July 20- Weekends

An Introduction to Haiti Family Initiative

In the winter of 2010, shortly after the devastating earthquake hit Haiti, Lynn and Nadiv Shapira went to Jacmel, Haiti to offer much needed medical care.  When Lynn returned home to Wilmington, DE, she continues to struggle with the devastation and despair of Haiti.  So, with friends, she started the Haiti Family Initiative.  Since then, each summer a group of volunteers, primarily from the USA , have made their way to Jacmel to run a five week Wellness Camp.  This program offers free medical clinics, a women's empowerment group and a children's camp.  About 2000+ people take advantage of this program each year.

The camp is aided by the help of the teachers and students at the Foreign Language Institute in Jacmel.  These individuals serve as the translators for the English speaking volunteers.

In the near future, the translators will take over  the responsibilities to run the women's group and the children's camp.  I went to Haiti this summer for  the entire five weeks with the task of mentoring the translators so that they can carry on without us.  The following stories are highlights of this wonderful experience.

Wednesday, July 3- I leave for Haiti today.  I am traveling with Lynn Shapira and her daughter, Maya, a freshman in high school.  We are coming down a few days early to get the program ready for team #1.

I have to be up and moving by 4AM to get to the airport in time for my 630AM flight to Miami and then we are off to Port au Prince.  From there we will meet Max and some of the other translators who will take us by van to Jacmel.  It will be at least a three hour ride to our final destination.  

But I am sick.  I have been throwing up all night.  I think I am having a reaction to my typhoid medicine.  I don’t think I can travel and I am worried about leaving the USA and going to Haiti where medical services are minimal at best.  I am weak and it is an effort to stand.  I just want to curl up somewhere and sleep.  

But I do go to the airport anyway.  It is a strenuous effort to get through the security check.  But I make and then I throw up again and again and again.  I am afraid I am going to have to wait another day to travel. But with what was to be my final incident of illness, I can feel the poison leaving my body and then I am well again.  I can stand up straight and now I am hungry. I am now ready to go to Haiti.

July 3- it is mid-afternoon by the time we get off the plane, find our luggage and make our way through immigration.   We hit the hot, hot outside world and are bombarded by men who want to grab our luggage in hopes of grabbing a tip.  Max and Jeams are waiting for us. They intervene and shove us in a waiting van.  It takes three hours to get to Jacmel.  The scenery does not change for the entire ride.  We see nothing but poverty, tents, litter, concrete, rumble, donkeys, bananas, water stations, barefoot children and beaten up buildings.

We are staying at Cap Lamandu, one of the nicest hotels in Haiti.  By American standards, this hotel is substandard.  But it does have a pool and air conditioning.  For that I am grateful.

July 4- Adeline is our cook.  Another woman helps her but no one knows her name.  We just refer to her as “the other woman”.  Last year, Adeline was living in a tent.  But over the course of the year, a one room house was built on her tent site and she is thrilled with her new digs.  There is still another tent next door to her.  I think that is where the other woman lives.

Thursday, July 4- it is Independence Day for us Americans but there is no reference to it here in Haiti.  However, I am bombarded with the reality that many, many people in Haiti are still in temporary tents.  All of these tents have been supplied by the American people as we so proudly stamped on the side of thousands and thousands of tents.  And for today, I am proud to be an American in Haiti.

We spend the morning at the Salvation Army compound, home to our Wellness Program.  Word is out that the white people have returned.  So everyone in the neighborhood stops by to say hello to Lynn and to secure a handout.  They know we are going through five barrels of our supplies.  So if they are lucky, they might score a bar of soap, a toothbrush, flip flops, crayons or a tee shirt.  They will take anything.  If they get something they don’t want, they just take it anyway and sell it to someone else.

The minister of the Salvation Army stops in and greets Lynn.  He then gives her a laundry list of things he wants to address with her.  The women in the women’s group used words last year that are not fitting for children to hear.  “This is a house of God”, he sternly reminds us. He didn’t like the yardman we hired last year so he has taken it upon himself to hire his friend for us.  He needs bleach to clean the toilet and we can give him the money and he will buy a gallon of bleach.  He thinks it costs $8.  His wife has a skin rash and she needs some cream from the doctor.  And, finally, he tells me to be careful of the neighbors.  They will try to take things from me.

Friday, July 5- 

Cool drinking water is sold in plastic pooches, about six ounces, just enough to quench a thirst.  These pouches cost 5G (gourdes), about 8 cents.  The pooches produce so little litter compared to a plastic bottle.  Regardless, these empty pooches add up and are discarded everywhere.  Litter is a problem with no programs to get rid of all this trash.

We go to the market to buy food for a week of camp lunches.  We expect to feed over 100 people each day. Max tells us we have to wait in the car while he goes in to the store and we have to keep a low profile.  

“Don’t come out of the car until I tell you to”, he instructs us with a very strong tone of authority,

“Why?” we ask.

“Because you are white."  We can’t let them see you.  If they see you, they will charge twice the price because they think you have a lot of money.”  He walks off with Jeams to negotiate a price.

As instructed, we stay in the car with our heads sunk below the view of the windows.  When the deal is made, we are allowed to come in and help to lug out what we had just purchased. We buy 55 pounds of rice, 40 pounds of beans and fifteen cans of sardines.  That should make more than 600  meals.  We can’t keep the food at the camp.  We have to keep our food locked up in our hotel room so that it isn’t stolen by the neighbors.

Saturday, July 6- Team #1 arrived today: Nadiv (a doctor), Beth (a nurse from Australia), Brahm (a professional athlete from France), Nina who is also known as MS Earth (Delaware) and Ben and Coby, two teenage boys.  They will be with us for a week.

When Haiti suffered an earthquake in 2010, money and aid poured in from the USA.  So many people were homeless so we imported thousands and thousands of tents so that the Haitians had a place to live.  Many of the people lived in these tents for two or three years.  When I went over in the summer of 2013, I saw people who still lived int eh tents.  But I also saw signs of the tents being recycled in many ways.  Artists had cut their tents up and used the canvas for painting.  Others used the tent panels as fencing, to keep neighbors out.  Many of the fishermen used the tents as sails for their boats.

Sunday, July 7- There is a UN presence in Haiti. Their big land rovers are everywhere.  They cruise the streets in packs. The Red Cross trucks follow behind them. I met two police officers at the hotel, one from Canada and the other from France.  I tell them I am surprised to see that they are still here.  After all, the earthquake was three years. They tell me the UN has been here over 20 years, ever since Baby Doc abruptly left  town.  They work with the local police forces and train them on how to keep order and uphold the law without violating any human rights.  

The Canadian tells me, “I’ve learned early on that this country is too broken.  It can’t be fixed.  The best you can do is fix pockets of neighborhood but this country will never be fixed.  It’s too broken.”

We go to nearby village to run a medical clinic for the afternoon.  The first man we encounter has a growth the size of a tomato protruding from his forehead.  Coby, one of our American volunteers who are only 15, is panicked and comes to me to help him quell his anxiety.  I look at the man and want to throw up.  But I feel a need to minimize Colby’s concerns.  So I nonchalantly tell Coby, “Oh yes, he is going to need surgery.”  Then I hurry to find Nadiv, our doctor, and ask him, in a panic, “Oh my God, what are you going to do with this one? We don’t do surgery, do we?”

Monday, July 8- Today is the first day of our summer programs. It's hard to process my thoughts. The poverty, the heat, the despair and the numerous moments of goodwill make this a confusing day. I am lucky to be in Haiti.

We pay a man to pick kids up from a tent city, three miles away, and bring them to our camp compound. He has a beat up old van.  The front wind shield is shattered in a few places.  There are no seats, just some benches that he has jerry-rigged to the floor of the vehicle.  I went with him on his first run to pick up the kids.  Sitting in the front seat, I had 5 kids on my lap; their boney rear ends pierced my thighs.  We transported 33 kids in that run.

He went back and got the same amount of kids.  Then some of the kids walked several miles from the tent city and joined us.  Then we had kids scale the walls and sneak in.  We had over 100 happy kids join us today.

Our camp is held within the compound of the Salvation Army in Jacmel, Haiti. Today, young children scaled the wall and snuck in to camp, hoping to get fed lunch. We had to physically kick them out as we didn’t have enough food for everyone. That was really hard to do because everyone is hungry in Haiti, except me.

I am traveling with Nina, Miss Earth of Delaware. She has never been out of the country but wanted to come to Haiti to help her gain some substance for her potential acceptance speech at the national MISS EARTH competition in August. She hasn't stopped crying since she got off the plane. I asked her if I could share her reflection. Excuse the typos. She is using her cell phone

-------- Original message --------
Subject:Miss Earth
From:Nina Vietri om>
To:BKelly
Cc:

I was piling and piling the children into the van, not looking behind, just picking one child up after another and putting them behind me in the front seat, before I knew it I had 7 small children in the front seat and half of my body sticking out of the van leaving no room to shut the door, let alone have any room to shut the door because the children where still trying to get into the bus, a older child probably 10 picked up her lite sister and threw her in my face, I looked into her eyes and said yes, shook my head here on my lap and placed my hands on my lap, I took both my hands out the window and reached for the baby girl she was 2, and put her threw the window, she sat softly on my knew as that's what room we had left. The children all now held on tightly to me they knew they where going to have lunch today!!

We have a doctor and a nurse  in our medical clinic this week. That means we can see 40 patients a day at our medical clinic. But word is out that the white people are back. So they begin to line up at 530AM in hopes of getting a numbered green card to get in. This may be their lucky day.

I can feel the anticipation as we arrive around 9 AM. They flock to us and assume we are all medical staff. They point to their deformed toes and blood shot eyes and skin rashes. They show us their infections. They gesture stomach problems and take our hands to feel their lumps.

We quickly set up the clinic and the first patient is called. An old woman saunters up to the triage table and states her problem. Diabetes, high blood pressure, STDs, vagal discharge, blurred vision and toenail fungus seem to be competition for the disease of the day.

Two young men translate for us. I am impressed with their poise and maturity as I hear them explain ever so softly, "she has a pain in the vagina." And Beth, our nurse, responds, "Does it hurt or is there any discharge when she urinates"? The translator receives a "yes" and then tells the woman that it is ok, she doesn’t have to show us.

We came prepared to set up a private corner of the room for those who do need to undress and expose themselves but this effort proves to be unnecessary as everyone is unabashed about taking their clothes off and showing us her breast or dropping his pants to show us where it hurts.

We have several hundred pounds of medicines, all donated by hospitals around the Wilmington area. We have mostly pain killers, neoprene and antibiotics. We could use more vaginal cream, eye drops and asthma medicine. There is nothing we can do for the people with diabetes. For high blood pressure, the medical team does what it can to convince people to reduce their salt and MSG intake and to stop eating so much fried food. It is not even suggested they eat more vegetables. Other than plantains and coconuts, not much more is available to these poor, poor people.

One woman comes in with a flesh eating rash. An old man has a growth on his forehead the size of an apple. A man is stopped at the door because he came too late to get a card. He calls out to anyone who will respond. He catches my attention and I catch his panic. He begs me to give him "the asthma medicine with the blue pump". I look to Beth and she tells me he has to be seen by the doctor first. "I got it here last year," he yells to me. "No money to go to the doctor. Please. It is the blue pump". I ask Beth if she knows this medicine. She tries in vain to calm me down but I am unnerved by his desperation. "Please, the blue one. I just need the blue one." Beth calls to him and tells him to come back tomorrow and I give him a ticket, guaranteeing that he will be seen. That appeases him and he leaves.

A mother comes in with her infant son, Joseph. She is worried about her fever. But Beth is worried about her son. Joseph is seriously ill. He is dehydrated and lifeless. The mother has stopped feeding him because she was afraid he would catch her fever. 

Joseph now becomes the critical patient of the day. We don’t have any formula to give him. So breast milk is the only and best options for him. But the mother has no milk. She is highly dehydrated herself. I find a 1/2 bottle of juice someone didn’t finish yesterday and we offer it to her. She drinks it down. I fill this bottle again with water and she consumes this drink as quickly as well.

We ask her to begin feeding Joseph. She protests a little. She is still not sure he can’t get her fever. But the translator does his best to convince her. She surrenders and lifts up her blouse. As Joseph is sucking on her prune like breast, Beth gives him a sponge bath. She rubs his head with a wet wash cloth. He begins to respond ever so slowly. Life is coming back to him. We give the mother medicine. We hydrate her and give her food. Yet we recognize that we have only dodged a crisis and there will be many more during his fragile life. This mother does not have the intellectual capacity, the financial means and the family support to raise a healthy child.

Some of the patients are seen and asked to come back the next day. Their symptoms are so unusual the doctor wants some time at the end of the day to do some internet research.

We attempt to close the clinic at 1pm as the staff is exhausted. But every day there is a new request that can’t be ignored. A mother shows up with a sick baby, someone broke a finger, one of the campers split a lip and there is lots of blood.  It is usually 2:30 or 3:00 by the time we close the door. And when we return the next day, we start all over.

Our Women's Empowerment Group started today. Many of the women only know one phrase in English.  They tug on my arm and point to something of mine.  “Ok, when you leave.”  Then they point to themselves.  They want my hat, my purse, my blouses, my eyeglasses, my water bottle, my water sprayer.  Someone actually pulled on my bra strap.  My $8 Walmart slip-on sneakers are a very hot commodity.  I wonder what the USA customers officer would say if I did come back sans everything that has been coveted.

Tuesday, July 9- Today is my birthday.  Fifty8 is gonna be grATE.

I am standing on the beach which is just half a block away from the camp compound.   If I keep walking on the beach, in a few hours, I would be in the Dominican Republic, a country which prides itself in its pristine beaches and tourism.  But I am not in the Dominican Republic.  I am on the dirty beaches of Haiti.  There does not seem to be any solid waste management program in this country.  So people and businesses must resort to get rid of their own trash.  Most people just throw their trash on the ground with no regard to the environment.

The businesses, here on the beach, have a bigger trash problem than the average individual. So they take their trash and dump it right on the beach, near the edge of the tide.  Goats, donkeys and pigs feast on this trash all day.  Then what is not consumed by these feral animals is swept away by the high tide.  It is heartbreaking to look at this mound of trash.  And as I stare at it, I wonder how much of this debris makes its way to the Dominican Republic.

