3/20/12 Cat...It's what's for dinner! -by Rachel

We’ve all heard the stories about Haitians eating cat and even though our beloved 91 year old Ivy told me that years ago she had gotten tired of “them stealing” her cats to eat I wrote it off as a wives tale. Until today. I was walking down a street downtown in Port-au-Prince and when I looked up there he was. A twenty-something not quite emaciated, not quite well fed Haitian man wearing a white shirt and black jeans. You could tell by his swagger he was bringing home the bacon…. Except it wasn’t bacon. It was cat. A fluffy black and white cat… dead and bound by all four paws for easy toting.

If you are emotionally disturbed you should stop reading here…

Today we walked (close your ears mom) downtown Pap where we saw tons of what I can find no other word in my vocabulary for but Hoovervills. Thousands of people are living in shanties made of pieces of tents, tarps, scrap sheets of roofing tin and cardboard. There are central areas piled with trash… I tried not to breathe through my nose but I would rather the little hairs in my nose catch all the sick smelling germs in the air rather than them entering into my mouth. We see naked children running everywhere… common in Haiti but this was more desperate. I watched two boys about 6-8years old bathe in raw sewage running down the side of the street. They did have a bar of soap, but I wondered “What’s the point?” We saw the palace… you cannot see in those pictures you saw on CNN the tread that it is hanging by. I fully expected it to collapse any second… it is a magnificent sight to behold with your own eyes. Not even Niagara Falls is more poorly represented by photos.

I know that I won’t stick to this resolution, but I am finished taking pictures of these people in their destitution. I won’t exploit their suffering anymore. I am torn. When I saw the children bathing in the sewage I felt like “people need to see this.” But then if I were that child and had nowhere else to bathe how would I feel?… “Isn’t it bad enough that I bathe in this crap without you taking a picture of me with your $300 camera while I do so?”  I mean it wasn’t like Jesus was frantically pulling his camera out of his purse each time he saw someone in need. (Although I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t have a camera… or a purse for that matter.) Where is Joe Jaggers when taking a photograph becomes an ethical dilemma?

Speaking of ethical dilemmas… what’s the point of all this Jesus? Frankly I am sick and tired of seeing people suffer. Did you bring me here just so I can see how little I am capable of doing? Point taken… loud and clear! I thought you said “It is finished.” I mean it can’t be finished if people are still suffering like this right?

Uno!

A few days ago we went upstairs for the first time with Dean one of the team members from South Carolina.  I had never met Dean before he arrived with his team last week but it was one of those times you feel like you have known somebody for years after just meeting them. I like that sort of experience. I don’t really like to have to work to get to know people. I’m sort of lazy in that area of life. I hate the formalities of getting to know a person.  Most people don’t like people who skip the formalities. I’d rather just hop right in and get to having a relationship.  But I am kind of shy so I usually avoid that part too.

Dean had brought us upstairs to Roger’s room. He wanted to show us the solar power wiring and batteries. I guess he thinks since we are gonna be here for a year we might want to know about the system. I’m really not sure I could trouble shoot it if anything goes wrong but I figure I should listen to his spiel anyway. Mainly, I am curious about Roger’s room. He is quickly becoming my favorite person and I am interested in learning more about him. And snooping through his room is just my style. So while Dean is throwing out technical terms like converter and co-axial, I start to read the titles of Roger’s books and take a mental inventory of everything in the room. The book titles are in French so I still don’t know what he is reading. Roger is a tall skinny man. He has very long fingers and pronounced cheek bones. He has a gentleness I think Jesus would have. He has been so hospitable to Ronnie and myself. He moves about the house quietly and always waits until last to eat. I really love his spirit. His strength of character is magnetic.

I notice that his navy blue blanket is tucked neatly around the bed. His mosquito net is gathered above the bed. The desk is strewn with books and receipts. On either side of the room is a nail with button up long sleeved collard shirts hung up on wire coat hangers. He wears a collared shirt every day and a handsome grey suit to church last Saturday. The room is small, about the size of a dorm room and he apparently sleeps in one of the three cots in the room. I think he is about 55-60 and I met his wife and daughters last week. They live down the road. I’m not sure why Haitiens think it is a good idea to live separate like this but it is a very common situation. I’m not a fan of it. I know I should respect the culture, but I secretly think it is a really bad idea.

