Saturday, July 3, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Final update
Hi loves,
The last week of my trip whirled by in a chaotic blur. My computer was lovingly taken over by the UNICEF data crew, and I wasn’t able to write for various other reasons. So, this will be a long entry, detailing the last week of my trip.
Last time I wrote, I was about to head to the UN complex to do data entry for UNICEF. They are compiling data on schools in Haiti – how many students they had before and after the quake, whether they’re open for classes, what damage they sustained, what levels they teach, whether they need debris cleared. Small portions of this information have been collected by various partner organizations who weren’t necessarily asking all the same questions or even using the same format for the data they collected. Our task was to consolidate and standardize the forms toward a single comprehensive database.
The tap-tap ride into Port au Prince was amazing. It always is. I never get tired of the journey into the city. The UN complex itself baffles me, though. It’s such a weird, insulated space, with clusters of organization reps who seem to be in a permanent state of self-important panic. There is constant movement, but not the same kind of movement you see in the streets. It just felt kind of strange and artificial to me. The UNICEF tents are very well set-up, and we were working in an open-walled tarp-tent shelter with tables and electrical outlets. One of the information managers briefed us on the project and we set to work.
For me, it was a profoundly unrewarding day. I’m pessimistic about one’s (or one’s organization’s) ability to recover from inconsistent record collection and management. If you don’t do things in an orderly way from the very beginning, there will always be fundamental problems you can never quite harmonize. Plus, I am not great with Excel and don’t particularly enjoy data work. Fortunately, a few of the other volunteers in our work group got the upper hand on the utter mess we were given, and managed to make some slow, steady progress. The less said about the day, the better. I don’t feel like I accomplished much personally, and though I absolutely see the importance of this kind of higher-level work, it’s just really not for me.
It’s actually been really interesting for me listening to local people talk about the big NGOs who work in Haiti. People call the UN “United Nothing”. They say the Red Cross only comes out when the media is there, to hand out t-shirts – no money or real aid. I know, intellectually, that these organizations are doing crucial work that doesn’t necessarily have immediate, visible products – that the trickle-down effect will eventually be important. But in the meantime, I follow the hearts of so many people who shared with me that, in that interim period, you need small groups doing local work with tangible results. I’ve never been a policy person. I like to break my heart and get my hands dirty. I’m glad that, with the exception of today, I stuck to my principles and did the work I felt was most important. Much respect to those individuals from our rotation of volunteers who continued to work with UNICEF to complete their project – I did not return.
On Thursday morning, I began the long trek along the coast through Cabaret to Good Samaritan orphanage. Today, Pastor Yves himself came to pick us up. He is an amazing man – I’ve probably written about him before, but I can’t remember. If I recall correctly, he runs fourteen churches, six schools and three orphanages in Haiti. He is an incredibly kind and philosophical man. I had been eager to return to Good Samaritan – it struck me deeply on my first visit, and I was anxious to see how my little ones were doing. We went with a small group this week, though – just three of us, and Baby, one of our local translators.
It was a difficult but rewarding day, which could sum up any day I spent in Haiti. One of the boys at Good Samaritan, who looks to be about six, was very clingy with me. Although he was able to communicate with me non-verbally, he cannot seem to articulate words. He’s clearly very intelligent and responsive, and I suspect his speech development is simply delayed (as opposed to any kind of mental handicap). It was exhausting, though; he wept and gnashed his little pearl-chip teeth whenever I put him down, so I spent most of my time with his legs around my waist, his head on my shoulder and his fingers twisted in my hair. Not that it stopped any of the other kids from wanting to engage and have physical contact – I spent most of my time sitting on the ground so they could crowd in for hugs, and to hold hands, and beam their perfect little smiles at me.
When my little guy finally soothed himself and went off to play with the other kiddies, I was reunited with Chelan, my little beauty who stole my heart on my first visit. She looks to be maybe eight months old, with huge, sad eyes and tiny, perfect hands that clasp your fingers and make you just melt. Over the course of the morning, three of the little boys at the orphanage started calling me “mama”. I was glad we had Baby to translate for me; I find I can connect and communicate with the kids well enough without speaking fluent Creole, but I was grateful that I could call him over to tell me what they were shyly whispering in my ear. Grateful, and also heartbroken. Mostly, it was things I just couldn’t help: “I have a headache”, “I’m so hungry”, “I miss my family”. One little boy was asking me to take him away and be his mother. Bless the sweet woman who runs the orphanage – she spoke enough English and leaned on Baby to tell me that the kids loved me – didn’t I love them? Wouldn’t I take one home to Canada with me?
