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.