Clean Drinking Water.  I travel a lot and always stay focused on making sure I have access to clean drinking water.  So far, I have not had many problems with this issue.  But it's been an effort.  I can not get used to seeing so many people in this world who still have to spend too much of their day on fetching  water. These people have to secure clean water every single day of their lives.  Imagine what they could accomplish if they could spend their time on more productive tasks.

Wednesday, July 10- Our camp is held within the compound of the Salvation Army in Jacmel, Haiti. Today, young children scaled the wall and snuck in to camp, hoping to get fed lunch. We had to physically kick them out as we didn’t have enough food for everyone. That was really hard to do because everyone is hungry in Haiti, except me.

 Her house is across the street from the Salvation Army compound, where we hold our camp. I noticed her the first day. She sits at the doorway by herself. I assume her family is working because I don’t see anyone attend to her. She is elderly, bone thin and feeble. I take her picture to add to my collection of sights that hold my interest. 
On the third day, mid-morning, I walk pass her house. She is lying on her back on the cement floor, her head protruding out of the doorway. The hot sun is beating down on her face.  She waves to me, gesturing me to come over to her. So Lynn and I go over and it is the first time I can see how terribly destitute she is. There is a bed against the far wall. A small table and chair sit right by the door. There is a small metal pot, on the floor, next to her which must be her toilet. However, it appears as if she is not using it. Blood and fecal matter stain the floor. There is nothing else in this small, one room house. 

She points to a chair which is low to the ground. Lynn and I attempt to lift her. Although she is probably no more than 75lbs, she is dead weight and it is a struggle to drag her two feet to the chair. The situation is more difficult because we don’t have a firm grip on her. She is so dirty that I can’t bring myself to grasp her tight enough.

Our gatekeeper, Lucien, sees us so he comes over to translate. She is 86 years old (my mother's age). She complains of pain. She is alone. She tells us that she is hungry and thirsty. 

"Everyone in her family is dead, Madame", Lucien tells us without emotion. “She is a poor old woman.” 

The neighbors apparently feed her from time to time. But I can’t understand how they can do this because they do not appear to have enough food for themselves.  This is a sobering moment for me.  How can this injustice be stated so causally?

I look at her long, broken toenails. Someone should attend to them. She should be bathed. Her skin abrasions should be looked at by a doctor. Her clothing should be burned. Someone should hug her. But I don’t to any of this because I do not have the strength of character to do this. I am ashamed of myself but not enough to do something. 

We go back to the compound and ask Nadiv, the doctor, to look at her after he finishes the clinic.

"What does she need?" he asks me. 

"Morphine", I tell him. “She needs to be put out of her misery. This woman needs to go home to her maker”.  He laughs and dismisses my response. But Nadiv does go over to see her and he is much more optimistic about her situation. 

"She is alright, a little skinny but old people get skinny. She doesn’t have any tremors and she doesn’t smell too bad." He thinks she is just very old, weak and lonely. "But she's not too bad." We bring her a bowl of rice which she devours. We also give her some bananas we took from the hotel. We leave her with another bowl of rice.

I go over the next day to bring her more rice. I see that yesterday's bowl is filled with bread.  I immediately become suspicious that someone took her rice and left her with this stall bread. I hope this didn’t happen.  But I know there is no way to safeguard her from this despicable possibility.   Her situation is hopeless.

I look around her room and I am filled with despair.  I feel helpless.   This woman needs some sort of intervention.  But what can I do for her?  I can only commit to feed her every day for the reminder of my time in Haiti. But I hope and pray that she dies under my watch so that she might have a moment before her death of feeling loved and cared for. And so that I can walk away from Haiti and her without feeling as if I abandoned her.

Wednesday, July 10- “Madame, Madame”, this little boy calls to me.  He directs his look to his left foot.  One toe is stubble down below the toe nail.  Gravel is imbedded in the wound.  Dried blood cakes the broken nail. I get a bucket and partially fill it with water.  I throw in a bar of soap.  He dips his foot in the bucket and the water immediately turned a crusty grey.  He eagerly takes the soap and cleans between his toes.

Beth comes over and examines his now cleaned foot.  She examines the wound and decides that this wound is still not clean enough.  So she dabs it with hydrogen peroxide.  I look around for a bandage to accommodate this wound on this tiny toe.

With bandages in hand, I also bring a bar of soap for him to take home.  I hope he will clean this wound again.  As I hand him the soap and several bandages, he calls to me again.  

“Madame” and he mimes brushing his teeth.  He wants a toothbrush.  So I find one for him.  I also give him some toothpaste. And I throw in some dental floss as well.

Just then, Lynn comes in.  She found some flip-flops for him.  They are just a little too small.  It’s the only pair we have so she is disappointed that they do not quite fit.  She reaches down to take them back.  But that little boy won’t surrender them.  This poor fit is better than no fit.

He leaves with his toes bandaged, his pockets stuffed with bandages, soap, toothbrush and paste.  When he gets to the door, he turns back and looks at the three of us.

“Merci Madams", he shouts gratefully.  He flashes a broad smile that melts us.  He then runs off to play soccer with the other kids.

Thursday, July 11- Max finished high school today.  He is 26 and he took his final exit examine today.  He is thrilled to have this accomplishment behind him now.  In Haiti, students take a series of exit exams and finish high school when all these exams are completed.  Some of the teachers at the FLI have not yet finished high school.

Max tells us about his plans to lease a new place for his school.  It’s a five room building which he plans to use as a library and classrooms.  The owner wants $3000 for a two year lease.  And all the money has to be paid up front.  Nadiv and I both do not like the sounds of this financial arrangement.  Nadiv suggest that Max offer $1000 up front and then determine a payment schedule for the rest of the rent.  Max is hesitant about this idea.  He said that is not how it is done in Haiti.

“Well,” offers Nadiv, “what if Bridget goes with you to negotiate a deal?  Bring her with you and let’s see what comes of this’”

“No” comes a resounding panicked response from Max.  His chorus of friends, Jeams, Alix and Claus chime in as well.

“No, no white people.  Not a white woman”.  They laugh at this absurd suggestion.

“Do you know how much he will raise the rent if he sees I have a white friend?  No, never bring a white person.”

End of discussion on that issue.

Thursday, July 11- I haven’t met anyone who wears a watch. Specific time is irrelevant.

The women sing a hymn that sounds a lot like “Amazing Grace”.  Some sing and others hum.  All of their songs are religious.  They thank god for everything.  They continue to be grateful in the midst of their poverty and hunger.

July 12 

As we enter the gates of the Salvation Army compound, she is there, swinging around one of the poles. She is in her own world. But as Lynn steps out of the truck, she stops and squeals with delight. She limps over, barefoot on the hot stones.  They embrace and Lynn tells me this little girl has been here for the last four years. She looks to be about 14.  There are some mental disabilities.  She is a mute.  She is missing her front tooth.  She walks with a pronounced limp.  She has a limp left hand that is useless.  It is a dead weight.  She drools.  She is dusty but not filthy.  She is an orphan under her sisters’ care.  I can only assume that men have taken advantage of her.  She is so vulnerable.

She has no boundaries.  She stands next to me and slips her hand around my waist.  She rests her head on my shoulder.  Her wiry hair brushes my cheek.  I don’t like this contact.  It is too hot and she is too dirty for my comfort.  I try to squeeze away from her but she tightens her grip.  So I am left with no other recourse but to use some force to free myself.

“It’s too hot", I announce to everyone in ear shot.  I try to justify my behavior.

“She’s pitiful, isn’t she?”  I tell Lynn.

“I’ve seen her grow up.  I think she is precious.”  With that, in the blazing sun, Lynn gives her a full body hug and Pitiful squeals with delight.  I walk away, ashamed of my callousness.

For the next week, Pitiful is constantly at my side.  I can’t get rid of her. She waits for me in the morning.  She joins me at the women’s group.  She sits next to me on the bench and rests her head on my lap.  When one of the translators barks at her to get off, she slithers down, right next to me and leans on my legs.  I can’t get rid of her.

Sometimes when she is resting against my leg, she takes her one good hand and rubs my ankles.  Her dirty, dry hand feels like an exfoliate rag.  She looks up at me and I squirt her with my water spray bottle.  She giggles with delight. Sometimes she extends her hand to me.  She wants me to squirt her again and again.  I do and she giggles with delight.

If I sit on any bench other than the one at the head of the classroom, she limps over and grabs my arm.  With determination, she leads me back to the seat she thinks is rightfully mine and mine only.

She rolls on the floor at other times, oblivious to people and her surroundings.  Then she crawls back to me.  The women ignore her.  Sometimes they bark at her.  Sometimes she crawls away from this barking. But mostly she ignores them and slides in to her own little world.

I discover that she loves to cut things with scissors.  So I find scraps of paper and scissors and instruct her to cut.  This occupies her time for a while.  When she is finished, she wants me to inspect her cuttings.

Beth, our nurse, comes to our group to give a talk on birthing.  Midway during her presentation, she turns to me and comments, “She is in my way.”  Pitiful is resting quietly on Beth’s feet.

“Yea”, I tell her, “She’s Pitiful.  You’ve heard me talk of her. She won’t go away.  Just ignore her.”

But Beth is too distracted by her.  She finds it hard to concentrate.  So we find some paper and I wave scissors in front of Pitiful and she crawls over to me. Beth is now able to continue.

Today, mid-morning, I notice that I haven’t seen her yet.  This is very usual. She is always here with us. Where could she be?

“Has anyone seen her today?”  I ask the translators.

“Who?”  one of them replies.

“Precious, I don’t see her.  I hope she is alright.”

With that, I spot her.  She is swinging on one of the poles, in her own little world.

We start our women’s group each day with prayers and hymns. The women bow their heads and pray in earnest. They face so many challenges that I lose sight of their blessings. I wonder if they think their prayers are being answered as they put their children to bed, hungry.

Every day we served the same thing for lunch: beans, rice and sardines. Kids in the neighborhood fought each other to get in to our program just to get this lunch which they devoured. for most of them, this will be their only meal today. I think the food is dreadful. One good thing about all this heat, it is taking away my appetite.  It is just too damn hot to eat.

 I meet a man who spoke to me in plain English. He offered an apology for his poor English skills. I spoke no Creole and offered no apology.

Saturday, July 13- Team #1 leaves me today.  So do Lynn and Maya.  There is no team coming to replace them today.  Team #2 canceled at the last minute.  So did team #3 for that matter.  That means I will be alone for the next two weeks.  I will still be with the translators but there will be no American volunteers.  I will leave the hotel this afternoon and take up residence for the next two weeks with a family that Max knows.  I look forward to this challenge.

“Lord be with us, not just for today but every day because we cannot learn English without you, dear Lord.”  And so English class begins for the adult students at the Foreign Language Institute (FLI).  There are 25 of them in this crowed, poorly lit, poor equipped classroom.

Run by young men and women who barely have a high school education, these dedicated teachers work for little to no pay. They rent four classrooms in a building that accommodates several other English language schools.  Consequently, FLI can only offer classes on Saturday and Sunday afternoons.  

It is surprising to me to see what natural teachers some of them are.  They do not impose tuition on anyone. Students pay what they can.  The teachers would rather someone learn English than get paid.  

“English is the only way that Haiti to get better”, says Max, the founder and proud principal of FLI.

So how do these young people support themselves?  During our 5 week HFI program, these teachers serve as our camp counselors.  We pay them $15 a day which is an exorbitant salary in Haiti.  They are able to stretch this money ($375) to get them through the year.

Yesterday, I sat with Jeams, the dean of students, as he paid the counselors.   As they received their meager pay, he reminded each of them of their commitment to return a day’s pay to the FLI.  This money will be used to pay for expenses to run FLI. Everyone handed back $15, without argument or attitude.  

FLI Students wear a color specific tee shirt as part of the uniform. The green tee shirts indicate a beginning learner.  The orange tee shirts go to those at the intermediate level.    The advances students wear a red tee shirt.

Two students come in 40 minutes late, a typical behavior in Haiti.  The sun and the heat just zap everyone’s energy.  And with an unemployment rate of 90%, few people really have any need to be on time for anything.  But at FLI, it is expected to be on time. So these two students (adults) are publicly reminded that this is bad behavior.

“You are very late, the teacher tells then sternly.  His glare follows them until they are in their seat and their notebooks are now open.

Slowly and deliberately, he goes back to his lesson. “Do your best and God will provide, OK, repeat this again, after me, please.”

We move on the greetings.  The teacher writes on the board: “This is how we introduce ourselves.”

“Happy to know you, Bob.” He demonstrates in a clear, loud voice.  The students meekly repeat after him.

“I am glad to meet you.”

“I am so happy to make your acquaintance.”

When they part company (or as the teacher said, “taking leave after seeing someone”), they are taught to respond with: 

“See you later Samuel.”

“It was my pleasure to meet you, Jack”.

“We will meet again, God willing”.

The teacher fills the board with sentences and words.  The students write everything down in their notebooks.  Soon, the teacher needs another piece of chalk so he sends a student over to Max to retrieve another piece. Single pieces of chalk and paper are prudently distributed by administration only..

Students spend 20 minutes practicing their greetings.  Now, the class ends.  The students stay in their seats and wait for the next class to begin. Sophianna slides in to teach the next class.  The two teachers cross paths; Claus slips the piece of chalk in Sophianna’s hand and grammar class begins.  We are now going to learn about the past tense of the verb “to be”.

Sunday, July 14- 

Three young girls stand outside my bedroom door, hoping to get a glimpse of me. When I call to them, they laugh and giggle and run away. They want to speak to me, the new house guest, the foreigner, the white woman.

I am spending the day at the Foreign Language Institute where students of all ages come to learn English.  It is exam day and tension fills the air.  Pending the results of today’s exams, some students will be allowed to discard their green tee shirts, the symbol of a beginner, and start to wear an orange tee shirt as a statement of their proficiency with English. Written on the cover of the exam was a message. “The FLI wishes you all the best and good luck!  Do not forget that Education is the key of success for a better life.  Whoever white, black, yellow, you are, and you can only have a better life with Education. Let trust in the almighty GOD!

Exam for the writing assignment for the lower level students is handed out:  Use 10 lines to talk about the importance of school.

“I am going to talk about the importance of school.  School helps you to have a relationship with the person who knows the importance of it.  Without school, it’s difficult to talk with the society.  Sure, there is some people who arrive in the life without going to school, but, it’s not a good idea because with school , you can have a lot of knowledge and respect around you and you can educate your children in the future.”