When we finally left, my sweet little guy came over to me, tapped on his wee chest over his heart, then put his hand on my chest and started to cry. Me, I seem to have turned into a total softie. I cried for most of the hour’s drive home, the dusty-green scenery a blur I hardly registered. Fuck, my whole time in Haiti was an endless looming range of emotional peaks and valleys – I’ve never felt such simple joy, and I’ve never been so broken-hearted.
The tail of my afternoon back at Ecole Shalom was quiet and reserved. Particularly with Good Samaritan, I needed space to decompress – sometimes a difficult thing to achieve in shared living space with so many people, but I’m also deeply grateful that I was constantly surrounded by friends.
In the evening, after dinner, most of us headed over to Bar Optimum to unwind with a Prestige and hit the dance floor. I have perfected the art of dancing in the dark in gumboots – top that. One of our translators took it upon himself to teach me “how to dance like a Haitian woman” – which was a hilarious misadventure if I’ve ever had one, though he was satisfied by the end of the night that I was a passable dance partner. The short walk back to the compound from Optimum was always marked by still air, bright stars, slow headlights on the road and hard dirt under my feet – I’m going to miss that walk home.
On Friday, I returned to Dr. Roberts’ orphanage for a completely amazing day! Of all the places we worked, I feel like we made the greatest strides with Dr. Roberts. We repaired some huge tears in the tent that houses the boys – which solved their flooding problem in the twilight bursts of rain. We also cleared a flat space on higher ground to move the tent, and yesterday (though I didn’t see it as I was departing) our team was putting the finishing touches on a permanent protective structure over the tent to give it additional shields from the wind and rain. We finished leveling and clearing their little soccer field, removed the vast majority of the trash that ringed the orphanage compound, and...
We made them a rope swing! There is a huge, sturdy tree in the center of the yard, and at the negligible cost of $17 US, we installed a swing for them to play. I’ll post pictures and – if I can figure out how – the video once I’m back on the ground. I can’t even explain to you how moving and amazing it was to watch them stand in awed amusement in a line, watching their playmates with total glee as we took turns pushing them through the air, whirling across the yard and up skyward. It wasn’t until I heard them laughing that I realized what had seemed off all this time about the orphanage – that was the first time I’d heard the kids just being kids.
Beyond all the improvements I’ve already mentioned, we fundraised amongst ourselves to purchase thirty mattresses for the kids and staff, most of whom slept on the concrete floor or the bottom of the tent that flooded with every rain. And we raised enough money to buy each of the kids two more sets of clothing. Volunteers who are still in Croix des Bouquets are working hard to develop a hundred lesson plans to provide continuity across new rotations, so we can have a strong teaching program for the kids as well. They’re bright and eager to learn, and until we can afford to send them to a proper school, at the very least we can give them a strong foundation and try to instill a sense of curiosity and wonder in their little minds. I’m really proud of my contributions and the contributions of my comrades to the good work that was accomplished at Dr. Roberts’ orphanage over the last two weeks. I know the momentum will only continue to build.
I returned to Ecole Shalom only to become, in rapid order, violently ill. Let’s not dwell on that, but it will explain why there’s essentially a two-day gap in my journal. The jury is still hung over what exactly made me so ill – I couldn’t keep down so much as a sip of water, and I was running an amazing fever. It’s all a hot, dark blur. I was dehydrated, I was weakened to an extent that scares and astonishes me in retrospect, and I couldn’t keep down Cipro or painkillers or anything else to help me. Much to my incredible good fortune, we had two wonderful nurses with us, who managed to root through the boxes of assorted medical supplies and find both a clean needle and some kind of medication that broke my fever and eased most of my pain. For about twelve hours, all through the night, I was more or less wishing that whatever was making me sick would just put me out of my fucking misery. I am much obliged to one of my fellow volunteers, Pastor Keri, for the comfort and companionship and constant cool towels (I don’t know how you found anything cold in the compound!) I’m sure, too, that my sweet mama thanks you for being there when she couldn’t.
I spent all of Saturday in bed, which was horrid and boring and miserable and utterly necessary. Honestly, even now I still feel like the last bits of my strength are just returning. On Saturday, I hardly felt like I could peel myself off the cot. Sadly, my forced convalescence upstairs in the compound meant I missed an incredible event: a field trip for the kids from Dr. Roberts’ orphanage. Volunteers from our rotation arranged for a tap-tap to bring the kids to Ecole Shalom to play on our large soccer field, and have lunch in the schoolyard. Judging by the peals of laughter that drifted up the stairwell to my bed, it was a beautiful day for them. It was the first time, apparently, that they had left the orphanage since the quake. I am proud of my friends who organized this – they’ve started a tradition, I hope, and given the kids a really great gift.
