I am so sorry for the lack of contact lately. We are actually on vacation now in Bedford and I have been working the last several days to get ready to leave for our trip down here and haven’t had time to blog. Here is the Reader’s Digest version of the rest of our trip:

 

On our final day in Jacmel, we toured the school and church @ Damou Christian Mission, served food to some of the students, did a but more work at Tina’s house, went to some shops in the city to pick up some Haitian trinkets, and packed our gear to head back to Port au Prince. After saying our goodbyes and packing our gear, we went out to meet Maxime, our taxi driver, and headed back into the lovely city of POP. Our last night in the country was at a place called Shaw’s Guest House and it was the first time we’d had the chance to use high speed internet and post our whereabouts. We had a wonderful time together watching the sun set on the rooftop of the guest house and praying together about our remaining time together and those we were leaving behind. After another sticky night of sleep (AC was extra in the rooms) and getting our pictures taken with the armed guards at the Guest House, we again loaded into our taxi and headed to the airport. It was here, after a harrowing time getting through baggage check, aided by the help of a friend of Caleb’s who works at the airport, we learned our flight out to Miami was delayed and we’d be stuck for a bit longer. In reality, it was only about an hour before we boarded the flight, filled out our re-entry forms, and took off from the garbage strewn streets of POP, happy to have made it through this first leg safely, but sad to see our new friends go. After an early afternoon in-flight “breakfast” of orange juice and a cold breakfast sandwich, we turned our attention to making it through customs and getting across the Miami airport in enough time to catch our connection to Puerto Rico. Fortunately, our next flight was delayed as well and we made it with plenty of time to spare. The only hiccups were lots of airport construction and a large, burly, black man in a border patrol uniform who kindly reminded me I wasn’t supposed to be on my cell phone during my customs check. He was nice enough, but probably could have eaten me in a couple bites! I was thankful to have made it through.
         A slow take-off and late flight later we were in San Juan, meeting our friend Craig Beatty, and heading to his house for our final 4 days on the trip. I’ll try to give more details about this final part of our trip soon. For now, please now we are safe at home, and Melissa and I are enjoying a few days away. Feel free to comment and let us know what’s going on with you.

After spending the last 3 days in the middle of nowhere, it was a bit strange to be back indoors with plumbing that works, artificial light to keep you up at night, and even the chance to check email, as long as storms don’t interrupt the satellite internet service. We woke up Thursday morning a little later than usual, had breakfast around 8 and revisited our plans we’d made the night before to go tour the school Tina worked to start, and the orphanage nearby called Hands and Feet. We were in the middle of a tropical depression of sorts and the entire island was getting a good soaking. Unfortunately, that made for roads covered with mud and wasn’t very condusive to getting out and about. We opted instead to spend the better part of the day working on some projects around the house that Tina hadn’t had time to fix since the hurricanes last year had come through and wreaked havoc. Steve and Tracy started sanding down and building bunkbed frames, Jaime and Caleb sorted donated supplies for children at the school, and Bruce, Pete, and myself started on some plumbing. Pete and I worked to set a pedestal sink in one of the restrooms and then tried to get all the pipes running the right way underneath. Imagine trying to build something out of those old Erector Sets and only having pieces from your little brother’s Lego Star Wars kit! That was what it felt like trying to piece together that stupid trap and drain line under the sink. A couple hours and half a tube of caulk later, we at least had some semblance of how it was supposed to look and thus considered ourselves done. In the process, Pete and I had a great talk, so it was time well spent.
