Happy Birthday, Baby Girl!

The Birthday Girl!

Rose is 2!

Dear Rose,

Happy birthday little one!  It's hard to believe that we celebrate your second year of life today, and to think that only a year ago we did not yet know you'd be ours... what a journey we've been on.  

In a place where babies sometimes die, every life is celebrated with joy, and children's birthdays are not taken for granted.  COTP has a tradition of birthday parties and so yours was no exception!  We gathered together on the gated patio with all of your roommates, siblings, and many staff, too.  You opened a present with Natalie's help, we sang happy birthday and English and Kreyol, and of course, shared cake with everyone!  Not a crumb went to waste!  And when the party was over, and the sticky fingers washed, Noah read you stories and Elijah made faces, Daddy held you close, and we played "Smooth Road" on my lap 'til you giggled!  It was a great party!

It's difficult to imagine what goes on in your little mind.  You are full of jabbering, though few distinguishable words yet.  You love to laugh and play, feel powerful when you shut Roxie out of the gate, you love good things to eat and quiet cuddles, you light up when we come into the gate and cry big tears when we walk away.  Oh the walking away... that part is SO hard, for both of us.  Soon there will be no more good-byes!

I don't yet know how many days we will live in the land of your birth, if it be months or years, or even a lifetime.  I don't know if your days will be filled under tropical skies or the changing seasons of northern climes.  I think about what I will want you to remember from this time of your life, long after your cells have failed to record these days in any kind of active memory. 

You have been in care of strong women, many of whom leave their babies behind to care for you and the others each day.  Women who greet you in song in the morning and sing you to sleep with hymns each night.  Women who know what your life might have been like outside the gate and who pride themselves in how plump and healthy you have become.  Oh the Nannies have been your collective Mama until I could be your only.

Do you know of the beauty of the land to which you were born?  A land where mountains rumble with afternoon thunder and the palms whisper in breeze beneath the bluest skies.  A land where goats and their kids are tethered in lush fields and long-horned cows turn curious heads when we pass, on the dry road.  A land where trees hang heavy with blushing mangoes ready to juice up lips and run off chins, where bananas spring out from the trunk with showy flowering ripeness, and breadfruit hang heavily on branches high above the waving canes.  

You come from a people with strength and grace!  Do you remember the men resting on rustic hoes and then returning with bent back to shape the land for planting, the school boys bringing the cattle home for the night, with tethers draping behind like a long dusty tail?  Can you recall the woman with proud necks carrying the laundry, the goods for sale, the purchases from market, the woven bundles on which to sleep, all atop their heads - what balance and grace as they walk in the hot sun, shaded only by their load!

There is much intensity to the land of your birth!  The sun filters though the moist air with unhindered power and the day is only cooled when it beds behind the mountains at dusk.  The rains do not waste time with drizzle but pour and pound and puddle before they abruptly cease.  Likewise, people do not dispute in polite tones, but raise loud voices to drench the matter, then quickly dry up the concern and go on their way.  The mountains rise abruptly from the plains and return in sharp lines to ground level again.

The quiet places lie in the darkness of the night, when breezes rustle the canopy of leaves around the house, tree frogs croak their love to one another, and the cows bawl in distant fields.  The stars twinkle with billions of bright spots in the infinite sky, and fat toads take their places on the doorstep.

Poverty, too,  is rooted in this Haitian soil.  People you might have known suffer without adequate food, shelter, and clothing.  Though we are safe and well within the walls of the compound, many shiver in small homes when the rains pour through shoddy roofs, some lie side by side without the comfort of beds, and too many go to bed tonight with empty, hungry stomachs.  Often a man must chose between buying the next cement block to continue building a house or choosing supper.  The stomach often wins.  People come to the gate desperate for medical help for conditions that have easy cures, but no money means no cure.  

