Let me tell you a little something about... water in Haiti

"Dlo se la vie". Water is life. This is an occasional phrase you’ll see scribbled on walls as graffiti, or painted on hand pumping stations attached to wells donated and dug by various governments or organizations. In Haiti, water certainly is life, or at least it is directly connected to the quality of one’s life. I am learning that day by day here, most recently as our direct pipe connection was cut by the town water department (I was shocked to learn there even was such a thing, with an official office even!) after a miscommunication regarding an unpaid bill. We are trying to work out the details of getting our pipe reconnected, but in the meantime (and the meantime might be a while- simple things take a long time here), we are living in a little more solidarity with our neighbors, having to collect water from communal pipes and springs.

I’ll start by explaining a bit about our situation, as it was upon arrival. Our house had the rare convenience of having a pipe delivering a pretty steady stream of water into our pipes. We have flush toilets, sinks, a kitchen tap, and a faucet outside. The faucet has become a communal water source, mostly for neighbors and church friends, but we never refused anyone as long as they complied with the system in place, waiting in line and not creating too much ruckus and noise while waiting to fill their buckets and used oil jugs. Mostly women, young boys, and children came to get water all day long. When we needed water in the house (the water pressure and volume was not enough to have multiple taps open at the same time), we would simply shut the valve to the faucet outside, quickly use what water we needed before turning it back on outside. It was a pretty good system, and it kept us very aware of the demand of water, what a precious resource it is.

It is hard to ignore the amount of strenuous, back breaking work associated with water use here. From the moment one arrives in Haiti, driving from the airport to their destination, one passes countless Haitians walking along the street carrying water. Sometimes on top of the head, sometimes in the hand, sometimes both. The more creative water carriers engineer easier ways to make their work easier. I’ve seen an old wheelchair re-purposed to carry a 5 gallon bucket, I’ve seen a stroller carrying gallons, and my favorite is when I see clever little boys pushing their hand crafted “ti machines” or little cars full of various jugs and buckets. The children start this work (as well as other household chores) at a very young age. A young neighbor girl, about 11 years old, came to get water here on a daily basis. Initially, she would always take along the family baby, who was about 2 when we moved in. He didn’t do anything, but it was part of his daily routine to come to the water spigot and observe what went on there. Now, he is almost 3, and he has his own little collection of mini gallons that he carries over on his own, asking me to help him open the pipe and fill them up. He mimics the behavior he has seen since he was a toddler, sometimes even perching one mini jug on his head. The volume he’s carrying is of course not much, but it is getting him in the habit, and also building strength in his tiny body so that he can be a useful worker as he grows. This tendency to make little worker bees out of young children begins at infancy. I was told many parents purposefully choose not to support their young babe’s neck, hoping it will develop the muscles on its own, muscles it will need later on to carry a 5 gallon bucket, or a sack of charcoal.

Now, with the change in our water situation, we are realizing what a gift and convenience running water is. Once or twice a day, Jon walks down the hill to the local “sous” or spring to bathe and fill up a 5 gallon water cooler jug that he then carries back up the hill. Around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, I have to quit work to go bathe in a local river with some women friends. Bathing is quite a community activity, as people are always passing by the stream, either to do laundry, bathe, or let their animals come to take a drink. After bathing, we continue a little further to a randomly placed communal pipe. We carry a variety of buckets and gallons. I did have a few days I successfully carried a 5 gallon bucket on my head for the 7 or 8 minute walk back to our house, however my head was indeed supported by my parents as an infant, and I fear my neck muscles aren’t quite up to the task. I can assure you: it is not easy work. I am even more blown away that young girls will do this over and over for several trips each day, often balancing a full bucket on their head, and perhaps 2 to 4 gallon jugs in their hands. The other day I was out getting water with a friend, and we came across her brother gathering firewood. He needed help carrying it, and as I was clumsily arranging wood in my arms along with the measly 2 gallons I was given to carry, I turned around to see my friend had somehow managed to balance the biggest branch on top of the bucket which was already on top of her head. She then proceeded to fill her arms with sticks and twigs too. And she does this all with the grace of a ballerina while I look on in awe, stumbling and slipping in the mud.

Knowing how much work it takes to get the water to the house, I am very careful to conserve each drop. I’ve disconnected the sink so that the waste water drips into a bucket which then is used to flush the toilets. Each time we wash hands, we do it over a basin to collect the grey water to give our thirsty plants a drink. The days we are blessed with rain (which thankfully is happening more and more in this season), we scramble to put out every bucket, basin, pot, and vessel we have, under the eaves to collect what we can. Some of the housemates have even taken to bathing directly in the rain showers. 

I hope, even when (or if) our water connection is re-established, that I can continue to have the same mentality of conserving this precious resource. It’s been a good experience, and I am happy to take another step towards living in solidarity with my Haitian neighbors. Plus, my recent attempts at local river bathing and water carrying have provided endless entertainment for those around me, so if nothing else, there’s that. J

"Dlo se la vie". Water is life. This is an occasional phrase you’ll see scribbled on walls as graffiti, or painted on hand pumping stations attached to wells donated and dug by various governments or organizations. In Haiti, water certainly is life, or at least it is directly connected to the quality of one’s life. I am learning that day by day here, most recently as our direct pipe connection was cut by the town water department (I was shocked to learn there even was such a thing, with an official office even!) after a miscommunication regarding an unpaid bill. We are trying to work out the details of getting our pipe reconnected, but in the meantime (and the meantime might be a while- simple things take a long time here), we are living in a little more solidarity with our neighbors, having to collect water from communal pipes and springs.

