and I were just finishing, so I stood. Ron, I think, asked if I’d gotten a photo of their tank. I said no and ran to fetch my camera. I was a little timid but the soldier in the tank smiled, so I snapped a shot.

Right then, another soldier approached me and began to speak rapidly in what I did not realize was Spanish. Just this morning I’d been wondering if Chiléans spoke Spanish so I could say “hola” if I passed one close up, but I somehow could not comprehend a single word.

I finally figured out he was directing me to their tank for a photo. I went and stood in front of it until I realized they wanted me to get in. I stood in the hatch while people snapped a few pictures, and I talked awkwardly with the soldier, whose name, I discovered, was Gaston. I somehow forgot to use my three years of high school Spanish, except when I said “adios!” as they drove away.

I’ve since had a lot of conflicting thoughts about this experience. I’ve heard that a lot of Haitians don’t like the U.N.’s presence in their country, but there also seem to be legitimate reasons for their peacekeeping mission, such as gang violence in the slums and riots due to rising food costs. From what I understand, there is a lot of corruption in the leadership of the U.N. so that money often does not go where it’s needed, but at least some of the soldiers seem to be there to help.

After a nice breakfast of oatmeal with dried cranberries, Pat said we could come with her to distribute some of the crocs we’d brought with us (Mary Russell, another short-term Haiti missionary from our church, had started a program to supply elderly Haitians with these sturdy, comfortable shoes). I helped with the dishes and then hurried to get ready. We were stopping at the clinic first, and as far as I knew, it would be our last day.

It took a very long time to get there, especially with one stop for gas and two for supplies. After we arrived, Clark got me started painting a 2-by-4 white. I asked if Abby would like to paint for a while, then noticed Valerie painting roof panels alone. There was an extra brush, so I went and asked if I could help. He said yes.

A little girl who was watching us said my name - she remembered it from yesterday. I asked her name - “kouman ou rele?” - and she replied, “Fabien.” I said “bèl!” (beautiful!) and she smiled.