Miracle on Voodoo Mountain

by Megan Boudreaux

  I understood that these good people who wanted to serve Haitian children might not want to believe a young girl they had never met, or perhaps had met only once. Especially if she was telling them that the resources they were allocating for the children at Son of God Orphanage were being funneled elsewhere. So I prayed right before the call that God would reveal to each person on the phone the truth of what was happening, and how each of them was a part of this, for better or for worse.

  I began the call by introducing everyone who was on the line, then opened with a few examples of what I had observed at the orphanage. For instance, two of the organizations had given food to the orphanage nearly the same week, yet none of the children had been fed. There was silence on the line. I could almost hear alarm bells going off in people’s heads.

  My heart cringed as I heard that some of the groups had been working with this orphanage for more than two years, long before I had arrived. My heart broke even more as I learned that one particular organization had been regularly encouraging other churches to work with Son of God Orphanage. Their inexperienced leadership was constantly changing, and they seemed to be led more by their selfish desires than by any sense of accountability in following up on their charitable work. The more I saw this, the more I realized that some of the corruption in Haitian orphanages is a direct result of American churches and organizations who are well-meaning but who perpetuate the cycle of corruption and exploitation by donating without accountability. Sometimes these organizations tour orphanages, which unfortunately exist to show Americans how “poor and needy” their children are. Some orphanages, like Son of God, even purposely keep their children hungry and dressed in rags to attract more aid.

  As the conversation ended, I could feel the tension and anxiety stirring up. Some of the leaders seemed a little more on fire, disturbed by what they had just heard but not sure what to do yet. And I did not have any clear answers or suggestions. All I knew was that I was there to observe and to call attention to what was going on. The information about contributions to the orphanage, along with medical records showing the poor health of the children, continued to pile up in my files.

  As the Americans on the phone talked about some of the children they had seen or sponsored, their faces ran through my mind. When they spoke about a few children that I had never heard of, I realized that there had been many children at Son of God who were no longer there.

  After the phone conversation, I compared the current lists of the children at the orphanage to older lists and discovered that children from Son of God Orphanage were going missing, and pretty consistently. Where are they going? What has happened to these kids? I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I found the answers to those questions and uncovered more about what was going on behind the scenes at the orphanage, and with Pastor Joe.

  NINE

  A Dream Born Under the Tree

  Although its main product may seem like a rather minor food, tamarind has been called a tree of life.

  —From Lost Crops of Africa1

  How is this real life? I found myself asking this question as I was standing on the balcony of a multimillion-dollar mansion belonging to one of my sister’s friends. It had only been a few days since the conference call with the churches who sponsor Son of God Orphanage, and even though I was in West Hollywood to visit my sister, I couldn’t stop thinking of all the poverty in Haiti.

  A young man’s voice snapped me out of my daydream. A fresh, nicely dressed guy named Kyle was talking to my sister, Lindsey. I edged forward to hear what they were saying, but they were talking about music and people I had never heard of.

  Then Lindsey asked Kyle, “So what do you do now?”

  “I build,” he said. “I helped my dad build this house.”

  I looked around the room, feeling as though a lightning bolt had just zapped me. It was absolutely beautiful. I thought about the growing amount of kids in the dilapidated church and the need for a bigger school back in Gressier. Then I blurted out, before I even knew what I was saying, a strange invitation: “You should come and build my school in Haiti.”

  Kyle chuckled and asked me a few questions about Gressier and Respire Haiti. He gave me his information, and he didn’t seem too alarmed when I said I’d e-mail him soon with more information about our organization and vision.

  Before I knew it, I was flying back to Haiti. Lindsey had come along, and we faced a harsh transition from ritzy Hollywood mansions to no running water or electricity and the darned Haitian roosters who never really know the proper time to let loose their out-of-tune crows.

  I had been living by myself for four months, and the Haitians probably thought I had no friends because there was a lot of curiosity when they saw Lindsey. The kids treated her like a celebrity, poking and prodding at her and calling her name relentlessly. She took it all in good humor. Monday morning, I took her to see the school. The new two-room school building behind the church was barely finished as we stood outside and peered in at the now one hundred or so children stuffed into the two classrooms. It was a wake-up call. Respire Haiti was already at full capacity with no room to expand, and there were hundreds of other children around the area who desperately needed to be in school. The Holy Spirit nudged me again, and I realized we were going to need a bigger school, and soon.

  Lindsey stayed for two weeks, encouraging me and bringing laughter to the thickness of Haiti. She also helped me teach the English classes I had started in the afternoons a few days a week at the church. The classes had now grown to hundreds of children and adults.

  At night we sweated our faces off under our mosquito nets, and the voodoo drums continued almost every night. Many nights I would look over, and my sister would be sound asleep, not even hearing the thump of the drums. It was so wonderful to have her with me and so hard to let her go.

  I had heard plenty of horror stories about purchasing land in Haiti. And even though I had some funds now and could look into a land purchase, I had no idea if those funds would stretch to cover construction of a new, larger school. I also didn’t know who would have the skills and experience needed to oversee such a project. Nonetheless, the tug in my spirit was too strong to ignore, so I began searching for land in Gressier.

