My large little brother, Luke, visited me this weekend. He flew to Austin on Friday night to inherit our generous older sister's 1990 Saturn. Without power steering, air conditioning, a radio, or a clock, the car is, well, quite basic. But it also gets up to 45 miles per gallon. Luke left Austin at 3:00 p.m. on Saturday to make the trek to St. Louis. Not having a cell phone or watch, Luke used his spedometer to calculate the time. Here's an example of the method's imperfection: Luke called me at 3:21 a.m. from "the gas station lady's cellphone" and told me he was about 2 or 3 hours away. Then he arrived at a little after 9:00 a.m. Despite the sleep deprivation, he was in good spirits.
These are some of the things we did:
1. Drank coffee
2. Walked until he had blisters
3. Decided not to go to the neighborhood art fair because there was a $5 admission fee (!!!)
4. Crossed the street to the Missouri Botanical Gardens; they were were insanely overcrowded because of some festival unbeknownst to us. We ate loads of samples and then sat with our feet in a fountain.
5. Walked home.
6. Luke napped while I went to the grocery store.
7. We made pesto.
8. We ate pesto.
9. We sat and chatted about all things interesting. Seriously, it was all interesting.
10. We bought strawberries, fresh whipping cream, and bananas.
11. When Cristen came over, we ate the above items in combination (I added honey to my strawberries).
12. Cristen departed, we fell asleep.
13. We woke up to go running. Luke said that I wasn't really running, but was sort of just bouncing up and down. I believe I admitted to this in a previous post. So, we agreed to walk instead.
14. We made coffee and pancakes.... and then consumed it all.
15. We said goodbye. He rolled all the windows down, cranked the steering wheel, strong-armed a u-turn, and headed out of St. Louis
I call it a good visit.
On other fronts, I'm still in a bit of a funk. Unfortunately it's not the kind of funk that makes one want to dance. Quite the opposite, actually.
It's almost 6:00 p.m. and I intend to be at school for several more hours. Then home to eat leftover pesto (the best part of the day) and edit a one-page policy memo. Oh, a one-page policy memo, you say? No big deal. That's what I thought too. I'm 12 hours in. Less is more. Or like one of the best cookbooks of all time, More with Less. Argh.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Monday, October 01, 2007
Monday, October 1st, 10:36pm
I am emerging from some sort of abyss.
Likely this is an entry to be read by only a few.
1. I read the Red Tent. Awesome.
2. Is the proper spelling 'sike' or 'psych' when you 'sike/psych' someone out?
3. I've been trying to run every day. But I finally realized that what I've been doing isn't running; it's walking briskly and with a bounce. Still, I intend keep wearing my running shoes while I do this.
4. Transcribing interviews took me well over 30 hours, and plenty more immeasurable emotional energy. Now I have to keep reading the transcripts over and over until themes and patterns emerge. Just the right themes and patterns.
5. In a monumental effort at procrastination last week, I hung curtains along fishing line strung taut between either side of a wide room in this apartment. The purpose was to provide mental separation between living and sleeping areas. First of all, the line isn't exactly taut anymore. Second of all, when I'm sitting in the 'living area', I still know the bed is right over there. Sometimes the bed calls my name mid-afternoon; I employ all my will-power and rest on the futon instead. Third of all, it didn't take long enough to really count as procrastination.
6. In reference to aforementioned brisk and bouncy walking techniques-- the task is most easily performed when listening to archived stories from This American Life. Sometimes I dream of producing stories for the series....
7. I'll see my brother for the first time since January when I visited him in Peru. He's coming through on Sunday night. It'll be a short visit. Maybe 18 hours.
8. Tom is in Haiti...
9. ...the good part is that I'm keeping things clean-- the sinks are scrubbed, the floors are swept, the dishes are done....
10. ...the bad part is that Tom isn't here.
Likely this is an entry to be read by only a few.
1. I read the Red Tent. Awesome.
2. Is the proper spelling 'sike' or 'psych' when you 'sike/psych' someone out?
3. I've been trying to run every day. But I finally realized that what I've been doing isn't running; it's walking briskly and with a bounce. Still, I intend keep wearing my running shoes while I do this.