In the early evening , I returned to my meager rented room and settle in to my new surroundings.The electricity is controlled by the government and runs from 2PM to 4 AM only.  That means that my inadequate fan dies promptly at 4AM with a click that wakes me up and fills me with dread.  My dark room, with its closed window to prevent a mosquito invasion, now becomes an oven.  The mosquito net now becomes one more barrier to any cool relief.

I step out in the dark hallway, and feel a cool breeze form somewhere. So I go back to my room and find something to prop open the door.  A bag of beans crammed at the doorway allows just enough of a breeze to sneak in and offer some relief.

I finally fall asleep again but the roosters start to announce a new day.  They call back and forth to each other for the better part of an hour.  Now the household is up and moving.  I hear someone scurry pass my door and head to the bathroom.  The bath water has arrived.  I get up and think to myself, “This is going to be a long two weeks.”

Monday, July 15-

Today we are talking to the women about stress and why it is so important to eliminate or minimize stress from your life. I am going to teach them some deep breathing techniques.

“OK, let’s start by identifying what causes stress in your life,” I announce to the group.

One woman speaks up, “I feel stress every night.  I put my children to bed hungry.”  Her voice is filled with sadness.  Everyone shakes her head in agreement.  And my thoughts of demonstrating relaxation techniques quickly seem so silly and naïve.

 I wandered up to the internet cafe this afternoon, same as I have done the past two days. But, for some reason, on my way home, I got disoriented and lost. I retraced my steps and ended up in the same wrong place again. So I tried again and just couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong.

Standing alone at an intersection, trying to figure out what to do next, I see two older women, barefoot, running down the rocky road. "Madame, Madame", they are shouting at me, clapping their hands like seals. I recognize them immediately. They are two women from my hood. Word was out that I was lost and they had come to fetch me. I was so glad to see them. I think I am going to leave them my bras.

Tuesday, July 16 - Jeams takes me home every day on the back of his motorcycle. As we stop for traffic, other men call to him.  They look at me and laugh at him.  “What are they saying?” I ask.  “They laugh because I have a white woman with me.  They say I am lucky, I will get lots of money from you”.  I laugh too.  Jeams laughs too.  I tell him to tell them that I am his girlfriend.  Jeams laughs even louder.

The women, in our women’s group, are not really interested in my interests in promoting women and making the world a better, safer world for all women.  They are just hungry to have a place to congregate, make knotted bracelets, sit, sing and talk, and maybe, for now, that is good enough.

Wednesday, July 17 -

 To relieve just a moment of this heat, I travel with a spray bottle filled with cool water.  It’s caught the attention of the women. So around 11, each morning, I roam the room and offer a quick spray.  Some of the women want me to spray them on the back of their necks.  Some want it on the crown of their head.  Others tighten their eyes and take is square in the face.  Though it is only a moment of relief, it feels great as we share this universal need to be comforted.

I did it again. I left the cafe and made it to my street. While I am deep in thought, a small boy greets me.  "Bon swa" I respond, so proud of myself for using the afternoon greeting, not the morning greeting. He says something to me in Creole and I flippantly tell him, “I don’t understand a damn word you are saying, I only speak English".  He is now frantically pointing at a house. I look at the house but I can’t figure out what he wants me to see. I dismiss him and turn to move on. But the laughter catches my attention. I look again and recognize everyone on the porch. This is my house. This is where I have been living for the past 4 days. I think the Haitian must think I am an idiot and I am thinking that they may be right.

In the evening.  I am sitting with Max in my room.  It is 700PM and the fan stops.  “Must be a brown out, it will come back on,” I tell Max with no knowledge but lots of confidence.

“Oh, no.  It is Wednesday,” he tells me regretfully.

“What does that mean”?

“No electricity 7PM to 10PM, every Wednesday to save energy.” He tells me without emotion or care, just resignation.

I am flabbergasted. The electricity is only available from 2PM to 4AM every day.  How will these three hours make any difference to the government’s budget?

I don’t mind going without the lights.  But my fan!!!!!  That is asking too, too much.  I make my way up to the roof with my flashlight.  There is a slight, cool breeze that comforts me.  I stay there until 945 and then make my way back to my room, anticipating the pleasure of my fan.

950- 10 more long minutes!

953- Only 7 more minutes!

955- 5 more minutes.  I lie down on the bed and just wait in anticipation.

959- Here it comes!!!!!!  YIPEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

1000- Nothing.  Just silence and heavy anticipation and disappointment.

1005- Still nothing.  Where is the guy who is supposed to turn on the damn electricity back on?

1015- NOTHING!!!  Now panic is setting in.  What if Max gave me wrong information?  What if it doesn’t come back on until 11PM?  Or what if the city ordinance was changed today and it won’t come on at all tonight.  I am going to have to sleep on the roof with the bugs and the bats.

1020- There is a familiar clicking sound and then a gentle breeze ripples over me.  All is right with my world again.

Thursday, July 18

We are crocheting in the women’s group today.  Sonia, one of the women in the group, is teaching us. Everyone is very focused.  In the background, I can hear the children singing in the next room.  They are loud, very loud and joyful.  They pound on the desk in rhythm with their chanting. Sometimes the women get annoyed with all this noise.  But I love to listen to their singing, no matter how loud it gets.

I have befriended the young girls in the neighborhood. We meet at night, on the rooftop to escape the Haitian heat. One of them has a phone and a few downloaded music videos. I sit on a pail and they cluster around me, their boney elbows resting on my shoulders. They insist I watch their 1" screen filled with Haitian pop stars. Sometimes they dance for me and sometimes I attempt to dance for them. This brings a lot of laughter and rightfully so. When the bugs become too much, I excuse myself and go back to my room. Tonight, I am bringing my MP3 player and my music. Madonna will be joining us.

 I received my meal of the day at 3:25PM today: rice, beans and an unidentifiable meat (probably goat).  As I was about to take my first bite, an ant crawled out from under the pile of rice.  Bon Appetite!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 A few of us are sitting on the porch in the late afternoon.  A well groomed woman strolls by and greets us, “Bon swa”, she calls out, pleasantly.  Some of us respond back.  She glances back at us, somewhat startled.  My accent must have caught her attention because she does a double take. She begins to search for me. She notices me.  She stops in her tracks and comes right up to the house.  The porch gate separates us.  She looks at me and begins to rub her stomach and then touches her mouth.  I know this gesture.  People beg to me for food and money every day.

“She is hungry, she wants gourdes”, says one of the young girls who lives in the house.

At first, I am uncomfortable.  Then I become annoyed.  This woman does not look to be destitute.  It appears to me as if she is just cashing in on what she sees is her lucky moment.  She has encountered a white woman.  She is persistent.  She has now stood in front of me for five minutes and we are at a stalemate.

One of the women in the house comes over and makes sure the gate is secured shut.  She doesn’t chase the woman away but she makes it known that the woman can’t come any closer to me.  Everyone watches to see what I will do.  I sense that they cannot understand why I don’t just give her money.  But I am offended by all for this behavior.  I am exhausted by the poverty and my role to help right this wrong.  I can’t fix it all and I can’t give money to every damn person who wants to take advantage of my skin color.  

Now I am angry.  She seems to begin to pick up more tone, more attitude as she stands there and calls to me.  All eyes are on me. One of us has to back down and after five minutes, she does.  She walks away and mutters something under her breathe.  I sit there for a few minutes, very uncomfortable, trying to calm myself and waiting for the rest for the household to scatter and move on from this unpleasant encounter.

Friday, July 19- 

"Madame, can I touch your hair?"  My 14 year old friend wants to touch my hair.  I let her, what the hell.  So she rubs her fingers through my hair and laughs.  “So soft”, she tells me.  I had never really thought about the texture of my hair.

 "God bless you Madame, God bless you." I hear this all day long.

 Alix, our art teacher, charged in to the medical clinic, looking for a hand full of Q-tips.  “Are you going to teach the kids how to paint with Q-tips?” I ask. 

 “No, no, no.  Today we are going to teach them the cleaning of the ears.”

 Little, dirty fingers slide in to the palm of my hands. They grab on to my belt loops. They hang on my purse straps. They cling to my legs. They know I am the keeper of the rice.

 “Goo mooring, Madame, hell a you?”  So ends my first week of English lessons in the women’s group.  I have been trying in vain to learn creole and nothing is sticking in my brain.  At best, I have learned one phrase and I am not getting that right.  “Hot, Hot” is either show-shoe or so-so or shoe-shoe.  And no matter which one I use, I am wrong and not understood.  So I think it will be easier on all of us if they learn English.  So each morning, I greet them individually with “good morning, Madame, how are you. They return the greeting and laugh with delight that they now speak English.

Saturday, July 20- Weekends, what a luxury it is to long for the weekend where you can do whatever you want:  sit at a happy hour with friends, take a trip the beach, sleep in, kayak, and go to a museum, anything but work.

Weekends are insignificant in Jacmel. The camp closes for the weekend.  So I get to have some time off.  But the translators don’t have any time off because they have to work so they can eat.  So they spend six hours on both days, teaching at the Foreign Language Institute (FLI). And everyone else in Jacmel is doing whatever is possible to hustle a few more pennies to keep food on the table.

July 20- Haiti is filled with Christian. Jesus is mentioned frequently in many conversations.  People speak with an assumption that we are all on the same page.  I wonder how they celebrate Christmas.

Sunday, July 21- 

Haitian only eats one meal a day. When I asked Jeams what time of the day did his family eats their meal, he seemed puzzled. "When the food comes", he tells me. "When we find the food we eat. We don’t find the food, no."

The poverty is very tough on these people. But so is the boredom. They sit all day with very little to say to one another. During the day, they hide inside their houses to avoid the heat. But as the sun goes down, the streets come alive with lots of activity. People roam the neighborhood, looking for someone, something to break the monotony.

Monday, July 22- Today a missionary from the Salvation Army asked me to sponsor his trip to the USA. He wants to help our poor. I told him that I had spent all of my money to come to Haiti to help his poor people.

Baby Joseph and his mother come to my women’s group most days.  She sits on a bench and straddles him across her lap.  Today as she was working so intently on her plastic braided bracelet, he slipped off her lap and smashed on the concrete floor.  He let out a scream that frightened me.  The other women jumped up and ran to his rescue.  They verbally chastised her.  Someone scooped him up and cuddled him.  Then the mother and another woman grabbed all four corners of his blanket.  They held the blanket about two feet off the ground.  Joseph was gently placed in the middle of the blanket and the two women rocked him until he calmed down.  Once he stopped crying, another woman scooped him us and held him until he end of the class.  The mother went back to her bracelet project.

As I leave the beach and head back to the compound, I see her. She is hobbling as fast as she can to catch up to me. I slow down my pace. As she approaches me, Precious gently slides her hand in to mine. We are now walking hand in hand. I slow my pace again so that she does not have to struggle to keep up with me. I look at her and wonder what she is thinking.  As for me: I think I have finally found someone who walks slower than me.

Robert, the owner of the house, seems to be middle class.  He lives in a room across the hall form me.  He speaks of a wife in Miami but then he tells me he is not really married.  The house is run by someone he refers to as his sister in law.  She and a large group of people live on the first floor.  There appears to be two young women and an old woman who share a room down the hall.  One night, there were a dozen of us sitting together on the porch.

Robert also owes a large bus/truck that he drives back and forth from Jacmel to Port au Prince.  He makes two runs a day from one city bus station to the other.  It’s a public bus.  It doesn’t appear to have any seats.  I think people use this bus to carry their big items from one city to the other.  Recently, HFI had 50 gallon drums shipped over to Haiti.  Max had to go to PAP to retrieve them.  He took Robert’s bus to get them back to Jacmel.  The fee was $6. I asked Max how he loaded those five heavy barrels on the truck.

He shrugged his shoulders, “everyone helps, it’s OK” he says casually.

Tuesday, July 23- 

When I travel I don’t wear any of my jewelry.  I don’t want to flash any perception of wealth.  Today, one of the women noticed I have pierced ears but no earrings.  She asked the translator to ask me if she could have my earrings.

Robert’s sister-in- law has a very lucrative business on the side.  She owns a refrigerator chest, run by a generator, which is kept locked away in an enclosed room.  So any time, day or night, she can serve up an ice cold beverage.  She sells water in a pouch for about 8 cents. It holds about 4 ounces, just enough to quench a thirst. Bottles of Teem, Fanta and Cream Soda sell for 15 gourdes, about 30 cents.  The favorite is Fruit Champagne, an orange drink with 67 grams of sugar.

I am sold a bottle of water which goes for 50 cents.  I am never offered the pooch. She also has Prestige, the only beer made in Haiti. It’s a lager, which I don’t normally like.  But on these hot afternoons, there is something nice about sitting on the porch and drinking my 90 cent beer.  The most expensive drink is Guinness, the only other beer choice in Haiti.  This beer goes for 50G, #1.20, the price of a meal in some restaurants.  I am the only one who drinks the Guinness.

When I leave in the morning, she is selling water to everyone in the neighborhood. When I say good night in the late evening, she is still sliding drinks through the closed gate on her porch.

Tuesday, July 23- there is only one bathroom in the compound and it is in deplorable condition.  It is only cleaned every third day.  The toilet does not flush.  And it is in an enclosed room with no windows.  So the smell is hot and offensive. Most days I do not even go near the room.  But some days I just have to go.  Today is one of those unfortunate days.

The big metal door pushes in to the small, dark, smelly room.  The concrete floor has swelled enough that it is now impossible to close the door completely. It takes all of my effort to drag that door to just a crack of an opening. It is so dark that i can not clearly see my surroundings and I am grateful for this ignorance.

As I am struggling to push the door shut, I see Precious approaching me.  She acknowledges me with a wave.

“No, no, no”, I shout to her through the crack in the door.  “Stay away.  Go away”!  

But she ignores my request and now I can feel her breath on my face.  She stands there, staring at me. And I realize that I have to surrender as I really have to go.  But then, just then, her thin, long fingers slither through the opening.  With all of her might she struggles, to pull the door even tighter as she attempts in vain to offer me just a bit more privacy,

Wednesday, July 24- we take care to keep our hazardous trash under our watch.  We recognize that there is little to no solid waste treatment plan in Haiti.  So our rubber gloves, needles and bloody gauze pads are kept securely in an orange hazardous waste bag, in a corner, in the medical clinic.  No one gets in the clinic without a doctor.  And I will secure the proper handling of the package when our summer program ends.

But today, as I stroll around the neighborhood, I see a young girl, blowing up what looks like a balloon.  Upon closer inspections, I see that she has a used surgical glove and she is now bouncing the glove as if it was a ball.