Some day I will tell you how your mother brought you through the same gate, hoping for a life better than she could give, hoping your small, frail frame could be made full and well.  She knew all too well of others babies who die of simple things and wanted better for you.  She had a love I don't know about, sweet Rose, but I promise to love and care for you in the way she hoped for you and the way God chose for you, too.  I don't know why he puts families like ours together, only that he does.  We, dear child, are the lucky ones!  We get to participate in reflecting the aspect of God's nature that so longs for relationship with us, that He adopts all of us as His sons and daughters.  I covenant to be your Mom, like God covenants to be our God -- you are my child, and we are His.

Today we celebrate that you are alive and well and that your future is bright.  We celebrate that you will soon be a part of our family and part of God's covenant family, too. 

Happy Birthday, Rose.

Rose, Mommy, and Natalie

Natalie helping Rose open her birthday present.

Mmmm... birthday cake!

Five Hours at Milot Hospital

John pulls up in the Toyota and greets us with a big smile and good English.  I climb in front with *Nancy on my lap, while Shiela arranges the diaper bag and  *Martin beside her, before adjusting baby Jane on her lap.  All three of the children are dressed like we might be on our way to a fete (party) or legliz (church),with Nancy in a purple plaid dress, Jane in black on white polka dots, and Martin in a handsome collar shirt with khaki shorts, but we are headed to Milot (MEE-low) Hospital.  I am accompanying Sheila for the children's routine HIV appointments where they receive the medications and care that keep them healthy.  There is no outward sign of the deadly disease within that has already taken the life of their parents and threatens theirs.

Rains have soaked the land every night in recent days, so the difficult dirt road is even more challenging to navigate that usual, with puddles the size of small ponds connected by narrow muddy rivers.  We do not pass many of the moto's that usually populate the roads, and it relives me to know there are some conditions even too tough for them.  John is a cautious driver and moves slowly through the dips and mounds.  It is reassuring,  knowing the children are only restrained by the limited strength of our arms.  After a few miles we reach the tar road.  It is welcome relief to our jostled bones and tense abdominal muscles.  The rest of the drive is fairly comfortable with Nancy nestled cozily under my chin.

As you enter the outskirts of Milot, the Citadel stands on a mountaintop above, square and formidable   The streets are busy with school children in their bright, coordinating uniforms, and food vendors line the street in anticipation of the day's traffic.  We pass the hospital dormitory compound on the right, where visiting medical professionals and other longer term doctors and nurses live.  It is gated and guarded, and the cement block walls of buildings have stained glass in typical Catholic style.  Beautiful fruited and flowering trees dress the grounds.

The hospital is not much further ahead on the left.  Nancy doesn't want to walk, so I carry her as we cross the busy road.  The main entrance is clean and crowded with vendors, security, men and women dressed in scrubs, and nursing students dressed in prim white aprons with white hose and knee socks, reminiscent of U.S. army nurses of WWII.  The sick are interspersed, arriving on foot, carried by concerned loved ones, or occasionally in wheel chairs.

The hospital itself, is a collection of whitewashed buildings connected by narrow sidewalks, corridors, and courtyards.  People sit everywhere on benches or squatting on the side of walkways.  Doors leading into various departments are crowded with those who wait for appointments.  Pediatrics on the left, across from radiology, then little a little room with a placard overhead reading, "department of community nutrition", and so on.

We wind through most of the grounds, climb a flight of stairs, and arrive at the HIV clinic on the second floor.  There is a short hallway with 4 chairs on the right and a wooden bench on the left.  Five doors open into the hallway, but all are closed.  Already 2 women wait.  One has a small baby dressed in a purple sleeper and wrapped in a warm blanket.  The baby sleeps on her lap, with no hint at the ailment that brings them here,  The mother smiles gently as we sit down across from her.  The other women has a small baby wrapped similar to the first.  She tells the first woman her baby is sick and she has a worried expression which fades, but does not disappear, when we greet her.  Her baby lays on the bench beside her, motionless, asleep.