As Dean finishes his quick and dirty on the solar system we squeeze back down the tiny stairwell. Roger is at the bottom of the stairs as we start to make our way down and Ronnie notices the deck of cards sitting on the shelf. “Uno?” He points to the deck. “You know uno?” Roger is surprised that we recognize the game. Ronnie nods and Roger smiles. “We will play sometime.”

And so tonight we did. It was Fedrina’s suggestion after lunch that we should play. I assume Roger informed her of our knowledge of the game. We sat down at the table with the rooster patterned table cloth after dinner and Fedrina dealt the first hand. The game went along fabulously until I got caught without any “rouge.” I ended up drawing a quarter of a deck in one turn. Roger laughed gently at me. I have no luck with card games. I do love them though. Ronnie and I play casino rummy with his brother and grandparents as often as we can. It was very interesting though playing with two other people who don’t speak a lot of English and we speak minimal creole. I do know my creole colors and numbers up to five however. After my large draw and the game made its way back around to me Ronnie had thrown a draw four card. He looked at me and in creole said “Mwen renmen ou.” (which is I love you.) Roger burst out into a deep belly laugh. He progressed to hysteria and nearly fell out of his chair laughing. I didn’t think the situation was very funny but I couldn’t help but laugh at his amusement. So by the end we were all laughing and it became a vicious cycle. One person would collect themselves but then the hysteria of the next person would rub right back off. By the end Roger had nearly worked the rooster patterned tablecloth off the table because he clutched handfuls everytime another wave of laughter hit. Fedrina helped settle us all down by motioning to us to fix the tablecloth.

Later another explosive episode of laughter ensued when I laid a draw 4 card and Roger asked me in creole “You love me?”  Roger, in between deep inhalations because he would laugh until every molecule of oxygen was exhaled, told a story in creole. I didn’t understand the creole but his gestures were very clear. He pulled out a chair and motioned that an imaginary person was sitting in it. He proceeded to smack our imaginary friend in the head and then very affectionately tell imaginary friend “Mwen renmen ou.” We all died laughing.

1/30/12 – Wyatt Earp , Ft. Sedgewick and the S.S. Minnow

It has been some days now since we returned from Pignon to drop off Dr. Greg and Leslie. George, our town mayor has always been a little intimidating to me and I am secretly nervous about our 1 ½ hour truck ride back to Ranquitte. After the little plane flew away with our American counterparts we returned to the truck to be taken to the hospital in Pignon. George had agreed to take us there. We have always wanted to see this hospital. It would be beneficial to know if it is worth sending our patients from Ranquitte, after all the grueling trip broke a spring off the truck. I couldn’t imaging the 4 hour walk if I was sick enough to go to the hospital. While we explored the hospital George took the truck to get fixed, the hospital was interesting and we gathered the info we needed. As the sun set and we waited for our mayor to return for us I began to fear the evening. Night time in Haiti is fearfully beautiful. The bigger towns like Pignon can be scary, like American towns there isn’t the innate respect for the end of the day that small towns have, and the sounds that fill the air are less nature and more….. well, depravity. As the sun sank lower we continued to wait, the more horizontal rays of the sun reveal the impressive quantity of dust and dirt and smoke. As I am about to reach in my pocket to call our mayor friend I hear the squeaking of the truck and the urgent honking from him to call us to come. And like children looking for a temporarily misplaced parent, we run to him.

We make small talk about the hospital and the truck while we bounce around like bobble heads through the crowded streets in Pignon. George is a very tall, well, but awkwardly built man. He is so dark, that even in the remaining evening light I can’t make out the finer details of his countenance until he smiles! But.. it is a priceless smile, large, separated teeth that seem to stretch from ear to ear.  George has been mayor for a long time… 7 years I think, maybe more. Before that he worked with CFI in various capacities, but he has been involved with the blancs since the beginning. He moves in upper circles of Haitian government yet he feeds his own people by giving away bananas and other fruits/vegetables that he raises and farms himself. He has learned to not give his thoughts away by his body language… something Rachel and I have come to depend on greatly as we have tried to decipher a foreign language. This is why I never know what to think of him….so when the awkward moment of silence comes and all that is left is three bobbling heads I am feeling incredibly insecure.

