Port-au-Prince-walking dead
I sat in the back of the truck as our driver pulled up to a large teal metal gate. Two men stepped out, leaned into the truck driver window, and raised their chins at nick and me. Our driver spoke in few, but firm words and reluctantly the two men stepped back never letting their eyes leave mine. I smiled gingerly as the truck moved through the gate unsure of what I was going to see. I looked over at Nick who was removing his sunglasses, his face unreadable, and eyed the back side of the gate as three boys worked to manipulate a bulky lock. The truck rolled to a stop and I hopped out following Dr. DesGrottes’ family –her mom and her two Uncles (our hosts at the clinic).
A large dance hall stood before me. Tall square concrete pillars held up a metal roof that housed three large disco balls. Mattresses arbitrarily strewn about the floor created homes and a safe haven for a few people, among the many, who lost their homes. At the far end of the hall stood a large concrete stage, a circle of wood folding chairs, and a group of young Haitian adults occupying half of them. As I moved closer to the circle I noticed the twitching feet, curious eyes, and slumped bodies trying to keep the tense mood casual. I took a chair next to Tania with the open dance floor on my left. With silence still hanging in the circle and the sun casting its late afternoon rays over the yard, I could almost feel the beat of the music that once moved a crowd; shoes stepping in a transient rhythm, shoulders swinging to the motion of the soul, hands clapping bringing the music to life, and laughter pushing the energy through the roof. My heart beat to a ghost tune. Caught in my own thoughts I was brought back to the present with foreign words rushing into my ears. I immediately turned to face Tania. “What are we doing here?” She explained this group was a unique group of like-minded young adults wanting to bring a broken and separate Petite-Goave together. The handful of young men and women before me were here to discuss how to bring together young children from all over the community and inspire their minds about the cultural beauty of their own community, country, and home. Two main issues occupied the discussion: how to attract the children and how to bring two different groups (the city kids and the farm kids) collectively without a political uprising. Two groups under one umbrella; how would one avoid a political undertone? The entire dialogue in Creole I was not able to understand most of what was being said, but I did manage to grasp the need for Petite-Goave to be one Petit-Goave. For the community who has been literally shaken down to the ground to pick their spirits off the ground, rebuild, and recreate pride amongst the people. When the meeting ended Nick and I went back to the truck and hopped in with the entire group….with a spare tire and a guitar. Within minutes of leaving the grounds, I had all the boys laughing up a storm. Nobody could understand anyone. I had learned phrases in Creole, but had a hard time understanding anyone’s response. The boys had also learned some phrases in English, but with the same problem they could not understand my responses. With my broken-very broken- French skills (Dana has been helping me learn) the boys found my accent funny and pronunciations hilarious. I managed to convince one of the boys to play a few songs on the guitar and another boy chimed in with some traditional vocals. When we arrived back at the port and the boys had to jump off I was hassled for photos. They wanted pictures with me, my name, and my number (everyone has a phone here and most Haitians find it amusing that being an American I do not carry one with me). I told them I would be here for two weeks or more and they all cheered promising we would see each other again. I gave hugs all around and settled in next to Nick as we sped off our destination: Port-au-Prince.
Let me take a few minutes to explain why I settled in “tight” next to Nick. I say tight, but I mean crammed, squished, paralyzed, packed like a sardine, and not sure I was going to make the three hour journey sitting this way. Nick, myself, three other clinic workers, seven boxes of canned food, a large gas tank, luggage, bags of potatoes, a bag of rice, my bag, Nick’s bag, and two bottles of water (which make a difference). In America this would not be okay, but here I am excited to see the country the way every Haitian experiences the country-truck bed style with speeds sometimes over 50 miles an hour.
The sun fell heavy in the sky as we drove through the far edge of Petit-Goave. With darkness collapsed around us my senses heighted to sounds and smells. Racing along the winding streets over 60 miles an hour I managed to catch both strange and familiar sounds emanating from the passing towns. The scent of fire burning filled my nostrils. The three other Haitian passengers occupying our limited space covered their noses and mouths with masks; I prayed very hard at that moment that not having one of my own I would not soon regret my travel to Port-au-Prince. Well you win some and you lose some, but Malaria (and most likely worse) is not a battle I wanted to ever have to fight. Living in such close proximities, gathered with no means of sanitation or sewage disposal, it is a wonder anyone is healthy here. Disease spreads like children released in a theme park recently injected with sugar. I tried to put the thought in the back of my mind holding my breath periodically when enclosed in dust clouds-particulate matter of who knows what.
