Distinctly Different

The sun is beating down as I leave the school at the end of the day.  I walk alone.  My sandaled feet are dust covered.  I feel sweat run down my back.  Heads turn to look in my direction.  I'm constantly reminded that I'm different.  It was the same in Port-au-Prince but in this new city, there are less foreigners.  Here, Haitians are not especially fond of white people.

I smile as small children wave to me.  I say good afternoon to some of the people that I pass.  Several women hold out their hands and ask me for money.  A few teenagers ask, "Blanc, wa tis yo name?"  I feel all eyes on me and almost wish that I were invisible.  For once, I would like to blend in and go unnoticed. 

Suddenly, I hear my name.  Not blanc, but my real name.  I turn to see a familiar face.  One of the young girls that I've spent time with since I moved here calls me over and asks me to come inside.  I step over a small canal with dark black water and trash running through it and pull open a rusty door made of a piece of tin.  As I step into the yard, her whole family is there.  Mama is leaning over a plastic basin washing clothes while some young men play dominoes.  She introduces me to her family and we exchange names and small talk for a few minutes.  As I turn to leave, the mama asks me, "Aren't you scared walking around alone?"  I tell her that I'm not afraid.  This is, after all, my home.  I leave smiling, happy to make new friends. 

As I step back onto the street, I'm just a stranger once again.  I hear men calling out to me, some saying vulgar things, some cat calling or whistling, and some professing their love.  The way some of them look at me makes me feel a sick to my stomach.  I ignore them and put one foot in front of the other.  Some days it doesn't bother me, but today I feel my blood boil.  

I reach the center of town.  

The money changers call to me and vendors point out their goods.  As I walk, a man and woman pass by.  They smirk at me and one of them looks directly at me and tells me that I am Satan.  I keep walking.  I pretend that I didn't hear them or that I didn't understand.  I know I shouldn't let it bother me, but unfortunately it hurts.  I keep walking and I hear my name being called.  I feel relief as I see another face that I recognize, a man that I met the previous week.  He sells jewelry in the square to support his young son.  He shakes my hand and we talk for a few minutes.  I see people nearby watching me with curiosity, probably surprised to see that I can speak Creole.  He doesn't ask for anything.  He doesn't try to sell anything to me.  He simply wants to talk.  I forget about the rude people on the street.  We part ways and I decide to buy a fresco because its hot and my mouth is parched.  

I find my favorite fresco vendor and approach his little cart.  He pulls back a burlap sack to reveal a giant block of ice.  He shaves some ice with a metal razor, fills a small cup, and after swatting away some flies and bees, he pours a homemade coconut flavored syrup over the ice.  I hand him five gourdes and walk towards the tap-taps.  

I find a tap-tap that will take me on the correct route and I climb inside.  I sit down on the hard bench.  The people inside curiously glance in my direction.  A couple sitting across from me start to talk about me.  They make fun of me and laugh to each other about how I can't understand what they are saying.  I don't say a word.  Typically, you pay the driver when you get off the tap-tap, but this time he pulls over and wants to be paid before we leave.  It costs five gourdes to ride a tap-tap.  The driver tries to tell me that it costs me twenty gourdes.  I don't say anything, but I reach out my hand and give him five gourdes.  Today, I don't have the energy for smart responses or comebacks.  I'm hot and I'm tired.  Most days, I'm used to being different.  Most days, I can laugh it off and just joke along with them, but today I just want to be invisible.  I want to blend in with everyone else. 

I pray for patience.  I pray I will be able to do what it says in 1st Corinthians 4:2 - We bless those who curse us.  We are patient with those who abuse us.  We appeal gently when evil things are said about us. 

Again, only in Haiti...

Upon unlocking our metal gate this evening, Grace noticed sparks.  About an hour later, Kez came into the house yelling that her entire arm was just shocked when she touched the gate.  She and Grace went outside to find that someone from the street had snuck into our yard (concrete walls and razor wire all around it) and rigged up a wire to steal our electricity.  I might add that stealing electricity is a dangerous but very common practice here.

Someone had wrapped a live wire around our razor wire that is connected to our METAL gate.  Very safe.  Like I said....only in Haiti.

There's a Parrot in my Class!

It's not everyday that a bunch of kids randomly walk into your classroom proudly showing off a parrot.  Only in Haiti.