On Sunday, I spent the morning sprawled out staring through the gap in the unfinished wall at the compound. I wasn’t feeling anything close to fully recovered, but I really think I would have gone utterly mad if I’d stayed there any longer, so, when a few of the ladies made plans to take a trip into the city, I hopped on for the ride. We returned to the market we’d visited on our first weekend, which was a jarring and crazy and beautiful cultural experience in itself. I wanted to purchase a painting to bring home, and when we exited the hired vehicle and started walked toward the stalls, we got mobbed. I ended up with three paintings and a handful of other souvenirs – not that I mind.
I hope that someone is benefitting from the money, and I won’t have trouble finding people to whom I can give the pretty things I’ve bought. But I don’t particularly enjoy haggling, especially with people who have only learned enough English to manipulate “rich Americans” with emotional guilt-trips. I spent the most money with a man who helped me to find the perfect painting and negotiated a fair price without the frantic begging and veiled threats. Maybe it would have been a different experience if I’d been more physically strong – after half an hour of wandering through the market, I could no longer handle the cluster of men pleading for me to “make them survivors” by giving them money – in exchange for art and trinkets, or just because – they thought I would give them money? It’s a misapprehension anyway – I haven’t got a penny to my name once I’ve paid out my expenses for the trip. All I have to give is love and hard work.
Anyway, after we left the market, we returned to Visa Lodge, where we’d lunched the previous weekend. We had a quiet dinner and enjoyed having a bit of air conditioning and ice in our water which was cold! Also, I am absolutely not a soda drinker at home, but Coke is amazing in Haiti. Actually, every bottled beverage I had was infinitely better down there – something about the real sugar I guess, and the extra layer of appreciation that came from having something cold and sweet. By the time we returned to Croix des Bouquets, I was wiped out. I had an early night, and slept wonderfully after eating my first real food in about three days.
On Monday morning, I decided – in spite of some lingering weakness – to break routine once again. I was part of the first group of GVN volunteers to visit Rays of Hope for Haiti, an orphanage which houses 37 special needs children in Port au Prince. They have wonderful facilities and a great staff, and I really admire the space they’ve established for the children. The kids ranged in age from infants to teenagers, and ranged across the whole spectrum of disability. To be honest, I’m not sure that I’m able to really write about my experience there yet. It was a positive and challenging day, but one that I found extremely personally difficult. I would really like to get some training in working with special needs children. I feel privileged to be part of establishing a new relationship between our volunteer base and their organization, and I’m awed and moved in ways I don’t even fully recognize by my experience. But it was a tough day for me.
I guess it must have been on Monday night when it started to sink in that my time in Croix des Bouquets was drawing to a close. I struggled with my feelings about leaving – I went through stages of feeling angry and frustrated, to be honest, that I had to leave at loose ends so many things I’d invested in over the last two weeks. I was at a place where the novelty was gone – being where I was just felt completely natural and normal. I was comfortable in my surroundings, with the heat and the weather, waking up each morning at 5 AM with the mountains pushing up the daybreak-sky. I could navigate through the market at Croix des Bouquets, I could pick my way by landmarks through the drives to various projects, I didn’t hesitate anymore about jogging after a moving tap-tap and leaping onto the tailgate. I was really happy where I was, doing what I was doing. Monday was a hard night, realizing I was about to give it all up just as I was realized what a gift I’d been given in adjusting so whole-heartedly to such a beautiful place.
And I also feel so moved by the wonderful group of people who shared my experience. Some were there longer than me; others stayed on after my departure. All of them were special and wonderful in important ways. All of them had good hearts, and all of them gave me strength, some of them without even realizing it. Our relationships developed rapidly because we were thrown into circumstances that depended on the immediate. When you part, after a time like that, there is always a fear that it will be difficult to sustain friendships across distance and time. Reflecting afterward, though, as I sit on the plane heading home, I know that the gift of their friendship has already changed me, and the laughter and challenges and moments we shared are impressed upon me in ways that I can’t believe will dwindle or fade just because we’re not together. I’m stronger just knowing that these sweet people exist somewhere in the world. I hope I will see them again, and soon, and I even trust that it will happen. But I’ve also grown to be at peace with parting. I wish them all well.
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Tuesday morning was tough for me. Technically, it was supposed to be my last day of work, since I was departing the following day. But I was crossing my fingers that, since my flight on Wednesday was late in the afternoon, that I’d still be able to go out on a project. I felt a strong urge to return to both Dr. Roberts’ orphanage and Good Samaritan orphanage one last time before my departure, two places in which I had invested myself heavily on an emotional and physical level throughout my trip. Ultimately, it was a gamble – I wasn’t sure I could do both.