Conversation between Nick and I sparked laughter, provoking ideas, and plans for the future. I wanted to be here again. I want to find myself in the back of a truck overflowing with supplies and Haitians racing to somewhere-anywhere. I want my ride to include other doctors and hopefully dentists ready for action doing good to do good wanting nothing in return. Meeting the people where the people are. Discovering a slice of God’s creation the way God intended a creation to be seen. I want to race past other motor taxis, blast the horn at passing vehicles, and shout at pedestrians and bicycles grabbing their attention. Sailing here offered a perspective on a country no one could experience unless traveling by boat. I greet the fisherman every morning over a hot cup of coffee. I walk to school with the kids. I made friends with the UN port guards joking with them and sharing different foods from Shrilanka. I know the corner store owners working outside our gate entrance. I have come to know the teenage boys who wash their cars and motor bikes to show pride in their work giving rides to people all over town. I have been able to be a part of a community I feel so many people would dismiss as they douse their hands in hand sanitizer. A community teaching me about life; lessons I hope to bring back with me to America. Lessons I hope not lost in vain to my home culture and my need to “fit in”.
In the beginning I was bummed not to have traveled this road during the day light. I wanted to see the countryside-green land, blue sky, warm sun. After fifteen minutes, however, I changed my mind. The night offers sight to a different culture. Candles light up faces offering fresh bread, fried bread fruit, plantains, and other mouthwatering aromas. The disco halls explode the night with music from all around the world-American, German, Haitian, French, and Spanish. Children broke out in play- relived for a cool breeze.
The truck often slowed down having to maneuver through a maze of destruction. This brief moment sometimes cast a beam of light across our faces. People would move in close to gather a glimpse of the white folks (Le Blanc) hitching a ride through their village. Not yet accustomed to the fishbowl effect I instinctively would lean back then smile as I found myself subsequently crouching forward to catch a glance of my own. Shouting a cheerful “good evening” in Creole I was often rewarded with hearty smiles and giggles with waves and sometimes a short chase after the truck. Yeah that’s right. Nobody can resist this smile and good nature. Haha.
The ride continued as the smell of burning plastic filled my lungs with every town closing our distance to Port-au-Prince. Just when I thought my leg was going to fall off from lack of blood circulation I turned to my left and immediately forgot all about my troubles. No less than three feet from the exposed truck-bed stood hundreds of Haitians standing, sitting, aimlessly wondering, singing, shouting, and crying over candlelight that shed an eerie shadow sending chills down my spine. I sat in silence as the picture only got worse. Taking a slight de-tour the driver took us through down town past the capital and park. The building was sunken in as if only made from play-dough having the unfortunate demise of an angry five year old. The park housing beautiful statues, land marks, and fountains had become a jumble of shanty towns where one tent wall separated three” homes” sheltering more than twelve people. Over 15, 000 people (a number without meaning until my eyes witnessed it for themselves) now occupied a park that once emanated laughter, restful lunch breaks, and soulful music. Still not a word spoken from any member in the car my mind raced, my heart ached, and I pushed back tears welling up inside. With so many people up and about this truly is the place where nobody sleeps. “The walking dead” is a common phrase passed around to describe the people in Port-au-Prince.
It was pushing past 9:00pm when we arrived in down town and everyone was getting a bit restless. The driver swerved, honked, and four wheeled it around earthquake remnants. Pulling up next to a lit up gas station the first Haitian guy leaped from the truck bidding us a fare well. As soon as his hand left the truck I lost sight of him in a sea of people and shouting voices. I hope he stays safe, was my last thought for this man. Ten seconds later the truck bolted forward blending in with the chaos once more. My mind lost all sense of direction as we seemed to wind back and forth around in circles through the same streets. The only way I knew we were making progress was the continued increase in elevation as the streets once level grew steep and slippery.
Lightning hurdled through the night sky in scattered patterns, accompanied by an abrupt drop in temperature within less than 5 minutes. I caught myself shivering at the sudden change as the breeze whipped my shirt, dampened by my sweat from the oppressive humidity. A slight drizzle swept over us from clouds that threatened a down pour. The truck screeched to a halt at a stop light just long enough to let the last of our fellow back passengers jump off and scramble for his bag. Lurching forward once more, we continued to dodge the streets with only Nick and I left. The sky opened up and the rain came down. I managed to squeeze my butt into the back truck cab (they stopped briefly to let me in the car) grateful for a short stretch of the legs and shelter. Nick graciously stayed in the back even though I offered to keep him company. He ushered me into the car with a smile and a wink. Oh sometimes it is good to be a girl.