So I do what any good novice missionary would do… I use my best creole to tell him how thankful we are to be with him and ask a series of rather meaningless questions. And to my utter relief… he answers them in his best English (lightyears ahead of my creole) and begins to tell us about His Haiti. I begin to realize that everything people I trust have told me about George is true… that he is a great man, generous, caring, devout, fair, honest, christlike, wise and brave. Ironically, this is what I feared. True Masculinity is almost as mythical as some great white buffalo or sasquwatch. His character is revealed in the stories he shares, experiences he has had….all of which he tells us not necessarily to know him better of prove anything to us about him. But for our peace of mind, to steady our hearts that we are safe, we are on the same team, Christ is our Lord…. And the people of Ranquitte are our shared mission.

At one point in the conversation Rachel asks the obvious direct question…” If there are 26,000 people in Ranquitte, are there any police or jails?”  The response further indicates why real masculinity… Holy Masculinity is mighty thing. George smiles his large smile, and talks about how Ranquitte is a quiet, peaceful town even though there are only 6 policemen. George describes a time when some ‘thugs” were stealing peoples chickens and goats. He found out about it, told people to put it out un the community that George was looking for them. Then he said they left. I thought…. Wow, that is either convenient or you must be feared. The next example answered the question. Another time before a man was going into peoples homes and stealing money and possessions. George discovered the mans identity, managed to covertly obtain a photo of him and give it to the towns nearby. He involved his 6 man police force to be on the lookout. However.. when word came that the man had been identified the police men were to afraid to go and get him. They said he had killed men before. So George asked a friend in the town where the man was identified to go there and call George when the man leaves town and is coming to Ranquitte. George had a man in the next town closest to Ranquitte call him when that bad man passed through. So… with 2 other friends, on a dark, stone riddled road on the side of the mountain, George took his gun fired at the man…. When the man fired back… George walked up in the dark amongst the thugs’ misplaced shooting and ended the fight. The man was not mortally wounded….. and when the town people heard the shots, they didn’t run and mob George…. They finished off the thug. And George and his buddies rode back to Ranquitte and in his word’s “No mo pwoblem”

As we pulled back into the safety of our compound for the night, I looked at the clinic’s silhouette as it passed to my right. I see the roof that is in need of repair, which leaks anytime it rains. It has the potential to function well, serve it’s community. But it seems so beaten up and worn down in the darkness. This is going to be my post for the next year, it is in dire need of proper supplies and medications, and the workers who remain seem to have lost their purpose. From previous experiences and the counsel of trusted haitien friends, I know that many years have gone by without the attention it deserves. It is full of random boxes with medicines that were one time acceptable to be given to the community, but in these same boxes are also trash, mold, used needles, roaches and rat feces. I have seen it try to weather the storms of a community of 26,000 people with no doctor and no means to afford a hospital, or even transportation along the same route we just traveled. In my life I have learned that just because something is begun in the name of Jesus that doesn’t necessarily mean Jesus is still there…. But sometimes, sometimes…. Jesus will still show up. And it is in this knowledge I resolve my hopelessness when I think about all that is broken here. It has 2 Haitian nurses, 2 pharmacy workers, a triage aide, and a lab tech. Over the years they have tried to be the hands and feet of Jesus…but given their situation I can’t really be upset with them when I know they are a very poor example of him. A good friend told me once a long time ago…”Exemplify what you want more of” And now more than ever, it will take everything I have to do this. How can I learn what has happened here so that I can undo it’s past. There has been thievery, there has been favoritism, there has been jealousy, there have been “demons” and there has been death. There has been abandonment, sickness, laziness, greed, hatred, fear, loneliness, confusion, frustration. I know that these are all symptoms of some inner brokenness, of a vision and purpose that once was good that now has been lost. But here we are, I know that Monday will be a test and I feel extremely overwhelmed. Rachel is very excited….she is task oriented and can compartmentalize our so called “goals” more easily than I can. I tend to be more relational and ambiguous in my worries. Funny thing is that while Rachel and I discuss some things we learned in the hospital I realize even she is overwhelmed by the weight of trying to intervene in a broken system that is this clinic. Oh yeah we don’t speak creole. I am thinking that neither of us are good at charades either so Jesus…. You have your work cut out for ya!