    Shortly afterward, we had lunch, spent some time visiting, and noticed the clouds breaking to give us a chance to travel around town later in the afternoon. After some more maintenance around the house, we grabbed our cameras and sunscreen, and headed out into the mud covered streets. The orphanage is about 1/2 mile from Tina’s and as we walked, we passed all sorts of little shops and booths that were run by Haitians with smiling faces and friendly greetings. When we arrived at the orphanage, Drex, the man in charge, was getting ready to take his wife out for dinner and we only had time for a quick tour. Drex is the father of Mark Stuart, lead singer of the band Audio Adrenaline, and agreed to run the place when Mark approached him about the band working with many other groups to support an orphanage in Haiti. They can presently house about 80 children, and all of those kids attend the school that Tina runs. During the tour, we walked to the back of the property, over several thousand cubic yards of rock and dirt the hurricanes had washed into the courtyard, and were amazed to see a huge concrete and rock retaining wall being built to divert the flood waters in the event of another round of storms like last year. It was a huge undertaking and had all been done by hand.
     After saying our goodbyes to Drex and crew, we walked back toward Tina’s, stopping along the way to duck into a small thatched roof hut that was home to a little restaurant serving only various kinds of soft drinks. Caleb knew the ladies from previous trips and we had a great time chatting and smiling at each other over 7Ups as the sun was setting down the street. Around dark, we finally made it back for dinner and another evening of sharing together and listening to the waves pound the coast in the distance. Even though this land is rough and survival here is difficult at best, the people are wonderful and God is doing some amazing work in and around the little village of Cyvadier. As we headed off to bed after a quick call back home to our families, we listened to the sound of Tina’s 2 German Shepherds and 1 Rottwieler making anyone nearby think better of trying to break in and make off with anything. I really miss my dog!

Wednesday, our 3rd day at the mission, started a bit earlier than any of us planned. I woke up around 2 a.m. to the sound of the constant beating of voodoo drums coming from the RaRa (voodoo party) happening in the near distance. I could tell by the lack of snoring that no one else was asleep either. Our nocturnal activity wasn’t due to the eerieness of the drums, however. It was due to the fact there wasn’t an artificial light burning for miles around and the stars were twinkling like millions of the finest diamonds you can imagine. It was truly a sight to behold. No one spoke of it till morning, but Bruce actually got up shortly after 2 and spent some time out in the spider graveyard, marveling at God’s creation. What a beautiful place!
       We were up, finished with breakfast, and putting tin on the roof by around 6:30, trying to beat the heat. We worked steadily until around 10, took an extended water break, determined we wouldn’t have enough screws to finish both sides of the roof, and planned to finish the west side before we stopped for the day. We completed that objective, injury free no less, by shortly after 1, and quickly packed up our gear and tools for our journey back to Jacmel later in the afternoon. I had spoken with Juneau the day before about picking us up down at the ocean at around 4, and he agreed to get us in the truck, take us back to the mission, load our stuff, let us say our goodbyes, and then take us to Tina’s. Apparently, his grasp of my French either wasn’t as good as we all thought, or he simply didn’t care too much for our plan. When we finished making our plans with him, he repeated it back to me, smiled, and assured me he understood. However, once at the beach, more than a mile’s walk, through shacks, huts, and naked bathers in the canals, we looked around for our driver friend and he was nowhere to be found. In his defense, it was a really big beach, and we’d come farther east than we’d planned, but there were several men staring grimly in our direction with matchetes, and I wasn’t entirely confident they had our best interests at heart! After a few uncomfortable minutes though, Juneau showed up, as did several of the boys we’d been hanging out with at the camp, and we all breathed a big, if not openly discussed, sigh of relief. Out in the ocean to our south was a hand rowed fishing boat with the father of Onise, one of our little pals, at the helm. Onise was very proud of his daddy, and we enjoyed sitting there watching him and his crew work their several hundred feet of fishing nets.