Where did she get this glove?  Is this one of our gloves?  Am I being careful enough with our waste? Is the yardman taking our hazardous waste and discarding it carelessly and without my knowledge?  What do I do now?  As I wallow in my panic, the little girl escapes my view and she is off in the distance, throwing her popped balloon in the creek.

The women are drawing today, coloring simple flowers.  As they draw they hum and sing songs.  When they finish, they summon one of the translators who is then instructed to show me her creation.  They waits for my approval and grins with pride when I look at their very simple drawing , shake my head” yes” and announce, “beautiful”.   They are given a second piece of paper and they draw an almost identical flower.

There was no electricity this afternoon which didn’t seem to bother anyone as they are used to this situation.  But this prolonged moment of no fan tortured me.  I asked Max why we have this blackout.  “Maybe the government cannot pay for the electricity again.”

Thursday, July 25- 

Yevenor tells me his mother is blind. She is 44. She just went blind three years ago.  He is filled with sadness as he speaks about her. I ask if he would like to bring her to the clinic to see if one of our doctors can assess the situation. Maybe the doctors can offer some suggestions on what to do.

"No", he tells me, “she already see a doctor.  There is nothing she can do" he says with sorrowful resignation.

 “What happened?  How did she go blind?” 

“I don’t know.  We think someone put a spell on her", He says very matter of factly.

 “Like voodoo?” I want to know.

“Yea, voodoo." It’s a very bad thing.  I am scared of it.”

“Who would put a spell on your mother”?

 "We think a family member; we don’t know which one.  She had a good business and someone got jealous. So they put a spell on her. Now she can’t work. We don't know which one did this to her. Voodoo is scary".

Thursday, July 25- We take the same route home every day from camp.  People begin to expect us and wave to us.  Other drivers on their motorcycles make comments to Jeams about me.  We stick out in the crowd and we know it and laugh about it. 

Just as we are a few blocks from my house, we are stopped. Today, a group of young men are standing at a corner and they have strung a rope across the road.  As they see us approaching, they step out from behind a tree and raise the rope so that we cannot pass.  Jeams stops his motorcycle.

“What do they want,” I ask.

“Money.  Just a little money.  They are working on the road.”  His eyes dart quickly between them and us.

I begin to panic.  I am carrying $1000 in my purse, the payroll for the week.  I am not going to get hurt over this request.  I will surrender all of this money if I have to, but I am going to do what I can to protect this money.  If I lose this money, all of the translators will not get paid this week.

I jump off the motorcycle and walk towards the man making the request. I become defensive and very aggressive in my response.

“No, absolutely not”, I yell back at Jeams for all of them to hear.  My response startles them.

Meanwhile, Jeams has pulled 5G from his pocket and he is ready to hand over some money.  I intervene, “No, Jeams, they can’t bully us in to giving them money”, I say with an indignant tone. I look to the ring leader, “you cannot take advantage of us.”

With that, this man looks at me and softly asks, “No money?”

“No”, I adamantly tell him, “no money.”  With that he lifts the rope and tells us go on our way. I quickly hop back on the motorcycle.  Jeams and I zoom off. Now, I feel a need to explain my aggressiveness to Jeams, this very gentle man.

“Jeams, I had the payroll with me.  I didn’t want them to see where I had my money because I didn’t want them to take all this money.  Besides, they shouldn’t be taking advantage of us.”

“You don’t do that in your country” he asks?

“No, workers can’t just impose a fee to pass the road.”

Later that night, I talk to Max about the incident.

“Max, I think those men were waiting for us today so they could get money from us.  They must have been watching us over this past week.  They know our routine. What should I do?  Do you want to hold on to the money?  Would that be safer?”  I am now anxious to unload all of this money even if it will now burden Max.

“Jeams called me, he told me what happened.  Those men were not trying to take your money.  They were just fixing the road.  When the government can’t afford to fix a road, they let the local men fix the road and then they can ask people for a donation.  That’s how they get paid.  And then the road gets fixed.”

He assured me that these men were not watching me.  Now I am ashamed of myself and my aggression. I tell Max that I will have Jeams stop tomorrow and I will give them money.

“No, don’t worry about it.  They won’t be there tomorrow; the work is done.  And Jeams went back there after he dropped you off and explain to them that you thought they were trying to steal from you.  They felt bad. He already gave them some money.  Don’t worry about it.”

Friday, July 26- Gimp.  I didn’t think much about gimp before I came to Haiti.  As a matter of fact, when I saw it on our wish list, I had to look up the definition of this word.  Now I know what gimp is: a precious commodity in Haiti.  These women could sit for hours and hours and hours and make those cheap, plastic knotted bracelets.  I don’t know what they do with them when they are finished. I never see them wearing them.  Some of the women take their finished bracelets, unknot them and start again.

As usual, it is stinking hot today.  So when I see one of our little boys wearing a heavy fleece jacket, my heart goes out to him.  How sad is it that this is the only shirt he has to wear.  So I wander off to our supply room and find a brand new white tee shirt.  I grab the shirt and go back to find the little boy.  I pull on his shirt and show him my gift.  He shakes his head, no.  A translator intervenes on my behalf.  He tells me that the little boy is not hot.

“But he has to be hot, I am so hot”, I say jokingly but really not understanding how this kid can’t be anything but suffering.

So the translator now becomes insistent and he takes the jacket off the boy and we put the brand new, clean white tee short on the boy.  Now he looks comfortable to me.  The kid runs off and joins the other boys on the beach.  I am content that he is now more comfortable.

Two hours later, I see the boy again. This time he is wearing both my new tee short and the fleece jacket.  I give up.

Saturday, July 27- 

Team #4 arrives today:  three doctors, one nurse, two physical therapists, one social worker, two young girls and a pre-med student.  I have been without volunteers for two weeks and I am so damn happy to see each and every one of them.

For the first time ever, two physical therapists join our medical team. We have Mary Lou, a physical therapist and one of her graduate students. I took Mary Lou over to see my old lady friend. Mary Lou kneeled down next to her and ever so gently rubbed the woman’s back as the old lady purred "bon, bon".

Sunday, July 28- We go to the beach for dinner on a late Sunday afternoon.  For the first time, I see the middle class, people who have expendable income.  There are over a 1000 of them, in the water, wandering around or sitting at tables.  Hundreds of people are romping in the water.  Small boys hold hands and safeguard each other from the tides and undertow. People are in bikinis and swim trucks.  I am the only one in long sleeves, worrying about sun burn.

The beach is a walking market. Men weave in and out of the crowds with steam pots.  For 50 cents, they will sell conch on a cup.  Five pieces and hot sauce just hit the spot on this breezy afternoon. Little girls pester us to buy chiclets and lollipops. A man sells beads for women’s cornrows.  Whiskey tables line the beach.  For another 50 cents, small boys chop open the top of a coconut with their large machetes.  Cool coconut milk runs down my chin as I try in vain not to spill a single drop.

Some people have brought their portable speakers with them.  Adele sings “Rolling in the Deep” to all of us.  Couples are kissing.  We sit at one of the rickety old tables, lining the beach.  We order fish and beers.  For $3, a whole grilled fish is brought to each of us.  Lips, eyeballs, tails, bones and all are picked through.  We spit the bones on the gravel beach.  When we are finished eating, our waitress throws out plates, forks, bottle tops, fish bones and napkins on the beach. Shamelessly and heartbreakingly, the high tide will sweep this beautiful area clean.  

The sun sets but not the presence of the moment.  The breeze makes this oasis so desirable.  When it gets too dark to see, we leave and head back to the stale, heavy heat of the city.

Monday, July 29- I had no access to internet this week. I feel vulnerable and isolated.

Monday, July 29- I finally found out what is Precious’s real name:  Magdalena.  One of the new volunteers asked Max what her name was. It seems so funny that she has another name.  And it also seems so funny that I never bothered to ask any of the translators what her name was.

Monday, July 29 - We pay Adeline and the other woman $5 each, each day to prepare food for all of the campers, the translators, the women from our women’s group and all the other kids who scaled the walls and didn’t get caught.  They make roughly 120 meals a day.

I really can’t figure out how many are actually served because chaos and panic set in with the first smell of sardines.  No one, except me, wants to be left out of this culinary treat.  With the first hint of lunch, we are all under foot of one another.   Kids scheme one plot after another to trick us in to believing they have not been served yet.  They try desperately to snatch a second bowl. Hunger can make the best actors out of some of these kids.

As I am checking to see if everyone is feed, I notice a commotion.  Two girls are verbally accosting each other. I intervene and quickly assess that a 10 year old girl was trying to steal a bowl of rice from an 8 year old girl.  It turns out the 8 year old had two younger siblings under her guard and she was attempting to feed them.  I stood guard between the two older girls.   The sister sits between the two toddlers so she could spoon feed them.  The older sister saved just the last bit for herself.  Handing me her empty bowl, she looked right at me, “Merci, Madame.”  She runs off and joins the other kids.

Monday, July 29- I ask Alix, our artist to give us a drawing lesson.  Alix is showing us how to use symmetry.  Standing at the blackboard, he draws one male figure after another.  I protest.  I tell him he is too egocentric.  Where are the female drawings? He is finally teaching us how to draw ourselves, women.  My thoughts are translated to the group and a loud discussion followed.  The young women want me to step outside for a moment.   They want to be taught how to draw “the male sexual parts.”  I convey that I, too, want to stay for this part of the lesson.  That brings on an uproar of laughter.  And the young women then race tot eh board, drawing one penis after another, each one larger than the last one.  The drawing lesson is now completely shot to hell.

Tuesday, July 30- 

We have a physical therapist with us this week.  We never offered PT before and the responses of gratitude from the people have overwhelmed us.  Many of our clientele have injuries they suffered from the earthquake.  But because their injuries were not catastrophic, they did not receive any treatment at that time.  No one tended to them.  So broken bones were reset by family members.  Back injuries were just tolerated.  And those who lost toes, learned to adjust with a pronounced limp.  All of our PT patients noticed a remarkable improvement with just one treatment.  They were taught ways to strengthen muscles and alleviate pain.  Most of these patients were so successful that they wandered back every day to show us their progress and to thank us again and again.

Tuesday, July 30- 

They sit under our tables, at our feet, as we eat.  Four feral dogs hang at our hotel.  Some of the guests toss pieces of food to them.  The kitchen staff feeds them the table scraps; they are better feed than many children in Haiti.

Last night, around 11PM, we noticed the maintenance man tie two of the dogs together on the same piece of rope.  He began dragging them off somewhere.  The dogs cried out in protest. We intervened and he released them, begrudgingly.  We ask what he intended to do with the dogs.  He doesn’t really answer us.  But he does comply with our request to let the dogs go.

Two hours later, I am abruptly awakened by the sound of a dog, howling in pain and fear.  These sounds are horrible.  Then there is a loud, blunt cracking noise.  The howling stopped abruptly.  The silence was deafening and unnerving.  I think to call to Frank to ask if he just heard what happened.  But the moment was just so upsetting that I didn’t want to drag him in to this sorrow if he didn’t hear it.

This morning we notice only two dogs, one of which is now walking around with a very serious limp.  The absence of the other two dogs weighs heavy on all of us.  Slowly, we all confess that we heard the bludgeoning of the dog.

The issue of race has been on my mind. I am the only white person I have seen all week. I feel all eyes on me. But unlike Trayvon Martin, who was watched with suspicion, I am being watched with care.

Wednesday, July 31- 

After we closed the clinic today we are all went to the voodoo temple.  There are 12 of us, the 10 American volunteers, Alix and Jeams.  Alix is telling us that 80% of all Haitians are Christians.  But 100% are voodoo.  We ask him if he practices voodoo and he tells us with an adamant tone, “Of course not, I am Christian.  I don’t practice that stuff, of course not.”

“Then it isn’t 100% because you don’t practice voodoo”, Mary Lou points out to him.

“That’s right.  I don’t practice it but I still know its strong powers.”

Tap-Taps

They go up and down the main road with no schedule. They go to the end of the highway and then they just turn around and come back all day long and well in to the evening.  They only stop on demand.  A potential passenger must flag the driver who may or may not stop. The passenger then climbs aboard and taps on the side of the vehicle to indicate that he is in the vehicle. He taps again when he wants to get off. The Haitians pay the equivalent of a quarter.  We paid about a dollar for our ride.

As we attempted to hop on, a man was hopping off.  He was pulling out a small chest of drawers which he picked up somewhere today. We all helped him carry this heavy load to the side of the road.  Then we hopped in.  So did five or six other people. It was crowded.  Everyone sat sideways.  Mary Lou had a young girl on her lap.  Two boys straddled the back tailgate. Their bare feet dangled outside.

As we approached our destination, we tapped twice but the driver kept going.  So we shouted at him to stop.  He did stop but he insisted he demonstrate to us how to tap so that we can be heard. I guess he thought he was helping us be more successful with our next ride.  But really, there was not going to be a next ride for me. His inflated price of a dollar just solidified my plan to stick with the motorcycle taxi. That ride was only a buck and the driver took me door to door.  

Thursday, August 1- 

Madi, our 13 year old volunteer, comes looking for me.  She has just witnessed some boys beating Magdalena with sticks.  She called to them to stop and they ran off.  And so did Magdalena.  Now Madi is trembling with sorrow.

“I can’t believe it.  What should we do”, she asks me as she is weeping.

“I don’t know”, I tell her truthfully.  How do we intervene on behalf of this poor, pathetic girl who is viewed as mad, an imbecile, a burden to the community?  She has no allies but us and we are leaving soon.  So what can we really do?

Madi and I find a place on the street to sit.  I rub her back as she attempts to calm down.  She speaks with sorrow of the injustice of it all. I am filled with sorrow for Magdalena and for Madi.  Both young girls now know just how cruel life can be.

“It isn’t fair.  Why can’t they just leave her alone?   She isn’t hurting anyone”, she cries in a meek, sad voice.  The injustice is just too much for her to bear.

“This is out of our control”, I tell her with too much defeat in my voice.  “It’s terrible but really what can we do?”  Madi is right but I too am at a loss as to what to do.  I have been on Haiti too long.  Surrendering to the injustices of the world is coming too easily for me.

Madi stopped them today but tomorrow is her last day in Haiti.  Who will intervene on Magdalena’s behalf tomorrow and the next day and the next day?

