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.

Long time, no post...

Hi all!

I've been trying to right a profound blog post for the past hour, and I have to let those thoughts steep for a bit longer in my the tea kettle that is my brain. Until then, I'll just give a basic update on what we've been up to.

Jon and I are plugging away here in Marouge, a village outside of Mirebalais. Although we haven't been able to start much of the rennovation project in the house, we have kept ourselves busy with smaller projects we come up with on our own. One such project is tackling the back yard. When we arrived here, it consisted of one random plant (something edible that we don't have in the states), a full grown tree, and a large trash heap. You see, here in rural Haiti, we have the priviledge of dealing with our waste first hand. No garbage trucks here. Whatever trash we make, we have to deal with and look at until it either decomposes or some goat eats it. Thus, my first week here, I bought two separate buckets for compost and trash, and established a small compost heap out back. Jon and I also sorted through the trash heap, taking out anything we might be able to reuse, mostly plastic bottles, and cans to fill with soil and start seeds in. We tried to hand till the soil out back, hoping for nice black topsoil, but finding mucky clay. For a while we would walk to a near by field to find good soil, carrying it back in a 5 gallon bucket, but this was a bit tedious. On the most recent visit of our MCC supervisors, we were surprised with a lovely wheelbarrow, 2 shovels, a pick ax, and a hoe. It was like Christmas. Our efforts will be so much more efficient now! Can't wait to start planting.

I should also mention that there is the construction of a caretakers' house going on within the fence of our property here. Once it is completed, Jon will move there along with a pair of brothers, and they will oversee the property, keep it locked up, and help us deal with any issues that arise in the house. For the meantime, however, the two brothers, Jon, myself, 3 construction workers, and the local pastor are living in the retreat center building. We've got quite a full house. The workers are all pretty cool, and I enjoy spending random days working as their laborer on the little construction site. I sift sand for mixing cement, mix the cement, make sure their trays are full as they slap the cement up onto the walls. They get a kick out of me working with them, and often we have an audience of curious neighbors who come to watch. One little boy said "It gives me pleasure to see a woman do this sort of work". It was such a foreign concept to him, and made all the more crazy by the fact that I am a "blan" woman, or white/foreigner woman. He was pleased. And I was happy as well.

There are always interesting things going on around here. Recently, I discovered that chickens, or at least roosters, like to sleep in trees. Our friend, and future caretaker, Fafa, has recently aquired a rooster and it is tied up in the front yard until we can trust it to stick around. On more than one occasion, I have walked outside to find an empty string tied to a cement block, meaning the rooster (we have come to call him Kernel) has left us once again. I always joke that he's gone on vacation somewhere, and Fafa trots off into the meadows to find him. One evening, as we were sitting around, Kernel frightened me by flying up into the air, to the very end of his string, and catching the lowest branch of the mango tree. I was alarmed at this behavior, but Fafa calmly untied the string and watched as Kernel hopped from branch to branch until he was nestled high in the tree and he fell asleep. In the morning, he apparently just flew back down, he was tied up again, and life continued. The next night, however, Fafa wasn't around when Kernel attempted to reach his nightly resting place. At some point in the day, his leash broke, and when it was tied up again, it was shortened. Kernel hadn't entered this into his calculations before flying into the tree, because the lowest branch was just out of reach and he awkwardly flew til the rope yanked him down to earth. I felt bad after watching several attempts, so I took it upon myself to untie the rope and let him fly into the tree. He didn't get the picture. He started running off, and because I hate to see him fall on his face time after time of pulling att he end of his rope, I let him run for a little while with myself holding the leash behind him. Eventually, I realized he had no intention of running back home, so I picked him up and asked Samuel, a little boy, what to do with him. He insisted I just throw him into the tree. I was a little surprised, never having considered throwing a chicken anywhere, but he seemed confident. So, I grabbed him, and gracefully tossed him into the air. I watched as his little balled up self went up, and then slowsly descended to earth without his wings opening. I wanted to yell "Kernel! You doofus! Fly already!" but it was too late. He came crashing to earth with an awkward thud. The few onlookers laughed and insisted I hadn't thrown him hard enough. So Samuel took over, and grabbed Kernel as if he was a football in one hand. He wound up, and chucked the bird as hard as he could. This time the wings opened, but he missed the branch and squawked loudly, unamused at what we were trying to do. Finally, we threw him into the crook of the tree, thinking that even if he didn't open his wings and fly on his own, he would realize what he was supposed to do when he landed. Sure enough, he started hopping from branch to branch as planned, until he found a nice spot to hunker down for the evening. Heh. What a night. For both Kernel and myself.