Though we have arrived a 1/2 hour late, it does not appear we have missed out on anything.  Medical staff are in a meeting.  Occasionally someone leaves the room to take a phone call, but otherwise the door remains closed.  After an hour or more, the meeting ends and a nurse, then the doctor, come to begin seeing the patients that now fill the seats and bench.

The children in our care are remarkably patient.  There is no play area.  No office books or magazines.  No brightly colored murals or decal to distract them from boredom.  Madame Ga, the depot supervisor, has packed some snacks, powdered milk and water, a couple of fisher price animals, and two books.  The snacks are the most effective pacifiers.

One hour turns to two, and then three.  During this time Martin announces he has to go to the bathroom and proceeds to start peeing out the door.  Sheila grabs him and brings him to the base of the stairs to at least have him pee on the grass.  This happens one more time.

Nancy also indicates she has to use the bathroom.  Her journey is not quite as simple as Martin's.  Though there is a bathroom near the clinic, no one has the key when we need it, so I leave with Nancy to take her to the public bathrooms across the road.  This is the kind of adventure no one wants or needs.  The public restroom is manned by a janitor with a mop, which somehow does little to reassure me about sanitation.  There are not separate entrances for men or women, rather one large room with separate stalls that lock individually and a roll of toilet paper suspended on a wire by the front door, should you chose to it before going into your stall.  Once inside the stall, the toilet area is a raised, tiled area, with what can best be described as having a sunken urinal in the middle, and a place to  put your feel on either side.  Not knowing the best approach with a young child, I simply took her underwear off, and held her suspended in a swing-like position over the hole.  I was grateful to have stuffed a small role of toilet paper and a bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse before leaving.  I had the pleasure of taking Nancy to this bathroom twice.  I chose to hold it.

  Nearing 4 hours of waiting Martin's name is called.  Sheila takes him into the nurse's office where he is weighed and vitals are recorded.  The same happens with Jane and Nancy, followed by more waiting.  Finally the doctor calls each child's name.  Blood samples had been collected the day before, so Dr. is beautiful, friendly, and smart, and speaks good English, which she uses out of kindness for me.  She reviews the results and blood counts, does a brief physical, and makes recommendations.  Jane and Martin have gained weight and height and their numbers have remained good.  Nancy also gained height and weight and was free from illness, however her number had dropped significantly from her last visit, meaning her anti-retroviral medications are no longer do the job they need to do.  There will be a clinical review of the HIV cases on Thursday, so Nancy's case will be reviewed.  Dr. Michelle will recommend an adjustment in medication to address the change in numbers in order to keep Nancy healthy.  This means we'll be back for more labs and appointment in the next two week which is not so pleasant, but we are grateful to have a good HIV clinic available to serve our precious little ones.

Dr. Michelle has written orders and prescriptions, and though I had hoped we were done, we still have a few more stops to make.  We load up the diaper bag, now filled with empty snack and milk containers, and books a little worse for wear, and haul the kids back down the stairs to a small office.  Here we will pick up the ARV medications and have our order sheet stamped in order to pick up the rest of the prescriptions at the regular pharmacy.  The pharmacist looks over the orders, selects medications, throwing the information pamphlet over his right shoulder in the general direction of the garbage can, sticks a new label on the bottle, and hands them to Sheila.  He says I am learning Creole faster than Sheila, which is strange considering we have never met and he has no idea how long I have been in Haiti, not mention Sheila is fluent enough to translate effectively with almost anyone I meet.

We leave this office and go a few doors down where we need to get another specialized medicine for Martin.  He has to pee.  Again. So Sheila takes him outside while I await the packet of TB meds being prepared.  Sheila and Martin return, we gather up our load once again, and proceed to our final stop for the day -- the main pharmacy.

The pharmacy is basically a walk up counter with doors wide open in order to allow people to spill out onto the sidewalk.  Something about it reminds me of walking up to a carnival booth. The wait is long.  I take Martin and Nancy to "entertain" while Sheila keeps Jane and stands in line.  During her wait, Jane's diaper rumbles loudly to announce a delightful "poop up the back" event while Sheila waits helplessly in line.  She digs in the diaper bag for a blanket to contain the mess and resumes her wait.  After about 45 minutes she finally reaches the front of the line and gets the needed prescriptions.