       It was during this time Caleb approached me and asked me to talk with Juneau, our fearless driver, about our transportation back to the camp. After a bit of digging, I discovered he had come to the beach on his little motor scooter and had opted to leave the truck back at camp, an uphill mile through banana groves, boulder fields, and sewage canals. Imagine our surprise when our “clear” discussion from the day before netted us this result! Oh well, not the worst thing that could happen, and Reginault made things a bit better for us by climbing the 40 or so feet to the top of a coconut palm on the beach, knocking the coconuts off for his friends below, and then expertly splitting the husks for us to get to the milk inside. Once the milk was finished off, we gave the coconuts back to our little matchete wielding friends and watched as they split them in half, carved little spoons out of the husks, and gave them back to us to enjoy the meat on the inside. Some of the group opted out of the treat so I, not wanting anything to go to waste, ate enough that my dinner made a hasty exit from my person later on that evening!
       We left the beauty of the beach around 4, made our trek back to the camp, loaded our gear, and said our last goodbyes to the kids. I made sure to have Reginault and Regal join me in the dorm by themselves for a minute or two and give them their choice of any of the tennis shoes we’d brought with us. I was certain they’d want the expensive ones I’d been wearing all week and it was a bit humbling to see them turn up their noses at mine and choose Jaime’s (with some pink accents) and Bruce’s old “used to be white but now covered in animal poop stains” Nikes! Consider me humbled. I told them, as best I could, that we were giving them the shoes because they worked so hard for us the day before but more importantly because God loved them and so did we. I also said they were our friends for life and we looked forward to seeing them again. Once more, I was moved by how little we had done for them materially but yet how much difference it made to their aching feet. What an amazing time with those two boys.
       We loaded up in the Diahatsu, braced for the bumpy 45 minutes back to Tina’s and were joined by Onise, who shouted excitedly to his mom as we were driving away that he’d be back sometime. She didn’t seem particularly bothered by this and I chocked it up to the high level of trust these people have in RoRo and those who are there working alongside him.
       When we arrived back at Tina’s, Onise jumped out and eagerly looked around for the sandals we’d promised him for all his help as well. Tragically, we had given most everything to the people at the camp and were having a hard time coming up with anything that would fit his little 10 yr old feet anyway. Then someone remembered the pile of items we’d left in the house and I found a pair of Melissa’s old sandals that were a bit tight, but seemed to work for him. He smiled and, as he started to walk off, Juneau looked sternly at him and said, “Qu-est que vous dit?” which means, “What do you say?” Funny how some things are the same no matter where you are! He gave us a humble “merci,” we hugged him and said our goodbyes. The rest of the evening involved cold showers for most (although Bruce, Tracy, and myself opted to wash off in the ocean), having pasta with lobster sauce (it is cheaper on the island than beef or chicken, but exits just the same after 3 or so coconuts!), and enjoying quick phone calls back home and the cool ocean breeze. Bedtime came a little later than normal (electricity does that for you), and it was nice to feel the comfort of sheets and an oscillating fan. As I faded off, I thought of our friends near the camp and wondered if they were happy to be rid of us so they could feel the comfort yet again of their straw mats they had so kindly loaned us for our time there. Part of our trip was over, but another was just beginning.

The world wakes up early on the island, and as such, so do the white folks sleeping in the concrete dust. While we now operate on Daylight Savings Time in the great state of Indiana, Haiti apparently didn’t get the memo. So, when the roosters start to crow at 4 am and the sun paints a pale glow across the sky shortly after 5, you have no choice but to get up and get started early in the day. This makes sense though, as it is usually so hot by 9 that work outside is at the very least uncomfortable. The night before, we heard someone working out in the plantain grove behind our little concrete compound at around 3. Getting work done in the cool of the morning (or the dead middle of the night) is very common.