Other than throwing chickens and gardening, we are making relationships, learning the language, and getting used to the local markets. I keep having to remind myself that not all progress is visible, and even so, progress isn't necessarily our priority here. We are here to learn as much as serve, and we are certainly doing that on a daily basis.

I will try to do a better job keeping up with blog posts. Hopefully I'll make visit to Port Au Prince soon, which means I'll have unlimited internet and I'll be able to post pictures. But until then, just do your best creating a mental image of me chucking a rooster into a tree. :)

Hope all are well
Peace
Annie

A Challenging Issue

Sorry in advance that this isn’t the normal cheerful update on how things are going, but it’s important to me, and I hope it makes us all think.

I have a difficult thing to explain to you all. One that I hope we all can learn from. I know I already have spent much time in reflection about this particular issue, and I still don’t know what my conclusion is, or if I will ever come to one, but for now, I just need to share.

Several days into my new assignment in Mirebalais, the night before I was to be introduced to the local partner church, I was asked by the pastors to remove my nose ring. They made it clear that neither of them (the local pastor or the head pastor of the denomination) had a problem with me or what I chose to do with my nose, but that after a long meeting at the church that night, the conclusion was drawn that they needed to ask me to take it out.

At that point, I knew I had two choices. I could refuse, plant my feet in the ground, and be stubborn about the issue (not the best way to start off the year), or I could do as they asked and make everyone but myself happy. I suppose I responded with a combination of both. First of all, I started crying as I explained to them how much it hurt that the church felt I needed to change before I could join in worship with them.

I told them one of the reasons why I have a nose ring in the first place. Looking around my church growing up, I saw a lot of the same kind of people. This isn’t necessarily wrong, but if I had been a person with even the slightest difference, I wondered if I would ever feel at ease wandering into a sea of uniformity. I knew that some people had certain opinions or assumptions that came to mind when they encountered folks with tattoos, piercings, hair, or clothes that were a little out of the ordinary. I was uneasy about those unspoken assumptions and judgments, and I suppose I wanted to challenge them. I wanted to be a counter example, that would open the door to more counterexamples. If say, my grandparents (and I love them all dearly) had something against people with, for example, nose rings, and I, their granddaughter that they love very much, showed up with a nose ring one day, and that little piece of metal didn’t have any effect on the character or behavior of their granddaughter, perhaps they wouldn’t be so quick to judge other people with nose rings. And perhaps other people with piercings might see me in the church and think, oh! Maybe I am welcome here “as is”. You see my logic here? I wasn’t trying to be super rebellious. I just like the idea of challenging people’s mindsets so that they might be more open to differences .

Back to the whole ordeal..

So I explained, in my broken Creole (I also had my Creole teacher/translator nearby who was very kind and helpful), how it saddened me that a church would ask someone in my position, someone who has left her home behind for a year to come and work in one of the world’s poorest countries, far from anything familiar, to change her physical appearance in any way before being able to feel welcomed by the church. I do not say all that to put myself on a pedestal for the choice I have made to live here, but rather to say that if they would ask that of me, what are they requiring of their neighbors and other Haitians who might want to enter the front doors?  I am glad that I had the strength and the Creole to ask the pastors these questions in the midst of my tears, and I could see in their eyes that they had no answer for me other to say that it was an extremely legalistic church, and we all agreed that maybe that wasn’t such a good thing, seeing the pain their rules were bringing to our little meeting.

At the end of it all, I did indeed take it out.  I felt it was the only thing I could do.

I learned a great deal from the whole evening. I discovered how much these two pastors really do care for me. I saw it in their eyes when I started to cry and in their voices when they told me how much they fought on my behalf, explaining that I was a hard worker and a good person and a tiny ring of metal has no adverse effect on that. And I realized how much the pastors want this to go well, as one of them woke up early to cook French toast as a special treat to make it up to me. I realized what a good friend I have in my Creole teacher as he helped me remove my nose ring for the first time from my snotty, tear soaked nose, and then as he stood in my room with tiny pliers for  a half hour trying to bend it back into shape after I accidentally squashed it. I learned how much sadness a decision on behalf of the church can bring, when my teacher told me the next day that he couldn’t sleep because he was crying over the inability for people to accept others just the way they are as Jesus would. And I learned how much love I already have for this project and these people. I deeply care about this experience and I want it to go well, so much so that I will change myself for a church that I didn’t even know at the time. A church that I hope will grow and open its mind and its doors to all who pass by.