I’ll start by explaining a bit about our situation, as it was upon arrival. Our house had the rare convenience of having a pipe delivering a pretty steady stream of water into our pipes. We have flush toilets, sinks, a kitchen tap, and a faucet outside. The faucet has become a communal water source, mostly for neighbors and church friends, but we never refused anyone as long as they complied with the system in place, waiting in line and not creating too much ruckus and noise while waiting to fill their buckets and used oil jugs. Mostly women, young boys, and children came to get water all day long. When we needed water in the house (the water pressure and volume was not enough to have multiple taps open at the same time), we would simply shut the valve to the faucet outside, quickly use what water we needed before turning it back on outside. It was a pretty good system, and it kept us very aware of the demand of water, what a precious resource it is.

It is hard to ignore the amount of strenuous, back breaking work associated with water use here. From the moment one arrives in Haiti, driving from the airport to their destination, one passes countless Haitians walking along the street carrying water. Sometimes on top of the head, sometimes in the hand, sometimes both. The more creative water carriers engineer easier ways to make their work easier. I’ve seen an old wheelchair re-purposed to carry a 5 gallon bucket, I’ve seen a stroller carrying gallons, and my favorite is when I see clever little boys pushing their hand crafted “ti machines” or little cars full of various jugs and buckets. The children start this work (as well as other household chores) at a very young age. A young neighbor girl, about 11 years old, came to get water here on a daily basis. Initially, she would always take along the family baby, who was about 2 when we moved in. He didn’t do anything, but it was part of his daily routine to come to the water spigot and observe what went on there. Now, he is almost 3, and he has his own little collection of mini gallons that he carries over on his own, asking me to help him open the pipe and fill them up. He mimics the behavior he has seen since he was a toddler, sometimes even perching one mini jug on his head. The volume he’s carrying is of course not much, but it is getting him in the habit, and also building strength in his tiny body so that he can be a useful worker as he grows. This tendency to make little worker bees out of young children begins at infancy. I was told many parents purposefully choose not to support their young babe’s neck, hoping it will develop the muscles on its own, muscles it will need later on to carry a 5 gallon bucket, or a sack of charcoal.

Now, with the change in our water situation, we are realizing what a gift and convenience running water is. Once or twice a day, Jon walks down the hill to the local “sous” or spring to bathe and fill up a 5 gallon water cooler jug that he then carries back up the hill. Around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, I have to quit work to go bathe in a local river with some women friends. Bathing is quite a community activity, as people are always passing by the stream, either to do laundry, bathe, or let their animals come to take a drink. After bathing, we continue a little further to a randomly placed communal pipe. We carry a variety of buckets and gallons. I did have a few days I successfully carried a 5 gallon bucket on my head for the 7 or 8 minute walk back to our house, however my head was indeed supported by my parents as an infant, and I fear my neck muscles aren’t quite up to the task. I can assure you: it is not easy work. I am even more blown away that young girls will do this over and over for several trips each day, often balancing a full bucket on their head, and perhaps 2 to 4 gallon jugs in their hands. The other day I was out getting water with a friend, and we came across her brother gathering firewood. He needed help carrying it, and as I was clumsily arranging wood in my arms along with the measly 2 gallons I was given to carry, I turned around to see my friend had somehow managed to balance the biggest branch on top of the bucket which was already on top of her head. She then proceeded to fill her arms with sticks and twigs too. And she does this all with the grace of a ballerina while I look on in awe, stumbling and slipping in the mud.

Knowing how much work it takes to get the water to the house, I am very careful to conserve each drop. I’ve disconnected the sink so that the waste water drips into a bucket which then is used to flush the toilets. Each time we wash hands, we do it over a basin to collect the grey water to give our thirsty plants a drink. The days we are blessed with rain (which thankfully is happening more and more in this season), we scramble to put out every bucket, basin, pot, and vessel we have, under the eaves to collect what we can. Some of the housemates have even taken to bathing directly in the rain showers. 

I hope, even when (or if) our water connection is re-established, that I can continue to have the same mentality of conserving this precious resource. It’s been a good experience, and I am happy to take another step towards living in solidarity with my Haitian neighbors. Plus, my recent attempts at local river bathing and water carrying have provided endless entertainment for those around me, so if nothing else, there’s that. J

Let me tell you a little something about... Clothing in Haiti

I always apologize for my long absences between blog postings, but shoot, life can get pretty crazy around here. I also have a rule I only post when I’m in good spirits, as not to trouble the folks back home, and although I am in good spirits a fair amount of time, I also happen to be busy doing other things while in good spirits. So although I regret not having the chance to share more with you, I also know it will probably happen again, and it’s understandable, so I will avoid the feelings of guilt that come from apologizing, and just realize that’s how life goes sometimes.

Today, I will return to my ongoing series of descriptive posts about aspects of everyday life in Haiti. Without further ado…

Let me tell you a little something about… clothing in Haiti.

