Brush with Haiti (19 page)

The other guests that day were two women about my age, one a doctor and one a nun. They lived in two separate southern states - Louisiana and Florida, I believe - and made frequent trips to Haiti to provide medical care. It was apparent to me that they were soul mates of some kind, joined in spirit. They admitted before I said a word that people generally believed they must have known each other forever, but that they had met only a few years before. They were committed, however, to meeting regularly to continue their work in Haiti together.

Their eyes lit up as they shared stories of serving children. It was evident they were destined to meet. In looking at them I wondered if this was one of the ways in which God worked on earth - through putting people together to accomplish what needed to be done. Their relationship was clearly greater than the sum of its parts and they would be the first to admit it.

They laughed so much in unison that it was infectious and told a story of how they almost did not make it to Port-au-Prince. Their plane was paralyzed by ice, much in the way mine had been, but Baton Rouge airport personnel were inexperienced in matters of wintry weather and ill-equipped to respond.

"Even the de-icing truck was frozen," said the doctor.

"Can you imagine?" said the nun, chiming in. The country had been experiencing frightening changes in the weather.

Compounding their delay was the discovery that their airline had revised its baggage limits since their last trip.

"We brought suitcases of medicine, but had to empty everything in the airport and repack the best we could."

"We're praying that what we left behind will make it here on its own." I nodded, hesitant to tell them I had had baggage troubles of my own.

The doctor believed the hair of the metal-worked woman was not intended to represent anything wild about this female figure - simply that it was being carried by the wind. We looked more carefully. There was no mistaking she had something coming from her shoulders - something suggesting wings. Perhaps she was an angel. But they were not so massive as to make her clearly one; not wings that one might see on a Western European or American Christmas card. No. These were small and leaf-like. They might have been leaves. In a way they intertwined with the nature scene of which she was part. If angels and all beings are part of one world, the world of nature, the world of spirit, the world of Haiti, the world of us all, then why couldn't they be both leaves and wings - wings of leaves - on a woman whose hair was one with the wind?

It was among the most extraordinary of breakfast conversations I ever had. The others excused themselves to begin their day in the community. I looked at her again and then turned around. A beautiful and delicate figure crafted of the earth's elements she granted me permission to be of the natural world and the spiritual world, of country, of humanity, of femininity, of earth, sky, water and air. I felt comforted sensing her on the wall behind me. She had my back.

Renate took me
to an artisans' cooperative on our last day in Port-au-Prince. She was familiar with the work for sale there and had promised to bring some painted crosses to a friend for a Catholic social organization fundraiser back home. The building sat back from the sidewalk in a nice area, surrounded by well-maintained landscaping. I took a mental picture knowing I would be returning to a Chicago winter blast the following afternoon.

We parked close to the curb and a man approached us, his arms overflowing with colorful doll-like figures he was selling. Renate smiled at him and suggested I buy one. He returned her smile, as if they had known each other for some time.

"He makes these to support his family," she whispered to me.

I looked at the figures more closely, and they did not resemble any type of dolls I had seen before. They were made of wrapped, thin straw dyed vivid shades of orange, pink and red. The wide brims of their hats were made of twisted braids, their faces of black cloth each with two simple stitches for eyes and one for a mouth. A bundle of bright straw of about six or seven inches in length fanned into full length skirts resembling small hand brooms. From the torso and waist down, they vaguely reminded me of the yarn dolls my sisters and I made at day camp.

Renate spoke to the man briefly in Creole and then turned to me.

"They're two for a dollar," she said.

I bought two, not only because they were such a bargain but because they captivated me. I chose a pair in contrasting colors, one with an orange bodice and red skirt, the other with a red bodice and orange skirt. Both wore pink hats. I cradled them gently as we stepped up the walk.

"Do you know what they are?" Renate asked. I wasn't sure. The brush my Aunt Jeannette used to clean the table after cookies and milk came to mind. I told her so.

"That is exactly what they are."

Aunt Jeannette subtly tried to educate us about the finer things - soft-boiled egg cups, sweater clips, the importance of wearing a slip - I suppose to prepare us for marriage to sophisticated husbands one day. When she died, somewhere in the process of dividing up her things I was given her crumb brush. These were quite different, but I liked how Haitians maintained that sense of propriety, using tablecloths and taking the time to brush the crumbs away after each meal.

In the shop, I looked at shelves and shelves ofhandmade items. It was difficult to limit my purchase to just a few things. Each held a certain degree of energy, and I wanted to spend some time in their midst. Whether completely unique or in stacks of dozens, each came into existence through human imagination, circumstance, and touch. Standing near a piece, it might exude warmth, the creative energy of human mind and body lingering. Stepping back to take in a work in its entirety can remind a person that there is a creator attached.

There were earrings, wall hangings, textiles, and painted greeting cards. I settled on a pair of trivets. Well, trivets more or less, as they were legless and made of woven rattan. Perhaps hot pads would better describe them. They seemed charming yet useful for the kitchen and served to sustain my cross-cultural bond with women everywhere who prepare food for their families. In bringing food from the oven to the table I would be reminded of the challenge of doing so elsewhere in the world. I also bought a cross of metalwork paint with faces of every color, and planned to hang it next to one of wood I had earlier brought home from El Salvador. And finally, I chose a bracelet, as I had in other countries in the past.

Wearing a bracelet brought from Latin America serves as the best reminder of what I have experienced as I go on with my day-to-day life back home. It is so easy to lose touch with our experiences once we return to our work and families. Photographs are stored, with perhaps a few displayed in dens or offices. Art is framed for walls and sculptures placed on tables, but after walking past them repeatedly as weeks and months go by they can become invisible and forgotten.

