by S. M. Smith
***
I love to fly, like would fly everyday if I could. But after boarding our third plane, I’m ready to be on solid ground for a while. I napped while we were waiting for our plane in Miami, but by the time we actually make it to Port-Au-Prince I’m drained.
All eight of us climb off the plane and are met by a beautiful local woman with long cornrows pulled into a bun on top of her head. Her red dress accents her bright smile and the excitement she has to see us.
“Hello, and welcome to Haiti,” she says with a thick accent. “My name is Marci and I’ll be your coordinator while you’re here.”
We each take a moment to introduce ourselves to her. She smiles at each of us as if we’re all old friends she’s so happy to see again. I instantly like her, but it doesn’t take me long to figure out that she can be authoritative when she needs to be.
She leads us over to an old, small school bus painted white and firmly snaps orders to a young man, maybe in his late teens. He climbs down the steps and helps us load our luggage onto the top of the bus. We learn his name is Serge and he doesn’t speak English very well, but his smile is kind and he seems genuinely excited to see us.
Once we’re all loaded up, Marci encourages us to make sure we’ve used the restroom since we have a long trip ahead of us. After we’ve all climbed into the bus, we take off through the city. I take out my camera, captivated by the sight before my eyes.
“This is where we’re supposed to be,” Stephen says quietly beside me. He, too, is surprised and saddened by what we’re seeing.
Houses upon houses are stacked on top of each other as if they are trying to be first to the top of the mountain they’re built against. I wonder how people even get to them as we make our way through the city. I turn my lens toward the people walking along the street. I know it was naïve of me to think I’d see people walking around the city in designer clothes and billboards for some iconic products like I would back home, but I’m even more shocked when I see families walking hand in hand down the road wearing worn sandals that barely cover the tops of their feet and clothes, dirty and dusty and at least three sizes too big.
There is rubble and debris everywhere, as if the city has been suffering from destruction for a while. Children play over piles of concrete with rebar sticking out and I search the area around them, wondering who is watching them. I’m appalled as I realize these children are unsupervised, and that one of the children doesn’t even have shoes on.
As we get closer to the outskirts of the city, we pass people walking down the road, many young girls carrying baskets on top of their heads, some baskets still partially filled with items, but others empty. Some girls are holding hands of little ones who wear weary, tired looks. All the people on the road look hungry and thirsty and I know it seems selfish, but I cannot feel more blessed about my health right now.
When I finally sit down beside Stephen, I’m in complete awe and shock of the things I’ve already seen. Stephen grabs my hand and holds it tightly, letting unspoken appreciation hover around us.
As we continue deeper into the country, the land becomes less populated and the hills become greener. There are few trees, mostly young palms along the dirt road, but what color there is is rich and vibrant. We finally pass the last of the natives traveling along the road and my heart breaks as I realize that those who are traveling behind us are going to be traveling for quite some time since there are no homes within sight.
I feel Stephen’s lips on my hair as I settle back into our seat and into his arms. The gentle rocking of the bus as it travels over the rugged land lulls me and after a while, I feel the tug on my eyes, feeling myself drift off. I lay my head on Stephen’s shoulder and rest my eyes. I can’t really tell if I’ve actually slept since I feel tossed around when we finally slow down. I look up at Stephen, who smirks at me.
“What?” I say, checking my lips to make sure I haven’t drooled all over myself or anything.
“Nothing. You just looked so peaceful.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. I roll my eyes at him before checking why we’ve slowed.
We’ve met the land of the living again, although by the looks of the cleanliness and nourishment of these people, living isn’t really the right word. The people walking along the road again look thinner than those we saw in the city, if that even seems possible. The whites of the eyes shine brightly against their shadowy skin. Their arms and legs look barely thicker than a bone should appear. These people too wear clothes that look about two to three times bigger than they should be. As they look up at the bus though, the looks on their faces change and I see a physical hope blossom.
“They are very happy to see you all,” Marci calls from the front seat. “They know what this bus represents.”
“When was the last time they ate?” I hear Rowan blurt out followed shortly by Aubrey hissing her name. “What? They just look so hungry.”
Everyone nods their silent agreement. It makes me extremely thankful for the outpouring of goods that we have been able to send down there. I make a note to keep track of the needs I see while we’re here. I haven’t met anyone here yet, but I already feel the need to make sure that we continue to support them long after we’re gone.
“The shipment of supplies that you all put together hasn’t arrived yet. But the appearance of the bus and the people who they can thank for it when it does come, that’s why they are so excited to see you,” Marci explains.
The village has many cloth tents set up around the outskirts, but the further we go I see sturdier buildings, although sturdy is still a bit of an exaggeration. The homes are constructed of combinations of wood branches almost woven together and coated with a thick mud like mixture and sheets of metal. Most roofs are made of the same metal or a thatch, and most homes have no windows, just a single door covered with thick, tattered and filthy curtains.
