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!