On Tuesday morning, I returned to Good Samaritan for my final visit. I will keep it brief. I had a hard time saying goodbye to all my little ones. But I also left feeling good in my heart – on our first visit, the kids were dispirited, sickly, clingy and deeply sad on a level that shook me right to the marrow in my bones. I’m not going to pretend that a few visits fixed anything – but across my visits to Good Samaritan, I noticed a measureable difference in those kids. They were more alert and responsive, they wanted to play and engage, and some of the younger ones who had particularly worried me with their evident illness had more colour in their cheeks and life in their eyes than I’d seen previously. There were more smiles, and more laughter. We brought a huge bag full of bottles of multivitamins, tins of powdered milk, and some more good food. We’ll keep bringing them love, too. And I hope to hear someday from a future volunteer, or to see for myself, that the momentum continued to build. Those kids are really special. I’m going to miss my little Chelan, my wee boys – I hardly remember how I said goodbye. I tried to hard not to let myself get attached, but clearly I’m no longer the master of my own heart.
On Tuesday evening, I packed up my tent and sorted through all my belongings. My rucksack is a lot lighter on my return journey. I left behind most of my gear and clothing, my supplies – everything but my books (I can never part with my books) and my artwork. And I’m leaving behind a large piece of my heart. I know it will pull me back again someday. We closed the evening with a really touching meeting, where we each got a chance to reflect on what our time had offered to us. Anything more on the subject would bore you, I think – the last few days were intensely personal, full of moments you can never really communicate to people who didn’t live them, with scraps of promises and long, parceled-out farewells and laughter and fervent hopeful wishes for the future. If any of you guys from Croix des Bouquets ever read this: I love you. I really love you. And I miss you already.
On Wednesday, I realized I had gambled and lost. I was unable to go out on a project without potentially compromising my ride to the airport, so I had to content myself with sending a note to Dr. Roberts and spent my final day in the increasingly-quiet compound, seeing off clusters of people with earlier flights, and volunteers departing for different projects. The building was echoing with every footstep by the time I had my quiet lunch of ripe mango and black coffee, made my last survey of Ecole Shalom, and boarded the tap-tap for the airport. It was a long-dusty ride, with familiar landmarks passing by for the last time; the crush of people leading into the airport felt like a chaotic blur. Inside, it was an interminable line, then a long slump of a wait in the impossibly breezy airport. I couldn’t look out the window as the plane left the ground.
That’s probably all I can write, right now. The rest of my trip homeward has been smooth. I traveled with two other volunteers as far as Miami, where we shared a hotel room for our long layovers. One of them flew with me as far as Dallas where we parted ways this morning, and now my current flight is just beginning the descent into Vancouver. Maybe when I’ve had a little more space to reflect and digest, I’ll have more to share with you. For now, please just know that I am so grateful that you’ve allowed me to share with you what has proven to be one of the best experiences of my life so far – and I love what it promises for the future. I’m looking forward to seeing family, to holding my nephew, having tea with my mom, a cigar with my dad, to being in my sweetheart’s arms. I’m looking forward to the unfolding realizations of the profound ways this has affected me in ways I can only guess at now.
This I wrote on my last night in Haiti, tucked in my corner of the GVN/HAC compound at Ecole Shalom in Croix des Bouquets - a small space that quickly and briefly became my home entire. I'll count it now among the places I've lived, laid down my head each night in anticipation of a beautiful day to come:
"Haiti is a bold place, with beauty beyond the trash heaps and life behind the rubble and hope written across the nude hills under the relentless sun. There is a resilience here that is older than the quake, older than I'm ever likely to comprehend - and dignity and strength that will form a strong foundation for the history still being written. It is rough, raw and breathtaking, utterly unapologetic, utterly beautiful.
In just seventeen days, I have been beckoned and transformed and sent off again reeling. I've learned that no matter how much I have to give, I always reap greater returns. No matter how much I have to teach and share, the lessons given to me are always more profound. Giving is the richest gift; it initiates an exchange of love and generosity the worth of which will never be known by bestower or recipient. I came here a rich woman, with many stories and much love to give me strength already. I depart wealthier still, and leave behind the promise of a someday-migration to carry me back here again.
I'm proud of my time here, not because I feel I've done anything extraordinary (I haven't) - but simply because I've acted with the same love and care, the same sense of wonder, the same respect and the same deep values that guide me everywhere I go in life, and had the sense to let this place nourish all those aspects of my being.
That's all. I'm proud of myself for having the simple sense to know this was bigger than me, and lay myself down as a canvas for the words and images that capture this place far better than my journal ever will. So when I come home, ask me how my trip went. All I'll do is smile. And you can read in that smile a story I'll never be able to fully articulate, that I'll carry with me wherever I go."
Thanks for keeping up with me all this way, guys. I'm sending you more love than you know, and I'll see you soon.