I do not tell you this to speak badly of this church. I am probably one of the first foreigners to join in their fellowship. I know that even without my piercing, I come with so many differences, and my skin color, my hair, my earrings, and my clothes are enough differences to start with. My hope for this year is that I can show Christ’s love though my actions here, and I hope, through baby steps, that people here can look past whatever is on the outside and see what, or rather Who is inside of me.

I also tell you this as perhaps a plea to take people as they are. Invite them in and hear their story before even thinking about making a judgment or assumption about them. Chances are you’ll find something in common. You’ll laugh, smile, maybe sing or share a meal, and before you’ll know it, you’ll forget all about the thing you were first so caught up on.

Thanks for reading. Hope you all are doing well.

Homestay in Desarmes

Hey friends,
Sorry it's been a while since I've been able to update my blog, send emails, or skype with you all. I've been with very poor internet access, unreliable power, and no computer. Now, I am back in Port-Au-Prince for a few days, and so I am catching up with the world outside of Haiti.

I was able to finally see the site of the retreat center in Mirebalais (or technically in Marogue, a town outside of Mirebalais). It is a humble concrete block building, nestled in a beautiful valley surrounded by rolling green hills and mountains. The building is in decent shape structurally, but it needs a lot of TLC. It has a large common space room, a kitchen, 4 bedrooms, a bathroom and a utility room. There is plenty of land attached, so I plan on doing plenty of gardening. It is a beautiful location, perfect for retreats :) We will hopefully be moving there this Tuesday to start our work. We will be living in the building as we renovate it, giving us more motivation to make it a comfortable, homey sort of place to be.

My past few weeks have given me a variety of different views and vantage points of this tiny country. I have to say, the pictures we get on the news about the poverty and continual reminders of the earthquake, although true, are not all there is to Haiti. I just passed two weeks visiting Desarmes, a small city in the Artibonite Valley. MCC has a team stationed there, doing the important work of reforestation. I spent a week at the newly renovated office/guest house, and was able to help in the painting of the new second story. I was accompanied by Jides, a hard working 18 year old boy who became a good friend in my time there. He was always around to walk to the market with me and help me make purchases, or to help me put minutes on my cell phone. I'll miss working with him.

The second week in Desarmes, I headed up the hill to a small community called Kristan. I stayed with an older couple and their 20 year old daughter, Lovely. Lovely and I did everything together. She was my guide for the week, and a fun guide to have around. Lots of giggling went on as I attempted to hand wash my clothes in the same style as the women did. We giggled as I tried to balance a "kivet" or basin of newly washed laundry on my head as Lovely and her friends gracefully walked along with 5 gallon buckets full of water balanced with ease. I am amazed at how early children start carrying water on their heads, and in general, how much work young children are able to do for their families.

Life in Kristan was easy going, and relaxed. There was plenty of time for porch sitting, accordion playing, and singing. We ate grapes off the vine, and drank freshly made passion fruit juice. Our nights were spent either walking to church for prayer services, or sitting around the kitchen table by oil lamp, telling stories, learning new songs, or exchanging Creole vocabulary words for English ones.  I will miss it there. As I will not be living with a host family for the rest of the year, I consider that family - Sangardien, Eritan, and Lovely- to be my Haitian family.

And now, for some pictures. I know you've all been waiting for them. :)

The exterior of the retreat center building (that's a mango tree dangling above)

My friends' dog Tebow on the way to hike through a beautiful mountain river. This is before he got carsick and puked all over my leg :( He's no Chessie, but he's fun to have around.

The main room at the retreat center. Fixing the water damaged ceiling will be our biggest task.

Two of my friends from my homestay at the top of a small mountain. My host father wanted me to see this place, because MCC has done a lot of work reforesting this area. From the top, we could see the whole Artibonite Valley. Very beautiful.

My host family Sangardien, Lovely, me, Eritan, and a few neighbor friends. I'll miss them!

Beautiful land, happy girl.