While waiting for Sheila, John finds me waiting.  I ask him to take some money and buy a few drinks for all of us, and a little lunch for himself, as he has been waiting the entire time of our visit, as well.  We meet up to walk back to the vehicle together, relieved to be on our way home.  After finishing their drinks all three children fall asleep on laps or against shoulders for the bumpy ride home and for the first moment in hours all of us are content and relaxed.

Though this trip for a routine check has been challenging, I know that our children are the lucky ones.  Kids die of HIV or for lack of access to basic medical care in Haiti.  Haitians know there is no use going to the hospital unless you have the money up front to pay.  Those without money or means to buy needed medications suffer with illness or malnutrition, and some are left orphaned from the illness they did nothing to deserve.  Our little ones have known of needle sticks and bitter medicine, lethargy and discomfort in their young lives, but they do not yet worry about mortality.  That worry is for those who love and care for them now and the families that await them through adoption.

*The real names of the children are not used in order to product their identity.

A Day in the Life

Kirk has been challenging me to write something a little more basic to give you a more direct view of what our day to day lives are like here in Haiti, so thought I'd take a whack at that today, since I haven't written in while.  So here is A Day In the Life of the Vander Pol's, just to give you a glimpse of what a "typical" day might look like.  I sort of snicker to myself, even typing the word "typical" because I was going to attempt this once before and,well, it was so far from typical I couldn't know where to begin, but today is a new day, so here we go.