Prayer request: Tomorrow is the first official day of school.  I am teaching kindergarten English/Reading, two classes of 1st grade English/Reading, and 2nd Grade Science and Social Studies.  I have 46 students to meet and 46 names to learn.  I have 9 hours before school starts and I feel like I have a 12 more hours of preparation that could be done.  It should be an interesting day!!  Pray, pray, pray please!

The Never Ending Trip

Saturday, I decided to ride along with Papa Beaver, Mama Kathy, Grace, and Becca to Port-au-Prince. They were going to do some airport drop offs and pick ups and run some errands.  I simply wanted to stop by TLC to pick up some of my personal belongings that were still at my old apartment, and hopefully see Dorothy and Nickson.

From Gonaives, it is a three hour drive to Port-au-Prince.  So, we decided to leave at 6 AM.  The plan was to be back home in Gonaives by 4 PM.  However, things did NOT go as planned.

Grace, Mama Kathy and I all wanted to stop at the scene of the bus accident.

None of us had been past that place since last Sunday.  They had surprisingly pulled the bus up out of the water.  You could see that they had to add some dirt and gravel to level the bank a little bit.

The telephone pole that the bus slammed into was replaced, the water level had gone down, and there was nothing but a bus seat left in the mud. 

 After taking a few pictures, we continued the journey.

Half-way to PAP, we found out one of the flights was delayed by several hours.  So, that meant extra time spent waiting in Port.  To make a long story short, we spent the majority of our day sitting in the bed of the truck in the hot hot sun.  We made the waiting more interesting by telling stupid jokes, taking silly pictures, eating ring pops, hanging out in a gas station because it was air conditioned, creating our own version of the game "Chubby Bunny", listening to music on our iPods and spitting kanep seeds at random objects.

After sitting for over 2 hours in the airport parking lot, the family we were picking up finally arrived.  Then, it was time for the LONG drive home.  Grace and I were not pleased about the idea of driving all the way back to Gonaives in the dark.  Haitian roads are dangerous enough in the daylight.  Also, we were both on edge because of the bus accident last weekend.  There were 4 people inside the truck and the other ten of us were in the bed of the truck with all the luggage.

About ten minutes into the drive, Grace and I noticed dark black clouds hovering over the mountains.  Just great.

A few minutes later, the rain started.

It wasn't bad at first but eventually it was a downpour.  Typically here, the rain doesn't last for too long.  This time, however, it rained for nearly two hours.  I was freezing in my shorts and t-shirt so I covered myself with rice bags and we all huddled as close as we could to the cab of the truck.  Papa Beaver did not want to stop to let the storm pass because that meant we would get home even later.  So, we continued on until the truck headlights started to dim making it difficult to see.

Thankfully, it stopped raining.  Unfortunately, the truck stopped running.  We were, however, lucky that the truck broke down at a gas station.

It took an hour for Papa Beaver to get the truck started again.  By that point we were all cold, wet, very tired, and slightly cranky.

Although the truck was running again, neither the headlights nor the taillights were working.  We were about 45 mins from Gonaives so we waited for Amos to come with the other truck.  His headlights were working but his taillights were not.  Sounds safe, right?

Half of our group loaded up in the truck with Amos and the rest of us stayed in the back of Papa Beaver's truck.  Papa Beaver followed Amos closely so that he could see from his headlights.  My eyes were heavy and I was exhaused, but I was very nervous as I rode in the bed of the truck.  It was pitch dark, Beaver does not have good vision at night, and we had no lights.  That is not a good combination for people who just experienced the trauma of a vehicle accident.  I prayed the entire 45 minutes.  I was riding with my back against the cab so I could not see.  Each time Beaver used the brakes, my heart stopped.  Praise the Lord, we made it home safely.

A trip that was meant to take 10 hours ended up being 17 hours long.  The majority of it was spent sitting.  Needless to say, I am not planning another trip to Port for quite some time.

Words Will Never Be Enough

I didn't want to write about this.  I don't know why exactly....maybe because I didn't know how to put it into words, how to adequately describe it enough for others to understand the pain and the weight that comes with this experience.  But, I want to try.   I want to try mostly because it helps when others can have a small glimpse of the reality of life in Haiti.

So here goes...