  I envisioned a new school built on flat land since I hailed from Louisiana, where everything is flat. But when Pastor Charles heard my idea for Respire Haiti’s new school, he brought me to Bellevue Mountain. We stood together under the only tree on Bellevue Mountain, the one so many of our activities had been held under, and he said, “This land is for sale if you want it.”

  “Thank you,” I said quickly, believing it would never work. “I know we hold our feeding program up here, but we need flat land. We can never build on this hill. The slope is too great.”

  Pastor accepted my answer and left it at that. I started searching again for just the right piece of land. For weeks I looked, finding a few flat pieces of property at ridiculously inflated prices.

  Then, after not finding a flat piece of land I could afford, I caved in and agreed to purchase more than an acre on the top of Bellevue Mountain. It didn’t cross my mind that the tree from my dream was right in the middle of the plot of land—my mind was already preoccupied with the problems of building on the steep slope.

  A few weeks later Bret Pinson, from the church I had spoken at a few months earlier, came from Louisiana to Haiti and joined Bernard, Pastor and Madame Charles, and myself on the roof of my house as we reviewed the purchase contract written up by the local judge. Pastor Charles explained the terms to us, with Bernard there to translate for Bret. Everything was in order, so I took up my pen to sign the contract. When I finished, I looked up and was surprised to see that Pastor and Madame had choked up, with tears welling up in Madame’s eyes.

  Confused, I looked over at Bernard with a big question mark in my eyes, but he looked just as confused as me. Should I be crying? I wondered. I know this is a big deal. Maybe I should be crying too.

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sp; Then, as I watched and wondered, tears began to flow down both Pastor’s and Madame’s cheeks. Why? I had to know why they were so overwhelmed with emotion.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Madame.

  “These are tears of joy.” She smiled.

  I smiled back, nodding. I thought that was it. But she continued.

  “We have been praying under that tamarind tree every Sunday at 4:00 a.m. for twelve years.”

  I could feel every bit of breath leave my body.

  “We’ve prayed for God to send someone to come and transform this area,” Pastor added. “We prayed for someone to build a school.”

  My eyes fell to the ground as I took in a breath, trying to gain the courage to look up at them without bursting into sobs myself. Finally I looked up, and my eyes met Madame’s.

  “We’ve been praying for you since you were twelve years old, Megan,” she said.

  Immediately I flashed back to my twelve-year-old self—bratty, smart-mouthed, and stubborn. “Wow,” I gasped, as it began to sink in, and I caught a glimpse of how God was at work and why I had dreamed about the tree over and over. We all cried then and prayed, knowing God was doing something incredible.

  The next night I woke up startled, feeling as though I’d forgotten something. I racked my brain, and all I could come up with was an urgent feeling that it was time to start building the new school up on the mountain. I tried to put the thought aside, but I couldn’t seem to get back to sleep. Then Kyle, whom I had met in West Hollywood, came to mind. Oh, yeah. I promised to send him an e-mail.

  I got up and sent a quick e-mail, asking if he remembered our brief meeting in Los Angeles. I timidly reintroduced myself and asked him if he might possibly be available to help begin building our school in the summer. Then I went back to sleep.

  To my surprise, I received a response the very next morning. He seemed interested, and I gave him three pieces of information: I didn’t have anything to offer except meals and a place to stay. I wanted to give him freedom to use his creativity, but he needed to use Haitian labor and materials. And I wanted to start as soon as possible. When I hit the Send button the second time, I didn’t know what to expect. Kyle responded the next day. He was willing to come and check it out for himself.

  I found out later Kyle canceled a trip to Europe to come to Haiti and research building a beautiful, brand-new school for Respire Haiti up on Bellevue Mountain.

  During the week of the land purchase, we decided to put up a fence, using the typical Haitian enclosure made of sturdy wooden sticks and barbed wire. A few neighbors had showed up to help dig holes when I heard a ruckus involving a man who had popped up out of nowhere. Everyone stopped working and stared as the man, who said he was a neighbor, complained about the fence. He started yelling about the wooden sticks blocking the road so he couldn’t drive to the other side of the mountaintop.

  “Do you have a car?” I kept my voice calm.

  He shook his head no. I laughed inside, wondering why he was making a big deal about not getting a car up here when he didn’t even own one.

  A few minutes later Pastor arrived and began a conversation with the man. I went to the tamarind tree to rest in the shade. I watched the two men talking in loud voices and using lots of animated hand motions. Things are always so complicated here, I thought. Just as I let out a big sigh, Pastor came toward me. Behind him, I saw the angry man pick up a shovel and start digging a hole for the fence.

  “What happened?” I asked Pastor.

  “This man is a voodoo priest, and he wants to be able to get to the other side of the land because he uses it every Thursday night.”

  “How did you get him to pick up a shovel?” I was really confused now.

  “I just told him that we would pay him to put up the fence if he wanted.”