4. Transcribing interviews took me well over 30 hours, and plenty more immeasurable emotional energy. Now I have to keep reading the transcripts over and over until themes and patterns emerge. Just the right themes and patterns.
5. In a monumental effort at procrastination last week, I hung curtains along fishing line strung taut between either side of a wide room in this apartment. The purpose was to provide mental separation between living and sleeping areas. First of all, the line isn't exactly taut anymore. Second of all, when I'm sitting in the 'living area', I still know the bed is right over there. Sometimes the bed calls my name mid-afternoon; I employ all my will-power and rest on the futon instead. Third of all, it didn't take long enough to really count as procrastination.
6. In reference to aforementioned brisk and bouncy walking techniques-- the task is most easily performed when listening to archived stories from This American Life. Sometimes I dream of producing stories for the series....
7. I'll see my brother for the first time since January when I visited him in Peru. He's coming through on Sunday night. It'll be a short visit. Maybe 18 hours.
8. Tom is in Haiti...
9. ...the good part is that I'm keeping things clean-- the sinks are scrubbed, the floors are swept, the dishes are done....
10. ...the bad part is that Tom isn't here.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Still adjusting
Snippets before I launch into what’s really on my mind…
Tom and I went to a wedding in Kansas City this past weekend. One thing is for sure—I danced so crazy and with such fervor that I woke up with a sore neck. And the other thing that’s for sure—I sneezed while driving back to St. Louis such that some nerves got pinched in my already-sore neck and I had to pull over for Tom to finish the drive home. When I said it was one of the best vacations I’ve ever had (and only 36 hours long!), he thought I was crazy. I probably am, but those two hours of dancing were a bizarre heaven.
Kerry brought over a couple of CDs yesterday. Awesome. Black Diamond Heavies and Scott H. Biram.
I got a haircut last Friday. Turns out that I’ve referred enough people that this cut was free. These salon experiences constitute an indulgence I rationalize as necessary to my graduate school survival. Right.
This Friday I’m training to start as an interviewer on another research project with older adults in St. Louis. This is what it’s all about. Seriously.
*********
The last week has been a funny one. Not hilarious, but confusing.
Amidst consuming worries about what data set to use for this Advanced Statistics course (trying to maximize my learning while minimizing my undertakings—I do believe it’s referred to as efficiency), I am having mini-revelations each day. These little revelations are of a sneaky variety. They arrest me. It’s true that I am a reflective individual, nearly to a flawed degree (which is why revelations, deliberations, and contemplations arrest and consume me to the same degree as do the dilemmas of a statistics project). It’s both gift and burden and failing. This is all very vague and not quite revealing of recent revelations.
So, yesterday I was off kilter all day, feeling consumed by the reemergence of this emotional part of myself that had been simmering and ignored on a back burner until I was safely back in my comfort zone. Now it’s begun to boil over. What I realize is that this part of me, this part that feels essentially “me”, was unavailable all summer in Haiti. Almost, or maybe completely, this quintessential me disappeared as protection from witnessing the extent of suffering and disorganization. Some thing, or lack thereof, kept me functioning. I developed an impenetrable emotional barrier that I never knew existed… as if I was refusing to accept the reality of it all. And now that I am back here, I’m remembering pieces of it all in a way that I didn’t experience it while I was there.
One day, in mid-August, I was on my way to do a couple interviews. I was riding through town with Pierre Michel at about 7:30 in the morning. The roads were full of typical commotion: mo-peds loaded down with dirty ice-blocks, bionic men pushing wheel-barrows full of charcoal or sugarcane or cement, hundreds of bicycles, dozens of tap-taps, women (with amazing posture) carrying laundry baskets or tables of food on their heads…. We passed the remnants of a fresh and horrible car accident. In the middle of the road was a tap-tap whose side had been ripped off by an SUV. The SUV had spun around and landed about 20 feet away—its windows were smashed in and there was blood all over the driver’s headrest. There was no sign of passengers or victims other than these two bloodied vehicles stranded in the middle of a road—a road that continued to carry the city’s hustle and bustle, seemingly without pause. Pierre Michel and I drove past with hardly a comment or acknowledgment between us. The scene was tucked away in my mind’s deep recesses, because I couldn’t spare the energy (emotional or otherwise) to consider this accident for the time being. Nobody else seemed to consider it either. Is it a luxury to be able to pause to consider such an event? (Perhaps a sick luxury.) I do remember wondering where the survivors could possibly have been treated. And just now, as I write, is the first time it occurs to me that there may have been pedestrians involved. And now, for the first time too, I’m thinking about all the casket makers I saw around the city every day.
