Last Days in Haitiland

It all started with the sad farewell to Deb, my intelligent, fun-loving sister who graced us with her presence for two weeks. To
our chagrin, she had to fly back to West Virginia to get back to work and prepare for some upcoming decisions about school. Though Deb had to go, our good friend, Jesse, came in as a first-timer to the land of Ayiti, and his company proved refreshing.

Seeing Haiti through his eyes gave me a new appreciation for my homeland. Things I took for granted and saw as the "norm", Jesse found fascinating. And he came with a love for the people, engaging the culture at ever opportunity. I don't know if I've seen a visitor care so deeply about the church, the people, the language and the customs. The excitement of visiting a new place often blurs reality at first, but I believe he was sincere.

The first couple of days were spent playing soccer with the Haitian kids in the neighborhood - one, at a hotel down the road from our house. Their kindness was inviting, and we played our hearts out. (Jesse skinned his toe and John scratched his knees in the process.)

After the game, a bystander (he played a hot-tempered goal keeper until the kids replaced him), called me over. "Americans make friends easy, don't they?" he said. "Haitians can't be real fiends; we don't trust each other. You see, you and I, even though we just met, can share our hearts. But me and my Haitian brother, (pointing to his friend next to him), we'll never do that. Now, Haitians have a way of taking something serious and telling it in a casual, humorous tone, but I could tell he was serious.

The unrelenting rain hindered our activities for a couple days, but by Tuesday, we (John, Jesse, Dad, two Haitian guys and myself) piled into the jeep and drove south to the dusty, desert town of Gonaives, where we had arranged to meet Jesse's sponsor child, Edno, whom he's supported for five years. After years of writing letters and sending photos, Jesse had the opportunity to meet Edno face to face. On the drive, our Haitian friends, Ronald and Gary, kept us laughing with Haitian humor, which is weird, but so are we.

Meeting Edno in person, Jesse did as he so often does to all who know him:- he bear-hugged the kid. Edno was a bit overwhelmed with all the attention, but he couldn't keep back the smile when Jesse gave him his first gift - an adidas soccer ball. His thoughts were probably something along the lines of "Friggen sweet! I have a brand new soccer ball." But he played it cool and we all started kicking the ball around in the parking lot of the hotel. It was an unforgettable day for all of us.

Later in the week, we took a hike to the ruins of an old fort on the coast called "Fort Picolet." Upon arriving, we met a group of Haitians who were on their way to catch crabs they called "Solda", (Creole for "Soldiers") to sell. We followed them and they picked mangos called "Ti Bozo", the name given to mangos that are ripe but not fully grown. (About half the size of a regular mango.) We were offered some and happily obliged. The kids were like monkeys in the trees, sliding up and down, walking with such agility from branch to branch, shaking the mangos free.

On our hike, we were accompanied by an intellectual fellow - a French teacher, who was kind, polite and very willing to hike until we were thoroughly satisifed.

Friday, we and our Canadian friend, Jake, spent the day at the pool where Jesse sported short, euro trunks that he wore proudly. (We shielded our eyes.) On Saturday, we took a trip to the beach. Jake and I performed our ritual of jumping from the "black poles" (ship dock) into 15 ft. of ocean. As the whistles were blown, we smiled and made our first and final leap off the poles. The guards always whistle because we're not supposed to jump and because they're too lazy to walk over. Afterward, we played a competitive game of volley ball and burned under the sun. (We were massively burned on our backs and every spot we neglected to apply sunscreen.

On our last night, after a week of services with guest pastors, we ate dinner at the Roi Christophe hotel. There were Mardi Gras festivals downtown, so the place was packed. Mardi Gras in Haiti means a lot of partying and booze, and one man in particular evidently got hold of some. He sat right across from us and spoke in a slurred, hoarse voice, doing his best Pirate impression. Every other word was a profanity, but we couldn't help but laugh. He sat with a few, young Haitian women who loved his comical, drunken behavior and said, "Yeah, he's a bad pirate!" Meisha, the 14 month-old daughter of one of the pastors, found the man very amusing. She grinned, knowing at her young age, he was making a fool out of himself. Meisha and I laughed as we ate vanilla ice cream together; then we were both looked sadly at the glass when it finally ran out.