1/29/12

This morning we woke up to the smell of pancakes. The team that is here right now, a team of 7 or 8 men, brought a ton of pancake mix. After breakfast Cardon a beautiful and sweet tempered girl that is suspect is about 15 or 16 tapped on my shoulder and said something in creole I didn’t understand. Eventually I deciphered that she is planning to do laundry later. I had asked her to teach me and I suppose this was her offering an opportunity to learn. I went to my room to gather our dirty clothes and took the bag out back where I had been instructed to sit dirty laundry by the team leaders on past trips. She had already sat out two huge shiny aluminum bowls on the concrete near the outdoor shower. She went into the shower and filled a large bucket with water from the reservoir on the roof of the building. The shower is enclosed by a cinderblock wall with a drainage ravine jutting out in the ground to usher the water away from the house. Once I walked by while a couple of the little girls were showering. There were almost as many giggles coming from the shower as bubbles flowing down the ravine. She used the water from the shower to fill one of the silver bowls then separated the clothes into two piles: lights and darks. So far, I am with her. She piled the lights in the bowl of water.  Ronnie and I studied as she broke the foot long piece of almond colored soap into four smaller pieces. She picked up a white tee shirt and quickly brushed the soap back and forth on the fabric several times then. Her hands and fingers are both graceful and forceful with the fabric. She grabbed fists full of the garment and brushed them back and forth together. In a matter of seconds she had worked her way across the entire shirt scrubbing it clean. She wadded the shirt into an orderly handful with ease and wrung the soapy water out with one quick twist. Ronnie and I grabbed shirts and attempted to mimic her. I kind of got the hang of it by the time we had finished the pan but I could not master her grace and speed. We scrubbed the garments an additional time in Fab. I’m not sure why they needed a second washing but we followed her instructions per gesturing. The whites then went into a pan of bleach water. Then Cardon left us sitting in our little wooden chairs and went in to get something. We wondered if we should follow her but we know the word “vini” and she hadn’t said that. She came back with a small wadded up blue cloth. She opened it gently and there inside was a small blue square. I she spoke in creole about it. I reached out my hand and she gently gave it to me. I smelled it. It smelled nice. “I guess it is fabric softener” I told Ronnie.  But I have never seen a fabric softener tablet before. It was blue like the tablet you put in the back of a toilet bole to make the water blue. She took the small cloth and tablet back and tied the cloth in a knot. Then she filled one of the silver pans with fresh water and waved the cloth around in the water which turned blue. She wrung the bleach water out of the whites and placed them in the blue water. I had always wondered why my whites turned blue when we came to Haiti. Ronnie and I both looked at each other. “That’s why!” Ronnie nodded his head with a smile. We continued to assist with the scrubbing and wringing. Fedrina and some of the other ladies came out to see us washing our clothes. They all giggled and spoke about the ordeal in creole. I’m sure it was amusing. I deciphered that Fedrina was telling everyone we had used a machine to wash our clothes before. We finished and by this time some of the girls from Fedrina’s house had started washing their clothes next to us. Ronnie and I took our bucket of clean clothes to the line. We both looked around. “Where are the clothes pins?” I asked. Nobody understood my question. “I don’t think they use any.” Ronnie guessed. We just draped everything over the line and hoped for the best. Marilous came behind us and moved each item closer together and giggled. I really enjoyed the whole experience. I always wonder what it would have been like to live back then in the US. When everything was done by hand and everything was appreciated. The situation is not exactly like that here. They have a radio playing off of solar power in the background. But I enjoyed this. I hope Fedrina will teach me how to cook on open fire next!

January 25, 2012

How can they know how to sweeten the oatmeal perfectly? Today started with waking to the muffled low voice of the infamous Jute outside our window. Jute is Ranquitte’s most famous citizen. We met him nearly 3 years ago. He is my height, but couldn’t weigh more than 100lbs. He has some type of metal deficit, but he makes up for it in survival skills and begging. He is tremendously sickly, malnourished, and disheveled…which is the norm. It’s somewhat of a mystery about who takes care of him, but the way he wanders around I am not sure it is consistent. Today he is here because of some rash, I saw him yesterday and immediately after our greeting he motioned to his sores, pointed to his stomach and tried to verbalize his need in something that is like a child’s creole. I don’t try to put him off on purpose, most of the other “blancs” are scared of him, but me and Rachel think he might be Jesus in disguise. Eventually, I get some cream for him from the clinic, slip him a cracker, and I don’t cringe when I feel his dirty hand innocently grab mine along our walk up the hill, and when we part I give him a “side hug” just like anyone else.