Thursday, October 18, 2012
 7:15 AM Kindle alarm goes off.  Hit snooze.
 7:25 AM Elijah hops in bed with us/me.  I say me, because our twin bunks are beside one another, but mine is 5 inches taller than Kirk's so Elijah does have to chose which one of us to come snuggle with.  I guess I'm the more receptive one this morning.
 7:30 AM Do devotions, get up and get ready for the day.
 8:00 AM Kirk is out the door to walk over to COTP to start his day.  Some days are earlier, but there are no pressing issues today, that he yet knows of. Today is my dear friend, Heather Pluimer's Birthday!  I write a quick birthday greeting to her.  Set our laundry out the front door for the laundry lady to pick up.  Ternicille works M-SA doing our laundry and that of some of the children.  She returns it by early afternoon, smelling fresh, nicely folded, and stain free.
8:30 AM I start school with Noah and Elijah.  We do a literature lesson together (we start the first chapter of The Hobbit), do a Kreyol lesson of reviewing 15 verbs we started yesterday, and do Noah's Alpha Omega Bible lesson together, before breaking off for individual work.  Noah starts his science lesson and begins to write a report on a NASA mission.  Elijah and I practice reading, do spelling words, and practice addition facts on the Kindle.  He likes to write the answers on the drawing app and it is good practice for his letter and number writing as he still has trouble with a few reversals.  Noah is really into his Apollo I project and is really getting into the history so I let him continue researching and learning instead of moving on geography.
10:30 AM Mid-morning meal/ breakfast is served at COTP, but we decide to keep pressing on with school work.  M, W, F are "American" days and TU, TH, SA are "Haitian" days.  The boys and I are still not crazy about breakfast pasta, so we just eat at home and wait for the afternoon meal.  tomorrow AM is french toast and fresh pineapple day, so we won't miss that.  : )
12:00 PM Finish up school work.  Rob calls from COTP to bring one of the older kids to come visit his bio-mom who has arrived for an appointment.  His Nanny washes him and dresses him in clean clothes to look handsome for his mother.  I walk him over to supervise the visit. Following the visit, the child is sad, so Carla, a Nanny, and I spend time talking with him and comforting him.  He also has ear pain, so I take him to visit the nurse for some Tylenol.  This was the time frame I had planned to bake a cake for this evening's good-bye party for one of the kids leaving, but while I am attending to the older kid, Tori agrees to bake the cake.  When it is finished and cooled I frost it and put it in the fridge.
Kirk is working on cleaning up the office, finances, and other paperwork in the office with Rob.  The boys are playing with the VandeLune girls on the playground.
2:00 PM I return to our apartment to tidy up and put away laundry.  Milouse cleans on TU and F so I don't need to do a thorough cleaning today.
2:30 PM I return to the main compound to eat the afternoon meal/lunch.  Today we have cooked beef pieces in a slightly spicy sauce, rice with beans, and a bean sauce, along with breadfruit salad (ends up tasting like potato salad) and fresh sliced tomatoes.  Somehow cold glass bottled Coke always goes good with the afternoon meal!  Otherwise it's filtered water.
Rickerns returns to COTP with Agape mail.  There is a package for us (which I don't find out until the next day).  One of the adoptive families sends a package for their son's birthday and sends a whole separate box of treats for our family - Pringles, chocolate, ground flax (yeah, I requested that), baking supplies.... bliss in a box!  Thank you, Jeff's family!!!
3:00 PM Tori helps me prepare the afternoon snack for the kids in the baby house.  I haven't actually served at snack time before so she is nice enough to help me out today.  Some of the kids will be going to a peer's birthday party in a little bit, so we only prepare snacks for those who won't be going to have cake.
3:30 PM Go into the pharmacy/clinic to use the database to enter notes from interactions with kids earlier today.
4:00 PM Pick up Natalie from the pavilion where she is playing with peers and take her back to our apartment for a visit before her supper time. (I do not spend time with Rose today - complicated, but she is having a hard time with seeing us and letting us go, so we don't want to do more relationship building with her until we are closer to moving her in.)  She is feeling shy today, likely because her special Nanny is working today and it is still quite hard for her to separate from Bouta.  She wants to be carried.  We have a little snack together, Noah and Elijah play blocks with her, and we read a few books.
5:30 PM I tell her she is going to go back to eat with the kids and Bouta and sleep, and that we will play again tomorrow.  She agrees with this plan.
I go from the pavilion to the mango tree in front of the volunteer house where the staff are beginning devotions.  We have prayer, worship, and study time together, while the sky darkens and rumbles threatening rain, as it does most late afternoons this time of year.  During devotions, Noah stayed back at the house to play Poptropica (first time since moving here!) and Elijah goes to play with the VandeLune kids.
6:30 PM Dodging raindrops, I get the cake from the kitchen for the going away party.  Kirk and Elijah and I attend along with a couple other staff.  We give our nightly greeting to the tarantula we see each evening on our way back to the apt.  He seems to come out at dusk.
The little girl is dressed in her most "bel" clothes and enjoys the attention of her farewell gathering, complete with picture taking and a lot of messy cake.  Some of the other kids (and a few of the Nannies) are sad about her leaving.
7:30 PM We head back to our apt. as the thunder booms and rolls above.  Noah and Elijah play a computer game together until it is time to shower and get ready for bed.  They each take their (cold) showers, have bedtime snacks, and brush their teeth.
8:30 PM They hop into their bunks, listen to devotions, and pray before going to sleep.
Kirk and I spend a little time talking and checking fb/email.
9:30 PM Kirk goes to bed.  I read, write, and spend time on-line.
11:00 PM I go to bed.  Good-night.

So there it is -- typical day.  : )

When It's All Been Said and Done

The day was closing when the gatekeeper came to find Shiela. Someone from Lagosette was pleading to come in to see the nurse. A young man and his sister were supporting a frail woman, their mother, as she hobbled through the gate. She wore a blouse and fitted tweed suit coat, and a linen skirt which tried to escape her thin hips bones. She had dressed well for this important visit, despite her obvious pain. She wore a lace handkerchief over her head to protect her sensitive eyes from light. She may have been 50 years or more, though it was difficult to tell from her sun-aged skin and worn expression, as her pain was her most prominent feature.  She moaned quietly under its weight.