We sit in silence for a moment.    We decide to target a few boys in the neighborhood who seem to be leaders, boys with good character.  We seek them out. We get them to commit to stand up for Magdalena. We speak to them with an urgency to help us.  Several of them agree.  They will not only refrain from ever hitting her.  But they will intervene on her behalf if anyone else ever tries to beat her.

We then decide to approach the leader of our women’s group.  We will ask her to get these women to stand up for Magdalena.  I told Madi that I had already approached them earlier in the summer about being Magdalena’s advocate. Madi’s sweet voice and heartfelt request should surely solidify their commitment.

With our plan now implemented, Madi feels some relief, some control over this sad situation.  She is breathing a little easier.  As we sit and watch the rhythm of the neighborhood, Magdalena shows up out of nowhere.  She slides right next to Madi and leans on her. She puts her head on Madi’s lap.  Madi now rubs Magdalena’s back.

I suggest we go back the compound.  So we all get up.  Madi takes Magdalena hand and guides her back.  I slow down and linger behind them so that I can watch and enjoy this moment of sweet, innocent humanity.

Thursday, August 1- I meet a woman who spent her first 12 years living in Haiti.  Her next 12 years have been spent in the USA and she now sees herself more as an American than as a Haitian.

“Do you practice voodoo”, I ask her.

“No”, she responds rather dismissively.  “I was raised differently”.  I interpret her response to mean that she is too bright, too sophisticated to believe in voodoo.

I tell her about Yevenor’s mother and her blindness spell. 

“The same thing happened to my friend.  Someone put a spell on her and now she is like totally blind.  Can you believe it?  That voodoo can be very, very scary”, she tells me with a tone of frightening respect.

Friday, August 2- Water, I think about it all the time. What are we going to do when there is no more clean water on this earth? The water situation seems a little better in Haiti than in other poverty countries I have visited. It seems as if people do not have to walk as far to get clean water.  I think a lot of effort went in to make water available to people after the earthquake.  Water stations can be found at random spots around the city.  Mostly women fetch the water, five gallons at a time.  They carry water buckets on their heads and make their way through these rough, hilly streets with an ease that amazes me.

Friday, August 2- we head up to the Bassin Blue Waterfall for the afternoon.  It’s our treat for the volunteers.  The clinic is closed and now we play. We get there by truck and then we have to hike about a mile in to the falls.  The trip is treacherous and slippery.  There are three levels to the falls.  The first level has the easiest access.  The second level is more demanding and I don’t know how difficult it is to get to the third level because this level is good enough for me.  The water is a beautiful blue and the falls are surrounded by lush, lush vegetation.  We are only 20 miles from Jacmel, but this is a completely different world.  There is not a blade of grass to be found in Jacmel.  The tree population is sparse and scrawny.  But the Basin Blue is teeming with green, beautiful, fragrant life.

While the others make their way up to higher elevation, I slide in to the cool, blue, blue water.  One of the guides stays behind and watches over me which I appreciate because the currently is stronger than I had anticipated.  But the silky water is more luxurious than I had imagined and I begin to think of ways on how I could spend the rest of my life in this wonderful pool of water.

Friday, August 2- one of the doctors joined me this morning as I went across the street to feed my old lady friend.  I usually bring her a banana and juice in the morning then, around noon, I bring her a bowl of rice, beans and sardines.  The woman acknowledges me now.  She smiles and thanks me every day.

The doctor didn’t stay long so I spent a few minutes with the old woman.  Suddenly, a neighbor appears at the doorway. He approaches me and speaks angrily to me.  A translator intervenes and conveyed this man’s disgust at the doctor for taking a photo of the woman.

I didn’t understand why the man was so angry until I noticed that the old lady was sitting in a position that exposed all of her genitals.  The man was right.  We were wrong.  I assured him that the photo would be erased.  

And when I returned at noon with a bowl of rice, I found the old lady already eating a bowl of rice, lager than what I was offering.  What a relief it was for me to receive their message of, “thanks; but no thanks.  We will now take care of our own from now on.”

Friday, August 2- it is the last day of camp for team #4. So the counselors are saying goodbye to team #4 and in the midst of our goodbyes, Jeams embraces me.  He stoops down as I rise on my tippy toes.  We meet halfway.  He holds on to me so tightly.  After several seconds, I begin to move away from him. He pulls me back now even tighter and whispers in my ear, “don’t let go of me yet.  Don’t ever let go of us.”  I think to myself, “How can I ever leave Jeams and Haiti”.

Saturday, August 3- 

Team #4 left today, leaving behind two pairs of wet shoes, a grocery bag, a dirty bra, two tee shirts, three new toothbrushes, some tooth paste, two used bars of soap, several opened packages of trail mix, toilet paper and a few pens.  I gave all of these treasures to the chambermaid who accepted these gifts with gratitude and glee.

There are lots of UN personnel here roaming around the hotel today, maybe a dozen or more.  They met up with each other in the lobby.  Kisses and hugs are exchanged just like a family reunion.  I see Canadian flags and American flag patches.  I hear French, German and Italian accents.  They are all dressed in military fatigues, men and women.  They are here for some R & R before they return to their country.  A replacement team of new peacekeepers will arrive in Port au Prince tomorrow.

Team five arrives:  four doctors and a young girl who will be starting college in a few weeks.  Emily, the pre-med volunteer from last week is still with me.  I anticipate a busy final week.

Sunday, August 4- a ten year old comes to the medical clinic by herself.  A man with gangrene limped in, hoping we can save his foot.  A man with cancer tells us he is resigned to his fate so we do our best to alleviate his pain.  All of these incidents are heartbreaking and just reaffirm why we are here.  All of these patients are so grateful for our help.  But their gratitude is overshadowed this week because we are reaching a critical mass with another service.  The big draw this week:  we have reading glasses, lots and lots of reading glasses.  We have 350 pair to give away and the word is out.  Old people are walking miles just for a pair of our plastic reading glasses.  People are arriving to the compound on motorcycles.  Whole families are coming to get a pair.

As we fit one man, he begs, “For my wife?”  We have to tell him to bring her in so we can give her the correct magnification.  “Ok, for my brother?” is the next question.  Again, we tell them to bring family members in.  And the next day, five of them show up.

Sunday, August 4- lessons I need to learn again and again and again:

• no matter how hard I try to speak in this language, my French stinks;
• I can’t take it personally when the women from the women’s group steal from us;
• I am supposed to say “Bon Jour" until noon and then I have to switch to “Bon Swa”;
• The Haitians don’t eat for the enjoyment of eating.  They eat to sustain themselves.  I am not going to find a nice restaurant in Jacmel, with high end, quality food.  Its rice and beans, get over it,;
• It’s hot today.  It was hot yesterday and it will be hot tomorrow.  I need to get over my preoccupation with this damn heat.
• Wait service in all of the restaurants is slow, very slow. Time means nothing here. So waiting one hour for soup is not a long wait for the Haitians.  I don’t mind waiting that long for soup but some times that is how long I have to wait for a beer.  Now that is unacceptable!
• Prices are not consistent in restaurants. One morning, my breakfast costs 350G and the next day, the same meal is 430G.
• The litter problem is beyond my control.
• The city electricity is only available for 2 PM to 4 AM every day.  And that is out of my control.
• Cool bucket baths are better than no baths.
• It's rice and beans or beans and rice and that are about.

Monday, August 5- one of the volunteers asks Alix if he dreams or desires of ever coming to the USA.  I watch him as he weighs his words ever so gently. “You have a beautiful country, I know.  I see many pictures of your country”, he tells us politely.  “And maybe someday.  But I want to stay here and help Haiti.  I want to put all of my energy to help Haiti.  I want to stay right here”.  He points emphatically at the ground.  “That’s all I want”.  None of us refute this admirable plan.

Tuesday, August 6- a man comes to the clinic with a serious foot injury.  He has already been to the local hospital where the doctor recommended that his foot be amputated. Gangrene has set in.  The man grieves over this thought.  If he loses his foot, he loses his job.  He begs Mary, our doctor, for some sort of intervention, some sort of miracle.  Mary also recommends that he have his foot amputated before the gangrene spreads up his leg.  But he is not ready or willing to surrender to this option.  Under protest, Mary designs a treatment plan filled with an exorbitant amount of antibiotics.  She gives him a two week window of treatment and tells him if he is not better, he must have his foot amputated.  She tells him she will pray for a miracle. He thanks her profusely. Then he limps out of the clinic with his arsenal of antibodies and a glimmer of hope.  Mary spends the rest of her day and week swallowed up in sadness and hopelessness for this man.

Tuesday, August 6- today is some sort of a national voodoo holiday so we ask Alix to make arraignments to take us to the voodoo ceremony.  He asks his brother to pick us up at the hotel.  He tells us the ceremony starts at 9PM and goes until 3 in the morning.  We make arrangements to get picked up at 9 but then Alix suggests we go at 930 but really we don’t get picked up until 10.  We get there by 1030.  But the ceremony doesn’t start until 11.  Women march down the street together, holding lit candles.  They paraded in, dressed all in white.  A man snapped a whip as he made his way through the crowd; there was lots of incense burning.  A man spoke to the crowd, “Medicine is very helpful.  But it can’t do everything.  That is why we need voodoo.”  I wonder if he was talking to us directly with this message.  There is lots of chanting and dancing around a center pole.  After an hour, we go home.

Tuesday, August 6- I write on my Facebook status:  “Going to a voodoo ceremony.  I hope no one puts a spell on me”.  Lynn added a comment:  “I think Haiti has put a spell on you.”  I laugh when I read this comment but then I realize she is right, Haiti has put a spell on me.  I am sucked in to all of the good work and good will from the translators.  They have put a spell on me.

Wednesday, August 7- stealing is really a problem here. The women would steal everything from us if we didn’t approach them so defensively every day. I am not really sure if people see it as stealing or rather as a legitimate method of survival.

Wednesday, August 7- I met the First Lady of Haiti, the Premier Dame.  For some unexplainable reason, I feel compelled to interrupt what she is doing and speak to her about my experience in Haiti.  She is sitting around the patio in our hotel.  She is at a table, surrounded by two people who are listening to her attentively.  There appears to be several security personnel, stationed around the patio.  No one is armed and no one has any visible telecommunications gadgets.

I walk right up to her and introduce myself.  She graciously acknowledges me.  She speaks impeccable English which I must have expected but none the less I am impressed with her command of the English language.  I explain that I am doing in Haiti.  Then I quickly summoned max to join me.  He runs over, sheepishly but excited to meet Mrs. Montelly.  I tell her about max’s work and our new English language library, the first in Jacmel.  I invite her to join our opening but she declines the offer.  I tell her that the Haitians I meet speak highly of her husband because of his commitment to education.  She thanks me and we part company.

Later that night, I meet Gary, the head of her security team.  He is sitting at the patio, talking to the other volunteers.

 "I spoke to the First Lady today,” I tell him in a rather bragging tone.

“Yes, I know, I saw you.  You were with the tall, skinny Haitian.  Did you see me>”
 he asks.

“No, where were you?” I asked in a very surprised tone because I didn’t see anyone else while I was speaking to the premiere dame.

“I was standing right behind you.  I am watching you now.” He tells me with a tome of authority

He winks at me and we both laugh but I do sense that he wanted me to receive his message and that he will keep a more watchful eye on me.  I tell him about our wellness camp and the opening of the library.  I suggest that he bring the First Lady around to either of these events for a photo opportunity.  He told me that her day tomorrow is full so she is unavailable.

He does take down Max’s address and tells us that he will tell the local senator about FLI and he will attempt to get some sort of financial government help for Max.

The next morning, I see a Mercedes Benz parked outside the Salvation Army compound.  I look in the window and see Gary peering out.  He is watching me.  I wave and he waves back and then he nods to the driver and the car slowing takes off.

Thursday, August 8- a little girl comes in to the clinic by herself. She is nine, slight in build. She has a very quiet demeanor.  But she sits right now and tells the doctor that she is having some problems. Brett begins to interview her.  She tells him she has worms coming out of her rectum.

“Little ones or big ones?” Brett asks her.

“Big ones”, she tells him meekly, quietly.

Brett extends his fingers about 4 inches, “this big?” he asks to clarify.

She extends her fingers just a little longer. She doesn’t say a word.

“Wow” Brett responds, a little dumbfounded.

Brett begins to talk about an antibiotic plan for her.  The translator is repeating the instructions to her.  She leans forward to listen.

I step right up to then and interrupt this discussion. “Are you going to give these drugs to a child?”  I ask.

"There is no one else", he tells me defensively, "she says there are no parents.  She came in by herself". 

It wasn’t my intention to make him defensive or to criticize his actions.  But I can’t believe what I heard as she described her condition.  I am standing in front of a tiny girl who is seeking her own medical treatment for such a gross, medical issue.  She is completely on her own and she is just a baby.

“Who takes care of you”,  I ask her.  I am desperate to find a parent.

“My aunt, I live with my aunt”, she tells us.

“Where is she now?” I ask, hoping I can go get this woman and bring her here right now.

“I don’t know” she says with no further information. Brett tells me that she had indicated she hasn’t seen her aunt for a couple days.  The little girl smiles at me as Brett and I talk about her.  Her sweet little face glows with a mistaken perception of innocence.

Brett and I just look at each other and shake our heads.  “Now what?” he asks me.

And I don’t know.   In the US, we would never give a child this dosage of drugs without a parent or guardian.  But we aren’t in the US and this little girl needs medical help today, right now.    To complicate matters, we pack up the clinic tomorrow. So it’s now or never if we are going to help her.  

So Brett gave her a bag of medicine and specific instructions.  He asks her to repeat the instructions so he can confirm her understanding.  She repeats the instructions perfectly.   She takes her bag and thanks us.  She walks out on her own.  We watch her and comment on how different our worlds are.

Thursday, August 8 -today is the grand opening of the first English language library in Jacmel.  The teachers at the Foreign Language institute have secured a new home for their school and this new library.  And tonight is the opening ceremony.  Max is too excited. We will all attend the ceremony that we are told is formal.  That is going to pose a problem for all of the volunteers as none of us have anything that is clean let alone formal.  So we will come with nothing but the best intentions.

Thursday, August 8- when a Haitian soccer game is on the television, those men who are lucky enough to own a television, bring their prized possession out to the street and clumps of men gather around this 12” screen.  Cheers and moans announce every goal and mistake.  Some men stay at the same television for the entire night.  Others hop from one cluster to another.  There are a few beer bottles but not many.  There is no money for that.  There is very little discussion.  I  just see men sitting on the edge of their seats, ready to explode.