Miss you all back home! Hope you're doing well. Don't forget to write :)

Peace

Annie

The Start of my Story

So here I am, almost a full week in Haiti. I arrived safely, navigated customs just fine, and even managed to get my accordion through the journey without incident. I'm afraid I've been procrastinating on this initial blog post from Haiti, not for the usual reasons (being that I am by nature a procrastinator). But, I've been considering the fact that, for many of you reading this, my account of my experience here is all you've got to go on. You don't know 10 or 20 folks living here, all providing status updates and tweets describing a diversity of places and events. You may be checking in with Haiti news on occasion, but you won't see first hand the stories of each and individual woman selling fruit on the side of the street, or every single tap-tap driver. Now, I'm not saying that I do get to see all of those stories. In fact I'm saying just the opposite. My story is just that- my story. It is not a comprehensive explanation of current events, culture, or history of this country. We talked in orientation about the danger of a single story. We listened to a lecture given by Chimamanda Adichie, a Nigerian woman who speaks very eloquently of how we too often let one single account or story shape our opinion and vision of a broad range of people and places. Click here if you are interested in watching a video of the full lecture. I highly recommend it. It really stuck with me, and as a result, I approach this first blog entry with trepidation. I invite you to read on, if you will promise to take my words for what they are, and not to draw conclusions or judgements based on them.

My very first impressions at the airport were pretty much as to be expected. Hot hot hot. And busy. Sweaty, dusty, noisy. Despite my efforts to learn a bit of the Creole language before my arrival, it all sounded so mumbled together and I could barely make out more than a "wi" "non" or "merci".  The drive from the airport confirmed many pictures which I had seen passing on the news, or in various blogs of development organizations working here in Haiti. Tent camps here and there, many vendors lining the streets with precariously stacked citrus and melons. People carrying random items on their heads, bicycles, or motorcycles. Tap taps crammed full with a few younger men hanging off the back, ushering in more folks to join the sweaty mess. I was fascinated to watch out the windows, but at the same time terrified to venture outside the car doors. Not for safety's sake. No, not at all. I have felt completely safe since my arrival. It was more that I feel so ill-equipped. I don't speak the language, I don't understand bartering, I'm not always so sure if what I'm wearing is culturally appropriate. I know that with time, these fears will fade away, and they already are starting to, but again, this is just my initial instincts.

Now, a few days in, I have figured out a lot about my new situation. The cold showers are not as cold as I was expecting. I know how to pump diesel to figure out the generator if we don't have any power (which we haven't since I arrived). The best way to get a good nights sleep is to take a thin cushion and my mosquito net, and set up camp on the balcony of the MCC guest house to catch the night time breeze. The best way to learn Creole is to try, try, and try again, and probably make a fool of myself in the meantime. People here are often quite receptive and patient to blan (foreigners) making an effort to learn Creole. I should never whistle in the presence of elders, and if such an elder passes gas at an inopportune time, it is perfectly acceptable to pass the blame onto a nearby child. Every culture has its quirks and I'm enjoying learning them one by one.

I have had mostly a smattering of orientation activities here, but outside of that, I have seen a local basketball game (the police vs. a local supermarket), I have had some delicious goat meat. I have done the typical tour since the earthquake, of seeing the crumbled national palace up close and personal. The collapsed roof and pillars are still just as they were almost 3 years ago when the quake struck. I have seen the sharp contrast just a few miles away, of an elite country club, tennis courts and all. The juxtaposition makes me a bit uneasy. But really, I should feel that uneasy no matter where I am, because such contrasts are just as bad when the extremes are further away. The proximity just makes the sensation all the stinging.

As far as logistics are concerned, perhaps you are curious. I (along with my co-SALTer Jon) will be staying at the MCC guest house here in Port Au Prince for the meantime. Our work site is in Mirebalais, about 2 hours away from here. The work site is not quite livable, and it seems we will need to live at the retreat center as we are fixing it up. Our move depends on the progress of the work site. We are learning to only expect to be surprised. And even to enjoy said surprises. :)

Overall, I've seen that Haiti is a beautiful country. One day, we were able to hike up Kenscoff, a mountain on the outskirts of Port Au Prince. The heat and altitude were proving to be quite a challenge for me, and in my head, I was secretly asking myself if the view could possibly be worth it. Once we made it to the top, I took back all of my internal grumbling. The view was breathtaking. We stood in the midst of rolling green meadows dotted with goats and cows overlooking mountains and cities surrounding us on 3 sides. We heard music floating up from hill side villages, and saw the city sprawled out along the ocean coast. It was a view I never expected so close to the city. Although a lot of my first impressions were to be expected, that was one that completely blew me away. So once again, I am resting in the principle that I can't control or plan on too much here, but I will plan to be surprised.

Hope you all are well.
Peace,
Annie

p.s. If you'd like to send me letters by chance... then shoot me an email to ask for the address. I'd prefer not to post it here. Packages are another story, and so if you'd like to send one of those, also let me know and I will figure out the best way to get it here. Do not send it to the same address that letters may come to. Customs charges are ridiculous.

Orientation comes to a close...

