Joyeux Noël

This Christmas will definitely be a little different for me.  I will miss my family, especially my little boys. I mean it’s hard to beat waking up Christmas morning with two little boys jumping up and down at my bedside, saying, “Granny, Granny, get up! Santa came.” Skype is a poor substitute but it’s better than nothing.

But, I continue to believe that this is where I should be-for now. Each day brings its challenges but nothing like the challenges facing most Haitians every day.

In many ways, it doesn’t really seem like Christmas at all.  Most all the trappings of Christmas to which I have become accustomed are missing.  There is no frenetic Christmas shopping, no Christmas lights or decorations on the houses or stores (except for one house which is completely covered in lights), no Christmas greetings heard, no Christmas cards arriving in the mail (the absence of a postal service here might have something to do with that), no nativity scenes-not even in church, no festive Christmas apparel, no incessant Christmas music being piped in wherever you are, etc. As to the latter, as I write this letter, I am listening to the parish radio station (which operates semi-periodically) and it doesn’t sound like Christmas music to me. I guess that pretty much leaves one with just Christ’s Mass. Hmm. Maybe they’re on to something here.

Today, we’ve been working on the Christmas meal.  I use the term “we” loosely. I basically do that chopping, peeling, etc. and try to stay out of the way of the real chefs.

Tonight, at 10:30 PM we go to the Christmas Vigil Mass. My Creole is improving slowly but not enough to be looking forward to 3 hours of it in church.  Actually, I probably wouldn’t be looking forward to 3 hours even if it were in English.  The other 2 volunteers are in the choir though, which is pretty cool, so at least that part will be fun.

Tomorrow, we will visit the Kay Pov which is a homeless shelter which the sisters support. I’m not sure exactly what we’ll be doing besides bringing some food and singing some songs.  Don’t worry.  I’ll just mouth the words.  

We also plan to visit a young man in the hospital.  The sisters have been helping out Wilford since he was diagnosed with diabetes.  Unfortunately, it went uncontrolled for quite a while before he was diagnosed.

Then, it’s a turkey dinner with all the trimmings (well, most of them, anyway) and fresh baked apple pie.  It will be a good day.

Christmas blessings on all of you and yours.

Coke, Sprite, and White Women Drivers on Bikes

For anyone out there complaining about women drivers, I’m happy to inform you there is a place where you’re almost guaranteed never to see one.  No, not on a NASCAR track (thanks a lot Danica Patrick), I’m talking about a place far more dangerous than a small circular track where race cars bump each other at more than 200 mph; the streets of Haiti.  

And while the hazards for Danica are nothing to sneeze at, the hazards for women drivers in my neck of the woods might actually make them sneeze.  This is because livestock frequently amble into the crazy mix of cars, bikes, and motos that populate these pot-hole infested roads -- and I use the term livestock loosely here ‘cause one trot in the wrong direction and said stock often ends up, well, not live.

But jay-walking donkeys, pedestrian goats, and games of “chicken” that feature actual chickens aside, there’s no law that says women can’t drive here, they just don’t.  I kid – no pun intended – but you almost have a better chance of seeing a goat driving around here as you are a woman.  In the three months I’ve lived here, I’ve only seen one operating a car, one driving a moto, and zero riding a bicycle (I’m talking women here, not goats). 

 In fact, the only thing less likely to witness on the streets of Gros Morne than a woman driver is a white person.  Put the two together and the bewildered looks you get from the locals remind me of the confused stares my kids used to give me when they found me actually cooking dinner. 

The fact that I roll with a posse of four other white women only adds to the rubber-necking.  The five of us would probably get less attention if we walked onto the American Idol stage to perform a Kanye West song than we do ambling around town.  But turn that amble into one of us (yours truly) riding up and down Main Street on a rusty old ten-speed and you’ve got more than attention, you’ve got a traffic-stopping spectacle.  And, as evidenced by all the three-legged dogs and the sporadic chicken feathers that garnish many a car’s grill, this is traffic that doesn’t stop for just anything.  

It all started when Jen, one of the other, much younger volunteers, stumbled upon an ancient Huffy.  Now, Jen wasn’t bike shopping per say, but in Haiti, when you walk into a store whose marquee reads “Coke, Sprite,” you might encounter a fridge-full of refreshing carbonated beverages or you might find yourself smack dab in the middle of a cleverly disguised second-hand bike shop.  