It takes some degree of detachment (or faith, I suppose) to get through one day after another there. In this case, I am not referring only to myself. I think at the top of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs is something like ‘self-actualization’. For hungry and thirsty people worried about their shelters collapsing in heavy rains, there is absolutely no clear pathway to climb up there.
Sometimes I wake up at night and I look around the room wondering if I am in Haiti. But I’m in St. Louis, witnessing accidents for a second time, from a completely different lens. Not like some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder (at least I don’t think so), but more like trying to make sense of how all that is happening there and I am waking up here. And realizing, in a disconcerted way, that my struggle yesterday was with entering the proper command structure into a statistical software package. And that when I sit down at the end of the day in St. Louis, I’ve eaten enough that I have reserve energy to ponder horrific events, or to listen to NPR and consider other struggles from a safe distance.
Tom and I went to a wedding in Kansas City this past weekend. One thing is for sure—I danced so crazy and with such fervor that I woke up with a sore neck. And the other thing that’s for sure—I sneezed while driving back to St. Louis such that some nerves got pinched in my already-sore neck and I had to pull over for Tom to finish the drive home. When I said it was one of the best vacations I’ve ever had (and only 36 hours long!), he thought I was crazy. I probably am, but those two hours of dancing were a bizarre heaven.
Kerry brought over a couple of CDs yesterday. Awesome. Black Diamond Heavies and Scott H. Biram.
I got a haircut last Friday. Turns out that I’ve referred enough people that this cut was free. These salon experiences constitute an indulgence I rationalize as necessary to my graduate school survival. Right.
This Friday I’m training to start as an interviewer on another research project with older adults in St. Louis. This is what it’s all about. Seriously.
*********
The last week has been a funny one. Not hilarious, but confusing.
Amidst consuming worries about what data set to use for this Advanced Statistics course (trying to maximize my learning while minimizing my undertakings—I do believe it’s referred to as efficiency), I am having mini-revelations each day. These little revelations are of a sneaky variety. They arrest me. It’s true that I am a reflective individual, nearly to a flawed degree (which is why revelations, deliberations, and contemplations arrest and consume me to the same degree as do the dilemmas of a statistics project). It’s both gift and burden and failing. This is all very vague and not quite revealing of recent revelations.
So, yesterday I was off kilter all day, feeling consumed by the reemergence of this emotional part of myself that had been simmering and ignored on a back burner until I was safely back in my comfort zone. Now it’s begun to boil over. What I realize is that this part of me, this part that feels essentially “me”, was unavailable all summer in Haiti. Almost, or maybe completely, this quintessential me disappeared as protection from witnessing the extent of suffering and disorganization. Some thing, or lack thereof, kept me functioning. I developed an impenetrable emotional barrier that I never knew existed… as if I was refusing to accept the reality of it all. And now that I am back here, I’m remembering pieces of it all in a way that I didn’t experience it while I was there.
One day, in mid-August, I was on my way to do a couple interviews. I was riding through town with Pierre Michel at about 7:30 in the morning. The roads were full of typical commotion: mo-peds loaded down with dirty ice-blocks, bionic men pushing wheel-barrows full of charcoal or sugarcane or cement, hundreds of bicycles, dozens of tap-taps, women (with amazing posture) carrying laundry baskets or tables of food on their heads…. We passed the remnants of a fresh and horrible car accident. In the middle of the road was a tap-tap whose side had been ripped off by an SUV. The SUV had spun around and landed about 20 feet away—its windows were smashed in and there was blood all over the driver’s headrest. There was no sign of passengers or victims other than these two bloodied vehicles stranded in the middle of a road—a road that continued to carry the city’s hustle and bustle, seemingly without pause. Pierre Michel and I drove past with hardly a comment or acknowledgment between us. The scene was tucked away in my mind’s deep recesses, because I couldn’t spare the energy (emotional or otherwise) to consider this accident for the time being. Nobody else seemed to consider it either. Is it a luxury to be able to pause to consider such an event? (Perhaps a sick luxury.) I do remember wondering where the survivors could possibly have been treated. And just now, as I write, is the first time it occurs to me that there may have been pedestrians involved. And now, for the first time too, I’m thinking about all the casket makers I saw around the city every day.