Clothes and sheets hang like curtains across lines strung in between homes. Children play in the muddy roads, barefoot, but more carefree than the children we observed in the city. Women still carry baskets around with goods and foods, but the looks on their faces is more joyful and relaxed than the women outside of the city and I wonder what the difference is. Before long, it’s not hard to understand.
We travel past what would be considered a park back home, but instead of a playground for children, it looks kind of like a community vegetable garden. Several people are on their hands and knees, some pulling weeds and vegetables out of the ground, while another group looks like they are planting seeds. Most of the people have the native dark skin, but a very much Caucasian woman looks like she’s explaining something to the group planting the seeds. As the bus slowly travels by, she and the rest of the group look up and wave at us. Before I realize it, I’m waving back.
A little further down the road we see an area that looks like a public laundry washing area. Many woman, both young and old, stand around the edge of what looks like a large, round feeding tough, scrubbing clothes and laying them in baskets. A small group throw their heads back in laughter and I feel some of the pity I had develop for the people of Haiti fade away.
“About five years ago, these people barely talked to one another because they feared for their safety. Now, they are a community that works together. They support each other, we laugh together. All because someone dared to tell them about a man named Jesus, they learned how to live together, trust each other. Love each other.” Marci watches the people lovingly as we travel through the village.
Just when I think we’re about to drive on through the village, we slow to a stop. We all climb out the bus, stretching as our feet meet solid ground. Across from where we park I see a large building that looks relatively new. The building is more modern, with stucco like walls, glass windows and a shingled roof. Toward the far end of the building, there is an open patio with cafeteria style tables. Several children are kicking a ball around a little courtyard beside the patio area, squealing and thoroughly enjoying themselves.
> “That is the school. They are finished for the day, so we will start there tomorrow,” Marci explains as she points toward the newer building. “Today, we’ll tour the clinic and show you where you will be bunking. We’ll meet some of the team at dinner time, but let’s get your belongings to camp.”
We all gather our luggage that is carefully unloaded from the top of the bus by Serge and a couple of young men from the village.
“Marci, I forgot how to say thank you.” I blush as the boys hand me my suitcase. She smiles kindly.
“Mési.”
“Thank you.” I say to her before turning to the boys. “Mési.”
The boys just smile and nod at me, probably thoroughly amused by my horrible accent, but their smiles just make me want to smile too. Stephen eyes the boys, and they both wipe the smug looks off their face.
“Hey, don’t be like that,” I scold Stephen.
“I know that look they had. That’s the universal look for ‘she’s hot’.” He narrows his eyes at me, making me laugh at him.
“There’s a universal look, huh?”
“Yeah, you should have noticed it by now. Do I look as goofy as they do when I look at you like that?”
“Smooth, Mr. Cahill. Very smooth.”
He winks at me, making me laugh again.
We follow the rest of the group to a large tent that looks like it could host a command center for frontline troops. When Marci said we were going to camp, I didn’t realize she meant it literally.
Just inside the opening sits several large, black cases with locks on them. Two stacks of three cases high, each case about five feet or so long. I’m curious as to what is in them, but I don’t ask. There are a couple of eight foot tables set up with several three ring binders, a printer and a tin can with highlighters and a couple of pens sticking out the top. A quick peek under the table shows an industrial extension cord plugged into a surge protector. On the opposite side of the tent is another table set up similarly with some more textbook looking books stacked on top but with no surge protector under it.
A thick canvas curtain separates this office like area from our living quarters. Its set up is very much like what I’d imagine a medical military tent to look like. Groups of two cots sit together on the ground, lined against the sides of the tent with an aisle down the middle separating the tent into two areas. About eight cots have been separated, and luggage lay on plastic underneath them. Some of these cots have been made up while others have their blankets and pillow laying haphazardly, like someone woke up late and didn’t have time to make their cot.
Marci leads us down to the end of the tent and starts assigning cots. She assigns Stephen and me in a corner with Adam and Amelia beside us, and Eric and Monica in the corner across from us, and Rowan and Aubrey beside them.
“There is limited electricity, so please don’t leave anything plugged in if you’re not using it. Showers are available at the clinic which I’ll show you to in a bit, but please remember that it’s a shared water reserve. I’ll give you all about ten minutes to get settled. Meet me out in front of the tent then we’ll go tour the clinic.”
It takes me five minutes to figure out where in our luggage Stephen put the sheets for our cots and then another five to figure out how to get them on so they won’t come undone in the night. I wasn’t really expecting hotel type accommodations in the least, but military style cots wasn’t what I expected either. I shrug it off though because I know deep down, short term sacrifices will be extraordinarily rewarding later.
***
The clinic building looks similar to, but older than the school. It was once white, but now it sports a faded dirty look, like someone sprayed muddy water at it and the mud collected and dried as it slid down the walls.
Five plastic lawn chairs sit on either side of the door, one of which is taken up by an older man who looks like he is trying to hold onto his patience. A male nurse smiles and nods at us as he steps out the front door of the clinic. He spies the older man and makes his way over him. The nurse squats down and takes the man’s hands as our group makes its way into the building. I watch as the older man listens the nurse, who must tell him bad news because the poor man silently crumbles in his seat. My heart breaks a little for this tender old man as I step into the clinic, resolving myself to find some way to give someone from this village good news.