My first day back in Haiti, I was riding from Port-au-Prince to Gonaives with Mama Kathy, Keziah, Grace, and Grace's friend Amanda.  I was in the back seat of the truck taking in the beauty of the green country side and starring out across the fields of rice patties.  My mind was focused on thoughts about my future in Gonaives, my future teaching in Jubilee, and the other things that were about to unfold when I arrived at my new home.  Those thoughts came to a sudden abrupt hault when I heard Mama Kathy say, "What was that?  Should we pull over?"

I tried to look out the window on the opposite side of the truck.  From what I could see, a woman was lying on the ground a few people crowded around her and a motorcycle nearby.  My first thought was: motorcycle accident.  Once our truck was in park, Keziah and Grace (both nurses) jumped out of the truck and raced over.  Thinking that I would not be of much help in this situation, I took my time climbing down out of the back seat.  But, when I walked around to the opposite side of the truck and started walking towards "the accident" I realized quickly that it was not a moto accident.  It was much worse.

Wailing.  Blood chilling wailing was the first thing that I heard.  I could hear dozens of people wailing, screaming, and crying.  At the edge of the road was a steep 20 foot grassy embankment.  Because of the hurricane the day before, there was what appeared to be a muddy stream at the bottom of the bank.  Laying flipped on its side in this water was an entire school bus full of men, women, and children.

I've seen these buses often.  In fact, I've ridden on these same buses multiple times on the route to and from Gonaives/PAP.  I've heard of terrible bus accidents.  I know the buses load way too many people on them.  I know the buses are in rough condition.  I know that it is likely the brakes will go out on them.  But, I never imagined actually seeing it with my own eyes.

As I starred down the bank at the bus, it felt surreal.  It felt like a nightmare...something that normal people like me never have to experience.  But it was very real.  I was reminded of that with each scream that I heard.  It felt like minutes that was frozen there just starring but I know it reality it was just seconds.  By the time that I realized I should be doing something, Kez and Grace had already started down the bank and into the water.  Grace yelled for me to get her rain boots from the truck.  Happy to have a specific task, I sprinted back to the truck.  When I returned with the boots, Keziah yelled for me to have Mama Kathy bring the truck closer so that we could start loading those with the worst injuries into the back of the truck to get them to a hospital.

As I told Kathy the orders, she threw some blankets and a huge pack of baby wipes at me.  Not knowing what to do, I just started searching the bank for the people who looked the most injured.  I handed them towels and bandages and simply said, "Hold this on your wound tightly."  A woman with deep cuts on her arms and wrists, an old lady with a broken arm and sliced bicep, a woman with a very bloody gash on her head.  The woman with the head injury was crying and had been repeated asking me to do something to help her.  There was too much blood to see the wound so when the truck was closer I remember helping lift her into the bed of the truck to be taken to the hospital.

So many people approached me.  Some crying because family members were still trapped.  Some crying because they were scared.  Some crying for me to help them.  One man even approached me and shoved a cell phone or some sort of camera in my face and tried to interview me.  I felt helpless.

After taking care of the most obvious needs, I noticed a little old grandmother and her granddaughter, roughly 18 years old, both sobbing, crying, wailing uncontrollably.  There are not words to describe Haitians in mourning.  It is a haunting sound.  It is truly unlike anything that I have ever heard before.  The grandmother was holding her left arm and it looked limp.  She had a huge cut on her underarm.  She probably didn't weigh more than 100 pounds.  She was soaking wet and covered in mud.  But, the worst part was what she was saying over and over and over again in a sing-song voice.  "Ser mwen mouri.  My sister is dead.  My sister is dead."  She and her granddaughter were both standing at the edge of the bank blocking the path in which Kez, Grace, and some men were trying to carry the injured people up from the bus.

There was chaos all around me, but I was just drawn to this grandmother.  I put my arm around her.  I remember repeatedly telling her, "I know, I know she's dead.  But they will find her.  They are searching for her.  They will get her out.  It is ok.  You're hurt.  Please come with me.  You need to go to the hospital.  Get in the truck.  Please."  She refused to leave her spot on the bank.  Her granddaughter was so hysterical that she was no help at all.  A few times, I left the grandmother to help others.  Each time I returned she was trying to get down the bank to her sister in the bus.  I think I helped pull her back up the bank at least three times.  I wanted to take her pain.  I wanted her to stop singing "my sister is dead".  I wanted her to go to the hospital.