A bracelet, however, is more present. The work that we do in the world - which in my case might include typing at the computer, writing on a chalkboard, or handing back exams - can bring a bracelet into plain sight many times a day. My wrists are small, so whether of beads, wood, or knotted string, the bracelet often dangles, forcing me to adjust it with the fingers of my other hand. What might seem a nuisance to some is a nudge for me to be continually grateful. It brings less developed Latin America into focus and to my touch. What I share with students through books, films, and my own interpretations becomes more tangible. It is a reminder of why I do what I do. If I should ever complain while I am wearing one - that I am not paid enough, that I have not yet had time for lunch, that I am underappreciated - I take a moment to hold my wrist and remember how fortunate I am.

This time I chose one of marbled plastic. I am sorry to say that it broke in half within a couple weeks. The stress of returning to daily activities post-earthquake manifested itself in strange ways. As I took it from my nightstand one morning and began to put it on, it snapped in my hand.

I admit to having spent
much time attempting to recreate my last experiences in Haiti before the earthquake in order to make better sense of things. Looking back on leaving a city that was comparatively intact and then in ruins, it would have felt good to say, "Well, at least I did this" or "At least I did that" as if some type of meaningful action, no matter how large or small, might have done some lasting good. If I had put the finishing touches on a significant project, or even held the hand of a Haitian child one last time, my being there might somehow have been more worthwhile. Deep down I knew the destruction might have made any additional acts of kindness irrelevant. The country would be forever changed due to the disaster. So I suppose it was ok that I spent my last evening in Port-au-Prince watching a movie. Not just any movie, mind you. I watched
The Hangover.

I don't usually spend time watching television or films while abroad. I find it best to stay in the moment, to experience every possible real life experience - tasting the tastes, smelling the smells, and interacting with human beings in all likelihood I will never see again. To be immersed in a different culture for even a brief time, gives one more time to acknowledge what about it is so "foreign." It also helps us to acknowledge the strangeness of lifestyles and values from one's own culture from the outside. Watching
The Hangover
in Port-au-Prince was surreal and might have served as a serious reminder of the decadent excess that is America, if I had not been laughing so hard.

"My mother would never watch this," said one of the graduate students staying at Hospice St. Joseph. "It's cool that you find it funny." I wanted so much not to find it funny. I had heard about it and seeing it with my own eyes made it a bit worse, and would have even more so, if the film had not been so good. I stopped cringing early on as I doubled over in laughter.

Perhaps it was the beer. The television and DVD player were situated in an open-aired common area with a view of the city. The space was furnished with comfortable chairs and a refrigerator stocked with Coca Cola and Prestige, the local brew. Nearby were a bottle opener and a box for payment -one dollar each. I had not had a beer in some time and it took only a couple to help me enjoy
The Hangover
even more. The professor accompanying the class exhibited more restraint, but these were not my students. They were enrolled in a health care administration program at a university in Colorado and had been touring the country to get a closer look at the state of medicine in Haiti. They were an eclectic group and I tried to imagine them working as administrators down the road.

Their professor was an expert in global health care delivery and he was taking them to clinics and hospitals, meeting with them at the end of each day for class discussion and deliberation of case studies. At that point, they were the only other guests at Hospice and I felt a guest among them as we shared breakfast and dinner my last few days in Port-au-Prince. Internet service was available there, so I could busy myself with my laptop in my room, or sit on the balcony with the warm breeze helping me to forget it was winter. My Facebook friends reported details of a snowstorm pelting Chicago. I wondered whether there was any sort of shovel in the trunk of my car I imagined it being slowly buried in the parking lot of the airport shuttle.

No matter, I thought. There was nothing I could do about it. I might as well enjoy the early evening sunset and the downtime. I thought it great that the students invited me to watch a film on my last night there. They had more work to do in the morning, but I was packed and looking forward to getting home and preparing for the new semester. I could not wait to share my wonderful experiences with a new group of students, letting them know that Haiti was making forward strides, however small, and a positive feeling seemed to permeate the population. Things were not all bad, and taking time to laugh seemed an appropriate close to a rewarding visit.

The rooster crows
of that night were like none I had ever heard. They were constant and unceasing.

In visiting the Caribbean I had become accustomed to the sounds of roosters. In the Grand'Anse they woke me like clockwork. It was a good thing, too, as the losing ofluggage left me without any way of telling time. My limited understanding of cellular technology allowed me to figure out only that the alarm function on my phone did not work because I did not have service in Haiti. I set the alarm anyway, with the hope that some satellite would magically target my location and provide whatever was necessary to wake me on time. I was grateful for the roosters.

The wonders of technology never cease to amaze me and I am content with the fact that they remain wonders for me. I try not to take them for granted for then they might transform from enhancing my life to making me dependent. I like that they can help me and am forever appreciative. But I am comforted in knowing that I can get through life on pre-technology basics. And that goes over well in Haiti.

I suppose that is the former Girl Scout in me. I can start a fire if I have to, sail against the wind, find the North Star, apply a tourniquet, and even suck the venom from a snake bite. I am definitely somebody I can depend on. But non-technology life also includes paying closer attention to the natural world and what it can offer us. In the case of the Grand'Anse roosters, they were able to wake me on time, even early. Having no alarm or cell service did not matter.

Roosters are commonplace in Caribbean cities as well as in the countryside. They play significant cultural roles in cockfighting and syncretic religion, as well as egg fertilization. The same may be true in urban neighborhoods of the United States where island immigrants have settled. Local ordinances are difficult to enforce and newcomers may be resistant to letting go of familiar rituals. In the States, most of us no longer are so close to our food that we raise chickens. But that was not always the case. My mother used to tell stories of her childhood in the 1940s when my grandfather raised chickens - along with his victory garden - in their yard, with a coop he fashioned in the garage. Fresh eggs were a staple, and he occasionally butchered a chicken for dinner.