After breakfast we start our day at the clinic. Again… no real plan. But we follow Dr. Greg’s lead and do what we said we wouldn’t do and begin taking charge and see the patients. We saw a myriad of issues and plenty of the same as well. Fever, acid, headache. I’ll let Rachel tell about the most interesting patients later, the highlight of my day was when I left the clinic momentarily and on my return greeted Frantz. We discussed the issues that we typically run by him so we can understand them better. I love him because I find myself listening to his rationale and opinions and after hearing them I always think…. “this is exactly how Jesus would see this” or “Christ would be pleased with that position”…. Which unifies our bond as brothers in Christ. It has always seemed that we have been united in Christ with Frantz…one mind, unity like Ephesians 4 describes.

At one point we discuss how Ranquitte has 26,000 people and no doctor. And another point we acknowledge how Ivy’s absence makes the divide between Haitian and American ever greater… leaving a void of leadership, communication and the love and example of Christ. Hmmmmm. . . ? Why do I always show up at times like this God? Are you trying to tell me something?

January 24, 2012 Mine fields and Tight ropes

           Today has been interesting. We hadn’t set an alarm so we woke to the sound of Fredrina banging pots and pans in the kitchen where she prepares breakfast. Fredrina is a plump sweet faced Haitian. She doesn’t speak very much English at all; only nods and smiles when spoken to. We could hear the pots and pans well enough over the chickens clucking right outside our window which we leave open since it got pretty toasty in here last night… it has a nice screen. We are living in the home of Ivy Solomon. She is something like 91 and isn’t here right now. She is in the states for healthcare for worsening heart failure. We are disappointed about that… Ivy is the Mother Theresa of Ranquitte and I had my hopes set on long conversations about Haitian culture with her. She may return briefly though so I plan on making the most of that opportunity.

            Her home was built by Roger (pronounced Wo-jay) and he stays here upstairs. Ivy’s home is one of those little old lady houses where you are afraid to touch anything. Not because it might break but you feel a deep respect when you enter the door. And frankly you don’t see many doilies elsewhere in Ranquitte. Roger is limping today and asks us to take a look at a wound he has later today.

            Breakfast consists of pancakes and bananas. Fluffy sweet pancakes with maple syrup from New York. SMH. I plan to have a talk with Fredrina later. I hope to convince her that there is no need to cook American food when it is just Ronnie and I. Leslie and Greg meander in after Mary Lou’s second ring of the dinner bell.  They both look sleepy and have a full day planned out for themselves.

            We do not on the other hand. Not a single plan in the world. In America I might have a panic attack if I didn’t have the day planned out by the day before, but not here. We met Frantz on the porch and walked with him to the Eco Café, where he is starting some coffee plants in a “greenhouse.” Some screen stapled to four wooden steaks provides the proper amount of shade; which according to Frantz is crucial when growing coffee plants. We walk with him and listen to him outline the basic principles of growing coffee in a thick accent. Frantz is the type of Haitian that likes to help Americans understand. Understanding is complicated in Haiti by many things. It’s like walking through a mine field of misunderstandings. I start to think about all the probable misunderstandings we will have. Then I said to God “Why have you brought me here?” I didn’t really expect Him to answer… well not today at least.

            Frantz is a mystery. I want to ask him how can you live in a mud hut and still look so clean. But I don’t. He peels back the hay and scoops out a coffee bean to show us the sprout. “It takes five months to make one like that.” He gestures to a group of coffee plants about a foot tall. I bit my American tongue and didn’t ask how we could speed up the process. As he’s watering the seedlings I notice the water hose has three pieces of plastic wrapped around it with water spewing out of each. I have a fixer heart. I LOVE to fix things. My dad is like that. I must have picked it up from him. After running back to Ivy’s house to retrieve the Gorilla tape Eric, Ronnie’s best friend, gave us as a parting gift I removed the ineffective plastic, carefully dried and wrapped the broken areas of the hose. “Try it!” I beamed very proud of my idea. He turned on the hose and voila… now only a small drip. Better than a spew. Then my heart sank.

            I had already done it. I broke a golden rule Ronnie and I had set for ourselves. That’s the problem with rules. I never can keep them. I use to think as I get older I will get better at keeping rules. But I haven’t.