I guess using the term “second hand” to describe a bike shop in a third world country is superfluous, but I’m trying to paint a picture here.  And speaking of paint, this old rust bucket needed some, which is perhaps why Jen didn’t break down and buy the thing on the spot. 

But at dinner that evening, Jen couldn’t stop thinking about her new found treasure, hoping out loud that some parched soda shopper wouldn’t discover it and buy it before she could.  So, being the cycling enthusiast that I am (or was, before Father Time revoked my bike lane pass), I asked Jen about the condition of the chain wheels, sprockets, and how many gears her two-wheeled crush was running on.  Her retort in the form of a blank stare told me two things:  1) I’m what the kids call a “bike nerd,” and 2) In revealing said nerdniness, I was now the liaison between Jen and the town bike/soda shop.

That’s how I came to be test-riding that rusty ten speed up and down Main Street, much to the bewilderment of the locals.  It was such a traffic-stopping spectacle, even the chickens stopped clucking, the goats stopped bleating, and in a single moment, I became a star.  Mr. Spielberg may have captivated the world with a 10-year-old boy flying a dirt bike across the moonlit horizon with an extraterrestrial on his handlebars, but on the streets of Haiti, that doesn’t hold a candle to a gray-haired white woman with her pant legs rolled up pedaling a rusty Huffy through rush hour.

But this isn’t about me or my performance, this is about the performance of Jen’s newfound love and whether or not its derailleurs worked (told you I was a bike nerd).  Much to my surprise, they did, and I was successfully able to not only capture the attention of the townsfolk and their temporarily-live livestock, but also get that rusty bucket of bolts into all 10 of its gears.

After spending the going rate for a used bike in a Haitian soda shop ($50 – Coke, Sprite not included), Jen was nervous to take it onto the main street.  She said it was because of all the traffic and animals but I know it’s because she was intimidated by my star making turn as the city’s first female bike rider.  Regardless of which version you choose to believe, we did find a nice quiet place for her to practice; the courtyard of the local Catholic Church.

Well, I should say it was quiet.  Seems my newfound celebrity had its downside as a crowd of Haitians followed to see what the crazy white lady would do next.  Ah, the curse of fame.  I feel for Angelina Jolie now that she and I are practically walking in the same shoes.  

But I digress, back to Jen and her new brand new, rusty, old bike.  In order to practice changing gears, I encouraged her to ride in circles in the courtyard.  The crowd really liked this development – my Creole leaves much to be desired but I’m pretty sure they were saying things like “Look, the crazy old one rides on the street with the goats and the young one just goes in circles!”

After enough circles to make the crowd dizzy, Jen was comfortable enough on her new mode of transportation to pedal it home.  I was tempted to hop on the handlebars to hitch a ride but deep down I knew the locals had experienced enough excitement for one day.  One white lady on a bike may cause a spectacle – two might just cause an accident.  And if that happened, you know what they’d say – “Darn women drivers.”

[written by my son, Matt, but based on a "true story," as they say. He gets paid to write such things, just not by his mom.  Thanks, Matt.] 

Laurie, Jen and "Rosie"

On Being "Blan" in Gros Morne, Haiti

“Blan”, of course, means “white” in Creole.  But, it is also used to describe any “white” person as well as any foreigner, including ones of African descent. It’s just that the latter are not quite so easily identified as the former.

Both the sisters and all the volunteers here are white and, except for visitors, we are the only white people in Gros Morne.

Still, the children never seem to tire of calling out “Blan” over and over, whenever one of us walks or drives by.  They really have a lot of fun with it and we try to wave back which they seem to enjoy.  Sometimes, if I’m walking, I’ll stop and say that my name is not “Blan” and then tell them my name and I ask theirs.  They are usually happy to engage in conversation and some of the older ones will try out a few English phrases. So, it’s kind of fun.

Well, except for the part where they ask for money which a well-trained child will do.  The other day I heard a dad chastise his little son for not asking me for money.