Completely exhausted worn out from the stimulating drive Nick and I stumbled into the house collapsing on the nearest chair. The generator giving life to the house just ran out of gas minutes before we arrived. I didn’t care. I live on a boat. I love to camp. I just wanted some water, a toilet, and a bed. How my life has become envious of such simple things. In the dark with just a few small candles shadows gave a grim picture of what I am sure is a beautiful living space. A man sat on the far side couch just inside a corner shadow. He wore a white pressed dress shirt, black pressed pants, slippers, reading glasses held lightly in his right hand and a glass of grapefruit juice in his left. The only sign of consciousness was the periodic lifting of the glass to his lips and the sound of swirling ice. He seemed to be watching me very carefully listening to my words and memorizing my movements. I felt uneasy at first being a guest in his home- the port director of Port-au-Prince. Doing my best I instigated a conversation with him getting few words in return. Saved by the call for dinner I gladly sat in the kitchen to escape his watchful eyes. Nick and I were shown the bathroom, shower, and our sleeping arrangements. I undressed and redressed in PJ’s so quickly even my mom’s “Rachel is the fastest dress in the west” would have been too slow. I greedily poured an entire bottle of water into my mouth, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and even managed to get some floss in too. Nick tried to use the sink water for his teeth and was hand swatted by the house keeper. “NO. No you use bottle water. Very sick for you. Bad water for you. Vomit.” Haha I couldn’t help but smile and stick my tongue out at Nick for the reprimand he was just given. Rule one in any foreign country: DON’T DRINK THE WATER! We laughed about it for a minute which seemed to literally drain any energy we had left to give and before I knew what was happening my body was horizontal and I was drifting fast asleep to the thunder storm dancing on the metal roof.
About half way through the night I was abruptly woken up with the smell of 100% DEET. Nick was drenching his body in the liquid and as if in a sleep walking state came over and covered me head to toe as well. I am not sure if at the time I thought I was dreaming because I didn’t even move but, rather I laid there and just watched.
The mornings come quick here and with the sun a heat not many people can sleep past. The rays poured into our room over our bodies and woke us with a groan. I rolled over and grabbed my watch-5:30am. Time to rise and shine. I jumped into the shower, grabbed another bottle of water and dressed for the day. I wore a blue skirt and a white tank (mom blue is a good color for me…c’mon). I packed my overnight bag and met Nick in the living room. Interested to see what the night hid Nick and I asked if it was okay to go on a walk before breakfast. Hugh appeared in the room and offered to walk with us sharing with us his community. We walked the two blocks learning a lot about Haiti, the community, traditions, values, and new problems with empty solutions. Hugh, as I learned, has earned a prestigious degree from a University in London as well as a more recent degree at Harvard. He said ‘that because he was accepted to Harvard he guessed he must go’. Haha very cool. The morning was nice; and it was nice to talk to Hugh and listen to his stories.
The neighborhood houses were all made from cement; the roofs included. The houses looked as if they were still under construction waiting for a nice paint job and a miracle landscaper. However, neither was going to happen; these houses were complete. The center road had huge flower bushes and lots unoccupied by a house grew corn and other vegetables. I very much enjoyed the walk and took stalk in the vast differences between those who have and those who have not-night and day. Getting back just in time for breakfast, Nick and I enjoyed two different soups. One was made from a local squash with veggies; it was thick orange and great with Haitian bread. The other was equally fantastic and my personal favorite; green from the spinach, egg plant, potatoes, carrots, and Haitian bread for dipping! I ate two helpings and washed it all down with watermelon juice. I was becoming quite enthralled with local recipes wondering if I could discover the ingredients once back in California. Once breakfast was over I helped do the dishes (Mom you taught me great manners) and hoped back into the truck for a ride back to Petite Goave. This time Nick and I managed to get seats inside the car and we were going to see the city uncovered by harsh sunlight.