          We were up, finished with breakfast, and working on hand crafting the rafters by shortly after 7. The valley where Perido is situated sits close enough to a towering mountain range that the sun doesn’t break over the peaks and start beating down until close to 9. We were more than happy to work in the shade. We made good progress throughout the morning and the only casualty was Jaime’s thumbnail, which she smashed with a full swing of the hammer she was using. She held it together until she got down off her ladder, but then broke down in the dorm with dozens of little Haitian eyes staring through the glassless windows and rough opening for the door. White people are rare enough in those parts, but a sobbing white woman was apparently cause for great curiosity among the local boys! Once their fascination with Jaime’s tears wanned enough for them to return to the ugly white men working on the roof, we let some of the older boys help us with nailing together the rafters. It was amazing to see 11-13 year old boys swinging hammers better than some of the pros do back home. I guess it comes from swinging a matchete all the time and having to build everything by hand, but they were certainly hard and skilled workers. That is a common misconception about people in the poorest country in the world. Many assume them to be lazy and unwilling to work hard to make money. Nothing could be further from the truth. The problem is, the harder they work, the less they get for their efforts. It really is a sad state of affairs. Thankfully though, this group of boys was more than happy to work with us for little more than our thanks, offered in broken Creole.
         Speaking of the language barrier, it was around mid-morning on Tuesday that I noticed I was picking up on more and more of the conversations being had around me. The maternal language in Haiti is Creole, which I haven’t studied, but Creole is a conglomeration of Spanish and French, the latter of which I studied for 5 years. Anyone who goes to school in Haiti is taught traditional French and almost everyone there is at least conversational in the language. Once I got over my fear of speaking poorly, I found I could actually have fairly meaningful conversation with many of the people we met and worked with. It was the first time since college that I had found a use for my foreign language studies and I was excited to be able to communicate with those around us. The language barrier is often the most difficult to overcome as it relates to really having a relationship with someone. I was so thankful for all those times Madame Bell made me struggle through an hour of French homework every night!
         We worked until shortly after 10 and then stopped for a quick water break that turned into about 45 minutes. The heat is so draining here, even early in the day, and we found ourselves in need of a nap after working for just a few hours. We also found that our two 5 gallon water jugs were getting dangerously low and if we ran out of water, we’d be in a world of hurt. Bruce suggested we work a bit more until time for lunch and then head the half mile or so into Perido to get water out of the nasty garbage strewn stream and experience market day in the village, which occurs every Tuesday. So, after a bit more work, a quick lunch, and gathering our valuables and passports so they didn’t “walk off” while we were gone, we headed to town. Since you can’t go anywhere alone as a white person in Haiti, even if you wanted to, we were joined by several of the local kids (mostly boys, as they work early in the day with their fathers and the girls stay home to work with mom and take care of the little siblings). Two boys, Reginault and Regal, insisted on carrying our water jugs and helping us navigate the streets and vendors. Words would do little to describe the chaos that ensued at the market (I’ve got pictures to post later), but if you imagine a street carnival complete with vendors selling day old food, most of which looks inedible by our standards, cars, trucks, buses, and donkeys fighing for a spot on the same crowded streets where hundreds of people are jostling back and forth against each other, you’ve got a start. Add to that mix several people bartering (arguing loudly) over sales prices, piles of used clothes most of us would throw in the garbage, lots of animals and people bathing in the dirty stream, a crazy woman (perhaps demon possessed) trying to cut people’s hair with scissors, and the stench of old food, sweaty people and burning garbage, and you’ve got a glimpse of the setting. It was a crazy time, and even though Caleb and I were able to talk with Regal and Reginault about what we wanted, we were so thankful to have them around to do the bartering for us. We bought some jadecs and bananas, but opted to save most of our souvenir purchases until we got back to Cyvadier and could talk with the stand owner outside of Tina’s house.