It takes some degree of detachment (or faith, I suppose) to get through one day after another there. In this case, I am not referring only to myself. I think at the top of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs is something like ‘self-actualization’. For hungry and thirsty people worried about their shelters collapsing in heavy rains, there is absolutely no clear pathway to climb up there.
Sometimes I wake up at night and I look around the room wondering if I am in Haiti. But I’m in St. Louis, witnessing accidents for a second time, from a completely different lens. Not like some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder (at least I don’t think so), but more like trying to make sense of how all that is happening there and I am waking up here. And realizing, in a disconcerted way, that my struggle yesterday was with entering the proper command structure into a statistical software package. And that when I sit down at the end of the day in St. Louis, I’ve eaten enough that I have reserve energy to ponder horrific events, or to listen to NPR and consider other struggles from a safe distance.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Not Done With This Here Blog
Nope, not done with this here blog.
Originally, I was going to call this blog something like "Travel with Grace". However, dear Ashley pointed out that I might want to keep up with myself even if I'm not traveling. So, in the hopes that I can muster the creativity and energy to "keep up with grace?", the blog ended up with a more generic name.
I've made it home. Safe and sound (but perhaps a bit unstable?). So many musings in such little time-- here is just a sampling:
1. Is it sad that my first meal was at Chili's Restaurant in the Miami Airport? I don't think so. The service was incredible. I mean, the server was happy to take an order for beef-free nachos. She kept refilling my glass with clean water. Seriously, it's amazing how a market economy drives the quality of goods and services. I'm a believer.
2. I got back to my apartment around 1am after an impressively pleasant and safe taxi ride. I was the only passenger. And there was a meter- no bargaining required.
3. Because I was so happy to back home, I couldn't fall asleep. I found a Newcastle in the refrigerator and, cold beer in hand, proceeded to test out each sitting surface in the apartment. The difference between me and Goldilocks is that every thing I found was just right. Just right. Nothing too big, too small, too hot, too cold, too hard, too soft, too dusty, too clean. I tested the faucets in the kitchen (separate ones for hot and cold). And they were just right. I test the faucets in the bathroom shower and sink. They were just right too! Unbelievable. I opened the windows, and the breeze was just right. The bed? I tested it for 6 hours and it, too, was Just Right. The only problem was that my excitement at all the perfection kept me from sleeping past 8:00am. No problem! I called Ashley and Brian and we went to the Farmer's Market in the park across the street in the morning. I bought a watermelon. And it was JUST RIGHT! I came home and tried on a pair of my earrings and felt like a million bucks.