Occasionally, an apparently well-nourished  adult will also ask for money.(The older or disabled and not so well nourished ones are a whole different story.) I was in the market with Sr. Pat once when she declined to buy some potatoes for (not from) a woman.  A man nearby said, under his breath but loud enough to be heard, “All white people have money” to which Sr. Pat replied, “Oh, really!” That got the bystanders laughing but, of course, they all believe it to be true too.

Being “Blan” is also recognized in other ways.  For example, the other two volunteers went to the town square when the President of Haiti, Martelly, came to town. Needless to say, this was a huge deal and there was a very large crowd. But, because they are “Blan,” they were ushered up to the very front, right in front of the stage.  This was a big advantage, of course, until, that is, he started kicking soccer balls into crowd and they rushed the stage.  Fortunately, Barak, who is on our staff, was there and pulled them to safety.

Places, such as the local hospital, often have guards at the door to screen visitors. However, just being “Blan” and acting like you belong there is often enough to get you through the door.  Last month a medical group was here from the US and several of the volunteers were Haitian American.  I was talking to one woman who was born in the US of Haitian immigrants.  In other words, she had never lived in Haiti. We were discussing the group’s upcoming trip to the hospital.  She assumed that I could get in the hospital easily because, by now, the guards would know who I was.  I had to respond, no, the guards don’t really know me yet because I rarely go to the hospital, but, you know, I’m Blan.  Unfortunately, she understood.

You’d think that being such a tiny minority and given the history of this country that being “Blan” would be a big disadvantage but it is not-at least on the surface of things. Underneath, it can be a whole different story but that’s a different blog.

I was also surprised to learn that the treatment of “Blans” is not the only racial hangover from the colonial period of slavery.  In my Creole class we were taught, by a Haitian, the names of the racial categories of people of African descent. It was a chapter in our Creole book. The categories are basically a function of skin color and hair texture. I was stunned. Of course, there are no longer laws separating these categories of people but the terminology of those laws still exists.

I had a little fun with the "Blan" topic this week.  I got a new Haitian Creole teacher and, in trying to determine my level of Creole proficiency, he asked if I could understand the town’s people when they spoke to me.  I responded, “Yes, I understand 'Blan, Blan.' ” He started laughing hysterically.  

His name is Mr. Blan …..but, he is not.

A New Schoolhouse in Chacho

Fon Ibo is a small, agricultural suburb, if you will, of Gros Morne. It is there that the Religious of Jesus & Mary, a Catholic women religious order for which I volunteer,  has expanded a one room school into a 15 room one and has continued to support the grade school (pre-k through 6^th grade)  for many  years.  The school is operated by Haitians but, the RJMs provide most of the $75/mo. salary for the teachers as well as the bulk of the food for each day's freshly cooked lunches.

Across the river from Fon Ibo is an even smaller community called Chacho. Many children from Chacho attend the Fon Ibo school.  The problem (or one of them, anyway) is that the youngest children (ages 3-5) are too small to cross the river, at least when it is swollen after rains.  So, the sisters built a “school” for the little ones in Chacho.  Right now, this school is essentially a tent like structure with dirt floors, a tarp for a roof and intertwined coconut tree branches for the walls.  When it rains, the floor turns to mud and then there’s the matter of the chickens, etc., wandering into class.

Last month, Nick, recently retired from the construction business, visited us for a couple of weeks and designed and helped lay the foundation for a new one room school in Chacho.  Some weeks later, an American engineer came through town and he designed and helped obtain the supplies for a railing around the platform.  Our job, on Thanksgiving morning, was to take photos of the construction project.

So, on Thanksgiving which, of course, is just another day in Haiti, the three of us volunteers plus a visiting Mercy sister, drove over to Fon Ibo for the morning flag raising/prayer ceremony at the main school.  Everything was going fine and the Haitians working on the new school all loaded up in the vehicle to head for Chacho when, as things go in Haiti, we ran into a little snag.  The car wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t even turn over. There was just a clicking noise when I tried to start it.

But, not a problem, or so I thought.  The last time this happened I watched what Barak did to get the darn thing started and I even put a pair of pliers in the glove box to assist in the project.  So, we all piled out of the car, I popped the hood and started to unhook the battery cables in order to clean them.  Second problem; with only a pair of pliers, I didn’t have the strength to loosen the bolts.  Again, no problem;  the Haitian men took over, got the battery cables off, and cleaned them up a bit, even cleverly squeezing a bit of a lemon juice  on them to help the cleaning process.  Third problem; the darn thing still wouldn’t start. So, in defeat, we had to call Barak who came and got us going again. (We just hadn’t tightened the bolts on the battery cables enough).

