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