There are no malls in Haiti. Or at least not in the sense we’re used to. I have seen a few outdoor shopping complexes in Port Au Prince, but most of them offer only a restaurant or two, a bookstore, coffee shop, pharmacy, and perhaps a travel agency or airline office.  There are clothing stores, but nothing like a GAP, Old Navy, or American Eagle- well-stocked, well-staffed, and well-organized. No no.. If you are looking to buy new clothing in Port Au Prince, you often have to step down into a cramped, poorly lit, basement room and scout around for what it is you’re looking for. If you can’t find what you want, or perhaps your size, you can ask, and sometimes the merchant will have giant bags filled with individually wrapped shirts or skirts, that they personally toted probably from the Dominican Republic after buying wholesale, which you can then dig through until you find what you’re looking for or get tired trying. In Mirebalais, there are a few small shops on the main market street, and I have on occasion, splurged and bought a new item for, oh, maybe $10. However, there is a whole other side to the business. There is what we call, Rad Pepe.

Rad Pepe is the term used to describe the second hand clothing market in Haiti. Rad is the word for clothing, and I’m not sure what pepe is all about.  I suppose when I say  this clothing is second hand, it’s more accurately like 3^rd or 4^th hand. What happens to all the clothing Salvation Army or Goodwill can’t sell, or perhaps don’t have the time to sort through? That’s right- some of it gets shipped to Haiti in large bales which are sold to merchants willing to take a gamble on what might be inside. They then sort through their wares, pack it up, and head off to sell on the busy streets of Mirebalais (or I suppose other similar locations throughout Haiti).

When you are setting out to buy rad pepe, you will come across large heaps of clothing on tarps spread across the sidewalk or street. Each pile usually has a theme. Skirts, children’s clothes, men’s clothes, formal clothes, etc. Once you find the correct pile, you just have to start digging. You might find a winner right away, and you might not find one until the very bottom of the pile, so perseverance is key. Sometimes I’m not even planning on buying clothing, but some irresistible piece of used goodness catches my eye on the top of a pile, and I simply must stop and ask how much.

Which brings me to pricing. Oh boy, is pricing ever something else. It is entirely contingent on your race, your personality, your stubbornness, and your ability to make the merchant smile. When I first arrived here, merchants could swindle me quite easily. Start at 500 gourdes? Ok, I’ll work my way down to 400 patting myself on the back as I walk away. Little did I know the piece was only good for 50. But I’ve learned my lesson. You shoot low. Really, really low, and you have to be willing to walk away.  There are always more clothing heaps to sort through.

I have also learned to buy articles of clothing based almost entirely on function. I am proud of this, and I hope this is something I take back to the states (although I don’t want to be dressing in burlap sacks as a weird outcast of normal society). When I look at an item, I think first if it will serve the purpose that I need. For example, I unfortunately left my favorite Boston hooded sweatshirt up on a mountain, in a small town where I attended a wedding, the trek of which takes a good 3 hours and is quite cumbersome. Needless to say, I left my hoodie there as a gift to whoever found it, and decided to go in search of a new one.  Sidenote- it can get “chilly” enough for me to wear a hoodie on occasion, although I’m quite sure my body’s tolerance to colder temperatures isn’t what it used to be. Somewhere in the mid-70s can now send a chill through my bones. Anyways, I happened to be with a band of helpers- Jon’s dad and grandfather was here, along with Jon and my best friend Nicole. Everybody pitched in to the pile digging party, holding up various items for me to examine. Each piece had a reason it wouldn’t fulfill the purpose- too dirty, too short, too huge, until finally I found the one that fit, that was originally meant for a woman, and that didn’t have any obvious flaws. Sure, it’s ugly, but who cares? It works. And I was so glad to be done digging, I decided to go for it. I went up to ask the price. 200 gourdes. Nope. No dice. I offered 50 (about $1.25). She said 100. I stood my ground. She kind of sighed. She looked tired and she’s seen me around before. She knows I’m not easily swindled, and when she looked at me, I knew this was going to be an easy one. She told me to buy it for 50. Victory. Now I own a fully functional, cozy, but ugly hoodie for those chilly mornings around here and my hikes into the high mountains.

Some might think it’s cheap to bargain when heaven knows people like me can afford to pay a little extra, however, bargaining is a huge part of the culture here. If they give me a ridiculous price and I just agree to it upfront and shell out the money, it’s kind of a bummer to them. Merchants offer high prices, partly to see if they can get them, but also as kind of a test. How well does this blan chick know Haiti? In a way, I am easy entertainment. Not only is the merchant selling to me watching, but also others nearby. They glance at each other, knowing they will either get a hefty profit out of the deal, or a good show. Why disappoint? If I can get their price down, and get them to laugh, I think we all walk away happy.

Because of the variety of clothing available from the rad pepe market, people watching can be a hoot. I’m always on the lookout for T-shirts that have come from closed to home. I know a girl who has a “Petoskey Michigan” baseball shirt, and I have seen a random stranger with an “Aquinas College” (closed to my home in Grand Rapids, MI) shirt. People wear all sorts of slogans that are super inappropriate for them and they often make me laugh. A little boy proudly wearing a pink shirt proudly saying “I’m a big sister”, or crass words emblazoned across the chest of a sweet, innocent old church lady. There are misspelled shirts that after the mistake was found, were shipped to Haiti and perhaps other countries who wouldn’t know the difference. I’ve heard from a friend here, there are many folks walking around with “Vote for Perdo” shirts, from the movie “Napolean Dynamite”- Vote for Pedro campaign. The point is, the words don’t matter. The clothes work. They function and that’s all that matters to these folks, and really it’s all that should matter to everyone, everywhere.