             After an hour or so, we headed out in search of water. When we came to the stream, Reginault told me the water was contaminated and we shouldn’t drink it. I explained in French that we had our filters so the water would be clean enough for us but he insisted on going to a spring for clean water. We were fine with that and glad to have a young tour guide to show us around. After about 30 minutes of being followed by lots of strange people asking for money and offering us their children, we came to a pipe coming out of the side of the road that was surrounded by 20-30 Haitian children performing their daily task of getting water for the family. We knew it would take a while for it to be our turn, so we sat down, ate some fruit, got told by an angry man the water was only for Haitians, and soon discovered our little water carriers, along with the water jugs, had disappeared. Some of the less trusting in the group wondered if we’d been had (you can’t get filtered water from the water company unless you have water jugs, which are not cheap, and most people would love to have for their own…if I’m honest, it was a bit suspicious). However, within a few minutes, the boys returned from higher up the mountain, with 10 crystal clear gallons of water balanced precariously on their heads. If you do the math, that’s about 40 lbs per jug, and all they had for padding was some banana leaves. They set off at a pace that was hard for us to keep as we followed, and took us on a different route back to the camp. The path led through some of the prettiest country we’d seen thus far and brought us out above the camp, looking out over the ocean in the distance. As we neared the camp, Reginault asked me if I was tired (he was the one with 40 lbs on his head for the last mile and a half) and told me he was certainly getting tired. I offered to carry the water for him, he declined, and about 30 steps later, I fell flat on my face on the side of the path! Some mountain climber I am! He and Regal got a good laugh, looked at my nice tennis shoes compared to their broken down sandals, and I’m sure had other things to say about us later!
       When we finally got back to camp, Reginault asked me, perhaps a bit sheepishly, if I had any tennis shoes for them to have, and, not wanting to create a mad scramble for all our stuff, told them to come see me the next day when the other kids weren’t around. Much to my surprise, I found myself not only wanting to help them, but actually having genuine feeling of friendship toward these two guys. It seems speaking the same language makes all the difference in the world.
        The rest of our night consisted of relaxing until the sun faded, cooking dinner, talking with the same group of men and boys who were sleeping near us, and spending more time together in devos and prayer. As we were preparing for bed, I heard Jaime shouting my name from somewhere in the dark and sprang quickly to my feet, senses keenly aware that something wasn’t right. As we were preparing to dash headlong into whatever danger Jaime was facing, I heard her yell again, and this time for me to bring my camera. With a rush of relief, I grabbed my little Canon digital and we headed her way. In the dark, on her way to the cockroach infested outhouse, she had almost stepped on the only animal on the island capable of actually killing a human. At her feet was what we’d been told was an almost extinct animal that we certainly wouldn’t see in our time here because even the locals rarely, if ever, saw one. What was it you ask? Well, imagine a tarantula with armor plating that can jump up to 3 feet and has enough venom to easily kill a few humans. Now imagine that it’s body is roughly the size of you fist, and each of it’s 8 legs is about the size of your pinky finger. Got it? That’s a pretty accurate description (I’ve got a picture of it as well). After realizing Jaime was safe and getting a few pics, we introduced the spider to the combination of gravity and large rocks, pushed the carcass off the trail, and settled down for the night. As I fell asleep, I heard the hilarious sounds of donkeys across the valley, braying back and forth at one another. Sadly though, that sound was soon edged out by the now unmistakable sound of voodoo drums and horns, closer and somehow more sinister sounding than the night before. “Greater is He that is in me, that he that is in the world.”

Monday morning we woke up to the creak of the oscillating fan next to my bunk bed and stumbled out into the main area of Tina’s house. We were all dead tired from having slept the night before in our respective airports but excited nonetheless about what was in store for us. After a breakfast of french toast and jadec juice (a cross between a grapefruit and an orange), we piled into the back of a Diahatsu (a flatbed dump truck that is very common on the island) with all our gear and headed east along the south coast of the island. The Diahatsu has a steel bar in the center about head high so you can hold on at high speeds, and we were very thankful to have the extra support. Driving in Haiti is sort of like a helter skelter game of Frogger. You bob and weave through traffic, livestock, and people until you come face to face with a vehicle bigger or faster than your own. At that point, you swerve enough to let it pass with a few inches to spare, and with little regard for the countless “motos” (moped taxis) carrying up to 4 passengers at a time that go whizzing past in either direction. They are the lowest in the vehicle pecking order and are regularly forced to make a screeching retreat to the shoulder of the road.