            We had discussed how there is a problem with Haitian mentality about problem solving. We have very little knowledge about Haitian mentality but we think very highly of our ability to judge things without having much knowledge about them as is American custom. The problem with Haitian problem solving is that when there is a problem they don’t solve it. They wait. They know that at some point the Americans will return. Then the Americans will solve it. Therefore there is no reason to attempt to solve the problem. I could stretch this and justify myself by saying that the scraps of plastic loosely wrapped around the hose was an attempt to solve the problem. This is an example of how helping can cause more harm than good. Ronnie is reading a book right now called “When Helping Hurts.” I think I should ask him to borrow it.

            Lunch is spread out over a rooster patterned tablecloth. Cooked cabbage, rice and black beans, green beans, tomatoes bread and butter (what else) are neatly arranged. “Meow!” I forgot to mention Ivy has a cat. I know! I love the cat. He is actually a kitten and tabby similar to my Laya. I have been loving on him since I discovered him yesterday. He has a scary meow. He always sounds angry but I have figured out that he is really not. That’s just how he sounds.  I think maybe he is really just hungry. I want to feed him. I haven’t though. I figure that’s probably taboo given the situation.  He smells lunch and is giving his best affectionate effort at our feet.

            Later we walk up to the clinic. We are supposed to be here to “help with the clinic.” That’s what we have been telling people although I’m really not sure what that means. I picture myself walking a tight rope very high in the air, no wait, riding a bike on a tight rope very high in the air. On one side the ground has “HELPING” painted in big green letters. On the other side “HURTING” painted in big red letters. I snap out of the daydream to realize we are having an official meeting with Dr. Greg and Ramide. Ramide is the head nurse at the clinic. She and Fredrina are the only two plump haitians I know. She has a little girl face and kisses my cheek each time she sees me. She always wears snow white dresses. I wonder how she gets them so white without a washing machine. We are having an official meeting about the clinic. She is advised by Dr. Greg with his white hair and glasses that we are here to help. He goes on to talk about Typhoid antigen tests and some other things I’ve never heard of.  I picture mine fields and the tight rope together this time.

            Ronnie is asleep next to me. Our mosquito net is tucked in and my eyes are heavy. Bon nwi.

January 23, 2012 We are finally here!

I’m really tired but this sort of thing needs release before sleep. Even still I will likely lie here tonight with images and thoughts swirling around in my head contending heavily with exhaustion.  Flying into Haiti today was different than ever before. I don’t even remember the blur of how we made it to the airport at 4am this morning. There was a haze from staying up till midnight talking to Ronnie about our fears and aspirations for this year. I remember checking our bags which were over by a few pounds each and Leslie the stateside director, a bubbly little redhead I have only met a few times got lectured by the lady checking the luggage. “Next time only 50 pounds!” She said sternly.  Leslie is very gracious and agrees about “next time.”  I fib a little when the lady on the other side of the counter asks me when I plan to return. “Four weeks.” I am a terrible liar. But I don’t want to have to purchase a visa. She buys it and Ronnie slides in behind me on the same tale.  I vaguely remember boarding the international flight on which I was able to read a few chapters in my book and then started nodding off. I woke to some turbulence and could see the island coming into view. There truly are mountains beyond mountains in Haiti… literally. From that far up it’s just like a geography map. Profuse mounds jutting up out of the ground with deep vertical crevices webbing down to the valleys and converge into sandy riverbeds. Most of which are dry this time of year. There are few clumps of trees here and there but mostly there are not.  The mountains are bleeding with red clay spilling all the way down the sides to the riverbeds. Some of them must be cream filled because someone has knocked a hole in one side or another and white oozes down the side. Ronnie nudges my side and points “What is that?”  He is gesturing to the sand bars in the ocean. “Sandbars.” I say. That’s all they could be, right? But they are peculiar looking… I continue to strain. I see a few boats here and there and some other tiny spots.” Suddenly I can see thousands, maybe million spots… those aren’t sandbars. They are huge congregations of trash.

            Flying in looking out over Port-au-Prince isn’t something you can easily describe. A lot of the cinder block buildings have no roofs at all. It looks like a basic blueprint… you can see right down into the building. I don’t know why these buildings don’t have roofs but I plan to ask someone. There was an older Haitian man sitting next to us on the flight who didn’t speak English. I know this because when the stewardess asked him what he wanted to drink she had to hold up the apple and orange juice so he could point to the one he wanted. He looked very interested in seeing his country as we landed so even thought I would have preferred to look for myself, I leaned back. I suppose it is his country after all. 