4. Two years ago, I bought a tiny little thing that couldn't really call itself a plant at the Soulard Farmer's Market during my first week in St. Louis two years ago. It was sort of like a plant fetus rooted in dirt rather than placenta. As some of you know, that was a pretty horrible time in my life. This plant has grown into its own jungle. Like the little engine that could. It has suffered some serious trauma on several occasions, but it keeps on growing and sprouting leaves and making new vines. Last summer (just one example), during some horrible storms in St. Louis it was blown from a windowsill in my old apartment; I didn't find it for several hours (because the storm had caught me by surprise in the great outdoors and I was trying to survive it). I scooped this plant back up, repotted it, and watched it come back to life. I've watered the plant well (some may say 'drowned) in preparation for long trips away. In increasing duration of neglect, it shrivels up, its leaves turning brown and yellow, seeming ready to give up. With just a little encouragement upon my return, it always comes around. This is all written to set a little stage..... I left this plant alone when I went to Haiti. I had figured out how to pay bills during the tenure, I had found a place for my car, I had taken care of everything-- but the plant situation was a mystery. Dear Tim watered it once or twice before he moved to New York. Tom came home for a couple of weeks mid-summer and found the plant listless. He watered it, it perked up, and he put it outside for the neighbor to look after when he left for Haiti again. When he told me this, my heart sank a little, because for all its vigor and resilience, this is not an outdoor plant. Oh well, I was in Haiti and this little plant that had breathed in and out with me for nearly two years was a world away, and I found myself immersed in the business of malnourished children, extreme poverty, utter isolation (amidst hordes of people), and multiple near-death experiences. I put this 'little plant that could' on the far back burner of my mind's oven. Obviously. After that most amazing taxi ride home from the St. Louis airport, I climbed the fire escape entrance to the apartment and found the plant, it's long and listless vines weeping over the edge of the balcony. Once again, it seemed ready to give up. I carried my bags inside. Before testing all the apartment's amenities, but after opening that Newcastle, I scooped the plant into my arms and set it atop its special box above the radiator. Over the past 3 days it has been sucking up water like the split and scorched earth might devour the rain. Here's the thing- it's entire being is green and muscular again, and it's vines are turgid and taught again. It's got turgor (World Book Dictionary: The normal, tense condition of living plant and animal cells, capillaries, and the like, caused by the pressure of water and other fluid within). Here's the real thing, I want to be like this plant.
4. Dr. Pat gave me a beautiful painting for my birthday in Haiti (photo to follow....). I have this old and rather bizarre frame around. When I was living with my dad in middle school, my sister and I had painted the frame with the same sky blue and yellow hues we had used on the walls. Well, the mirror part is long gone, but I've used the strange frame box on several walls in several apartments in many cities to hug different drawings. But, at this new apartment it's only been gathering dust. Well, it turns out that this haphazardly acquired relic of angst-ridden years is a perfect fit for this lovely painting that marks my current life. This morning, I took out my oil paints, mixed together some yellow ochre, crimson red, and alizaron crimson to coax the painting into its new home. Delightful.
5. Several times already I have been driving on the well-marked, well-paved, and well, perfect streets here in St. Louis and have found myself near tears. Some of it, I can't yet articulate. Much of it comes from this obvious conundrum: How can this wonderful place of autonomy, plenty, self-determination, and opportunity exist in the same world where I found Haiti? What separates Miami from Cap Haitien is a 2.5 hour, low-altitude, 16-seater flight across a body of water. I'll admit I'm sensitive and wide-eyed, but I also can't deny that I've done a fair amount of traveling. Nothing could have prepared me for Haiti. No amount of reading, or comparison-making, or poring over Development Indices, or discussions with experts, or viewing of glossy pictures (the ones can't possibly convey heat and smell in addition to imagery, mind you) prepared me for Haiti. And everything here is perfect. Relatively. Have I become openly patriotic? For the first time? I won't ever tell any of you all that I stood by and witnessed on the western one-third of the island of Hispaniola. I suppose I have neither the capacity nor the will.
6. Now, I must hit the ground running. Fortunately, the ground provides appropriate and safe surfaces for moving forward, as there are no cars careening toward me, goats in my path, dust blinding my vision, or metal scraps slicing my feet. Classes start on Thursday. I'm taking a Research Seminar to keep grappling with this project with which I am now so intimately involved. I'm also taking a course in program evaluation (more and different data for this one), and Advanced Statistics. About that last one, I just remind myself that statistics won't kill me. It might make me sad and remind me of 4th grade when I couldn't grasp long-division until a full hour of crying had passed. But, it had better make my mind stronger.
Originally, I was going to call this blog something like "Travel with Grace". However, dear Ashley pointed out that I might want to keep up with myself even if I'm not traveling. So, in the hopes that I can muster the creativity and energy to "keep up with grace?", the blog ended up with a more generic name.
I've made it home. Safe and sound (but perhaps a bit unstable?). So many musings in such little time-- here is just a sampling:
1. Is it sad that my first meal was at Chili's Restaurant in the Miami Airport? I don't think so. The service was incredible. I mean, the server was happy to take an order for beef-free nachos. She kept refilling my glass with clean water. Seriously, it's amazing how a market economy drives the quality of goods and services. I'm a believer.
