Blog Post Two

Sometime after 3am I slip out of bed and quietly make my way through the dark…past the kitchen…under the trees casting leafy shadows. My destination: the one flushing toilet on the premises. Navigating this path was not difficult as I made mental note of the turns the first time I was brought here (one tends to remember and prioritize such things). The alternative is an outhouse with posted instructions ending with “nobody likes typhoid”.

The air is so mild I almost can’t feel it. It’s strange to realize that I so rarely experience such a neutral temperature; I almost feel suspended in it.

Getting back to my bunk, I can’t sleep. I think about the differences between this place and the one I call home. I listen to the chirp of geckos and the quiet murmur of night creatures. At 4:20 a rooster crows. 6:09 I begin hearing car horns and the bustle of traffic. Finally I doze off for a bit and miss breakfast.

I pull a few things out of my bag that can be left behind. We are trying to keep under the 15kg per bag weight limit for our flight this morning. We are each allowed one free bag and we are determined to not have any more expenses. The flights already had to be added for safety reasons and we are very conscious of not having much money to work with.

One of our team shows up with the bags of medications we purchased over the phone yesterday and we scramble to add them to one of my suitcases and shuffle lighter things into another bag.

The ticket agent asks each of us to stand on the scale with our hand luggage to get a total weight for the plane. I have seen carry on baggage weighed on European flights, but never the passengers!

I am sweating. How is it so hot and sticky this early in the morning? We are leaving from a domestic terminal I have never been to before and I admire the art display on the wall—rows of masks made from recycled propane thanks. When we get to the gate, I see my friend Johnny who works for Water Mission and happens to be on the same flight. What a happy reunion. Leo freaks out when he sees him and the three of us laugh and reminisce. It started with us nearly 12 years ago. So much has changed, yet so much hasn’t. Johnny comments how the country is not the same as it was even a few years ago and shares dreams he has to help his country.

Our flight is quick and we are there in no time at all. Justin picks us up at the airstrip in a truck we’ve rented. The gear and guys pile in the back. There’s a gasoline shortage and what is able to be found is $7.50 per gallon. If you buy it by the gallon from someone on the street it’s likely to be cut with something else. The truck we are driving is diesel which is easier to come by, but still not a guarantee.

We travel from the airstrip in Les Cayes over rough roads, steep slopes, then ford a river or two. We pass a massive dump truck that is struggling to make it up a paved section of road. It is piled high with white bales, yellow jerry cans, and blue 55-gallon drums. Twenty or so passengers, who were perched atop the already overflowing load, have dismounted and are making their way up the steep hill on foot with their personal belongings.

Going through another little town we weave between traffic and it feels like we are narrowly missing pedestrians and motorists alike. A motorbike carrying an entire family comes perilously close to our truck; a little girl wedged between her parents looks up at me unphased. This is Haiti.

We pass rows of temporary shelters along the road. Uniform in shape, just small squares really. Made with tarps and woven palm fronds. Around each turn are more shelters, more tarps, sheets, tablecloths, and anything else people have found to create a private corner for their families. Some communities have significant damage, some seem to not have sustained much impact. We pass a church with large cracks around the steeple and all along the exterior. Everyone seems to be carrying on with life and rebuilding. A testament to the strength and resilience of Haiti’s people in the face of many challenges.

A woman pumping water from a well lights up as we rumble by. She pauses to wave at us—her smile is everything. Small children run alongside the truck, waving and laughing, some turn their heads shyly.

Fresh laundry is draped over the cactus hedge in front of a home, tiny baby clothes hanging delicately from the sturdy spines. Many of the properties have cactus hedges running along their border. Some are painted with light blue markings. Dr. Davilmar (our medical director) explains that this is connected to voodoo. There are different spirits and the families will paint the fences to mark which spirit they are attached to. Blue, black, white, yellow, red.

We pass some raised graves surrounded by makeshift tent shelters. Something arresting about seeing the contrast of the living with the dead. Crushed buildings and piles of rubble are sprinkled along the way. Four white doves fly up from the side of the road and it somehow feels like a bit of hope.

We are almost to Coral-Henri, the town where we met little Islande, our first airlift patient. If you don’t know this story, you need to, but I will save that for another post. Just before we arrive, we cross a river. Women are washing clothes, people are bathing, and naked children wave friendly hellos.

Finally we arrive and the clinic is well underway. I get assigned to taking vitals which is the 2nd stop between registering their chief complaint, and seeing the doctors. It’s been years since I’ve participated in clinics, but it seems to come back readily.

The patients are brought in five at a time to maintain order and are shown to benches in front of our station. I observe their drawn faces and know it must have been a long time since most have sought medical care. One elderly man leans on a cane made from the broken end of a curtain rod. Some have plastic sandals that have cracked and been sewn back together. Many of the patients are dressed in their church-best including a little girl, no more than 2, in a white lace dress and white ruffled socks. How they are so immaculate I have no idea.

After less than 3 hours we run out of medications! We bought $500 worth last night, but seriously underestimated both how many patients there would be and how many medications we had left in inventory. We have to stop accepting patients because we can’t even fill all the prescriptions that have been issued.

At long last I meet our tiny miracle, Islande. I envelop her in a hug and she looks confused by this person who is so delighted to meet her. I give her a little box of raisins and she makes quick work of mining each wrinkled gem from their paper box.

I distribute stickers to many little hands lining the doorway. Sticking one on a toddler with a bare bum and no shoes; seems out of place. I give a couple of the tween girls 3 stickers each and as I’m walking away I realize that a smaller girl is joining them. One of the girls tears off a sticker for her and I smile at the spirit of generosity that prompted this gesture.

A 4-year-old boy walks by carrying a jug of water he just filled. It’s amazing how independent these little ones are, watching their siblings, cooking for the family, navigating to school, and participating in other chores. School
Just started yesterday and likely all the kids we have seen today are not in school because their family can’t afford to send them. That is one of the things we are wanting to look into this week—how we can support this area to get kids back in school.

We have a “yes and” policy and welcome new needs and challenges with open arms. Navigating the unexpected for those who continually fall through the cracks is why we are here. We just serve and move with confidence that the support will come. Is this what it means to live by faith? To move and serve before the resources are in place and to trust that they will be there to meet the need?

We press on.