            Our friend Johnson who we have known for a while lives in Port-au-prince. We have texted him and He is waiting to meet us after we deplane and travel by taxi to the smaller airport. Johnson is 22 and lives with his brother and two other guys who are from Ranquitte as well. He is the kind of guy you could just hang out with on a Saturday afternoon and eat pizza. He frequently describes his love for all white people and will always ask you about American politics. We chat with him for around three hours about the economy, presidential candidates, love and Haitian culture while waiting for our MAF flight.

            Boarding the MAF 6 seat airplane is fantastic. Ronnie gets to sit in the front seat with the pilot which I am secretly bummed about because I wanted to sit up there. Climbing in is like squeezing into a go-cart. I get that feeling like “if my parents could only see what I am doing I would be in so much trouble.” I love it! This is the kind of flight that will make someone believe in Jesus. Once off the ground it is an absolute certainty that nothing else could be holding this hunk of junk together.  The turbulence swirls us around and my bottom leaves the seat every few seconds. I don’t get motion sick. My sister has that problem but I don’t.

            Landing in Pignon is easy. The grass runway has been recently burned rather than bush hogged. A blind pilot with a decent nose could find the crispy runway easily enough.  At Pignon we learn that Georges, the mayor of Ranquitte who has traveled to Pignon to pick us up is detained because the truck has a broken “spring.” We walk with Greg our other team member who is renal doctor and serves on the CFI board to the nearby Fonkoze to exchange some American dollars for Haitian Goudes. Greg is tall and lanky with white hair and glasses. I notice that the Haitian children seem intrigued by the white hair. They meander up to us and stare. Most of are either in school uniforms or rags. I am always impressed by how put together Haitian children look in their school uniforms. Like they were cut and pasted from a private American school. Then the other ones in rags look like they just stepped out of a feed the hungry commercial minus the flies in their eyes. 

            So Georges is a few hours late… this is totally acceptable in Haiti. I didn’t even look at my watch. Haitian time is very different. I think I could probably go the whole year without a watch or cell phone. I probably wouldn’t miss anything and would save myself the American stress of punctuality. Here that really isn’t even a concept. I assume the spring got fixed because George eventually arrived in his big white truck. Luggage was loaded and Leslie volunteered to ride in the back on top of the luggage with a translator. I liked that about her… she seems to enjoy the adventure of all this too.  I don’t know how many hours the truck ride was but this was the exhausting part of the trip. The truck creaked and squealed, lurched and twisted up and down the deep washed out road. We only made it out of second gear a hand full of times and never got above 10mph. No wonder the spring was broken. Climbing in and out of four foot deep pits has to wreak havoc on the suspension. The truck ride seems a lot like life in Haiti. The constant struggle of constantly climbing up out of a hole seems to wreak havoc in quite the same way on hope here. The thing we need is to stay suspended and keep our attitudes from dragging the ground. I’ve not experienced hopelessness like it exists here.  I suspect that I will really here from God on this matter over the next year. Not necessarily because he will be speaking more clearly, but probably because I will be listening better than before.

            I knew when we were getting near Ranquitte. Passerby’s tones became more cheerful and genuinely excited to see us. I felt less like a freak show and more like a welcomed guest. Then I heard the motorcycle.

            Frantz was tailing the truck on his lime green motorcycle. It was one of those moments you really feel. Like you feel when you are a kid and you see Santa Clause. Frantz is our best haitian friend.  He is dark and you can recognize him by his facial hair. When the truck finally pulled into the CFI compound we exploded out the truck door to hug our Frantz. We had one of those deep down in your belly laughs at my unintelligible attempt to greet him in kreyol. The joy! It has been since his wedding in Cap-Haiten almost a year ago since we have seen him. Frantz is a different kind of haitian. The kind I would trust my life with. He has the patience of Job to answer American questions about Haitian culture. I have seen the face of Jesus in his on more than one occasion.

            And now we are here… in Ranquittte.  We haphazardly unpacked and Ronnie has hung the mosquito net above our bed under which I am typing this. We are really here. Bon nwi everyone!