2. I got back to my apartment around 1am after an impressively pleasant and safe taxi ride. I was the only passenger. And there was a meter- no bargaining required.
3. Because I was so happy to back home, I couldn't fall asleep. I found a Newcastle in the refrigerator and, cold beer in hand, proceeded to test out each sitting surface in the apartment. The difference between me and Goldilocks is that every thing I found was just right. Just right. Nothing too big, too small, too hot, too cold, too hard, too soft, too dusty, too clean. I tested the faucets in the kitchen (separate ones for hot and cold). And they were just right. I test the faucets in the bathroom shower and sink. They were just right too! Unbelievable. I opened the windows, and the breeze was just right. The bed? I tested it for 6 hours and it, too, was Just Right. The only problem was that my excitement at all the perfection kept me from sleeping past 8:00am. No problem! I called Ashley and Brian and we went to the Farmer's Market in the park across the street in the morning. I bought a watermelon. And it was JUST RIGHT! I came home and tried on a pair of my earrings and felt like a million bucks.
4. Two years ago, I bought a tiny little thing that couldn't really call itself a plant at the Soulard Farmer's Market during my first week in St. Louis two years ago. It was sort of like a plant fetus rooted in dirt rather than placenta. As some of you know, that was a pretty horrible time in my life. This plant has grown into its own jungle. Like the little engine that could. It has suffered some serious trauma on several occasions, but it keeps on growing and sprouting leaves and making new vines. Last summer (just one example), during some horrible storms in St. Louis it was blown from a windowsill in my old apartment; I didn't find it for several hours (because the storm had caught me by surprise in the great outdoors and I was trying to survive it). I scooped this plant back up, repotted it, and watched it come back to life. I've watered the plant well (some may say 'drowned) in preparation for long trips away. In increasing duration of neglect, it shrivels up, its leaves turning brown and yellow, seeming ready to give up. With just a little encouragement upon my return, it always comes around. This is all written to set a little stage..... I left this plant alone when I went to Haiti. I had figured out how to pay bills during the tenure, I had found a place for my car, I had taken care of everything-- but the plant situation was a mystery. Dear Tim watered it once or twice before he moved to New York. Tom came home for a couple of weeks mid-summer and found the plant listless. He watered it, it perked up, and he put it outside for the neighbor to look after when he left for Haiti again. When he told me this, my heart sank a little, because for all its vigor and resilience, this is not an outdoor plant. Oh well, I was in Haiti and this little plant that had breathed in and out with me for nearly two years was a world away, and I found myself immersed in the business of malnourished children, extreme poverty, utter isolation (amidst hordes of people), and multiple near-death experiences. I put this 'little plant that could' on the far back burner of my mind's oven. Obviously. After that most amazing taxi ride home from the St. Louis airport, I climbed the fire escape entrance to the apartment and found the plant, it's long and listless vines weeping over the edge of the balcony. Once again, it seemed ready to give up. I carried my bags inside. Before testing all the apartment's amenities, but after opening that Newcastle, I scooped the plant into my arms and set it atop its special box above the radiator. Over the past 3 days it has been sucking up water like the split and scorched earth might devour the rain. Here's the thing- it's entire being is green and muscular again, and it's vines are turgid and taught again. It's got turgor (World Book Dictionary: The normal, tense condition of living plant and animal cells, capillaries, and the like, caused by the pressure of water and other fluid within). Here's the real thing, I want to be like this plant.
4. Dr. Pat gave me a beautiful painting for my birthday in Haiti (photo to follow....). I have this old and rather bizarre frame around. When I was living with my dad in middle school, my sister and I had painted the frame with the same sky blue and yellow hues we had used on the walls. Well, the mirror part is long gone, but I've used the strange frame box on several walls in several apartments in many cities to hug different drawings. But, at this new apartment it's only been gathering dust. Well, it turns out that this haphazardly acquired relic of angst-ridden years is a perfect fit for this lovely painting that marks my current life. This morning, I took out my oil paints, mixed together some yellow ochre, crimson red, and alizaron crimson to coax the painting into its new home. Delightful.