Driving back through the neighborhood gate we left the privileged and entered the world of the destitute. As before, it was like night and day. The streets were crowded with venders, customers, children in school uniforms, wondering boys, helpless mothers, husbands looking for jobs, beggars, and some people looking to the sky as if for a miracle or the angel of death. Trash blanketed the streets, trees, walls, and blocked several driveways. No corner was untouched, no building left unsoiled, no solution blew down any alley. And yet even through all the destruction, the obvious strain, the pollution, the sanitation issues, the overpopulated grounds, and the awful stench, a glimmer of hope like a faint breeze lingered low in the air. People waved when they saw us, smiled big for the camera, laughed when I yelled bonjour, picked up trash, swept up rubble, helped ladies across the street, waited in line for the bathroom, and played games were ever a space provided-a community wanting to improve.
A ridiculous amount of non-profit groups have entered Haiti since the earthquake. An enormous amount of money has poured into the hands of these groups. A not so shockingly vast amount of this money has been “misdirected”, “spent”, “allocated”, and “distributed” throughout Haiti by means of these groups. And yet despite the corruption, the obvious scandals, the take-a-picture-and-leave attitude, Haiti has certainly put themselves back on their feet even marching with improvement. Nick, while driving through town, said “to live in Haiti you have to be a fighter, strong, a go-getter. There is no pathetic, indolent, or vulnerable person here-children, women, and even the elderly. For to be these things, one would not survive”. I looked out at Port-au-Prince and smiled just then. I noticed buses speeding along the highway at 60 miles an hour with men hanging on the back literally with one arm. America’s James Bond and best stunt man rivals nothing to this everyday occurrence. Women carry bucket loads of supplies on their heads as if gracefully walking down main street Hollywood. Our strongest women wouldn’t survive if she knew her massage appointment might be cancelled. Little boys raced up hills with wheel barrels full of sugar cane and lumber while our school boys race up hills carrying the latest ipod or video game. When ever asked to help with chores I have yet to see one child argue or demand a reward in return of their good graces. With an obvious lack of anything especially food, every time I meet someone new I am always offered a fleshly cut mango, a fried plantain, or some fresh bread fruit. People in Haiti help their next door neighbor because not helping might mean death. Haiti people volunteer their services, time, and belongings because they would rather be volunteering than just sitting around their home doing nothing. I smiled even bigger as I watched gracious acts being preformed all around me.
I feel as though a person could come here and only see the worst. One could take the time to see all the dirt, trash, hold their nose at the smell, relish in negative act upon negative act, but I chose to see other things. Evil exists everywhere, but I think it takes a certain individual to really look closely at the positive things occurring around them all the time. What a different experience I have had in comparison to some. Taking note of the beautiful vegetation, landscape, and culture surrounding me I leave Port-au-Prince with a breaking heart but a positive attitude (and hundreds of bug bites-itchy). The stars glitter here, the sunsets burst with color here, the sunrises explode over the mountains here- Haiti is not lost.
The drive home was equally sad and equally breathtaking. I never stopped taking pictures for the three hours it took to get home. My battery died right as I stepped onto my home dock-phew. As I waited for my ride back to my boat I let tears roll down my face. I couldn’t help it. The last 48 hours took me through an emotional rollercoaster and I felt helpless to change any of it. All I could do was to remind myself to leave this place as a member of their community-better than when I arrived. Removing plaque may not be life changing, but delivering health education and handing out the tools necessary to do so is all I can do. The rest is up to them. As if God was watching me personally, a local fisherman jumped out of his boat grabbed my hand and said in his best attempted English “thank-you”. He pointed to his teeth and demonstrated a brushing motion. I recognized him from the dentist office I volunteered at my first day in Haiti. He was in so much pain then. We pulled his tooth and I gave him a toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss stressing the importance of these items. He looked happy now smiling big and I laughed. Mom-you always said we may never know the consequences of our actions, but sometimes God lets us see our influence on the world. This was no coincidence. God was letting me see that a smile goes a long long way.
I went to bed that night under the stars, listening to a group singing, tapping my toes to the rhythm of the drums, and thinking of all the wonderful people who have influenced my life. If you are reading this chances are you have influenced my life in a positive way. I know it may not be much, but thank-you.
Mom, Dad, Dana, and Jennifer-
I love you and have carried with me lessons, values, and personal characteristics you have instilled in me. Often I stop what I am doing here and think “gosh this is something they would do.” Haha. And I am never steered wrong. Xoxox You are with me every day!