Always looking for scraps under the table, our old friend, Rat Dog, came hopping along to the table, giving us his best "I'm a cute, cuddly puppy who's hungry" look. But we knew Rat Dog much too well for that devious, over-used trick. After his tactic failed, he tried to intimidate his way to food by barking "ferociously" in our general direction. But he truly remained unaware of his size and lived up to his name. He's barely larger than the rodents that scurry alongside the pool.

The next day we were off. Thank you mom and dad for a great stay.

Fiddle by Fiddle

Fiddle by fiddle, this post came about.

Life moves at a much slower pace in Haiti. No one's in a hurry and everyone's relaxed. What can be accomplished in an hour can also be done in three. Last semester in Portland was hectic with school, work and recording, so it's it's been an enjoyable change of pace.

Arriving in Haiti, John, Deb and I found our yard filled with debris from a crashed tree uprooted the night before by a violent tropical storm. The large tree fell on our roof and, in the process, crushed the wall surrounding the yard. Tree limbs crashed through the windows above my parents bed, but my mom and dad weren't hurt. The roaring storm kept them awake, so they were away from window when the crash occurred. God's protection was so evident.

The next morning, my parents could hear loud chanting outside the gate. A mob of children and adults alike were jeering with excitement, as they do when their soccer team wins a match. Their joy had nothing to do with soccer, however . Instead, they were full of sinister delight, expecting to find my parents dead from the fallen tree. To understand our neighbors, you must know that most are into witchcraft and they're also extremely violent. For instance, just recently, some guys in the neighborhood murdered a man with a machete for alleged thievery. No evidence was found, however. It is believed that the victim was assassinated. With that said, it's nice knowing God's on our side.

After the surprise welcome of the fallen tree, the week moved at its usual pace - Haiti pace - and we relaxed. Well, as much as we could with the the sound of axes chopping up wood and hammers banging on the roof.

Our first trip to the beach was a lot of fun. We played a family game of volley ball and our competitive natures were unleashed. (My dad did his share of trash talking, too.) John and I hurled insults back and forth and used intimidation tactics, while dad threatened to use his secret weapon: the coffin corner. "Let's knock it into the coffin corner, Gabe" he tells me. "What does that mean?" exclaims my sister. (Deb was probably reminded of the time my dad used another ambiguous saying while playing putt-putt golf: "Shag it in, Deb. Just shag it in.") My dad decided to demonstrate the coffin corner in action instead of unveiling its full meaning in mere words. It proved effective, though our team work diminished. (Not that we had any to begin with. My dad and I like being the star players.)

In between games, John and I jumped in the ocean to cool off. We were soon pestered by a couple of naked Haitian kids who called kept calling, "Friends, friends!" They weren't sure what language we spoke, so they first tried Spanish and then French, hoping to communicate. When John finally revealed that he spoke Creole, he told them firmly, "You guys are enjoying. And you're not my friend." (Playfully, of course. You can only get so mad at naked kids, who seem totally comfortable and at peace with the world.) Surprised and startled, the kids began to quote from the Bible verses like "Love your enemies" to prove why John and I should be friends with them. "You're not my enemy either" John replied. We had an exchange of laughs. John then chased them around the beach.

The naked kids emerged once again during our second or third volley ball match. My dad, seeing them naked, told them sternly to "put some pants on!" I could see the kids didn't understand why they should, but out of respect and perhaps a bit of fear, fully clothed themselves. John's team won the last game, but dad and I had enough excuses to retain our egos.

By the next week, I had been to the pool a couple of times, hiked and spent time reading and such. Then came Christmas eve. We always open gifts on the night before Christmas because we have no patience and we're overly anxious to open our presents. My parents gave each of us a photo album with our name engraved on it, containing pictures of our early childhood. We had a lot of laughs, and John, Deb and I took turns making fun of one another.

Blessing. The word kept coming to me. Blessing. I am so blessed, I thought. My parents are alive, without a scratch, I received cool gifts, and I have God to thank. Thank you. Sincerely, thank you.

(This is the first post of my Christmas break in Haiti. More to come.)