Shiela stopped delivering the meds she was ready to dispense in the baby house and gave her full attention as the young man tried to explain their plight. I was not clear on all the details with my preliminary Kreyol, but from what I could understand, the family had scraped together all their money for a surgery the woman had received a week ago, but since that time, she had experienced blinding pain in her head. They had prescriptions written on well creased paper in hand -- they had not had the money to fill them, but at this point no pill or potion was going to be adequate to address what seemed to be going on inside this woman's head.

They begged for an answer. The pleaded to be able to borrow the money to see a doctor at Milot (MEE-low) hospital. There was nothing Sheila could do to help them with what they wanted. She touched the woman with tenderness and addressed the young man with compassion telling him she understood how difficult this situation was, but in the end she sent them away, believing there had been some complication after the surgery causing a clot, an infection, or some other thing that now left this woman in unbearable pain and possibly dying.

Sheila does not have an exhaustive skill set, medications, or resources to address the need of this one person, let alone the many others who would follow if this family were given the money. She does not have the time in addition to the many children who call COTP home. All she could give was her love, which she did. But this story of one person's life is merely one in a long line of individual people who have come to the gates of COTP in desperation.  As in this case there is not always a happy ending. 

While I saw the love of Christ demonstrated through Shiela's hands and heart, I also saw the raw depth of the curse of sin, alive and well, stealing life and joy and hope. Here I am, in a place where a woman will likely die, and if not, will experience excruciating pain, because she does not have the money to go back to the doctor who operated on her. She has no “back-up plan” for such emergencies. Her children, who desperately sought whatever help they could for her, will likely watch her suffer and expire. There is so little justice for the poor in Haiti. There is so little hope for a brighter tomorrow.

I felt despair in that moment and thought, “Oh Lord, where are you in all this mess? Why am I here? What good can I possibly do in the middle of so much suffering? What do I have to offer? Lord, how I need your eyes to see and your ears to hear. How I need your touch! Oh how Haiti needs your healing balm to wipe away its sin and pain and sadness! Show me how to be a healer in this place, for at times I feel helpless to do a thing on my own!  What do you want me to do?”

I have to confess that I have not been following the prompting of the Spirit in my heart. A number of times lately I have noticed a thought to pray for someone and have not, and I cannot tell you why I didn't just pray for this woman right then and there, except that I just let the moment pass. There was so little to do for the suffering woman, at least from my earthly standpoint, but perhaps God was offering me an opportunity to let go of my own “can do”' mentality and take up a bit of His “I AM”.

I wonder if he is challenging me to seek him in prayer when I feel most helpless and allow him to be God? Perhaps when I am most vulnerable is when I am most teachable. I am working at responding to the tug in my heart and pushing away the inner scoffing that says it is silly, untimely, or unnecessary. I want to live Christ's love and I am learning that in my broken state, all God wants is for me to be used.

This song ministered to me today:

When It's All Been Said and Done (Robin Mark)

When it's all been said and done

there is just one thing that matters

did I do my best to live for truth

did I live my life for you?

When it's all been said and done

all my treasures will mean nothing

only what I've done for love's reward

will stand the test of time.

Lord your mercy is so great

that you look beyond our weakness

and find purest gold in miry clay

making sinners into saints

I will always sing your praise

here on earth and ever after

for you've shown me heaven's my true home

when it's all been said and done

you're my life when life is done.

Stormy Night

Thunderstorms are not the same in Haiti as in MN. In MN, I could watch the clouds gather and grow and growl across the prairie miles before reaching the sky above me, watching from the safety of my sliding glass door. The lightning would first shimmer in the west, gradually growing in intensity and strength.