The other thing that cracks me up is clothes that are way out of context. I know a guy with a really vintage track jacket from some high school. He’s really rockin it as a moto taxi driver when he combines the shiny maroon jacket with his 80’s era tinted glasses, something similar to what my mother wore before my birth. I’ve seen bowling shoes as everyday shoes. I once saw a merchant using a pointed, brimmed, black witch’s hat from a former life as a Halloween costume, to keep the sun out of her eyes.  I’ve seen men in shirts that have survived since the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s. One person might be donning pieces from 3 different decades of fashion fads, but as long as they are all laundered, neatly pressed, and in good repair, you’re good to go.

The beautiful thing to take away from this is what I’ve already alluded to before. Clothes are meant to serve a function. They keep us warm, protect us from the sun, and allow for modesty. Sure, they also let us express ourselves, and show the world who we are, but we shouldn’t be who we are because of what our clothes say. Take pride in your appearance, sure, but don’t let it control you. All my Haitian friends are dressed to the nines for Sunday church services and you’d never know they come from shacks with no power or running water. Everything is washed, pressed, and ready to go. They make do with what they got, and even make the most of the little that is. I hope to continue to do the same in my life as I soon begin the transition back to my homeland.

Thanks for reading.

Annie

Happy (but simple) Holidays!

Just having passed the 5 month mark, and coming up on the half way point (which happens to coincide with my birthday on the 27th), I feel it is time for some sort of update and/or reflection. Not sure where this blog entry is headed, but I’ll play it by ear, just as I do in my daily life here in Marouge.

Obviously, Christmas in any other culture would be different than back home, but here, my church doesn’t even celebrate Christmas. Because December 25^th is not the actual, exact date of the birth of Christ, the church leadership here has decided it is inappropriate and unbiblical to recognize the day. I find this a little strange given that they do celebrate new years in the church with a worship service lasting long into the night, but I don’t seem to remember December 31^st mentioned in the Bible either… They didn’t even give a hint of holiday spirit during the month, and the sermon on the Sunday before the holiday was about the end times. Cheery indeed.

We found our own ways to celebrate and make the season special and bright. The local pastor held a small party in our honor knowing that Christmas is a big deal back home. It was a nice gesture of our friends to come together on our behalf, but it felt a little empty knowing that they were not celebrating the birth of Christ as we have been brought up to do. I happened to find a single strand of colored, blinking Christmas lights at the market. It was a lucky buy, and really helped to brighten up the house. I also downloaded my favorite holiday album to have some nice background music. It helped, but of course, it wasn’t the same as being home.

It was all an interesting time to reflect on what Christmas really is, and if it is possible to authentically celebrate without all the tradition, family, consumerism, and snow that I have always associated with it. On the actual day that all my friends and family back home were exchanging gifts and drinking cocoa around the fire, I walked to my friend Nikol’s house to get out of the house for a bit. I was a bit exhausted from a bought of holiday blues, and so I lay down to take a nap with her 2 year old son. As I was laying in her house (or rather her small shack), I looked around at the crumbling walls of mud and stick, I listened to chickens and kittens scurrying underfoot, and I was poked by the scratchy stuffing coming out of the makeshift mattress I was laying on. As I snuggled with this tiny, vulnerable child, I reflected on my current surroundings and how similar they were to that first night of Christ on earth. Mind you, when and where Jesus was born was a bit colder, and he was surrounded by human onlookers instead of just chickens. And of course, Jesus didn’t come into the world as a two year old. But to think that the Creator of the universe, the Lord of all living things decided to send his son into the world in such a humble setting- it really hit me what that meant for humankind. Especially the humankind that still live in such conditions. It was a unique way to celebrate the day. No presents, no feasts, no hubbub. Just a tiny baby, a humble shelter, and a peaceful rest.

New Years was a much bigger deal. We had a lengthy service at church, lasting from 8pm until the turn of the year. The service included singing, dancing, boisterous prayer (none of this is too abnormal for our church services), and towards the end, a small talent show. Apparently, people wrote the name of their acts down on slips of paper that were too be drawn at random to decide who would have a chance to perform. There was one small skit and perhaps a mini sermon or two, but most of it was singing. I was surprised to find my name had been chosen, as I hadn’t written my own name down, but I didn’t mind. I just insisted the guilty party who slipped my name into the basket come to join me in singing a hymn in harmony. The actual moment of midnight wasn’t recognized, but as I took a break from dancing my heart out, I checked to find 2012 was officially over and 2013 had begun. It was a good way to usher in the new year.