Friday, August 9-   

Today is the last day of camp.  As we leave our hotel, I am filled with anxiety.  I expect a difficulty day.  I anticipate the neighbors are also anxious about our departure.

When we arrive at the compound, there are already way too, too many people waiting for us. They are everywhere. There is lots of tension at the camp.  People know we are leaving tomorrow. Today is the last day these people will receive free medical care for another year. So all of our 100 medical cards have been given out by 600AM.  People are begging me to let them see the doctors even though they don’t have a ticket.  They are desperate. They are pulling on my sleeves, pleading with me.

Too many others  have also come the compound today for no other reason than to score some free medicines or pick up a free pair of eye glasses.  If supplies are going to be given away, today is the day to score a handout.  So lots and lots of people have made their way through the gates and are now encroaching on our space.  

We tried our best to keep the gate closed .  But they are still sneaking in. They are everywhere. They are becoming a bit aggressive.  And while I do not think anyone would purposely hurt us, I worry about the growing crowd and their hopes of leaving with something tangible.  If there is just the perception that we are giving something out, we could have a riotous situation.

We had a group who gathered right outside the medical clinic.  We chased them away several times, so now we demanded that they leave.

People are on the benches, waiting to be called to the intake bench.  People are on the benches right outside the clinic.  For some reason, people are lined up right against the wall, just waiting.  They don’t have a medical card and they aren’t waiting for the  doctor.  They tell me they are here, waiting for their children in the camp.  But this is a ridiculous statement as no one looks after their children. They are waiting in case just in case we have some supplies to give out.  

Now there is a crowd that is gathering right outside the medical clinic. This is a younger crowd, maybe 15 or 20 people and they will not comply with my request to leave.  They are demonstrating a slight attitude of defiance.  They are not willing to surrender an opportunity to get something for free. Much to everyone’s surprise, I had to take someone by the arm and escort him out of the compound. I had to break up these clusters of people and I had to do this quickly. So I ask Max, Jeams, Lucien, Monell and Antoine to help me kick people out.

“The only people who can be in the compound are the people who have a ticket to see the doctors.” I tell them.  This would now bring our crown down to a manageable group of 200 down to 50 people.

The men start to help but they don’t quite have my idea of what it means to kick someone out.  They aren’t aggressive people by nature.  So it was hard for them to take control. And this moment calls for ugly American behavior.  So I have to resort to my loud, aggressive, high school principal voice and we begin to clear the crowd. After half an hour, we have cleared everyone out.  Several of us stand guard at the gate to keep the area clear.

By noon, the final lunch of smelly sardines, beans and rice has been served and cleaned up.  Adeline wants to keep the plastic bowls for her family dishes.  She is grateful for the gift of 100 chirped plastic bows. The camp kids have all gone home. the last patients have been given an ample supply of medicines and the medical clinic is now closed and we are all focused on cleaning up and putting the summer program to bed.

Now it is just the volunteers and the translators. I really want everyone to leave because I have a big problem on my hands and I don’t want people interfering with our situation.  We have hundreds of dollars of medicines that expired in March.  I have to make a decision as to what to do with all of this stuff.    I can give them to the local hospital; I can offer them to local doctors and pharmacies.  I can discard them.  Or I can store them for another year and leave next year’s volunteers with the burden to take care of this problem.

So we put phone calls in to every connection we have. We were able to find a doctor who took a whole suitcase of medicines back to his practice.  The nearby orphanage took lots of supplies and medicines. The local hospital and the pharmacy would not even touch the medicine.  There are few laws in Haiti and apparently the expired medicine law seems to be strictly enforced.  So now I have no other choice but to discard this pile of drugs.

There is no good trash collection solution in Haiti.  People just throw their trash everywhere.  The landfill is the local beach.  I didn’t want all of these antibiotics ending up in the water.  I didn’t want the yardman to burn the medicine for us.  This quantity needs to be handled in a secured incinerator.  Otherwise, all those chemicals would be floating through the air for every mosquito to ingest and then become immune to them.

I call on the mayor and he comes over.  He puts in a few phone calls and he assures me, he will take the drugs and incinerate them in a safe, secure manner.  I am not comfortable with his reassurance but it is the best option I have.  So the translators and I empty bottle after bottle of antibiotic drugs in a hazardous waste bag.  This kills me as so many people could have benefited from all this medicine.  What a lost potential.

We clean up, lock up and wander across the street together to the local café for one last beer together.  I take a moment to look back at the Salvation Army Compound and think to myself, “what a shithole.  I’m going to miss this place”. 

The other volunteers and the translators decide to make the journey up to swim at Basin Blue Falls.  I hop on a motorcycle and head back to the hotel. I am not interested in the falls and really, I could use a few minutes to myself.  The Wellness Camp is finished and so am I.

Saturday, August 10

It is 430 AM, departure day, the end of my time in Haiti.  I can’t really describe my feelings at the moment. I am neither happy nor sad.  I check to make sure everyone is up and ready to go.  Everyone is up, sleepy but up.  We all gather in silence. Our van is waiting to take us to the airport for a 930 flight to Miami.  It is dark and the streets are deserted.  It’s hard to see where we are going because there are no street lights and it appears as if our van only has one working head light.  

To add to this mess, I worry about our driver.  He was out until 130 AM this morning, dancing in a local club with our young doctors.  He must be exhausted and I am not confident in his ability to get us to the airport safely.  I try to talk to him to keep him company.  But he does not understand English and there is no Creole coming out of me.  I am hoping my mere noise will help to keep him awake.

As the sun begins to peak up over the dusty horizon, the streets take on life.  It is Saturday, Market Day.  People display their meager wares all alone the streets.  Goats, carts and people dodge one another as they scurry to get out of our way as we come barreling through the narrow, rough streets.

We get to the airport in three hours and as we open the doors, we are bombarded by men who want to grab our luggage for us.  We fight them off and say our goodbyes to Max.  He hurries back in to the van, anxious to get this last airport run, of the summer, over.  The van quickly becomes a pinpoint in the distant landscape and all my thoughts are now focused on returning home to the comfort of my family.

MY TYPICAL DAY IN HAITI

This summer, I am the only constant volunteer for the five weeks.  Right now, I am the only volunteer for two weeks, the only American in our program.  In the past, teams of 10 to 12 volunteers showed up each Saturday and relieved the previous team.  Over the five weeks, 50 or 6 f us showed up to help and to bring supplies of medicines and school supplies.  

But this year, for some unforeseen circumstances, teams 2 and team 3 canceled at the last minute, leaving me on my own for two weeks.  I left our air conditioned hotel, gated and hovering over the beautiful Caribbean Sea and I have taken a room at a private home, in the midst of the people and the poverty.

I was a bit of a crybaby my first night.  It was too hot.  The bathroom had all the right plumbing fixtures.  But when I went to take a shower, I discovered there is no indoor plumbing.  The fan stopped in the middle of the night and my room became an oven.  I wanted to cry. I had to change my attitude if I wanted to get through these next two weeks.

The roosters wake me at 530 AM.  They call to each other for about an hour.  Then the goats chime in.  Around 7, people in the house begin to rise.  Someone brings water the bathroom so there is enough water for those of us who want a cool bucket bath. I rise at 8 when all is quiet.  After two days, I have the rhythm of how to bath with just a bucket and a cup.  The cool water is a relief as I am already a little damp form the heat.

At 830, I step outside in to the bright light of the day and see Jeams waiting for me.  With a smile that reaches ear to ear, he greets me with a singsong tone that is so pleasant.  “Good morning Bridget, Did you sleep well”?

I jump on the back of his motor cycle and off we go through the precarious, rocky, crowded roads of Jacmel.  The road caters to motorcycles and SUVs only.  Andy other vehicle could not make it through these rutted, hilly roads.  I should close my eyes as we weave our way to camp.  The trip is scary.  All of the drivers, males, maneuver the roads like 10 year olds.  They have no rules of the road and it appears as if they have no concept of cause and effect.  With every turn, we nearly collide in to each other but through luck or the grace of god, we make it to the Salvation Army compound, our home for our wellness camp.

Jeams parks the motorcycle and I discreetly stumble off the back of the motorcycle.  Every day, my shoe, my pant leg, my bag or whatever, gets stuck on something and Jeams is forced to jump to attention to save the motorcycle from falling on us.

We go to a restaurant where is has convinced them to make coffee for me for at least the next two weeks.  The restaurant serves four things: ham sandwiches, spaghetti, boiled bananas and omelets.  I order an omelet and am told, “No omelet.”  So a ham sandwich it is for me for breakfast.

“Et fromage?” the waitress asks as she swats a fly with her pen.

“Oui", I tell her.  I will love cheese with my omelet.

“Non fromage.”  She responds with a tone of indifference, not recognizing or acknowledging the absurdity of her question.

When we finish breakfast, we wander over to my old lady friend and give her some small morsel of food.  Then I wander across the street and over the camp.  The children are arriving.  Our woman’s group starts at 10 but they are already there.  So I sit and I look at them and they look at me.

We exchange “bon jours” and they speak to me in Creole.  It appears to me that they secretly hope that maybe, just maybe, I miraculously learned Creole overnight.  But I didn’t and in my broken French I inform them once again, shamelessly, that I only speak English.  They laugh uproariously and I can tell that they are talking about me.  The fact that they are pointing at me leads me to this conclusion.

We start camp every day with song and dance.  The children and the counselors make a circle and dance together.  From time to time, I jump in the circle and join them.  My stiff, old body attempts to sway to the music but my moves bring laughter, with and at my expense.

The women’s group starts.   I join Alexandra and Sophianna as we introduce topics of breast feeding, malaria, cancer, birth control and diabetes.  They have very few facts but lots of opinions.  And I don’t think I did a very good job of convincing them that condoms do not cause cancer.

The older boys run to the beach and play soccer.  They would play soccer all day long if they could.  Other kids are in the art room where they are making masks or tie-dying tee shirts.  The little kids are singing the alphabet.

Around noon, Adeline and the other woman bring over a large cast iron pot filled with 30 pounds of rice, beans and sardines.  Aldine carries the bowls and spoons in a plastic trash bag, plopped on top of her head. Everyone is hungry.  We try to feed all of the campers and any of the other kids in the neighborhood.

By 1PM, everything is quiet in the compound.  So we all wander home.  I jump back on Jeam’s motorcycle and am now familiar with the neighborhood.  I begin to recognize landmarks and people and find that the trip home gets shorter and shorter every day.

Its 130 now and I go to my room and wash my blouse which is now drenched in sweat.  I linger in the bathroom and throw water on myself.  I am really waiting for 2PM, the witching hour; electricity comes back on for all of us.  That means one thing to me:  the fan will start again. I lie on my lumpy bed and soak in the wonderful sensation of a breeze.  I am now comforted and settled for a while in wonderful luxury.

At some point, Max interrupts my guilty pleasure and checks in on me.  Because I refuse to put minutes on the phone, I can’t be reached, so in frustration, he goes out of his way to make sure I am OK.  I have tried to convince him that he doesn’t need to do this because really, all is right with my world because I have a working fan. He leaves after a few minutes and I am again alone to listen to my music and focus on the anticipation of the vacillating fan hitting me just right in the face.

 But then there is yet another knock on my door and it is the owner of the house.  She has arrived with an overabundant place of rice and beans and something else.  It could be goat or corn meal or bean sauce.  All of it is very good but too, too much food and I cannot convince her to serve me less.’

Around 4PM, I make my way to the internet Café.  But first, I stop at the local market for a beer.  Joseph, the owner, engages me in conversation.  He apologizes profusely for his poor English skills.  He English is very good.  I offer no apology for my lack of creole skills.’ I wander up the café and pay about 50 cents for an hour.  But each day, they add more and more time to my hour.  The computers and the service are terrible.  So, in the midst of my frustration, I have to remind myself that I am in Haiti.  Be thankful for what I have.

After 2 hours or more, I stroll back to my house.  Everyone in the house sits on the front porch and waits for my return.  They all greet me and speak to me in creole or French.  I speculate what their questions must be and I answer them in English.  Our disjointed conversation seems to appease them.  After a few moments, we run out of conversation and so we sit in silence, watching and greeting people as they stroll passed the front porch.

Max shows up again around 830.  His girlfriend and cousin are usually with him.  We go up to my room, where rice, beans and sardines are stored in the corner. Together, the four of us ration out the food needed to feed 100+ kids tomorrow.  All three of them then hop on the cousin’s motorcycle.  The fish cans are placed in the front basket.  Catherianna holds on to the bean bag.  Max holds the rice.  Then off they go, through those dark, dangerous roads to the cook’s house.  She likes to soak the beans overnight so they are perfect in the morning.

I spend the rest of my evening, in my room, charging my electronic devices, washing my clothes in the bucket and writing.  Of course, the fan is on.

The house and the streets begin to settle down around 11PM.  I am now listening to my MP3 player.  I listen to a song and think to myself that I will go to bed right after this song.  But then I listen to another song and another song and another song and another song.  The familiar tunes and words are intoxicating to me.

All of the sudden it is midnight.  Now I am in a slight panic.  I MUST go to bed and fall in to a deep sleep.  I must be sound asleep by 4AM, the haunting hour of the night.  The electricity goes off at 4AM.  The fan stops instantly and without any regard to my pain and suffering.  If I am not in a deep sleep, this immediate silence wakes me with a resounding, unsettling quiet that kicks me into an unpleasant reality. My night and my sleep are ruined.   I lay awake and panic as the sound of the roosters reminds me that I have had a night without enough sleep.  But, regardless of this unpleasant situation, at least I know I can count on one thing:  I will soon be greeted by Jeams and his wonderful, wonderful smile.  All is right with the world.

The Volunteers

Our volunteers come mostly from the USA.  But a few others come from other parts of the world.  Most of the volunteers come from Delaware and are somehow affiliated/connected with Nadiv and Lynn. 

Volunteers pay their own transportation, food and housing costs.  Additionally, they make a $250/week donation which goes towards the counselors’ salaries, the cost to transport the children to the camp and the food served each day at camp.  It costs about $1200 to volunteer for a week.

Volunteers also bring over 50 pound suitcase of supplies.  All of these supplies (medicines, art and craft, sports equipment, supplies, school supplies, clothing, books, etc.) are donated from hundreds of friends, family members and strangers.

Most volunteers come for just a week.  However, there have been people who have volunteered for two weeks.  In summers past, three women have volunteered for all five weeks.  This year and last year, Emily stayed for two weeks.  Estelle, Brett, Mary, Clare, Beth and Emily were repeat volunteers.