The last week of my trip whirled by in a chaotic blur. My computer was lovingly taken over by the UNICEF data crew, and I wasn’t able to write for various other reasons. So, this will be a long entry, detailing the last week of my trip.
Last time I wrote, I was about to head to the UN complex to do data entry for UNICEF. They are compiling data on schools in Haiti – how many students they had before and after the quake, whether they’re open for classes, what damage they sustained, what levels they teach, whether they need debris cleared. Small portions of this information have been collected by various partner organizations who weren’t necessarily asking all the same questions or even using the same format for the data they collected. Our task was to consolidate and standardize the forms toward a single comprehensive database.
The tap-tap ride into Port au Prince was amazing. It always is. I never get tired of the journey into the city. The UN complex itself baffles me, though. It’s such a weird, insulated space, with clusters of organization reps who seem to be in a permanent state of self-important panic. There is constant movement, but not the same kind of movement you see in the streets. It just felt kind of strange and artificial to me. The UNICEF tents are very well set-up, and we were working in an open-walled tarp-tent shelter with tables and electrical outlets. One of the information managers briefed us on the project and we set to work.
For me, it was a profoundly unrewarding day. I’m pessimistic about one’s (or one’s organization’s) ability to recover from inconsistent record collection and management. If you don’t do things in an orderly way from the very beginning, there will always be fundamental problems you can never quite harmonize. Plus, I am not great with Excel and don’t particularly enjoy data work. Fortunately, a few of the other volunteers in our work group got the upper hand on the utter mess we were given, and managed to make some slow, steady progress. The less said about the day, the better. I don’t feel like I accomplished much personally, and though I absolutely see the importance of this kind of higher-level work, it’s just really not for me.
It’s actually been really interesting for me listening to local people talk about the big NGOs who work in Haiti. People call the UN “United Nothing”. They say the Red Cross only comes out when the media is there, to hand out t-shirts – no money or real aid. I know, intellectually, that these organizations are doing crucial work that doesn’t necessarily have immediate, visible products – that the trickle-down effect will eventually be important. But in the meantime, I follow the hearts of so many people who shared with me that, in that interim period, you need small groups doing local work with tangible results. I’ve never been a policy person. I like to break my heart and get my hands dirty. I’m glad that, with the exception of today, I stuck to my principles and did the work I felt was most important. Much respect to those individuals from our rotation of volunteers who continued to work with UNICEF to complete their project – I did not return.
On Thursday morning, I began the long trek along the coast through Cabaret to Good Samaritan orphanage. Today, Pastor Yves himself came to pick us up. He is an amazing man – I’ve probably written about him before, but I can’t remember. If I recall correctly, he runs fourteen churches, six schools and three orphanages in Haiti. He is an incredibly kind and philosophical man. I had been eager to return to Good Samaritan – it struck me deeply on my first visit, and I was anxious to see how my little ones were doing. We went with a small group this week, though – just three of us, and Baby, one of our local translators.
It was a difficult but rewarding day, which could sum up any day I spent in Haiti. One of the boys at Good Samaritan, who looks to be about six, was very clingy with me. Although he was able to communicate with me non-verbally, he cannot seem to articulate words. He’s clearly very intelligent and responsive, and I suspect his speech development is simply delayed (as opposed to any kind of mental handicap). It was exhausting, though; he wept and gnashed his little pearl-chip teeth whenever I put him down, so I spent most of my time with his legs around my waist, his head on my shoulder and his fingers twisted in my hair. Not that it stopped any of the other kids from wanting to engage and have physical contact – I spent most of my time sitting on the ground so they could crowd in for hugs, and to hold hands, and beam their perfect little smiles at me.
When my little guy finally soothed himself and went off to play with the other kiddies, I was reunited with Chelan, my little beauty who stole my heart on my first visit. She looks to be maybe eight months old, with huge, sad eyes and tiny, perfect hands that clasp your fingers and make you just melt. Over the course of the morning, three of the little boys at the orphanage started calling me “mama”. I was glad we had Baby to translate for me; I find I can connect and communicate with the kids well enough without speaking fluent Creole, but I was grateful that I could call him over to tell me what they were shyly whispering in my ear. Grateful, and also heartbroken. Mostly, it was things I just couldn’t help: “I have a headache”, “I’m so hungry”, “I miss my family”. One little boy was asking me to take him away and be his mother. Bless the sweet woman who runs the orphanage – she spoke enough English and leaned on Baby to tell me that the kids loved me – didn’t I love them? Wouldn’t I take one home to Canada with me?