I have to say that my favorite holiday moment came a while after the holidays, when Jon’s (Jon is my co-SALTer here) Mom and Grandma came for a visit. I was only expecting them to carry a few small goodies that I had my own mother send to their house before they came. We cannot receive packages through the mail here due to exorbitant customs costs, so we rely on visitors or workers traveling back and forth to carry care packages for us. I did receive the goodies, but I was so very surprised and delighted when Jon asked me to come into his room to have a little mini Christmas with his family members on the night of their arrival. They had wrapped a handful of gifts for each of us, complete with the little “to:” and ” from:” tags with our names printed on them. It felt just like home and I couldn’t stop smiling as I opened a small set of hand tools for gardening, various Trader Joe’s treats, and nice soaps and shampoos. I then was given two full (reusable!) shopping bags of craft paper, candy, pencils, books, and magazines from my own family. Later, while in Port Au Prince, I was able to collect all of my Christmas mail as well, and I must have had upwards of 15 cards and letters. So the point of telling you all this is to say thank you to my support community. Little gestures go a long way, a very long way and I really appreciate everyone who has sent me a card, written me an email, or offered up a prayer for me during this experience.

Life has pretty much settled down back to normal after the holidays, Jon’s family visit, and hosting a few groups from MCC here. It’s back to gardening, trying to navigate the tricky system of getting money, materials, and workers all in the same place in order to get work done, but mostly just hanging out with kids, being present in the community, and building meaningful relationships. I’ll try to be better at blogging in the next few weeks and return to my “Let me tell you a little something about…” series. Until then, I hope this finds you all well, and I hope you have had a promising start to this near year. May it be filled with new opportunities, challenges, discoveries, and love for us all!

Peace.

Annie.

Let me tell you a little something #2

And now for another installment of my “let me tell you a little something about…”series. This time, I’d like to tell you a little something about grocery shopping in Haiti.

There are a couple of options when it comes to grocery shopping in Haiti. In a bigger city like Port- Au- Prince (and perhaps only Port –Au- Prince because I have yet to see another city with similar options) you can find nice, air conditioned, fully stocked supermarkets.  They contain imported everything you could imagine. I once even found a display dedicated to all the ingredients to make sushi. Clearly, this type of establishment is geared towards us expats looking for a bit of a familiar escape from the mayhem that surrounds us daily. The employees know many of their foreign customers do not speak Creole, so once the total is reached, they just signal to the monitor to show how much is owed, and the transaction is carried out with very little personal interaction. Many times the young men stocking the shelves are eager to try out their English with a polite “May I help you miss?” to which I usually respond, “No, thank you.  Just looking,” which is almost always true for me. There is just so much to look at in such a place. Sure to you all back home, living comfortably with this phenomenon available on a daily basis, it may not seem like much to see potato chips, olive oil, and fly-free meat all in one climate controlled location. But let me tell you, this experience is like stepping into another world.  On several occasions, I have gone in to such a supermarket just to marvel at the rows of shiny and brightly colored packages, with no intention of buying anything. Familiar names of Oreos, Pringles, and A&W call out to me as I walk down the neatly organized aisles. I’m not saying that this shopping experience is the best by any means. I would prefer not to buy my mangoes wrapped in Styrofoam and plastic, imported from the DR, when I could buy fresh, local ones right outside on the street. But this experience does have its pros.  Pretty much everything about this shopping experience is familiar to me, other than the goat heads and various animal feet available at the meat counter.

In rural Haiti, however, this luxurious option is not available. Sure, there a few tiny grocery stores in the nearest town, Mirebalais, but nowhere is air conditioning found, and you certainly can’t accomplish one stop shopping, as these stores are not very well stocked. So, if one wishes to obtain enough provisions to provide a well-balanced diet, I’m afraid to say, we must take to the streets.

The street market is a fascinating thing. I know that some “blan” (Foreigners) who pay locals to do their shopping for them. The reasoning is two-fold. One- local Haitians are very familiar with the market- they know the best vendors, the best quality fruit, and they are given reasonable prices. Two- any blan in their right mind would avoid this curious circus at all costs. I am apparently not in my right mind.

I suppose my desire to go to the markets despite my extreme fear and dread of them, is because I want to live an authentic life. I want to see life as my local friends see it. Smell the smells, taste the tastes, walk the walks. Of course, I will never really see what it’s like. There are certain barriers I cannot break down. I will always be an outsider, my skin color a dead give-away that I am not from here.

Let’s start with a general description of what you will find when you go to the outdoor market. There is a specified area that is called the market- full of little tin roofs supported by wooden poles, sometimes with cement platforms- but on market day all of the surrounding streets also used and flanked with rows of women displaying their wares on tarps and canvases spread out before them. We (and I say we because I will only ever venture into this madness with my good friend, our cook, Nikol) get dropped off by moto taxi as close to the main market area as we can get, and then venture on in. Most people sell from a low to the ground position- either crouching or sitting on a small stool- with their goods in front of them, but some have rickety display tables or platforms to stand behind. There are a plethora of smells and sounds constantly assaulting your nose and ears. Some of the more disturbing examples are the smelling of animal intestines and the sounds of a goat bleating its last bleat as its throat is cut and blood spurts out right in the middle of the isle.  As you walk near a specific booth, the smell of heavy alcohol wafts over from old men drinking bootleg liquor, dancing, drunk as ever, even at 10 o clock in the morning. There is an area where women slave away over huge pots of calalou and kabrit (okra and goat), getting ready for the lunch hour. Another location in the market is designated for the sale of livestock. Rows of peasants line up holding their chickens under their arms or their goats by leash, hoping that someone will take interest in what they have to sell. The parking lot, as I like to call it, is filled with donkeys and burros tied up, their saddle bags empty as their owners try their best to peddle what they’ve carried.