The building itself is quite large, but the rooms are much smaller than one would think. Each room is packed full of twin size beds covered in thin faded blue blankets and almost every bed has someone in it. Marci explains each room as she guides us through them; one for critical issues like major infections and severe internal issues. One for minor issues, colds and flu like issues. Two for pediatric issues; one for older children and the other a small, completely enclosed nursery with little natural light.
Marci explains that this room is for infants that have no families to help take long term care of them. Most of the babies have some serious medical issue and depend on the clinic and its doctors and nurses to survive. I see Stephen drift off from the group, looking into each of the simple plastic looking cradles lined around the room. He stops at one and reaches down into it.
A small smile grows across his face before he looks up. Feeling drawn to like a moth to a flame, I walk over to stand beside him and look down. The sweetest little baby lay sleeping swaddled up in a light pink blanket. A single tiny hand has wiggled out from her bundle and has wrapped its tiny little fingers around Stephen’s much larger finger.
“She smiled at me,” he barely whispers. I look up at him, and find him staring at her with a look I’ve never seen in him before. “It was brief, but I swear she smiled when she grasped my finger.”
“That’s Baby Dauphine.” A pretty red-headed woman in dark purple scrubs stands on the opposite side of the cradle and peers down at her with admiration. “She’s a fighter. She’s only four months old; was four weeks pre-mature and her mother didn’t make it through delivery. Dad was never in the picture and there is no family left to take her. Just diagnosed with sickle cell anemia. You can’t really tell most days, but the jaundice in her eyes gives it away.”
“Wow.” It’s the only thing I know to say after an introduction like that.
Chapter Thirteen
~Jessie~
Marci didn’t give us our orders last night, or tell us what time we needed to be up for that matter. So when I’m woken up by a frantic doctor who overslept himself, I’m concerned we might be late. When I reach over to wake up Stephen though, I find his cot is empty.
Sitting up I realize its much later than I thought it would be. My watch says it’s almost ten in the morning and I’m immediately embarrassed that I’ve slept in on the first day on the job. I hurriedly throw on a long peasant skirt, a clean t-shirt, pull my crazy hair into a messy ponytail and pull on a pair of tennis shoes. I’m trying so hard not to waste any time that I don’t see Stephen watching me by the curtains until I almost run into him.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty. You look well rested.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Because you didn’t look like you were resting very peacefully last night. You finally calmed down after about one this morning, but I wanted to make sure you got plenty of sleep. Don’t worry though, Rowan and Aubrey got up about fifteen minutes ago. Besides, Marci says it typical for people to oversleep on the first day. Combination of jet lag and culture and time changes tend to wear people out. That’s why she didn’t give us a time to be up.” He shrugs.
I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but he really isn’t succeeding. I rush past him and out of the tent to have the sun glare in my eyes. I stop, irritated, and take a couple of deep breaths. Stephen follows me and places his hand on the small of my back. His touch makes me aware of the fact that I’m already clammy from the humidity, and that doesn’t help my mood. I look around the village in front of me, taking all of it in in the morning sunlight. A chanting sound is coming from
the school so I look that way and see Marci carrying a large pot towards the patio.
Heading her way, I look over my shoulder at Stephen who is just watching me, a hint of concern in his squint. Deciding to not let his not waking me sooner get to me, I take off in a jog and catch up with Marci.
“Good Morning.” Her smile reaches her eyes as I grab the other side of the pot and help her carry it. “Thank you. Did you sleep well?” she asks kindly.
“I did, thank you.” Either she doesn’t see it or she graciously ignores the flush on my cheeks, making me feel just a little less embarrassed.
“Great. Would you be up for helping us here in the kitchen today?” As we approach the patio, I see an open kitchen where three native women are talking enthusiastically in their native tongue and busying around preparing what I assume to be lunch for the children.
“Sure.”
Marci and I carry the pot into a fairly large kitchen and place it on a stove I wasn’t expecting to see in a missionary school. Marci must have read my mind as she explains.
“God has been so good when it comes to this school. Almost one hundred percent of the material to build it was donated from churches all over the States, and we received donations from several well-known chefs to equip this kitchen. We even had a couple of the chefs come down and cook for the children and show us how to prepare simple meals that will serve so many in a filling and nutritious way. And we continue to receive food donations from organizations all over the world. We are very blessed.”
I am still floored that they had electricity so far from the city. This kitchen, with its stainless steel industrial sized sinks and electric range, its large prep table and stocked pantry is a true testament of how great God is, I realize. I turn back toward the women who are chopping vegetables and preparing meats. One of the women moves a basket of what looks like yams in front of me and hands me a knife. Her kind eyes and face consuming smile thaws what’s left of my bad mood. I settle in next to her and listen as the four women start to sing a song I’m not familiar with but find oddly comforting.