a sweaty journey through John

We had the second Bible study this week in Valene’s tent…it’s been such a blessing thus far. Of course it isn’t without its stories.. because it wouldn’t be life here unless there was something comical and random that happens.

Jacmel

We visited Jacmel this weekend.

I discovered a town in shambles that spoke of a bustling and vibrant yesterday… now barely held up by a hundred shattered buildings and dreams. Hints of once distinguished and ornately decorated statehouses, cathedrals and manors — now defined by cracks and weighed down by the rubble of a devastating recent past. In the 1800’s Jacmel was thriving– the first Caribbean town to have electricity and a main location for trade–  its architecture and vibe inspired New Orleans and its Mardi Gras.

church nausea and a happy hearted afternoon

This weekend we took Plumpy and his family to church. Let me preface this by reminding you that this is  Haiti, so nothing is just as simple as “we took some people to church.”

We arranged to come at 8am to get them, and when we showed up at their tent it was obvious it was going to be a while. The children were just starting to get bathed in the buckets in front of their tent, dad was running water back and forth and mom was still in a nightgown. I love watching the adage “it takes a village to raise a child” played out here. A neighbor came over to bathe Stevenson, who was splashing water everywhere and running in circles naked. Another young neighbor came to help dress Rose, in a pretty pink dress with knitted booties (thank you friends that gave me baby clothes to bring down!). Peterson was crawling around, smiling, til we scooped him up and plopped him on their bed to get dressed. Mom was frantically digging through duffel bags for clothes that weren’t bleached or tattered.

kinda like Sunday’s dinner

I’m not sure how over a week has gone by and I haven’t written… there is definitely no shortage of material. This post will make up for lost time, a mish mash of random tidbits and stories from the last week. It’s kinda like our Sunday dinners, where our kitchen staff puts out all the leftovers from the week – spam pasta and goat and chili and such. Not my most favorite night, I have to admit.

Back to the stories.

Each day brings at least a new pest report. We have to share that we  believe Justin killed Harry the Crap Rat. He strapped down a cracker with a string to the rat trap, and the next morning we found him lifeless on the floor after wrestling with the bait. We aren’t quite sure if it was Harry or his less obnoxious brother Henry the Hoarder, but nevertheless we have shown the ruthless intruders that we will not back down. Unfortunately, the next day both our glue trap and the rat trap went missing, and my bar of soap had been removed from its plastic container and had several bite marks all over it, lying in the middle of the floor. No lie. A bold statement, which could only mean one thing:  This is officially war.

step by step guide to {pretend} Haitian cooking

Justin and I were invited to one our Haitian friend’s home to learn how to cook some traditional Haitian food.We had this planned for about a month, and were thinking it’d be a fun experience to learn how to make the typical dishes that we eat so often here in Haiti.

We arrived at Weislene’s house ready to cook up a storm. She and her jolly husband greeted us and welcomed us in. She was already in her blue apron, and she of course gave me the “Preserve Southern Cooking” apron with the well-fed white grandma on it, who was sitting on her rump and cooking hot dogs while drinking a morning glass of wine – what a striking representation of my culture. Nice. I grabbed a spatula and pretended got to work.

a broken system

It’s midnight.

We’ve spent the last 4 hours responding to a trauma of a bad motorcycle accident- two badly damaged young men showed up at our front gate laying in pool of their blood in the back of a tap tap. They had been laying there for while on their backs, one man’s delayed breath was audibly filled with blood in his lungs. We had pulled up from being out in town, and Justin and another nurse were in our car. The guards were visibly shaken up, not knowing what to do with them, and they said, “We think they are dead.”  Justin began yelling orders. I sped off to our compound to gather trauma supplies. One, with a broken femur and a brain injury, the other with internal bleeding, a bad blow to the head.  Their impact must have been significant to break a femur bone . Justin and another nurse began starting lines and started a tourniquet on the one with the shattered leg. Time was slipping by.

life, distilled

Sometimes I allow myself a little distance from writing and online communication, to process and to reflect.  But as a self-proclaimed writer, everything is a potential story line. It’s a bit of a curse. Say, for instance, the concept of travel in and out of the Port-au-Prince airport. The best way I can describe this is that everything is a suggestion. Lines are a suggestion. Courtesy is a suggestion. Security checkpoints are a suggestion. Flushing the toilets are a suggestion. Everyone pretty much does whatever the ‘h’ they want, and it basically becomes a game of who can push or shove or shake their moneymaker the hardest to shimmy to the front. Take the crazy lady with the large floral floppy hat and the equally obnoxious attitude who was yelling at everyone to “shut up and move!” She threw her black duffel bag on Justin’s feet repeatedly as she cast us angry glances. Or the guy wearing a large Armani Exchange belt buckle who sneakily kept asking, “Is this the line?” as he weaved in and out, making it to the front after flashing some bills and giving the attendant a wink. Um, didn’t that guy just come in and we’ve been stuck  keeping cranky Floppy Hat at bay  for over an hour?  The  line to check in at Spirit Air was thick with body heat and became like the backroom at a race track. Miss No Personal Space behind me kept pushing my head forward with the shopping bag she was carrying each time she raised her hand, and I began to resemble an agitated bobble head. Below is a photo Justin captured in one of my less enthusiastic moments. Needless to say, it took us over an hour to move about 5 feet. These are those honest moments of the flesh when you have to remember the love you have for the people you are serving.

birthday

I got a call at 5 am this morning that Valene was having her baby. In my sleep-induced state I tried to piece together his Creole, but the idea of it was that the baby was okay, they didnt need help, but just wanted to let me know she had arrived. She?? Yes, she. It was a girl!

I dragged Justin up and we had some quick breakfast and headed out to their tent. Mom was sitting on the bed when we walked in, a hot pot cooking some food which made the tent even hotter than it already was. She was sitting up, the same courteous smile on her face. The tent showed no sign of hosting a child birth just a few hours before, nor did Valene. No drugs, no doctors, no machines administering drugs.   Just some rags, some boiling water and a tired but smiling young family.

These tents were clearly not made for environments like Haiti, when you are sitting in them they make you feel like you are a hot dog wrapped in foil in those rotating cases at the gas station. The baby was sweating, the kids were sweating, mom was sweating, I was sweating. It must have been 95 degrees in there. It was miserably hot for a newborn, and I thought about getting them a fan- oops, I remembered, no electricity. But I suppose they are used to it as much as they can, but again I thought about how much we have institutionalized childbirth in the states, with our fancy machines and drugs and all of that. I’ve never given birth, so I certainly can’t speak from experience… but I have seen the simplicity of childbirth in places where little of that is accessible, and where it is done the way it was meant to be done for centuries. These women are strong and brave. I admire Valene.

I had so many questions but we didn’t have a translator, so I fumbled through asking what I could, offering congratulations as I watched this perfect, sleeping new life. I was in love with her already (Justin is insisting my clock is ticking) but it’s not so much that as it is wanting the best for this sweet family. I held Plumpy for a bit and he snuggled in close. I imagine he didn’t sleep much last night. I love these children, and I want to give them opportunities that I’m not sure I am able to give them.

Below is their first family pic, which I am planning to print and frame in the States to bring back with me. Thanks for caring about them with us.