When we finally left, my sweet little guy came over to me, tapped on his wee chest over his heart, then put his hand on my chest and started to cry. Me, I seem to have turned into a total softie. I cried for most of the hour’s drive home, the dusty-green scenery a blur I hardly registered. Fuck, my whole time in Haiti was an endless looming range of emotional peaks and valleys – I’ve never felt such simple joy, and I’ve never been so broken-hearted.
The tail of my afternoon back at Ecole Shalom was quiet and reserved. Particularly with Good Samaritan, I needed space to decompress – sometimes a difficult thing to achieve in shared living space with so many people, but I’m also deeply grateful that I was constantly surrounded by friends.
In the evening, after dinner, most of us headed over to Bar Optimum to unwind with a Prestige and hit the dance floor. I have perfected the art of dancing in the dark in gumboots – top that. One of our translators took it upon himself to teach me “how to dance like a Haitian woman” – which was a hilarious misadventure if I’ve ever had one, though he was satisfied by the end of the night that I was a passable dance partner. The short walk back to the compound from Optimum was always marked by still air, bright stars, slow headlights on the road and hard dirt under my feet – I’m going to miss that walk home.
On Friday, I returned to Dr. Roberts’ orphanage for a completely amazing day! Of all the places we worked, I feel like we made the greatest strides with Dr. Roberts. We repaired some huge tears in the tent that houses the boys – which solved their flooding problem in the twilight bursts of rain. We also cleared a flat space on higher ground to move the tent, and yesterday (though I didn’t see it as I was departing) our team was putting the finishing touches on a permanent protective structure over the tent to give it additional shields from the wind and rain. We finished leveling and clearing their little soccer field, removed the vast majority of the trash that ringed the orphanage compound, and...
We made them a rope swing! There is a huge, sturdy tree in the center of the yard, and at the negligible cost of $17 US, we installed a swing for them to play. I’ll post pictures and – if I can figure out how – the video once I’m back on the ground. I can’t even explain to you how moving and amazing it was to watch them stand in awed amusement in a line, watching their playmates with total glee as we took turns pushing them through the air, whirling across the yard and up skyward. It wasn’t until I heard them laughing that I realized what had seemed off all this time about the orphanage – that was the first time I’d heard the kids just being kids.
Beyond all the improvements I’ve already mentioned, we fundraised amongst ourselves to purchase thirty mattresses for the kids and staff, most of whom slept on the concrete floor or the bottom of the tent that flooded with every rain. And we raised enough money to buy each of the kids two more sets of clothing. Volunteers who are still in Croix des Bouquets are working hard to develop a hundred lesson plans to provide continuity across new rotations, so we can have a strong teaching program for the kids as well. They’re bright and eager to learn, and until we can afford to send them to a proper school, at the very least we can give them a strong foundation and try to instill a sense of curiosity and wonder in their little minds. I’m really proud of my contributions and the contributions of my comrades to the good work that was accomplished at Dr. Roberts’ orphanage over the last two weeks. I know the momentum will only continue to build.
I returned to Ecole Shalom only to become, in rapid order, violently ill. Let’s not dwell on that, but it will explain why there’s essentially a two-day gap in my journal. The jury is still hung over what exactly made me so ill – I couldn’t keep down so much as a sip of water, and I was running an amazing fever. It’s all a hot, dark blur. I was dehydrated, I was weakened to an extent that scares and astonishes me in retrospect, and I couldn’t keep down Cipro or painkillers or anything else to help me. Much to my incredible good fortune, we had two wonderful nurses with us, who managed to root through the boxes of assorted medical supplies and find both a clean needle and some kind of medication that broke my fever and eased most of my pain. For about twelve hours, all through the night, I was more or less wishing that whatever was making me sick would just put me out of my fucking misery. I am much obliged to one of my fellow volunteers, Pastor Keri, for the comfort and companionship and constant cool towels (I don’t know how you found anything cold in the compound!) I’m sure, too, that my sweet mama thanks you for being there when she couldn’t.
I spent all of Saturday in bed, which was horrid and boring and miserable and utterly necessary. Honestly, even now I still feel like the last bits of my strength are just returning. On Saturday, I hardly felt like I could peel myself off the cot. Sadly, my forced convalescence upstairs in the compound meant I missed an incredible event: a field trip for the kids from Dr. Roberts’ orphanage. Volunteers from our rotation arranged for a tap-tap to bring the kids to Ecole Shalom to play on our large soccer field, and have lunch in the schoolyard. Judging by the peals of laughter that drifted up the stairwell to my bed, it was a beautiful day for them. It was the first time, apparently, that they had left the orphanage since the quake. I am proud of my friends who organized this – they’ve started a tradition, I hope, and given the kids a really great gift.