I then managed to get us all across the river and back with Barak’s persistent command from the back seats: “plis gas, Laurie, plis gas” (more gas, Laurie, more gas).

The photos below are of our trip.  The first one shows the existing school, the next two are the kids in the school, the next one the platform for the new school and finally, a view from Chacho with our vehicle in the foreground and the river in the background.

Little Milenne Died

Milenne was the little 4 year old girl who was seen by Global Health Ministry in the village of Gassin almost 2 weeks ago now.  Most of her little body was very swollen and she became increasingly listless and non-responsive as the day progressed. 

Milenne was brought to the clinic by her “Aunt” because, she said, both parents were in Gonaives at the hospital. Mom was pregnant with twins and their arrival was apparently imminent.

The doctor wanted to immediately send her to the children’s hospital in St. Mark (about a 3 hour drive) but the Aunt had no car. Besides that, she said that with the 1000 gouds we were willing to give her to get the baby to the hospital, she could take care of the little girl at home.  That’s when she was told to leave the baby and go find transportation. The photo you see in my previous blog of a white woman holding a Haitian baby was taken of Milenne while transportation was being secured.

Eventually, a man showed up claiming to be the father (it was later determined he was the godfather) and took the baby and the 2000 gouds (about $50) GHM gave him and promised to take Milenne to the children’s hospital in St. Mark.

Well, of course, he took the baby to the hospital in Gonaives where the parents were.(about an 1 ½ hour drive). (It wasn't really realistic to think the baby could go to a hospital in St. Mark. You can't just drop an adult off at the hospital, much less a child. The family must provide food, buy the meds, etc. etc.) Milenne stayed in the hospital for well over a week.  Then the doctors sent her home, saying there was nothing they could do for her.  She died on the bus ride home.

We learned all this today when the dad stopped by our house. (There’s no telephone service in Gassin).  What can one say?  He’d just lost one daughter but had 2 new infants who were evidently healthy, plus additional children.  The only time he smiled during our visit was when I asked him about the twins.  We gave him some more money and sent him on his way.  What else could we do?

Would Milenne have survived if she were in the States?  Who knows?  So far as I know, nobody even knows what killer her. But I can’t help but think of my little 4 year old grandson, the same age as Milenne, and how much different his life is from hers and the hundreds of millions just like her.  What kind of a world is it that tolerates this gross disparity? 

What a Week!

Five days on the road, over 600 patients seen, thousands upon thousands of meds distributed , nearly 500 school kids taught basic hygiene, plus professional training at the local hospital.  Whew-what a week. 

A group called Global Health Ministry (GHM) was in Gros Morne last week, doing all of this and more.  There were 13 of them, including one MD, a couple of nurse practitioners, several nurses, a woman Episcopal priest, and several Haitian-Americans, all led by a Catholic sister. 

Wound Care

Patients

Sick baby sent to the hospital

Each day we’d load up the vehicles and drive to a different village, set up shop, usually in the church, and start seeing patients. It was incredibly well organized with a station for registration, triage, consultations and the pharmacy. In addition to the usual assortment of aches and pains, there were several cases of severe diabetics with wounds needing immediate treatment, lots of high blood pressure, a child with hydrocephalus, many children with hernias, one extremely sick little girl who was immediately sent off to the hospital.  Many people were referred to the local hospital and GHM left funds to pay for their treatment.  All in all, it was a pretty impressive operation and a very dedicated group of people. And the villagers were most appreciative.

Can't resist cute little kids

Patient, Nurse Practitioner, Haitian-American translator

This was a real adventure for me because I was one of the drivers and I’d never been to any of the villages before-and then there’s the matter of the terrible, often very muddy roads, river crossings, etc., etc.  But no passengers or car parts were lost so it was all good. I also helped out in the pharmacy.

The group stayed at our Guest House which is pretty much my responsibility. That means, among other things, I’m supposed to plan the menu. HA! Thank God for the Haitian-Americans in the group because they pretty much took over planning the meals and both the cook and I were more than happy to oblige.