         After about 30 hair raising minutes, we found ourselves on the narrow and rocky streets of Perido, bouncing across a quarter mile wide river bed left by the last hurricane season. As we neared the far bank, we heard a commotion to our left and saw a little boy, probably not more than 5 or 6, screaming at us over and over the word “photo” and pointing to his stark raving naked body! Apparently word gets out that white people in dumptrucks usually shower in private, are nervous around nudity, and have cameras close at hand when passing by naked little black boys! We gave him a smile and passed on without any footage. Soon, we turned a corner that forced the ladies on the side of the street selling plantains, rice, and beans to move their shop, lest the be run over, crossed another trash laden stream, and bumped the final few hundred yards to the camp (or “la mission,” as the local children call it).Â
           Work on the camp begin last year and the progress has been amazing. There are already foundations and walls in place for 6 dormitories (each around 45′ x 20′) and two of those buildings already have metal roofs in place as well. There is also a school house for area children, an outhouse, a maintenance barn, a gazebo, and the start of a large stone wall around the entire campground. We unloaded our gear and threw it onto the concrete dust covered floor of a dorm that would be our home for the next 3 days, walked up to the school to say hi to the children, and met with Juneau and Robert (say the end of his name like “air). They are two of the men in charge of helping build the camp and informed us, through Caleb, that we would be putting the top plate, rafters, nailers and tin roof on a third building. The task required everything being built by hand (although we did bring a few power tools and a generator with us), and we wasted no time in getting started.
         Our crew consisted of 4 people from the camp including Bruce, Jaime, Caleb, and myself. The rest of the team was Tracy Sutliff from Cross Lane Community Church, Pete Howard from Central Christian, and Steve Mechling, who works at a grain elevator outside of Marion and attends Walton Christian Church. Most of us had at least a bit of construction experience and, after mapping out a plan, we dove right in. By lunch, the 90+ degree heat was enough to make us thankful for a shaded break and some water we’d brought from Tina’s because we’d heard how far away water was from the camp. After a quick meal of PB&J and some granola bars, we decided to walk to the top of a nearby hill overlooking the camp to get a better view of the surrounding area. What started out as a group of 7, plus a couple kids who’d been hanging around all day, ended up being an army of around 30 people, mostly Haitian children, being led by the only white people for miles around. Every little kid was desperate for a hand to hold and at times we each had 3 or 4 dirty little sets of fingers wrapped around our own. It made little difference to us or them that we’d never met. They knew we were there to help and we knew they were there to be loved.
          The view from above the camp was breathtaking. All around our little worksite there are towering mountains, most of which give off little whisps of smoke that betray the location of brush piles being burned by some hard working man or boy, trying to make his small farm a little more productive. Surrounding the camp are grove after grove of palm, plantain, and banana trees, with the tin roofs of little huts brightly reflecting the light of the sun beating down from above. Off to the south, less than a mile away, isthe white washed coastline sharply giving way the cobalt blue of the Caribbean. It was a breathtaking view, plain and simple. After several minutes of pictures and broken conversation with 5 years olds, we headed back down to continue our tasks. We worked until around 4 and ran out of lumber so we stopped for the day, Bruce inflated a soccer ball, I pulled out my frisbee, and the craziness insued. Kids came out of the banana groves like moths to a flame and we spent the next hour and a half or so running ourselves crazy, smiling and laughing in spite of a language barrier, and taking part in an experience I never could have imagined being so fun. Haitians are terrible at frisbee (not a hard and fast rule, but certainly true for those in Perido), but it was fun trying to teach them all the same. From time to time we could hear a painful shout from the soccer game next to us as a barefoot kid would trip or stub a toe on the thousands of rocks covering the small playing field. They even used rocks as goal posts. I’ve seen a few rocks in my day, but no place I’ve been is as terribly rocky as this crazy island. I was amazed at how the guys keep from breaking their legs every time they play. It was quite remarkable.