On Sunday, I spent the morning sprawled out staring through the gap in the unfinished wall at the compound. I wasn’t feeling anything close to fully recovered, but I really think I would have gone utterly mad if I’d stayed there any longer, so, when a few of the ladies made plans to take a trip into the city, I hopped on for the ride. We returned to the market we’d visited on our first weekend, which was a jarring and crazy and beautiful cultural experience in itself. I wanted to purchase a painting to bring home, and when we exited the hired vehicle and started walked toward the stalls, we got mobbed. I ended up with three paintings and a handful of other souvenirs – not that I mind.
I hope that someone is benefitting from the money, and I won’t have trouble finding people to whom I can give the pretty things I’ve bought. But I don’t particularly enjoy haggling, especially with people who have only learned enough English to manipulate “rich Americans” with emotional guilt-trips. I spent the most money with a man who helped me to find the perfect painting and negotiated a fair price without the frantic begging and veiled threats. Maybe it would have been a different experience if I’d been more physically strong – after half an hour of wandering through the market, I could no longer handle the cluster of men pleading for me to “make them survivors” by giving them money – in exchange for art and trinkets, or just because – they thought I would give them money? It’s a misapprehension anyway – I haven’t got a penny to my name once I’ve paid out my expenses for the trip. All I have to give is love and hard work.
Anyway, after we left the market, we returned to Visa Lodge, where we’d lunched the previous weekend. We had a quiet dinner and enjoyed having a bit of air conditioning and ice in our water which was cold! Also, I am absolutely not a soda drinker at home, but Coke is amazing in Haiti. Actually, every bottled beverage I had was infinitely better down there – something about the real sugar I guess, and the extra layer of appreciation that came from having something cold and sweet. By the time we returned to Croix des Bouquets, I was wiped out. I had an early night, and slept wonderfully after eating my first real food in about three days.
On Monday morning, I decided – in spite of some lingering weakness – to break routine once again. I was part of the first group of GVN volunteers to visit Rays of Hope for Haiti, an orphanage which houses 37 special needs children in Port au Prince. They have wonderful facilities and a great staff, and I really admire the space they’ve established for the children. The kids ranged in age from infants to teenagers, and ranged across the whole spectrum of disability. To be honest, I’m not sure that I’m able to really write about my experience there yet. It was a positive and challenging day, but one that I found extremely personally difficult. I would really like to get some training in working with special needs children. I feel privileged to be part of establishing a new relationship between our volunteer base and their organization, and I’m awed and moved in ways I don’t even fully recognize by my experience. But it was a tough day for me.
I guess it must have been on Monday night when it started to sink in that my time in Croix des Bouquets was drawing to a close. I struggled with my feelings about leaving – I went through stages of feeling angry and frustrated, to be honest, that I had to leave at loose ends so many things I’d invested in over the last two weeks. I was at a place where the novelty was gone – being where I was just felt completely natural and normal. I was comfortable in my surroundings, with the heat and the weather, waking up each morning at 5 AM with the mountains pushing up the daybreak-sky. I could navigate through the market at Croix des Bouquets, I could pick my way by landmarks through the drives to various projects, I didn’t hesitate anymore about jogging after a moving tap-tap and leaping onto the tailgate. I was really happy where I was, doing what I was doing. Monday was a hard night, realizing I was about to give it all up just as I was realized what a gift I’d been given in adjusting so whole-heartedly to such a beautiful place.
And I also feel so moved by the wonderful group of people who shared my experience. Some were there longer than me; others stayed on after my departure. All of them were special and wonderful in important ways. All of them had good hearts, and all of them gave me strength, some of them without even realizing it. Our relationships developed rapidly because we were thrown into circumstances that depended on the immediate. When you part, after a time like that, there is always a fear that it will be difficult to sustain friendships across distance and time. Reflecting afterward, though, as I sit on the plane heading home, I know that the gift of their friendship has already changed me, and the laughter and challenges and moments we shared are impressed upon me in ways that I can’t believe will dwindle or fade just because we’re not together. I’m stronger just knowing that these sweet people exist somewhere in the world. I hope I will see them again, and soon, and I even trust that it will happen. But I’ve also grown to be at peace with parting. I wish them all well.
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Tuesday morning was tough for me. Technically, it was supposed to be my last day of work, since I was departing the following day. But I was crossing my fingers that, since my flight on Wednesday was late in the afternoon, that I’d still be able to go out on a project. I felt a strong urge to return to both Dr. Roberts’ orphanage and Good Samaritan orphanage one last time before my departure, two places in which I had invested myself heavily on an emotional and physical level throughout my trip. Ultimately, it was a gamble – I wasn’t sure I could do both.