There are some pleasant sights and sounds as well. I won’t go as far to say there are pleasant smells, because to date I can’t recall a moment where I enjoyed what I smelled in the market. One of my favorite sounds is the merchants who walk up and down the aisles selling used glass soda bottles filled up with cooking oil. They often hold 2 or 3 differently shaped bottles between their fingers, and with the other hand, tap the glass with a small, metal rod, creating a whimsical chiming sound alerting nearby people that the sale of oil is on the way. I always enjoy seeing the large, round, woven trays that hold the little brightly colored packages of cooking spices. Each little cube or block has a different wrapper to signify if it is meant to be used with chicken, tomato sauce, or to add a spicy kick to your dish.

Let’s go back to talking about the animals and realize, now, that all the animals that are in the market area have to get there somehow. There is no separate route for livestock to enter and leave, therefore one might be in the midst of conducting a purchase of carrots, when suddenly the cry of “bet!”(animal!) is heard above the crowd, and one finds themselves being pushed over onto the poor carrot vendor by a donkey, heavy laden with bunches of bananas. This cry rings out probably a few times every minute on the main routes, but I prefer to duck into the less popular paths to avoid this unpleasantness. In the same fashion that donkeys, goats, and pigs are led down the people paths, motorcycles also take it upon themselves to offer a hindrance to pedestrians. At some points, a traffic jam, or rather people jam, will occur, and it becomes more or less impossible to move in any which way. This kind of situation terrifies me, and I prefer to find the nearest exit, and to put myself through it, as quickly as possible. People’s tempers can escalate quickly in such a hot, harsh, and intense climate, and I’d rather not stick around to see how the matter gets resolved.

My dear friend Nikol is a trusty guardian, always looking out for me. Once, we got stuck in a people jam near the opening of the market. It was nearing closing time, and most people were leaving, but one teenage boy decided it would be a good time to lead his donkey in. This angered the crowd to no end, and the poor boy continued to try to get through. Naturally, the donkey did not appreciate all the stress escalating around him, and started bucking, unfortunately also knocking over a parked motorcycle loaded with 2 people and several large sacks of rice. The whole time, I heard Nikol’s voice above the crowd “Ah-nee!! Ah-nee!,” until  standing on tippy toes, we made eye contact, smiled (we always try to keep it light even in times of crisis), and motioned our escape plan. As soon as I saw a break in the crowd, I went for it, running out of the chaos making sure Nikol was by my side the whole way. I should also mention, at this point, that on my back was my hiking back pack filled to the brim with oranges, onions, potatoes, grapefruit, and every other heavy piece of produce you can find on God’s green earth. In my arms was a plastic bag of what produce didn’t fit on my back, and a 5 gallon water jug, empty, but nonetheless cumbersome. Nikol’s arms were equally occupied, and amazingly, we didn’t lose a single item throughout the ordeal.

 The prices are generally pretty reasonable, although my skin color and assumed inability to speak Creole invite people to try to swindle me. Once they see I speak decent Creole, and that I am fully aware that a single banana is not worth 2 dollars, we reach a general understanding that bargaining is necessary. It’s almost offensive if you accept the merchant’s first price. The stating of a bizarre or outrageous price is an invitation to play in a game. A conversation starter, if you will. I am happy to say that I am now winning the game more often than not, and I can get as good a price on most items as any Haitian. The key is just to be informed at what the real prices are, and you can’t accept anything more. When the merchants sense that you’re unsure of what a decent price is, they will capitalize on that to their advantage.

Overall, I accept going to the market as a necessary part of life here. As I said, I could opt out of it for the money it would take to pay someone to do it for me (certainly worth the cost), but I am trying to live life as my friends and neighbors. I know they all get a kick out of it, especially when they see me at the market (many of my woman neighbors and church friends are vendors). I like to surprise people, and my very presence alone does so, and my ability to speak decent Creole is the cherry on the cake. So I carry on. And shoot, if I didn’t put myself in these kinds of situations, what on earth would I write about?

So. That is the little something I have to tell you about grocery shopping in Haiti. I hope you enjoyed reading, and thank you for doing so. Christmas is coming. If any of you feel so inclined, send an email greeting or facebook message. Even little notes from home can mean a lot to a person so far from home. 

Peace for the holidays!

Let me tell you a little something about being sick in Haiti...

I’m going to start a series of blog posts, for anytime I lack progress to report or pictures to share. It’s called “let me tell you a little something about….”. I like to picture myself saying this in the corner of a room, index finger motioning to come sidle up to me and hear some secret or receive some important and sneaky information. I’ll tell you all sorts of things about the ins and outs of life in Haiti.  I have grand plans to report on the market situation, transportation, what an ordeal it is just to do simple things like planting a garden. But for now, I have the privilege of telling you about the past few days of my life. I’m so glad that the hurricane rains have ceased, and along with it, my 3 miserable days of malaria has come to a close. So.. without further ado,

Let me tell you a little something about being sick in Haiti…

Being sick in Haiti is not like being sick at home. My situation is especially unique, because I reside, not in a family residence, but in a retreat center that is currently a hot spot for visitors in the community to come watch tv, listen to the radio, charge their phones, or just see what crazy activity the two blan (literally “white” in Creole- but loosely applied to all foreigners no matter their skin color) are up to. So there is regular stream of folks coming through our doors, and much to my dismay, this didn’t change in the days of my illness.