           After we finished rec time, we headed back to our dorm, tried to move some of the 2 or more inches of concrete waste and dust on the floor to clear a place to sit, and set about getting a fired started for dinner. It had rained a bit during soccer and frisbee and all our wood and paper was wet. Thankfully some of the local kids helped us get the fire going, built us a cooking stand out of, what else, rocks, and even stuck around to help us carry our pot of boiling water inside. We had Ramen noodles as a main course and threw some other carbs in as a side dish. The highlight was definitely an applesauce cup for each of us, and then we forced ourselves to eat the rest of the noodles we’d prepared. You may wonder why, if we were so full, we didn’t just give the kids some of our leftovers? Well, if you give away food to one person, everyone else will hear about it and start coming up and begging for some of their own. As badly as we wanted to help, we’d been told not to give away food under any circumstances (a rule we would later break, but one we tried to follow as closely as possible).
         With dinner finished, dishes cleaned, and a trip to the cockroach infested outhouse out of the way, we started our devo and prayer time for the evening. It gets dark around 6 in Haiti so we were finished with everything we needed to do fairly early and were ready for bed by shortly after 8. As we started getting settled in, there was a good bit of rustling near the entrance to our temporary home and, with our headlands shing, we discovered a few of the adult men from nearby that we knew and trusted settling in for the night on the ground near the door. They had insisted on giving us their straw mats for padding under our sleeping bags but were still sleeping near the door on the hard floor to protect us. To our knowledge, we are the first group to stay out at the camp through the night, and they wanted to make sure we weren’t bothered by any of the locals. It was a most generous gesture and, even though we were alright without them, we figured they knew better than us and we were most happy for their company. As I drifted off to the sounds of my iPod, it hit me that when I bought it a few years ago, it’s $450 price tag was almost equal to the total yearly wage for most of my new friends sleeping just to my right on the floor next to me. What a place we had come to.

As I sat on the plane, taxiiing down the runway in Port au Prince, feeling the exhaustion in my body, seeing the deplorable living conditions just outside the airport’s razor wire fences, and smelling the now familiar mix of halitosis and body odor emenating from the Haitian national sitting next to me, I tried to take stock of the last few days and the whirlwind of activity we endured. If I’m honest, I feel like anything I say here will fall woefully short of describing the experience and I apologize that I am limited by my feeble writing abilities. However, even if I had a Pulitzer prize on my shelf, I know I couldn’t do justice to the last 6 days in the beautiful yet terrible land of Haiti.
                 We arrived on Sunday afternoon, myself a full hour and a half behind the rest of the team. Our Haitian taxi driver, Maxime, had his Toyota van sitting outside of the crowded gates and was anxious to get on the road. Before we could load up and go, however, I had to get through customs, receive my green card, and claim my bags in the appropriate area. I was surrounded by pushy individuals trying to “help” by carrying my bags. For them, this is a way to get big tips by not returning your bag until you’ve paid them. The only way to avoid this sticky situation is to be bold with your moves and state over and over again “NON, merci.” This usually lets them know to back off. Caleb and Bruce met me at the door (Caleb speaks a bit of Creole so his presence on the trip was a calming influence for many), we climbed into the bus, and headed off through the garbabe strewn streets of PaP. Garbage is a constant companion for the folks in this capital city of over 4 million people, many of whom live on the streets or barely covered in small block houses. More than a few of the piles of garbage we passed looked to be alive, as animals and children alike dug through the filth for a scrap of anything edible that would serve as their meal for the day. While the scene was a terrible sight for the eyes, it was almost as impossible for the nose. There were more than a few times I would have sworn with my eyes closed we were somewhere near a city transfer station, dropping off our month old and rotting food scraps. After having spent the night before in JFK airport, which is large enough to be a city itself, and having been protected from the weather outside, and having seen the extent to which the staff works to keep the terminals clean, it was quite a shock to see the situation in the streets of Port au Prince.