The green board behind me in the pharmacy photo says: “Welcome Sisters.  We are happy to meet you.”

Yours truly in the pharmacy

Encounters with Poverty & Hunger

I guess the Sisters have a reputation for being a “soft touch” and I suppose to some degree they are.  The result is that most days there’s a stream of people at the gate wanting one thing or the other.  The requests are often for money: 1) for school fees & books; 2) for medicine and medical supplies 3) to bury a relative; 4) to buy food.

Sometimes when I open the front gate to leave, the scene takes my breath away. There’s a woman repeatedly saying “grangou” (hungry) while pulling up her shirt and rubbing her stomach.  She looks like she could use a good meal too.  There’s a shabbily dressed, elderly man, struggling up the hill on one leg and a pair of home made wooden crutches.  There’s an elderly woman sobbing because her child died and she doesn’t have the money to bury him. (A proper burial is very important here).

Another time I was in town sitting in the car in front of the bank, waiting for Sr. Pat.  A very thin woman approached, pulled up her shirt as high as it would go and starting rubbing and patting her stomach, saying “grangou.”  She was not really begging, though.  She stared long and hard into my eyes with a defiant, demanding look as if to say, I’m hungry and YOU need to do something about it. I tried to engage her with my extremely limited Creole but she would have nothing to do with it.  She was hungry and what was I going to do about it.  I did nothing. 

It’s raining and raining

We've been getting a little touch of Hurricane Sandy the last few days.  Despite that, Sr Pat and I, plus Tiden the driver, had to go to Port-au-Prince (PAP) yesterday. We took 5 passengers down; 4 humans and 1 chicken.  Can't explain the chicken.

It's not a fun drive on a good day (4 hours each way about 1 hour of which is on an unpaved road) and certainly not fun in the rain.  We had to go because our primary mission was to pick up food and supplies from Food for the Poor.  This is a US Catholic non-profit based in Miami.  The office in PAP is very nice, even air conditioned, not that we needed that yesterday. I attach a photo of the sculpture that greets you when you first walk into the lobby.  It may have a name but I call it the nameless, faceless beggar, meant, I suppose to suggest the poor that most of the world does not see. As in the photos, pretty much all you can see is a hand sticking out.  The hand has hole in it like a stab wound. 

Anyway, FFP provides mostly food but also all manner of other supplies (medical supplies, desks, tables, chairs and god know what else which probably explains why there are boxes and boxes of random things in the house like Cling-who has a dryer in Haiti?!) to probably hundreds of agencies in Haiti.  You get an assigned day to come down and collect your "stuff" and you pretty much need to show up, rain or shine.  We (mostly Sr. Pat) were collecting for 15 different groups in the Gros Morne area including schools, churches, hospitals and I don't know who all.  We had enough stuff to fill 2 large trucks but poor Pat was there all day dealing with bureaucracy, Haitian style. 

Meanwhile, Tiden and I were running other errands, including picking up Sr. Vivian, an RJM who lives in PAP.

PAP is not a nice place even on a good day and, in the rain, well it's a pretty darn depressing, miserable place.

After 6 hours at FFP, the two very large trucks were finally full and we headed back home with Sr. Vivian (and no chickens).  It's still raining and it's dark before we get home at about 8:30 PM.  We passed one fatal accident on the way so Sr. Vivian said a prayer but it was in Creole so I don't know exactly what was said.  Before we made it back, Tiden got a phone call that one truck got in an accident but at least nobody got hurt and they both showed up this morning.

Today, long before I got up, Sr. Pat was up and gone to where the unloading of the trucks was to occur.  This, of course, was done in the rain because it's still raining. I managed to miss that duty which is why I have the time to write this blog.

Oh, I left out the part about how one of the trucks didn't show in PAP so Tiden, after much yelling into the phone, had to find another truck and driver which, of course, delayed the whole truck loading process and did not make Sr. Pat very happy.

The upside to all the rain is that it keeps the animals quiet so it's not so noisy at night.  One of the many, many downsides and a very minor one at that, is that my laundry has been on the line since Tuesday and I'm getting low on clean undies!

Things in Gros Morne are nothing like they are in PAP.  But, you do have to learn to roll with the punches because nothing is going to go the way you would like and things are always a bit chaotic. 

I can do that.