For the first day, I was able to spend a lot of the day in bed, snuggled under the comforter- both because the rain brought with it a refreshing low temperature, and because I was riddled with horrible chills- with my trusty, and blessedly silent, cat, Missouri. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, and so I spent hours in my dark room resting as one should.

By supper time, I emerged from my room, mistakenly thinking that I had just overcome a tiny stomach bug. I gladly indulged in a piece of bread that one faithful friend had ventured out in the rain to buy, and a bottle of 7up that was carried by my barefoot 10 year old friend Gon. Everyone was so glad I was seemingly better, as was I, and I happily munched away.

After that, things went downhill. Or rather up the esophagus. I was now at the point where, if I had to be sick, I didn’t want to be sick in a dark, damp house- rain dripping through the roof- surrounded by an all-male cast of Haitian housemates (and of course Jon, who spent most of my sickness time watching movies with the local kids who stopped by to visit-which was ok because it kept them quiet and out of my room.) It pained me to see the concerned look of Pastor Maxo, a dear sweet man who I know cares about my well-being so very much, looking over me, wishing he could help in some way. Along with my horrible gastrointestinal madness, I was suddenly struck with a sense of guilt for bringing the mood of the place down. I wanted so badly to get better. But that wasn’t in the cards for me just yet.

I arose the second day, full of optimism that I had passed what I foolishly still thought was a stomach bug. At this point, the theory arose among my various spectators- that the illness was brought on by an evil batch of sweet potatoes I had ingested the day before. I pointed out that although food might make one vomit, it would probably not send them into a feverish tizzy.  They considered this for a moment, and then shook their heads at me- “No Annie, we’re pretty sure it was the sweet potatoes”.  Ok.

Throughout the day, I was offered a variety of foods and beverages. All I wanted was familiar tea, 7-up, and chicken soup. But mind you, we were in the midst of hurricane rains, and motorcycle was the only transportation option. So we were left with what little we had around the house. Throughout the experience, I was offered a vast array of home remedies and fixes.  These included, but are not limited to: oral rehydration salts they use for cholera patients (this one actually made good sense), a bottle of non-alcoholic beer (I drank part of it wanting to make the giver feel useful- bad idea), two separate teas that burned my through as they went down, and a can of V8 vegetable juice (which, after seeing it was only half finished, my friend Nikol shrugged her shoulders with an experimental “why not?” look on her face and dumped the rest into the soup she had just made me).  When said soup was set on my lap, it looked as though the work of turning it into vomit had already been done for me. I should have just dumped it straight into my bucket when nobody was looking to save the gymnastics my stomach would have to do to get it there. Everything they offered, I wanted so badly to accept with great joy, but I just didn’t have the energy to pretend and my well-wishers were feeling increasingly helpless, only adding to my guilt.

As my fever rose in the afternoon (characteristic of malaria) I was starting to be convinced that is indeed what I had. I was in constant communication with a fellow MCCer a nurse named Linda, in Port Au Prince (bless her soul). At her advice, I had already begun to treat myself for malaria the night before as a precaution, despite the refusal of my friends to give up their sweet potato theory. One person said, “no, you don’t have malaria. If you have malaria, you go to the hospital”, as if the act of going to the hospital magically changes the diagnosis. Going to the hospital was not really a preferable option because of the consistent rain and lack of car to get me there. The idea of freezing in the rain, sandwiched between two people on a motorcycle was not super appealing to me. And so, I persevered ahead into the unknown world of trying to care for myself, dealing with a tropical illness while trying to delicately navigate the cross cultural experience of accepting good intentions, no matter how unappealing they may seem in the moment.

Among one of the stranger things that happened was the regular knocks on my door, waking me from my rare moments of blissful slumber. They’d start quiet. Maybe if I just ignore them, they will go away. The knocks got louder. “Oui?” I’d yelling my dried out gravely voice. A door would open, a head pop in, and they’d say “Annie, are you sleeping?” to which, it was obvious the answer was “no”, but I’d respond with a polite “yes”. They would then nod, happy with this interaction, and promply shut the door. It’s just occurring to me now that they might have been checking just to make sure I was still alive. Either way, this practice didn’t stop when people were out of the house. I received several phone calls, waking me up, just to have to tell the caller that yes indeed, I was sleeping. “Good. I thought so”, and they’d hang up. I just don’t understand the logic here, but if it made them happy, so be it.

I am normally not that great about making sensible medical decisions for myself. In my grade school years, I would insist on going to school unless my mom would order me to stay home. I equated sickness with guilt for some bizarre reason, and so imagine my dilemma when I was faced with an array of options for my path to recovery. I felt pulled in too many directions with too many opinions to choose from. It was a wonder I didn’t have a nervous breakdown through it all. But I was too tired to even think about being anxious.

The third day, I was in heaven when Jon was able to go to town during a break in the rain and get me mint tea, club crackers, and ramen noodles from a “fancy” little market in town. I didn’t have jello cups, Netflix, or my mom, but shoot- I was over the moon happy with that mint tea.