Pre-camp- July 3 to July 6:  Lynn Shapira (founder of the organization), Maya Shapira (high school student) and me.  We arrived early so that we could sort out our supplies and set up camp and get everything organized.

Team #1- July 6 to July 13:  Lynn, Maya, Nadiv Shapira (doctor), Ben Shapira (high school student), Coby (high school student), Beth (nurse), Nina (Ms. Earth- Delaware), and Brahm (professional hand ball athlete in France)

Team #4-July 27 to August 3:  Frank  (social worker), Neha (doctor), Estelle  (doctor), Siobhan McCarthy (doctor), Michelle (nurse), Mary Lou (physical therapist), and Madi  (middle school student/dance instructor). Sarah (physical therapy graduate student), Lindsey (recent high school graduate), Emily  (pre-med student at the University of Delaware)

Team #5- August 3 to August 10: Jodi  (doctor), Patricia  (doctor), Brett  (doctor), Clare  (recent high school graduate), Mary  (doctor), and Emily  (pre-med student at UD)

The Translators/ Counselors

Jeams- He was my guardian angel.  He looked after me and jumped to meet my every need. He is tall, dark, handsome and gentle.  He is pleasant and gregarious and engaging in all of his conversations.  He has unbounding energy and always willing and excited to be included in all of our activities.  As the Dean of Students, he tells me, “it is my duty to keep the children safe and I do the sports of the program”.

Alix, the artist tells me, “I teach the children to find their voice through art.  I am a free form artist.  That means I find art in everything and I use all sort of media together.  Maybe I put a bird feather in my painting or a leaf or anything from nature.” Alix is a deep thinker and an admirer of women.  “Women are intelligent and should be respected, all the time.  We need to honor women”.

Yevenor translates in the medical clinic.  “It is important that the woman get good care” he tells me with his soft, gentle voice.  He is even tempered and calm, soothing in all of his conversation.  And he is just as committed to his responsibilities to teach at FLI.  He is a natural born teacher who knows how to bring out the best in his students.

Alexandra is a college student who has already been to a conference at Harvard, representing not only her school but all college students from Haiti.  She is confident, poised, articulate and the leader of the women’s group.  She has a strong connection with the other American volunteers who have helped with the women’s group in the past.  They continue to mentor her from a distant and she is appreciated of their guidance.  In September, three of these former volunteers will host Alexandra in their homes in the USA for two weeks.  Her worldliness serves her well.

Sophianna served as my personal translator while we were together in the women’s group.  Alexandra would speak to the group and Sophianna would sit right next to me, leaning on my side and translate in real time.  She never missed a beat and kept me up with all of the conversations. She is quiet and lacking in a confidence that is, in my opinion, unfounded.  She is bright and strong in her English skills but reserved in her comfort to stand out in the crowd.  I am hoping that maturity and age will rectify this situation.  One night, we were on the roof of the school.  It was a full moon and I suggested that we howl with the moon. Jodi, one of the doctors, joined in with me and we howled and howled and howled until we were horse.  We asked Sophianna and another young woman to join us.  But our request was too ridiculous to them.

Bartram has a voice that can fluctuate between octaves as he speaks.  Therefore, I find myself listening more to the song of his voice than the words he speaks.  He is serious in the delivery of his message as he sits for hours at a time in the medical clinic.  He is thorough and honored to be given so much responsibility and he takes this assignment with poise and genuine concern for all of the patients.  He told us that he spends his winters memorizing medical terminology so that he can better prepare himself for his summer assignment.

Pieyou is kind, gentle and soft spoken.  He speaks lovingly to everyone and frequently asked the volunteers, “May I give you a hug.” I took every hug he gave me and I wanted more because he exudes an energy of love and affection.

THE WOMEN’S GROUP

We run a women’s group for the local women. Anywhere from 20 to 40 women show up every day. Alexandra and Sophianna are assigned to work with me. We are scheduled to run the group from 10 to noon every day.  But they show up at 830 along with the camp children.  They sit under the tree, in the shade, with the other adults who are waiting for the medical clinic.

At ten we go in to our small, musty, hot room and everyone finds some place to sit.  The opportunity to sit in a room with more breeze than the streets is a welcomed relief to them.  And other then church, there is really no other place to congregate.  However, I don’t remember seeing any of them at the Salvation Army church service on Sunday. So this is their only social network.

We start with a prayer. Sonia leads us with her booming voice.  She silences everyone.  We bow our heads and they recite a few prayers.  Then the singing begins.  They have one song in particular that just resonates with me.  I don’t understand the words but the tone is so sweet, so hopeful that I usually sit and hold back tears.  I am saddened by all of their troubles and wonder what are their hopes in their world of so much despair.

After prayer, we move on to a lecture run by Alexandra, a bright, young woman filled with confidence, poise and personality.  She needs a mentor because she has so much potential for her future.

She picks a topic and reads from a printout she retrieved from the internet. She doesn’t fully understand what she is reading but she speaks with such authority that everything she says sounds as if it is the absolute truth.

So I was in a dilemma as to what to do when she told the group that alcohol consumption causes cancer.

When she told the group that you will not get cancer if you eat right, exercise, regularly and minimize you alcohol consumption, I was torn.  I didn’t want to jump in and shake her confidence. But bad information is just as dangerous as no information.  So I decided to tell her about my mother who lived a life of moderation and still got cancer.  I put a twist on my story:  I indicated that my mother was negligent in recognizing the early signs of cancer.

I think it surprised the women that I, a white woman, could also suffer heart break.

They shoot all sorts of questions at me:

“Can you get cancer in the heart?”

“What does it look like?”

“What do you do when you have cancer?”

“What do you do if you can’t afford a doctor?”

“Does it hurt?”

“What foods do you have to eat when you have cancer?”

“Can you get cancer from your father if he had it?”

I start talking about breast cancer and the importance of self-examinations.  Instantly, everyone started shouting out that they have lumps and hard spots all over their breast, torso and arm pits.  They want me to touch all of these spots. I ask them if they wanted me to get the nurse to show them how to do self-examination and they all cheered.

So I go to Beth, our nurse volunteer, but she is busy with a very sick infant who is dehydrated and lifeless.  The mother is also dehydrated and not producing any milk.  Needless to say, Beth is very busy.

So I go back to the group and tell them we will have to wait for a few minutes.  So we resort to singing and dancing as a way to pass the time. No one is shy.  Women get up individually and in pairs and dance as everyone sings along.

After our lecture we move on at a project.  The first project: purses.  When I was unpacking the barrels of supplies a few days ago, I discovered sixty pieces of upholstery fabric samples from Lazy Boy.  Each pattern was more garish than the last one.  I remember thinking “who packed this shit and what are we going to do with it.”  Then as I stared at all this ugliness, a thought occurred to me.  We could make purses.  I ask Adeline, our cook, if she could sew.  "Oui", she can so I gave her several pieces of cloth and asked her if she can make a purse with all this ugly fabric.  She is delighted to be asked.  So I equip her with the thread, needles and ribbon for the handles.  Off she goes and she comes back the next day with a great looking, sturdy purse.  She is very proud of herself and I am pleasantly surprised at how great the purse looks.

So now I am distributing this ugly fabric to the rest of the women and they are pushing and shoving.  Everyone is hell bent to get as much fabric as possible.  I tell everyone to take just two pieces but some women have taken 8 pieces and others only have 1 piece. I go to each woman individually and ask her to surrender the excess.  Every one of them lies to me.  I stand there and reach behind their backs and retrieve these ugly swatches of fabric.

Now everyone has two pieces but most of them do not have two matching pieces.  This does not seem to matter to any of them.  They are just thankful to have enough fabric.

We distribute needles and tell everyone that they have to return the needles.  But at the end of the class, only four needles are returned to us. But every woman leaves with a new bag that is a source of pride for all of them.

The next day we are going to crochet.  But before we hand out materials I give a little speech about honesty, sharing and hoarding.  Everyone agrees to play nice.  We don’t have enough crochet hooks because it appears as if one of our packets of crochet hooks were stolen yesterday.

A woman tells me she knows where to buy these hooks for only 50 cents apiece.  In front of the entire group, she volunteers to get them for us.  We clap for her. In front of the entire group, I praise her for her generous effort, and then I do the math in front of everyone.  If I give her $10, she should come back with 20 needles, just enough for everyone in the class to have a hook.  I also write out exactly what we expect to receive from her.  Feeling confident that I covered my entire basis, I leave camp that day thinking that the women are going to learn a new skill tomorrow, something that they will carry through life because I am going to let them keep the crochet needles. They can begin to make things, sell them and support their families with some degree of modest income.

But what a surprise!  I got taken.  She arrived with only 10 hooks and told us that the price had gone up.  This is all she could buy with the $10.  Now we don’t have enough for everyone so everyone is going to have to pair up and take turns watching each other.

I am really annoyed. I recognize that poverty and self-perseveration can challenge anyone’s ethics.  I am really more disappointed in my own naiveté than annoyed by her cunning behavior.

For at least the first three days we hold on tightly to these crochet hooks.  We lock them up at night. Then the next day, two are missing.  Then the next day, some the stolen needles show up. 

 “You gave them to us last year” is the response we get when we ask the women, “Where did you get these crochet hooks?”

A mother daughter team comes every day.  They sit together and work in unison to hoard everything we give out.  They take more than their share and then tell me, “No get Madame.”  This daughter asked me repeatedly for my shoes.  The translator tells her that I need them.  These are the only pair of shoes I brought with me.  She suggests that I go buy another pair and give these shoes to her.

We discourage women from bringing their children to our meetings.  But their kids come along regardless.  The women tell us that they cannot leave the children alone.  But this just isn’t true.  Small children roam the streets all day long.  No one attends to them.  The truth of the matter is the women know we will feed their children.  So some mothers come in with three or four children who sit quietly in the corner, waiting for their small bowl of rice, beans and sardines.

Two older women sit in the back, almost invisible to the rest of us.  The do not add to the conversation.  But they seem to enjoy every craft project.  They work with a steadfast focus regardless of their poor vision and twisted arthritic fingers.

When they leave each day and thank me, “Merci Madame.”  Sometimes they kiss me on the cheek.  Today, as they left, they both said “thank you, Madame” and giggled with delight at their English skills.

The young women come to socialize.  They laugh and call to each other.  They can be disruptive and speak out regardless of who may be presenting a topic or demonstrating a skill.

With the first hint of lunch, more all of their children and grandchild appear out of nowhere.  Lucien must let them in along with the two cooks who bring in the buckets of food.  Now, there are an extra  half dozen or more toddlers, small boys and other extraneous people who are with us, in hopes of a free handout. 

The cook’s daughter is in the women’s group.  She runs back and forth from here to her mother’s house as the lunch hour approaches.  She finds the spoons.  Then she helps serve the food.  She stops for a short break and quickly eats a bowl and then scurries around and picks up everyone’s dirty bowls.  Feeding all of us is a family effort.

Some of the women arrive late, leave for a while and roam back in when the food is ready.  If something was given out while they were gone, they can become indignant if they did not get the free sample of lotion or the spool of thread or the bar of soap.

But everyone is here for lunch.  They also make sure they are here for a cup of cool water.  But then these same women just don’t want to leave at the end of the day.  They hang around and chat up the translators.  They are usually the last to leave the compound, showing no interest in returning to their mundane life and homes across the street.

SONIA

It’s the first day of our Women’s Empowerment Group. There are about 30 of us cramped in the dark room. We are in the middle of introducing ourselves when she saunters in, interrupts us, turns her back to us and shakes her abundant rear end at us with a confidence.  She announces has she has arrived.  Some women clap. She takes her seat and we continue with our introductions.

So begins my first of many interactions with Sonia, the self-appointed know –it- all of the  group.  No matter what the topic, she has an opinion that is stated louder and more quickly stated than anyone else.  Her statements often shut down the conversation.  The word has been spoken.

We ask the women what skills they want to learn while they are with us.  They want to learn sewing, crochet, jewelry making, sandal making, embroidery:  all skills I do not know.

But Sonia knows how to sew.  So she teaches us how to make purses. She teaches us how to crochet.  She shows us how to embroider.

I find a pair of knitting needles and offer them to her. 

“Too hard”, she tells Sophianna, my translator.

I show her an illustrated instruction book. She quickly dismisses me.

“In English”, she tells Sophianna.  She uses a tone that clearly delivers a message to me, “Are you that stupid that you don’t even recognize your own language?”  I quickly show her the illustrations.  She looks for a minute but waves her big hand at me and dismisses the idea again.

At the end of the class, I see her discreetly tuck the book under her arm.  She saunters off with the rest of the group.

The next day, I see her, sitting under the shade tree, waiting for our group to start.  She is holding one knitting needle which dangles about 4 inches of product.  She taught herself  to knit with just one needle.  I get her attention and laugh at her.  She laughs back and proudly shows me her work.  She tells Sophianna she saw an illustration that only used one needle so she thought she would try it.

I ask her if this technique is faster than her crocheting.  She says it is much faster and more satisfying. I tell her it will go even faster with two needles.  She dismisses me and tells Sophianna, No, it is too hard.”*

MAX, The director of FLI

Max is the director/founder of the Foreign Language Institute (FLI) and the liaison between the HFI volunteers and the FLI translators.  He refers to himself as the principal of FLI and he smiles and winks at me when he uses this term. He is probably no more than 26 years old but he conveys a vision and a passion for himself and Haiti that sounds like someone older and wiser. 

He lived with his mother until sometime after his father died.  But his mother could no longer afford to raise all of her children.  So Max and his younger brother moved out to ease her financial burden.  Now Max supports the two of them with little to no income.  Some days he doesn’t eat at all because there is no money for food.  But he does not complain because most Haitians live in dire poverty.  He isn’t any better or worse off from the rest of his countrymen.  That’s just how it is here in Haiti.

When the earthquake hit Haiti in 2010, Max instinctively made his way from Jacmel to Port au Prince.  He knew Americans doctors would come to Haiti to help and he knew they needed translators.  Being self-taught and fluent in English, he knew his services would be needed.

And right he was.  Doctors flocked to him.  He found himself working for five different doctors, all of whom gave him $20 bills, a fortune for someone from a country where the average income is $1/day.

When the American doctors went home, Max realized his countrymen needed to learn English.  He recognized that Haiti has the responsibility to pull itself out of its own poverty but that the Haitians need help from other countries to reach this goal. And to accept this help, they have to know English. So he enlisted help from his good friend Aldyn and they put together a plan to start the Foreign Language Institute (FLI).