There seems to be nothing gradual about the development of a thunderstorm where we are living in Haiti. Nearly every afternoon I expect something when the sky takes an overcast light and the mountains rumble with thunder in the distance, but rarely does anything develop. Perhaps that's why this evening's storm was so successful in sneaking up on me. The sky exploded with a gun powder crack and a flash of light, echoing off the distant mountains and reverberating through the valley. Thunder never seemed so near! It was followed by rain with the kind of heaviness that the tree leaves submit to in drooping form, and branches ready to release their hold fall to the ground with loud groans. Two ripe coconuts and a yellow grapefruit fell with a thud, somehow dislodged by the weight of rain against them.

The one-eyed dog came slinking to the porch, whining like a squeaky tricycle, parking beneath the stair to take shelter from heavy drops against his mangy coat. A softball size toad sat in a large puddle enjoying the deluge. The sound of water against the earth was like the constant of car tires on rainy city streets, with louder splashes where the rain pooled and hurled itself from the roof. And oh, the sweep of cool air that rolled in with the rain! A sweet low air, moist with rain, but cool and fresh against the mugginess of the day – completely delicious and calming.

In MN most storms pass, eager to speed across vast spaces, but here the thunder rolls around the hills and valley, bumping against mountains, turning over in the plains. It lingers, using all it's energy before it lays to rest, like a wind-up toy waiting to fully expire before dropping it's chin to it's chest. The storm here feels more raw and present, as many things do.

The only thing that feels the same is the illumination of landscape for a brief flash of light – the kind I remember laying in bed as child, watching the farm flash into view and then disappear back into darkness.

What feels the most different, though, is the knowledge that as I experience this storm within the safe confines of my concrete walls, not far from me people lay side by side on the dirt floors of their homes while the driving rain leaks through their tin-shad roofs. The lightning brightens the one room they all sleep in through the cracks between the bamboo or rice sack walls. This reality existed before I left the safe world I existed in before coming to Haiti and I rarely gave it a though. Now the truth is too close to ignore. God have mercy on me for ignoring the obvious plight of the poor for so long.

A Trip to the DR

Today after our morning staff meeting we decided to take a trip to the DR to buy some groceries. While a number of the same items are available for sale in Cap, the grocery prices are cheaper in the Dominican, and since a visitor needed to return to the DR today, we decided to make it a grocery trip.

Erin, Nikki and I grabbed our shopping bags and squeezed into the cab of the small pick-up with the woman who needed to go the DR. Rikerns drove. Driving in Haiti feels very little like driving in the states. The dirt roads are so filled with potholes and rough rock that “keeping to the right” has no meaning. The bumping and jostling causes your sweaty skin to rub and chafe against whoever you sit next to and those with propensity toward motion sickness are just in trouble. Of course this is the description for riding up front. Riding in back of any vehicle is another story entirely, and I havn't even come close to riding Haitian style in a crowded tap-tap or moto.

There is a good paved road most of the way to the DR, so after riding on rough rural ones, the smooth surface is a treat. Though the speed limit sign indicates 50 kph Rikerns drives at speeds well above and below the limit, using the horn to communicate his presence and intention. The road is shared with numerous vehicles, animals, and people. Motos (motorcycles) bearing anything from a twin size mattress to a family of 5 with bags and packages stuffed between, speed along the outermost part of the lane and we honk to inform them of our advance. There are a few other pick-ups or four wheel drive vehicles, many of them not-for-profit labeled, but some by working Haitians or the wealthy. Interspersed are larger dump truck which rule the road and proclaim their dominance with loud honks. Then there are the tap-taps. These vehicles are usually pick-ups outfitted with a cab and metal railings in which 12-20 people stuff themselves. Sometimes the roofs are also covered with items or additional people. A guy in the back acts as bouncer and fare collector, monitoring who gets on or off.

On the roadsides people ride or drive donkeys and horses with heavy loads. Women sit sideways in woven saddles with woven bags filled with market goods.

We were stopped by Haitian police, twice, doing road-sides checks. They requested our passports, spoke with Rikerns inquiring of our business and allowed us to pass.