And now, today, I am happy to say I’m sitting up, eating a bowl of plain rice, and I plan on walking around outside later. I did not have a particularly good night of sleep, so at 5 o clock this morning when my dear friend Emanuel turned the radio on to listen to a Sunday morning fire and brimstone sounding sermon, I opened the door and explained I needed rest so could he please turn it down. He came in a few minutes later, and with head bowed, as if he had reflected on it and come to an undeniable conclusion, he said he was going to take me to the hospital on his own tab. I almost laughed because if at any point in this adventure, now was not the time I needed to be going to the hospital. I then got myself out of bed and started cooking myself the rice, just so I could put a smile on my face and say “See! I’m going to eat!” This made him delighted.

Through it all, I really have to say this community really rallied together and cared for me as one of their own. I appreciate each one of my visitors, even if at the time I did not want to be looked at, talk about the weather, or eat what they had to offer. One particularly high moment came just after I had finished talking to my mom on the phone, sobbing, wishing she was here. A quartet of my young adult church friends stopped by to visit. Seeing my tears, they told me not to cry because it would make them so sad. I saw tears starting to form in their eyes, and I wanted so badly to not add to their sadness, so I bucked up and held in my emotion. It was a true moment of the community wanting to share the burden of one who was too weak to carry it alone. They offered to sing and pray for me, and I can say that I tangibly felt the sadness and weariness leave my mind. I didn’t cry once after that.

The entire children’s choir came to serenade me and pray as well. This morning, a few of the children were around the house, and were so pleased to see that their prayers had been answered. “Annie! You see? Yesterday we prayed for you and now you are better!” And I truly believe that the prayers of these people and many more back home contributed to my recovery.

Would it have been easier to have my American colleagues come with a car and take me back to Port Au Prince or to the hospital? Yes. It most certainly would have been.  But then I wouldn’t have had this opportunity to see once again, how blessed I am by my surrounding community here in Haiti. And just think, if it hadn’t happened, I would have had such an interesting entry to post in my blog! So for all these reasons, I am ok that it happened as it did. I’d prefer to never have it happen again, but I know I am in good hands if does.

And that’s the little something I have to say about being sick in Haiti. 

a few reflections.

Sorry, once again for the long time between blog posts. I have this general rule of blog posting when my spirits are high and I have a level head, and I guess my lack of blog posting says something about the past few weeks... :) The challenges have been numerous, and the adjustments difficult, but I am finally falling into the rhythm of life here, and I can say I'm currently in good spirits and I'm happy to be blogging again.

My challenge of living here is trying to figure out how to live in solidarity with the poor that surround me, when I know complete equality is not possible. No matter how simply I try to live here, I know that I do have friends and family who would never let anything happen to me if it could be prevented. In that way, I have an endless network of support, and that comes along with money too. Here, if my friend loses a house to a fire or just to general ware and tare over the years, he cannot just turn to a support network as I can, because everyone is in the same boat. So, although I can create an illusion of living in complete solidarity, in reality, it can’t be accomplished, and that frustrates me. Even the very simplicity of a concrete floor is something that many people lack. It is so hard to reconcile the extreme differences in what I have known in my life to what these people have grown accustomed to.

Another large challenge is to know how best to help. I’ve read enough examples of bad foreign aid projects, and good intentions gone awry, but I don’t want to stand here helpless out of fear of doing something wrong. Even living off of the simple stipend MCC provides, I am comparatively rich to my friends and neighbors, and it’s hard not to feel guilty walking on my concrete floor, taking a shower in an actual bathroom instead of river bathing, and eating a variety of foods instead of just the rice and beans normally available. I cope with this disparity by giving what I can, usually food, but I feel like I can’t give of myself enough. I also know there are systems in place that have pushed the poor further into poverty, and put money into the pockets of the already rich and corrupt, and I am helpless to change those systems. But I can form relationships, and try to prove I am no different- that we are all equals trying to make sense of life. I can work alongside of the masonry workers building the caretakers house on the grounds, and show them that blan (the word for “white” in creole, but used to describe any foreigner) can sweat and work too. When they offer to share their simple breakfast of avocadoes and crackers, I partake, not because I need that food to sustain me, but because I need to show them we can share a meal, sit at the same table (so to speak- although it’s usually sitting on whatever concrete blocks and rocks are around). I insist to eat in the kitchen with our cook and friend Nikol, instead of having a large table set for us with all the niceties we would find in a restaurant, while she eats on a stool in the corner of the kitchen.

It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

I recently read an interesting article passed on to me by a friend. The title was taken from a Haitian proverb, "We see from where we stand". The piece focused on aspects of corruption in some foreign aid operations, and also unique organizations that used a different approach of living among the poor they were serving. Our perspective is shaped by where we choose to live, who we choose to associate with, and what we choose to do. From where I stand, here in rural Haiti, nestled in a valley of the Central Plateau, I see a very different example of life than what I have ever known in my life.

From where I stand, I see a system that is deeply broken. Good intentions and ideas gone wrong, left to deteriorate. However, I don’t just see dilapidated stick houses, but I hear the laughter that the kids inside create. I don’t see a broken pipe spewing water into the air, I see the ingenuity used to fix it despite the lack of resources. I don’t just see a plate of plain rice and beans, but rather, I see the pride on the smile of the person handing it to me, pride that they have the resources to offer this blan something to eat. I see endless potential to show Christ’s love through simple conversations and interactions. It is an overwhelming responsibility, but one I have chosen to accept, and one that gets me up every morning, excited to see what this world has to show me.