Now in its fourth academic year, they have graduated  about 200 students.  There are now enough graduate students who are now proficient enough to teach the lower levels of English speaking students. Max teaches grammar, British and American cultures to the higher level students.  Jeams teaches English though a heath and sports curriculum.  Yvenor teaches the lover levels.

There are three levels of academic achievement.  Students wear specific colors of tee shirts to denote their levels of achievement.  The green shirts are the beginners.  The orange shirts are in the middle and the red shirts are the advanced students.  Examines are given on a regular basis and students earn their tee shirts based on their results of these exams.

Up until last August, Max rented a classroom in a beat up old building.  His contract allows him to offer English language classes on Saturday and Sunday afternoons only. He has a two year lease which expires in November 2013.  A former volunteer from HFI pays the rent.  So he spent much of the summer busily looking for a new location.

The building right now is comprised of six classrooms, two rows of three small rooms. The roof is made of a cheap tin.  Each classroom has three walls and there is no exterior wall. The walls do not go all the way up to the celling so that a breeze can sneak through this hot, humid space.  It’s noisy.  I can hear instruction from all the other rooms.  It distracts me but it does not seem to distract the others

While I was in Haiti, Max was able to secure a new, larger facility for FLI.  He now has a lease for a five room building which will also accommodate a place for him to live.  There is now an English language library in one room.  Americans have donated 6 laptops so he will begin to offer IT classes in the near future.  Two class rooms will offer English language courses which he will now offer seven days a week.  I also plan to provide the equipment and curriculum to start a sewing school within the year. Max is also working on securing resources to offer TOEFL courses.  If he is able to do this, he assures the financial security of his school.

I told Max I only know of one other person who started his own school and library: Thomas Jefferson.  Max had never heard of Jefferson so I tell him about this great president.  When I tell Max that he has the potential to become a more visible, viable leader in his country, he agreed with me. “I want to do everything I can to help my country”, he tells me as his voice quivers.

After Thought

I am on the plane now, sitting alone for the first time an a few weeks.  I can’t seem to settle myself.  I can’t figure out how to think or what to think about.  Since January, I have thought about this trip.  But now, it is over.

It’s hard to say that I had a wonderful time in Haiti. How can you have a wonderful time when so many people are hungry, sick, out of work and void of any dreams?  Maybe I should say I feel lucky.  I feel lucky to be here, to be an American, to be retired and able to travel like this, to have been born into my family, to have lived a life filled with love; this provided me with so many opportunities, to have been an educator.  I feel lucky to continue to have had these opportunities that challenge me and enrich my life.

But I continue to wonder what is the meaning of this thing  called life.  I am overrun with all sorts of questions pulling at me and tormenting me.

• Why were the Haitians born where they are and why was I born in the richest country in the world?  Is this life sentence of poverty some sort of reincarnation plan? 
• Why do I have so much and they have so little? 
• Why is their life so simple and hard?  Why is my life so convenient?  
• Why do I have so many opportunities for good health, good education, good food, good times and good use of my time?
• Why are all of their basic needs, everything, a struggle for these people every single stinking day?
• What do they pray for?
• How do they stay hopeful?
• Do they struggle with their difficulties as much as I think they do or so?  Is their life really the struggle for them as I think it is?  Does a millionaire think my life is a struggle?
• How do you deal with consistent hunger?
• They have got to get indoor plumbing.
• How will the old lady eat when I leave?  How many other old women are out there, on their own, abandoned and living a life in so much isolation? And why weren’t the Haitians outraged that this poor woman is all alone in this harsh world?  Are there just so many of them that nothing can be done about these people?
• How are they ever going to recover from too many years of government corruption and natural disasters?
• Why can’t their leaders understand and commit to helping their people?
• What does President Montelly think when he sees thousands and thousands of foreigners come to his country every year to help his people?  Does he feel grateful or inadequate?
• How can we instill the same interest and admiration of education in American kids as many of the Haitian kids have?  Do you have to be hungry to appreciate the value of an education?
• How do I say goodbye today to these wonderful translators who work for free for the sheer reward of trying to improve the quality of life for their fellow countrymen.  I am not that altruistic.
• Will I ever return to Haiti?
• Should all of my travel from now on, have some component of giving back?
• Now that I have seen and lived this poverty, do I have a deeper responsibility to do something to eradicate this poverty?
• What is my responsibility to the rest of the world?
• How do I walk away from here today and go back to my regular life?  
• What is my regular life now? 
• What have I learned from this experience?
• What do I do next?
• What is the purpose of my life?

ADD ON STORIES

"OK madame, he says to me, 

"my mudder is sick. OK, you see her today?"


It is hot and it is only 930AM. Our 30 allotted cards, entrance tickets to the medical clinic, have already been distributed. These lucky 30 people will wait for hours in the sun. But that doesn't matter to them. They have the time. As a matter of fact, time is the only commodity they have. 

Our gatekeeper approaches me and asks if his mother can still get in even though she came too late to get a ticket. It is so hard to be fair in this country. I have to tell him the truth; we may not even get to see all of these 30 people today. The mayor has asked us to go to a mountain village to treat some people. He owes someone a favor and we need his support to keep our program going. So we will go to the mountains at noon. But the gatekeeper's mother is right in front of me. Her glassy eyes tell me she is sick. But so are the other 30 people in front of her. 

"Send her home for today. Don't let her sit in this sun," I tell him. 

I promise him the first ticket for tomorrow.

 "OK,OK", he says to me. 

He holds her chin in his calloused hand and speaks quietly to her. She nods and leaves. As the first patient of the day surrenders her #1 ticket, I give it to the gatekeeper. He gently slides the ticket in to his pants pocket, delighted that he has secured a doctor's visit for his mother. 

"God bless you madame, God bless you."

Taking A taxi

Anyone who has a motor scooter is a taxi driver in Haiti.  If you need a ride somewhere, all you have to do is hail someone down and ask him to take you somewhere for the equivalent of $1 and jump on the back and he takes you there.

On this day, we flagged down seven people to take us to the beach,

July 19, 2014- Today, we are starting a sewing school in Jacmel, Haiti.   We gave out 20 sewing kits  filled with used needles, scissors, threads, straight pins, old seam binding and all of those extra buttons we find on our new clothing that seem to disappear when we need them. The women opened the kits with the excitement of Christmas morning. They were told they could keep the kits but they couldn't believe what they were hearing.

 "We can take them home?"

 "Oui". 

 "We don't have to bring them back?" 

"Oui".

 "Just for us?"

 "Oui."

  They broke out in cheers and chanted, "merci, merci, merci."

These five women received sewing lessons for a week in July  and then received a sewing machine in September so they could perfect their skills and teach sewing to other people in their town.  They acted as if they had hit the lottery.

July 2013

These vendors just cluster together and pop up an umbrella and they have a store, right there on the street, where they will sell you sim cards and minutes and phones, all from their inventory which is stuffed away in their back packs.

Market Day

My career defined me. My whole identity was wrapped around work.  I identified myself by my job.  I wonder what it must be like to sell a singular type of fruit for a living.  Getting paid and eating are strong motivators for all of us.  But is there pride in this work.  Or is working filled with drudgery  or resignation?

 August 3, 2103

"I had no access to Internet this week. I feel vulnerable and isolated".

I had been posting at least every day for the last four weeks while I was in Haiti.  I was here, running a Wellness Program and posting on Facebook kept me connected with my family and friends.  And because I had been posting every day, I worried that they would worry because my daily communication just stopped.  The server in my hotel was down and there was no effort to correct this problem. But then one day, it started to work again and it was coincidentally the day the First Lady of  Haiti showed up for an overnight visit.

Some responses from friends:

K B M-  "And yet, you were never far from my thoughts, Dear Bridget! Miss you Friend!"

J G- "You mean you feel like it's 1980 something? ;) those were good times!"

D W M- " I was thinking about you and wondering what adventure you were on.."

S F- "Almost back to the stone age,eh!"

M LD- " I wondered what was going on!"

L C- "Missed your posts."

Adeline

Our Cook

She lost everything in the 2010 earthquake. So, like most of her neighbors, she was forced to live in a tent. I am told that the tent city was dirty, violent and sad.  There wasn’t enough food or water.  There was a lot of illness.  But mostly there was deep grief from so much loss of loved ones.

After three years, Adeline was able to rebuild her one room house and she was so proud of herself.  Now, she is working for us this summer and is making $5/day and she can’t believe her good fortune. So, she asks us to pose with her, in front of her humble home, to celebrate her prosperity.

Surrender To The Water

Basson Falls, Haiti

I am an outstanding floater.  I think I am one of the best floaters in the world.  I can float so long that I can even fall asleep when I float.  I guess my body weight jut give me a buoyancy advantage.

So when I was in  Haiti with a group of volunteers, I showed them my skills and they were jealous of me.  They begged and begged me to show them how I float. So I did.  All I do is surrender to the water.  I don't fight it and I let the water hold me up.

Baptisms

Sunday Mornings

During the summer of 2013, I lived in Haiti, staying at a hotel that overlooked the ocean.  Every Sunday, I grabbed a cup of coffee and watched as a minister and one person after another walked out in to the water, fully clothed in white and anxious to avow their life to Jesus.

Starting Young

I always struggle when I see a woman carrying water home to her family.  Rarely do I see a man doing this job;  this is women's work.  They carry 5 gallon buckets on their heads.  That's 40 pounds of weight on their fragile necks. In some parts of the world, this is a full time job for them.  They fetch water seven days a week, every day of the year.  They never take a day off.  They forfeit opportunities to go to school, to learn a skill to support their families.

So when I saw these young girls fetching water, I just wanted to cry.

Fish Restaurants

There are lots of fish restaurants in Jacmel and most of them are great.  The fishermen catch fish every day and sell their load to the local restaurants.  I went to several of these restaurants during the summer and the routine was the same.  I ordered the fish platter and a large plate would be brought to me.  I never knew what kind of fish I was going to se served and the quantity was always different.  Sometimes I was given three small fish.  Other times I received two medium sized fish but mostly I received one large fish, in tact, eyeballs and all, sliced down the middle and ready for me to pick at it with my fingers.

Feeding Their Family

They sat out in the hot sun of the afternoon. It was their job to sell these few pieces of fruit and the profit would be the family's earnings for the day.  i don't know where the parents were but these kids, these babies, were alone in their responsibility to feed their family for this day.

Sunday Afternoon at Home

We stopped by to visit with them. It was a sunny, hot summer afternoon.  Nothing was scheduled for the afternoon other than hair care. Each of them braided the other's hair and then had her hair braided.

Hanging On The Streets

They spend their days, sitting on their motorbikes, waiting for something to break. Sometimes, someone will need a ride and so they will step up and serve as a taxi driver, earning a quick buck.  Other times, someone may show up with a soccer ball. Teams are quickly delineated and a competition ensues until the ball owner has to leave.  Someone may show up with something to eat and share with the others. But mostly, they just hang on the streets, waiting for something to break.

Birthing Paintings

I am in Jacmel, managing a free health clinic for a few weeks with several American doctors. Most of them are gynecologists and constantly talk about things that I find gross. They talk of discharge and pus and afterbirth substances.  I never talk about these things. They are gross.

One of the doctors came in to the clinic and asked if anyone saw the cool birthing paintings in the art shop down the street.

"You should see them.  I think I am going to get one for my office.  They are really different".

So at the end of the day, I walked down to the art store to take a look. This is what I found and I couldn't believe that anyone would want this hanging in her office.

A Classroom

Salvation Army Elementary School

The conditions in this classroom are dreadful.  The environment defies all good teaching practices.  There is no electricity so there is only natural light.  Ventilation is limited. So, at times, it is ungodly hot.  It is often mosquitos infested which makes it most unpleasant.  Most of the desks are broken.  The bench are narrow and uncomfortable.  The blackboard is so old, it can no longer retain any chalk so the board is virtually useless.  There are no books, paper or pencils.  The teachers are undereducated and under paid.  The outhouse filters in stenches of urine. Street traffic drowns out much of the instruction.  And kids do everything they can to come to this school because it is their only chance out of poverty.

He Tried to Sneak In

I was running a summer program for kids in Jacmel, Haiti.  We offered them arts and sports programs.  But the real draw was the free lunch of beans, sardines and rice. We had enough food for just 100 kids a day.  This kid didn't make the cut for the day.  So he hung around the fence all day and begged for food. At one point, I caught him climbing the fence, trying to sneak in and I had to get the guard to throw him out.

It was very hard to throw him out.  But there were 30, 40 kids behind him who also wanted to come in.  So we had to draw the line at 100. I've never missed a meal.  I've never been hungry.  I've never had to beg. But if this kid doesn't beg, he doesn't eat regularly.  This was my hardest lesson learned that summer.

Cutting  A Log

When I walked up to these men, I couldn't believe what I was watching. They were taking a large, large fallen tree and cutting it in to planks of wood by hand. The work was tedious, hard and tiresome. They were drenched in sweat. The bugs were biting and they had hours to go before they were finished. My request for them to pose for me was a welcomed relief and just a quick break from the difficult task at hand.

She is a local artist who was forced to live in a tent city after the devastating earthquake in Haiti in 2010.  While waiting for better days, she made herself the self-appointed mayor and took charge of things.  She addressed the abuses and rapes against women.  She made sure kids got to school.  But most importantly, she lured women away from the career of prostitution and encouraged them to become artists.  She now teaches these women to create and sell their works.

I tell an acquaintance, Trudy, that I have plans to start a sewing school in Jacmel, Haiti.  We are going to bring ten sewing machines to a school there and we will select five women to teach how to sew.  In turn, they will receive a sewing machine and then we will hire them to teach others to sew. I am very excited about the idea and Trudy applauds me for this plan.  

"How will you get everything over there", she wants to know.

"Ten volunteers are coming with me and each of us will carry 50 pounds of supplies. It will be very tight but we should  have just enough people to carry what we need."

I see Trudy three weeks later and she has over 50 pillow case dresses that she made for my sewing school.  They fill a whole suitcase.  I don't know how to tell her that I don't have the resources to take her dresses with me.  But she tells me she has been sewing like crazy and this task has given her a new passion.

So I leave one bag of supplies home and take this new bag of dresses and when we distribute them, all of the girls shout in glee.  They look fresh and feminine and cool and I am so glad I brought the dresses.