             Several kilometers of dodging people, donkeys, potholes, and taptaps (wildly painted Haitian taxis that one hails by tapping on the back of), we turned south toward the high row of mountains that cut the south part of the inland into two distinct areas. Port au Prince is on the north cost and Jacmel, where we were heading, is on the south. As we headed higher and higher up the winding mountain road (the only one of its kind for many many miles), I was struck by a few things. First, the beauty of this island is beyond explaining. The closest I can come to is remind you of any trip or exposure you may have had to Hawaii. The only major difference is that where beautiful rainforested mountains once existed, most are now dry and barren due to lack of agricultural restrictions and the constant raping of the land to try and feed the 7 million plus inhabitants of the island. Second, even in the middle of the mountains, there are people everywhere. With so many living in such a small space, it is little wonder there isn’t any room to just get away from it all. One mountain after another was criss-crossed by dozens of footpaths and small areas of land painstakingly broken with nothing but a hoe and the gnarled hands of the farmers who work those patches of ground. The land is so overworked, but so beautiful at the same time. Third, I was struck by how dry and arid the climate was. Fortunately, we got some much needed rain later in the week, but by and large, every step of every living thing threw dust into the air.
           The ride up and over the mountain wasn’t all silence and reflection though. Caleb brought two garbage bags full of Beanie Babies and Tracy threw in some small frisbees from his church. We leaned out the windows of the van, yelled for children we passed, and threw the toys to as many as we could. It was wonderful to see their faces light up and to see their excitement as they wrestled with their friends and showed their parents their prize. What a remarkable and tragic thought: Our throw away toys are a treasure to these children such that they’ve never had. It was a time of joy but also sobering when thoughts like that began to sink in.
             Once we crossed the top of the peaks and headed back down, we could make out the wide white washed expanse of a riverbed miles below us, snaking through the deep green of banana and palm trees. The mouth of that river was in the heart of Jacmel and we eagerly waited to see more as we wound ourselves down off the mountain. As we neared the near dry river bed, we started to see more and more people bathing in the trickle of water. It seems even though the culture is very conservative with dress, when you can’t get water to bathe in your shack, you are forced to join your friends at the river. It was certainly different than back home, but the shock of nudity quickly wore off as we realized this was simply a part of life for these people. We passed through the crowded, garbage strewn streets of Jacmel, and soon found ourselves speeding down the lone paved street in the community of Cyvadier, a “suburb” of Jacmel, and the community Tina calls home. When we arrived at her house, we were amazed to see the ocean only 50 feet or so from the gated and walled parking area around her home. By even American standards, Tina has a nice home, on a fantastic location. This has nothing to do with her not being a part of the culture and everything to do with her opening up her home over the years to any and all who come from the states to serve. This year alone she and her adopted Haitian daughter, 14 year old Rachel, have already graciously served 8 different teams totaling dozens of people.
            She greeted us at the door, helped us stow our gear in our sleeping quarters, and then loaded us into her SUV to take us to the beach to have fish and conch, fresh caught, and Haitian soft drinks (mine was some sort of fruity drink that tasted like a cross between expired Fanta and cough medicine). We sat under a thatched roof hut, watched the last few rays of sun expire on the western horizon, and enjoyed our seafood by candlelight, as there wasn’t any electricity to be found. It was probably just as well though, because even in the dull candlelit glow, I could make out the lidless eye of the hapless snapper on my plate I was hungrily pulling apart.
          After dinner, we headed back to the house, settled outside on her 2nd story porch, and listened to the waves come in as the distant sound of Voodoo drums played somewhere in a nearby neighborhood. Finally, around midnight, we faded off to a humid sleep with visions of a world entirely different than our own dancing across the backs of our eyelids.

 

 

I plan to blog the whole experience over the course of the next week or so. I am sorry for having to break it up, but I’ve already written almost 1400 words and I’ve just finished the first day. Tune in tomorrow for more. God bless.