I have the unique experience of being a second time SALT program participant. From the get-go, I have intentionally tried to refrain from butting into conversations with "well when I was here last time..." or, "back when I was a SALTer in 2009...", so that I did not become 'that person' you don't want to get stuck at the lunch table with. I also felt as though somehow, I was cheating. Like I have all the answers and I have to keep my mouth shut during sessions and give the other folks a chance to answer. But, eventually, I was outed and the reaction wasn't so bad.. People have been very inquisitive about the little details that they might not ask in a group session. Maybe MCC should always throw in a "second time SALTer" as an undercover question-answerer. :)

I have been so blessed once again by this orientation in Akron. MCC does a wonderful job supporting their workers before, during, and after assignment. And once again, SALT orientation is combined with IVEP (international volunteer exchange program), which brings young people from around the world to live and work in the U.S. and Canada for a year. Last time, I was so intrigued by all the different cultures represented, but being  bit shyer then than I am now, I was too timid to join in the fun. This time around, I am really trying to soak it all in as much as possible. Last night, I stumbled into the IVEP group from Africa practicing for worship this morning. They couldn't find the music for one of their songs, and so they hummed a line for me. Next thing I knew, I was sitting at the piano bench, playing in the midst of beautiful singing, dancing, and beating of drums. The next few hours were filled with a similar scene, and I went to bed with my toes still tapping to the beat in my head.

Once thing I am struggling with here, is thinking that somehow, the SALTers are getting the better deal of the exchange. For the most part, we are all heading out into very warm, inviting cultures. Places where doors are left open, people sit out front of their houses and warmly smile at passer-bys. Where you can hug and give a kiss on the cheek to anyone, and where you don't have such a huge sense of personal belongings and boundaries. Here, by contrast, people can be very protective of their things, locking doors and hiding behind fences. We do not readily share what we are truly feeling, and we may find it strange if someone does. These are not necessarily bad traits,  This orientation is set up in such a way that the IVEPers can ease in to that culture shock by spending time with a bunch of like-minded, patient, and kind individuals, but I'm afraid the change will still be drastic. All I can do is hope that they encounter kind people and have a great year of growth and joy. I have come to love them all so much!

As I head out from this place soon, into the unknown, my prayer is that I will be used by God to do his will. I pray for the patience and strength to get through all of the changes that culture shock brings. Pray also for my co-SALTer Jon. We will be working side by side in this project, and neither of us quite know what to expect. That being said, I am very excited for the unknown, whatever it may be.  It is well with my soul.

Peace,
Annie

Getting Ready

Welcome to my blog!

In just one short month, I will be heading to Akron PA to start a week of orientation with about 50 other like-minded individuals headed out to various parts of the world to serve with MCC. The name of the program is SALT (Serving and Learning Together), and I am actually a second-time "SALTer". (Check out my last blog to learn about my first SALT experience in Brazil ---> http://monteiromonologues.blogspot.com/) This time around, I am headed to Mirebalais, Haiti. The commitment is for one year, but who knows what the future holds and what opportunities may arise while I am there. :)

In Mirebalais, there is a Mennonite church with a retreat center that is only partially constructed. I, along with another SALTer, Jon, will be finishing up construction on the retreat center, and then helping to run the center and host groups of pastors, youth, and perhaps international visitors. The church would also like to see the space used to teach local youth practical job skills that will help them find employment closer to home, instead of traveling to the big city of Port-au-Prince to find work. The specific skills that he requested be taught are cooking, computer skills, and perhaps some gardening. I might also throw in some music, art, and basic woodworking. Whatever I can offer, and whatever they can use, I am willing to share.

I have to say thank you to all of you reading this. I know I am going to need a lot of support while I am in Haiti, as well as throughout the preparation process. I know many of you have supported me financially, and I am very grateful that you have chosen to partner with me in this way. If you haven't yet donated, and are interested in doing so, please click the link below and follow the instructions. Donations must be made before July 20 to contribute to my fundraising goal, but please also consider donating to MCC. They are a wonderful organization that does so much well-respected work around the world. Take a minute to read up on some of the great things they are doing at mcc.org

to donate: https://donate.mcc.org/registry/annie-stegink-haiti

With all that said, please make this a frequent stop on your surfing the web through the next year. Just knowing that there are people who are interested in what I am doing is a huge support to me. If you'd like to drop a line through email or even better... snail mail, I would receive it with a thankful heart. I also covet your thoughts and prayers. I am about to dive into a year long journey of unexpected, sometimes frightening, adventures. I need the support of my community back home to help me get through. Thanks again for reading, and please keep in touch.

Peace,

Annie