Journals from Haiti

A few of the girls suddenly lead me to the road. A procession of Haitians was walking down the road to the clinic, and I could soon see that they were carrying an elderly man on a door. As we joined the crowd that had gathered at the clinic to watch, a few people questioned the girls about the “blans” they were with. Some smiled.

David, who is a doctor, took charge as they cleared out the back of Pat and Clark’s pickup to make room for the man. They carefully laid him, still on the door, flat across the bed of the truck. The man’s family and Pastor Dorlean rode in the back with him, so the six of us who were traveling back to Pat’s house piled into the cab. I sat on the console, and Valery had to walk home. I waved to him sadly as we passed. It wasn’t far to his home but I didn’t think I’d see him again.

Apparently the man had fallen - from fairly high, a tree or a church roof or something - and injured his back. He couldn’t feel his legs. The people had carried him from his home in the mountains, probably at least a mile away. We had the only vehicle nearby.

It was a long, bumpy ride to Justinian Hospital in Cap Haitien, not far from the Moores’ home. David grimaced for the injured man as we jolted over a particularly large pothole. I felt the same. I could tell David and Abby understood more than I did about the man’s condition.

When we finally arrived at the hospital they took him inside and the family thanked us. I saw a boy waiting outside with a cardboard splint on his arm. He was crying and his mother, holding him, was crying too. I wondered how long they’d been waiting.

David seemed reluctant to leave. I think as a doctor, he felt compelled to do something more to help. He told me, back in the truck, about the deplorable conditions inside the hospital.

I’d been practicing my Creole so I could communicate better with the little boys. Back at the clinic, I asked a few of their names. One was named July (sp? pronounced like Julie). They wanted me to get Abby so I did, and Pat helped us talk to them. She offered us drinks so we went and sat on the benches outside the clinic and had Limonades/sodas.

One of the little girls beckoned me across a dry creek. A few of the children wanted a picture. Soon David came over with bubbles and had me take pictures with his digital camera while he played with the kids. They loved it. He was soon surrounded by jumping, giggling children and bubbles floating overhead. They’d been disappointed with my old 35mm camera, but with David’s they could see themselves on the screen and point each other out in the photos. They wanted pictures with Abby and me, too.

Some of the girls organized us and the other children for some kind of games. We were a little slow to figure it out, but they led us in something like London Bridges and Ring Around the Rosie. They sang, in Creole of course, the appropraite songs and clapped and beat their feet on the ground to the rhythm.

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.

We had a nice, quiet afternoon during which I read, wrote, and slept. Around 3:00 we left for an afternoon Christian fellowship. It was in English, probably created largely by and for Americans living in Haiti. The building was the only one I’d seen with notably American construction. I was surprised to see so many “blan”s (literally “white;” a term for foreigners) in one place.

A while later we had ham and cheese sandwiches for dinner. After three smallish halves I was still hungry. There were a few left, so when someone offered I had one more. When there were two halves left and David said someone needed to eat them so they wouldn’t be left sitting out, Pat reminded us that Jovite and Alain hadn’t eaten yet. Needless to say I felt horrible, and I took it as a lesson against greed. We’d been well provided for throughout the trip, but we were still in a third world country and I needed, more than ever, to put others first.

We walked to a restaurant called La Kay (the house) to get ice cream. On the way out, David told Alain what a great job he had done that morning. He humbly thanked him, giving glory to God and not himself.

The street scene was intriguingly different at night when you could not tell whether passersby were looking at you. A pack of small, non-threatening dogs began to follow us and we joked about smuggling them home in our luggage.

I woke up, got ready, read the Bible and prayed, and then went downstairs for coffee. Pat was in the kitchen making waffles and we started talking about what I wanted to do with my life. I said I was thinking about art, mission work, or journalism but was still figuring out what God wanted for me. She said the mission field needs more artists and writers (:D). When Abby came down, the two of them discussed the medical field. Abby is on her way to becoming an EMT.

Pat invited us to go ahead and eat since the men were sleeping in. She called to Jovite through the window and he joined us. Alain and the other men came later. I decided to add “manba” (peanut butter) to my waffles as Jovite and Alain did. The Haitians seem to like it a lot.

When it was time we headed out on foot to a Haitian Christian church not far from Pat’s house. I love walking the streets here and experiencing everything so much closer than I do inside a vehicle.