Rikerns whizzed in and out of our lane, slowing for speed bumps and children, speeding up in the clearing while acrid smoke burned in my nose from intermittent ditch fires. The land changes from tropical to semi-arid and back again during the drive and the wind in my face and sun on my arm feel comfortable despite the stickiness inside the cab of the pickup.

We arrived at the border around noon. The crossing consisted off a short bridge with a Haitian gate on one end and a Domican Republic gate on the other. No one talked to us or asked for identification. We simply walked across with others. Some guards were busy spraying off tires of vehicles crossing, in an attempt to limit the spread of Cholera, which has not yet reached the DR.

I have just begun to form sentences and thoughts in Creole, but as we crossed the border everything became Spanish. My brain ached as I tried to bring up a simple “hello” in Spanish. As if in gridlock the only foreign words I could form were Creole! I could understand some of the speech but was helpless to respond. By the time we stopped for lunch a short time later, I could remember enough to ask for water, but not much more.

We walked a few blocks further to reach the supermarket. In this town the roads were paved on every street. There were gutters to take waste water and little trash littered the road. Little storefronts lined the streets with quite modern looking items within. The supermarket itself was clean and orderly, like a small version of what you might find in the States. Pricing seemed to vary depending on availability. A small bag of oats was about $6 USD and a box of Cheerios was just over $5. I left the Cheerios in favor of a local box of cornflakes for $2 and splurged on a small tin of olive oil for $7. Local items were better priced such as a local variety of pop for $1 for a 3 litre as was a small bottle of lime juice for the same price. I was also able to buy a large ball of Dutch cheese for $8, which I will split with the Vande Lune's.

We left the store with heavy bags, hailed a modified moto to load up the groceries on. Nikki rode with the moto and our groceries where she'd meet up with Rikerns to load them up, and Erin and I walked back the border crossing to meet her, enduring cat calls and hissing as we walked.

All in all, it took us 5 hours and $300 to drive to the border, have lunch, get groceries, and return home. Things that are easy and inexpensive at home are not so easy or inexpensive here. Of course, adapting to local foods and tastes will be far less expensive, but I guess we take this one step at a time.

Night of Drums

Tonight beyond the song of cicadas and tree frogs there is drumming and chanting loud and long into the night -- clapping, whoops, and frenzied beats. To be honest, I feel unnerved by it and it makes me a little jittery behind my shuttered screens. When a heavy green coconut bounces off the roof and falls to the ground behind me, I jump.

Today there were disgruntled neighbors upset that a goat that had wandered onto the property. It had been cut free from the rope that tangled it in the brush, and sent out the gate. The villagers wanted to know what had happened to the rope and wanted it back, never mind that their goat had been on the property and endangered my laundry.

Personal property is held in a different regard in the sense that if something wanders onto your yard or even out in traffic in front of you, it is your responsibility to keep it from harm. You hit a chicken, you owe some lady for it. A goat comes on your yard and gets hung up from it's long rope catching in the thorny bushes and dies of thirst, well, you just bought yourself a goat for not releasing it sooner. This notion may take some time for me to integrate in any meaningful way! Meanwhile I am watching and trying to learn how to resolve conflicts, Haitian style. Mostly a lot of yelling and gesturing and then negotiating in loud voices.

So even as I type these words, I pray in my heart, for the Lord of Lords and God of all Gods to reign over Haiti tonight. Pray for the peace of Haiti, for true worship to live in her heart, and for the people to be blessed in the worship of Jehovah! I pray for protection of not simply gates and a thorny fence, but the hedge of protection brought by the angels of the Most High! Come, Prince of Peace and claim the heart of Haiti as yours! May your blood make foolish the blood of foul and the waters of your baptism wash cleaner than the waters of the rivers and oceans!

After the pace built and built, the drums stopped and voices rose in ritual chorus until the drums and percussion joined again. Noah and Elijah have slept through it all which is best given my own feelings of uncertainty. Eventually the ceremony concludes and the music ends, and I allow myself light sleep.

Please remember to pray for peace for Haiti, and safety for us when the darkness feels near.