While all that was taking place.  Kez and Grace were experiencing something totally different down below in the muddy water.  Kez had been barefoot while riding in the truck and she was now barefoot and knee deep in dark chocolatey brown water helping pull people out of the bus.  Because Grace is tall, she was able to hoist herself up into the bus to begin pulling people out.  She said the grandmother's sister was the first person she saw.  She checked for a pulse, found none, and moved on. As she and a nameless Haitian man we refer to as "yellow boots guy"began working together to get people out of the bus.  Kez was outside working to pull out several men that had been pinned under the bus.

There were two dead.  There was a boy with internal bleeding that Grace knew was not going to make it.  There were broken femurs, compound fractures, gashes, legs nearly cut off from the body.  One-by-one they were all pulled off the bus and carried up the bank.

Mama Kathy and Amanda had already raced off to the hospital with a young girl missing a leg, a man with his feet nearly cut off, a woman with a head wound and several others.

Since there was no rope and the bank was steep and slippery, several Haitian men and I assisted in making a "human chain" to pull people up the bank.  One man carried someone up the bank on his shoulders.  One man was carried up by four people and then laid face down on the ground.  I could see a huge gash in his leg and blood all over.  No one around me would help get him into the bed of a truck.  The crowd along the road had grown.  There were dozens of bystanders, but no one was willing to help.  Two policemen had arrived, but were not offering to help do anything either.  Finally, two men helped me and we lifted "facedown on the ground man" into the bed of the truck.  I knew he was in pain, but he didn't make a sound.  As I saw him laying in the back of the truck, I just could not comprehend the differences between the US and Haiti.

In the US, a rescue team, multiple ambulances, and probably even a fire truck would be at the scene taking care of the situation.  Trained professionals.  Not me, an elementary school teacher.  In the US, going to a hospital would feel like a safe haven....relief.  In Haiti, I cringed at the thought of taking them to a hospital.  I cringed knowing that they would probably not be prepared to receive a over a dozen severely injured people.  But, I quickly forced myself back to reality...this reality.  This is Haiti.  The best that we could do was pray, load them into the nearest pick-up truck, and take them to the most qualified place that we had.

It seemed like hours that we had been pulling people up the bank and loading them into trucks.  In reality, I think it was about half an hour.  Throughout all of that, the grandmother was still unwilling to get onto a truck to go to a hospital.  When the bus was emptied of all the living people, Grace made her way up the bank.  She saw me trying to get the grandmother onto a truck.  She joined in helping me, but grandmother still refused.  She would not take her eyes off of the bus.  Just then, I saw the body of her sister being removed.  She did too.  The grandmother already knew that she was dead, but I think she needed to see her come out of the bus.  I think she needed the slight bit of closure.  Within a few minutes, she came to me and told me that she was ready to go to the hospital.  I helped her into the backseat of a pick-up and then told her still hysterical granddaughter where they were taking her.

Then, Kez and Grace told it was time to go.  Everyone was out of the bus and loaded up.  The crowd was huge and on-lookers were everywhere.  Traffic was backed up along the road.  There was nothing more we could do.  So, we left and started walking down the road towards St. Mark, the nearest city where the hospital was located.  Kez was barefoot.  We were covered in mud and blood that was not our own.  I had my sunglasses on and I was fighting tears.  Everyone that drove past us starred and commented that "those white ladies must have been in the accident, too".  No one offered to give us a ride.  We walked over a mile and a half before we saw our truck driving towards us.

On the drive home, Mama Kathy explained what she had experienced.  She shared how no one at the hospital would help carry the injured out of the back of the truck.  One hospital administrator raised his hand and told her to wait when she simply wanted to get help for the injured people in her care.  Only one of the medical personnel offered to help.  Several people in scrubs just starred from a distance not wanting to get their hands dirty.  I heard the pain in Mama Kathy's voice as she explained that the hospital staff wanted to lay the young girl with the missing leg on the bare floor.

This is what the five of us girls are carrying now.

Things like this are the reality of every Haitian.  This is part of the struggle of life in this country.  Now, it is the reality of all of us who choose to live here.  We share this burden.  I saw things that I would have never imagined that day....things that I wish I could forget.  But since I cannot forget, I want to use this.  I want to learn from this.  I want to understand the vast struggles of these people.  I want to be able to feel what they feel.  It will hurt.  It does hurt.  But, if I cannot share their burdens how can I truly love them?

I pray that as I walk out this life here in Haiti, God will continue to give me the strength needed, to bring peace in the midst of chaos, to bring comfort in the midst of struggle, and to bring healing in the midst of pain.