They had several styles of worship music, beginning with traditional hymns in French. Then a group of young men sang a cappella, a group of both men and women sang what sounded like modern worship in Creole, and another group finished with upbeat Creole hymns. Even without understanding more than a few words, I could see and hear their passion as they offered wholehearted praise to God. Alain, who I did not know until now was a pastor, gave the sermon in French. A few other men spoke and prayed.

We walked to a hotel for lunch. It was a large, old, exquisite building that looked to have a lot of history behind it. We ordered lunch, walked around the lush, tropical gardens that surrounded the hotel, then sat and talked while drinking our beverages and waiting for the food. Most of us ordered beef and vegetable shishkebabs, but I got shrimp and Abby chose steak. There was rice with bean sauce and french fries for everyone to share. The food was very good.

When we got back to Pat’s house, Jovite noticed a big streak of red paint on my arm that had smeared enough to look a bit like a sunburn. He pointed to it and asked, “solèy?” (sun), and then we both said “paint” at the same time as he realized what it was.

We had a particularly scrumptious dinner of lasagna, which is made a little differently here because they can’t get all of the ingredients, and also beets, corn, salad with tomatoes and carrots from Enosh’s gardens, and pineapple upside-down cake.

Jovite ate with us, and Alain came in as we were finishing. There was just enough lasagna left for him. When he saw my arm, he looked concerned and said something I didn’t understand, even though it was probably English. I told him it was paint.

After dinner and dishes I managed to get mostly cleaned up and then went downstairs where my team members were. I read and journaled for a while, and then the men decided it was movie night, so we watched “The High and the Mighty,” a movie from probably the fifties, and had popcorn. I tried to stay awake but was rather unsuccessful.

I went to bed a little while after the movie ended, but I don’t think I slept deeply until the early morning hours when it was perhaps quieter and cooler.

We finally left around ten o’clock. It was very crowded and the drive to LaBruyere took a particularly long time. Twice we lost the corrugated tin that we had tied to the back of the truck and had to stop and fix it. We stopped in a village near the clinic to pick up Valery, a Haitian boy who was coming to help. He is 18 but looks younger to me. We all squished into the back of the truck.

Abby and I were led to the upstairs storeroom of the clinic to paint the window frame and bars. Tony, one of the Haitian construction workers, came and finished the job. Clark told him not to take our work away but we agreed that he was better at it.

After we finished, we went outside to help paint roof panels with a lovely shade of red that is still streaked over the clothes I wore. Valery helped, and we mostly painted in silence because of our language barrier. I felt that I should have tried harder to communicate - he spoke some English, and even saying things he didn’t entirely understand might have been better than nothing.

We just about finished before the paint ran out, and then we leaned against the truck and watched the men work. A crowd of little Haitian boys came over, looking at me and inching closer until they surrounded the place where I stood. Some of them touched my skin and giggled; some of them spoke in Creole that I mostly didn’t understand. The boy who had asked for a photo wanted another, and I got one of them all together.

The boy pointed to David and asked, “ou papa?” (your father?). I replied “non” (no) and he pointed to Abby and asked, “ou sè?” (your sister?). I replied “non” and said she was my friend, “zanmi.” He asked some of my team members’ names and the kids repeated them. He asked, “ki lan je ou?” which I later discovered means “how old are you?” but at the time all I could say was “m’ pa konprann” (I don’t understand).

They found some kind of chalk on the ground and used it to write arithmetic problems on the hood of the truck for me to solve. It was neat that we could all understand this because like Cady Heron says in the movie “Mean Girls,” math is “the same in every language.”

I forgot to mention Alain, the Haitian young man who lives upstairs. He speaks perfect English with a thick Creole accent and seems to be skilled at many things.

We got ready and went downstairs for a breakfast of fresh grapefruit halves, toast with butter/peanut butter/jam, and scrambled eggs with cheese and onions. Ron asked Jovite how to say water - “dlo” - and he had to repeat it several times as we attempted to duplicate his pronunciation.

Pat gave Abby and me supplies for painting at the clinic, and David stayed behind to go to the gardens with Enoch (he works with a program called Hope Seeds that builds gardens in Haiti, and David had brought seeds to help out).

While slathering my body with sunscreen against the tropical sun, I noticed more mosquito bites on my toes. I had even slept with DEET on this time!

Abby and I sat in our room reading and journaling for a while as we waited for the men. Once Alain walked by and asked what we were doing in there. We said we were waiting for the men to be ready, and he said, “Why are you waiting in your room?” Apparently it was very funny. After mentioning it to Pat later, I understood that while Americans value privacy and personal space, Haitians usually like to be together.