  Pastor always seemed to know what to do in these situations, and I trusted his wisdom. As I watched the man, busy digging and carefully placing wooden sticks in the holes, I thought how ironic it was for a voodoo priest to be helping with site work for our Christian school.

  My curiosity was sparked. I asked Pastor why the priest needed to get to the other side of the land on Thursday nights.

  “Because that’s where he does his voodoo ceremonies,” Pastor said without hesitation.

  “Seriously?” I retorted with a curious bewilderment.

  Voodoo (also sometimes spelled vodou) is the main religion of Haiti, brought over by slaves from Western Africa and mixed with elements of the Taino Indians’ religion and Catholicism. People who practice voodoo believe in the same God as Christianity, but they also believe in communicating with other spirits, who serve various roles in healing, casting spells, and more. Animal sacrifices and alcohol are both believed to give the lwa (Haitian spirits) rejuvenating power and the individuals involved in the ceremony favor. That’s why bottles and blood are strewn across the ground after their ceremonies. Voodoo priests and priestesses always begin ceremonies by praying to God as the drums start up in the background, first slow and faint, then gradually louder and faster as the spirits come down to participate in the ceremony.

  Without missing a beat, Pastor looked directly at me. “Yes, people come from all over the world to do voodoo, animal sacrifices, healing ceremonies, and more on this mountain. The past presidents of Haiti and many of the people in the government have come here.”

  I was puzzled, to say the least. Then what are we doing on this land? I wanted to say out loud. But all I could get out was, “Oh, okay,” in a quiet murmur.

  The fence was almost finished, and I was silent, completely stunned by the news I’d just received. I decided to head back down the mountain. As I walked alone and silent, Pastor’s words kept spinning in my mind. Why are people coming to do voodoo on this mountain? What is so special about it? What does this mean for us and for the school?

  Before I had any more time to really scare myself with my own thoughts, my sweet little neighbor Darlene ran up and grabbed my hand. As I looked down and smiled at her, my fear seemed to drain out a bit as I walked back home.

  My short lease on my house was coming close to expiring, and I was becoming gradually more anxious about what to do next. One of my best friends from the States, Kathryn Davis had come to Haiti to spend the summer with me. I was so excited that we would be able to live together and love on the children of Haiti. Kat seemed to be less anxious than I was about the fact that we might be homeless in a few weeks.

  As we discussed the complexities of finding housing in Haiti, especially in Gressier, where 75 percent of all the buildings were flattened by the earthquake a year earlier, my anxiety level grew. We decided to go for a run to relieve some of the stress. As we ran near Bellevue Mountain, we passed a man dressed in jeans and a polo. Kat nearly screeched to a halt and looked at me.

  “You have to go ask him if he knows of any place for rent.”

  I laughed at her and kept running.

  A few seconds later she laughed back and insisted, “I’m serious. Go ask him!”

  I laughed a second time and replied emphatically, “No! I don’t even know him. I’m not asking a stranger if he has a house to rent, especially here.”

  She shrugged and took a few more steps before grabbing my shoulders and loudly insisting, “Megan, the Holy Spirit is telling me that you need to talk to that man.”

  Feeling strange but somewhat backed into a hole, we made a U-turn with our running and ran up to the unsuspecting man. I approached him slowly, explained the situation of my contract being up for the current house I was in, and asked him if he knew of anything else available in Gressier. He chuckled and introduced himself as Marc, then motioned for us to follow him.

  Looking at Kat, I had not yet decided if I wanted to punch her for making me talk to this man or hug her because she was right. Getting caught up in wondering where we were walking and if this was a waste of time, I nearly tripped over my feet as Marc came to a halt and pointed across the way.

  I looked u
p to see the most beautiful, out-of-place house in Gressier, standing two stories tall, white, with two balconies, and an electrical pole in its front yard.

  I looked over at Kat grinning from ear to ear.

  “Electricity and water!” I excitedly told her. Even though I knew that both of these amenities would be extremely sporadic because of Haiti’s poor utility infrastructure, I was still grateful for the possibility.

  As Marc began explaining the situation of the house, the timing could not have been more perfect. Divinely, an organization was leaving in a few days, and the house could be ready for us when we needed it the next week.

  My heart fluttered as once again God reminded me that He is the One organizing and planning every detail ahead of me, even when I might feel as though I’m walking on an unknown path.

  TEN

  Two Thousand Dollars

  Apathy and evil. The two work hand in hand. . . . Evil wills it. Apathy allows it. Evil hates the innocent and the defenseless most of all. Apathy doesn’t care as long as it’s not personally inconvenienced.

  —Jake Thoene

  Gabriel’s medicine worked, and over the next seven days at my house in Gressier, the sick little two-year-old began to feel better and get some energy. But he couldn’t seem to sleep. He spent every night screaming, fear and anxiety emanating from his sweet body. It was clear something heavy was going on although I wasn’t sure what darkness he saw. A typical evening for him meant screaming and wailing until all hours of the night when, eventually, he would exhaust himself and lie down. Every night I prayed over him, but sometimes that only made his crying worse.