On Tuesday morning, I returned to Good Samaritan for my final visit. I will keep it brief. I had a hard time saying goodbye to all my little ones. But I also left feeling good in my heart – on our first visit, the kids were dispirited, sickly, clingy and deeply sad on a level that shook me right to the marrow in my bones. I’m not going to pretend that a few visits fixed anything – but across my visits to Good Samaritan, I noticed a measureable difference in those kids. They were more alert and responsive, they wanted to play and engage, and some of the younger ones who had particularly worried me with their evident illness had more colour in their cheeks and life in their eyes than I’d seen previously. There were more smiles, and more laughter. We brought a huge bag full of bottles of multivitamins, tins of powdered milk, and some more good food. We’ll keep bringing them love, too. And I hope to hear someday from a future volunteer, or to see for myself, that the momentum continued to build. Those kids are really special. I’m going to miss my little Chelan, my wee boys – I hardly remember how I said goodbye. I tried to hard not to let myself get attached, but clearly I’m no longer the master of my own heart.
On Tuesday evening, I packed up my tent and sorted through all my belongings. My rucksack is a lot lighter on my return journey. I left behind most of my gear and clothing, my supplies – everything but my books (I can never part with my books) and my artwork. And I’m leaving behind a large piece of my heart. I know it will pull me back again someday. We closed the evening with a really touching meeting, where we each got a chance to reflect on what our time had offered to us. Anything more on the subject would bore you, I think – the last few days were intensely personal, full of moments you can never really communicate to people who didn’t live them, with scraps of promises and long, parceled-out farewells and laughter and fervent hopeful wishes for the future. If any of you guys from Croix des Bouquets ever read this: I love you. I really love you. And I miss you already.
On Wednesday, I realized I had gambled and lost. I was unable to go out on a project without potentially compromising my ride to the airport, so I had to content myself with sending a note to Dr. Roberts and spent my final day in the increasingly-quiet compound, seeing off clusters of people with earlier flights, and volunteers departing for different projects. The building was echoing with every footstep by the time I had my quiet lunch of ripe mango and black coffee, made my last survey of Ecole Shalom, and boarded the tap-tap for the airport. It was a long-dusty ride, with familiar landmarks passing by for the last time; the crush of people leading into the airport felt like a chaotic blur. Inside, it was an interminable line, then a long slump of a wait in the impossibly breezy airport. I couldn’t look out the window as the plane left the ground.
That’s probably all I can write, right now. The rest of my trip homeward has been smooth. I traveled with two other volunteers as far as Miami, where we shared a hotel room for our long layovers. One of them flew with me as far as Dallas where we parted ways this morning, and now my current flight is just beginning the descent into Vancouver. Maybe when I’ve had a little more space to reflect and digest, I’ll have more to share with you. For now, please just know that I am so grateful that you’ve allowed me to share with you what has proven to be one of the best experiences of my life so far – and I love what it promises for the future. I’m looking forward to seeing family, to holding my nephew, having tea with my mom, a cigar with my dad, to being in my sweetheart’s arms. I’m looking forward to the unfolding realizations of the profound ways this has affected me in ways I can only guess at now.
This I wrote on my last night in Haiti, tucked in my corner of the GVN/HAC compound at Ecole Shalom in Croix des Bouquets - a small space that quickly and briefly became my home entire. I'll count it now among the places I've lived, laid down my head each night in anticipation of a beautiful day to come:
"Haiti is a bold place, with beauty beyond the trash heaps and life behind the rubble and hope written across the nude hills under the relentless sun. There is a resilience here that is older than the quake, older than I'm ever likely to comprehend - and dignity and strength that will form a strong foundation for the history still being written. It is rough, raw and breathtaking, utterly unapologetic, utterly beautiful.
In just seventeen days, I have been beckoned and transformed and sent off again reeling. I've learned that no matter how much I have to give, I always reap greater returns. No matter how much I have to teach and share, the lessons given to me are always more profound. Giving is the richest gift; it initiates an exchange of love and generosity the worth of which will never be known by bestower or recipient. I came here a rich woman, with many stories and much love to give me strength already. I depart wealthier still, and leave behind the promise of a someday-migration to carry me back here again.
I'm proud of my time here, not because I feel I've done anything extraordinary (I haven't) - but simply because I've acted with the same love and care, the same sense of wonder, the same respect and the same deep values that guide me everywhere I go in life, and had the sense to let this place nourish all those aspects of my being.
That's all. I'm proud of myself for having the simple sense to know this was bigger than me, and lay myself down as a canvas for the words and images that capture this place far better than my journal ever will. So when I come home, ask me how my trip went. All I'll do is smile. And you can read in that smile a story I'll never be able to fully articulate, that I'll carry with me wherever I go."
Thanks for keeping up with me all this way, guys. I'm sending you more love than you know, and I'll see you soon.
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