5. Several times already I have been driving on the well-marked, well-paved, and well, perfect streets here in St. Louis and have found myself near tears. Some of it, I can't yet articulate. Much of it comes from this obvious conundrum: How can this wonderful place of autonomy, plenty, self-determination, and opportunity exist in the same world where I found Haiti? What separates Miami from Cap Haitien is a 2.5 hour, low-altitude, 16-seater flight across a body of water. I'll admit I'm sensitive and wide-eyed, but I also can't deny that I've done a fair amount of traveling. Nothing could have prepared me for Haiti. No amount of reading, or comparison-making, or poring over Development Indices, or discussions with experts, or viewing of glossy pictures (the ones can't possibly convey heat and smell in addition to imagery, mind you) prepared me for Haiti. And everything here is perfect. Relatively. Have I become openly patriotic? For the first time? I won't ever tell any of you all that I stood by and witnessed on the western one-third of the island of Hispaniola. I suppose I have neither the capacity nor the will.
6. Now, I must hit the ground running. Fortunately, the ground provides appropriate and safe surfaces for moving forward, as there are no cars careening toward me, goats in my path, dust blinding my vision, or metal scraps slicing my feet. Classes start on Thursday. I'm taking a Research Seminar to keep grappling with this project with which I am now so intimately involved. I'm also taking a course in program evaluation (more and different data for this one), and Advanced Statistics. About that last one, I just remind myself that statistics won't kill me. It might make me sad and remind me of 4th grade when I couldn't grasp long-division until a full hour of crying had passed. But, it had better make my mind stronger.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Dinner with the Production Employees
This was my last afternoon in Haiti.
There was cricket fried in with the rice and beans.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Flying through the mountains
I have far less to pack out of Haiti than I carried in. No more heavy bottles of sunscreen. The pill bottles are all nearly empty. The long-life food is mostly gone- and the left-overs can stay.
Yesterday I said 'farewell' to Juslie. This afternoon I'm going to lunch with all the employees. We still aren't able to communicate too well in Creole, but it's better than before. There are always gestures.
I'll have some good pictures to put up this weekend.
More than I care to admit, I'm looking forward to arriving in Miami tomorrow and eating a Cinnabon. They are disgusting and horrible for the human body, but I'm excited about the warm gooey-ness.
Tonight is my last night with the goats, the soccer games outside the door, and the fan threatening to lose juice. There is plenty to miss, but more than anything, I am glad to be going home.
More upon return.......
Yesterday I said 'farewell' to Juslie. This afternoon I'm going to lunch with all the employees. We still aren't able to communicate too well in Creole, but it's better than before. There are always gestures.
I'll have some good pictures to put up this weekend.
More than I care to admit, I'm looking forward to arriving in Miami tomorrow and eating a Cinnabon. They are disgusting and horrible for the human body, but I'm excited about the warm gooey-ness.
Tonight is my last night with the goats, the soccer games outside the door, and the fan threatening to lose juice. There is plenty to miss, but more than anything, I am glad to be going home.
More upon return.......
Monday, August 20, 2007
Maybe a video
I just tried to figure out how to post videos to YouTube. I think the link below will show you an example of what the roads are like here. It's from the trip to Bois Du Lance today. I'm all finished with interviews, but I do have a strange rash now. Hmmmm.
Anyway, I hope this link works....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lC68vjBttG0
Anyway, I hope this link works....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lC68vjBttG0
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Interviews and more interviews
All this past week, I was in Bois du Lance conducting interviews with mothers whose children are receiving Medika Mamba from Meds & Food for Kids. Some of the children have recovered in the expected amount of time, and others are showing “insufficient weight gain” by programmatic and world standards. Following one such interview, the woman’s husband climbed a coconut tree so that Juslie (translator), Cherfulis (trusty guide), and I could refresh ourselves before walking through the mountain on our way to speak with another mother. It turns out that no amount of water carried in a backpack is enough for three people walking up, around, and down a mountain for 6 ½ hours. (Thursday was a long day—6 am to 5 pm. It included 2 hours of driving to the bottom of the mountain, 2 ½ hours of interviewing, and 6 ½ hours of climbing up and down). Fortunately there were the coconuts and ample guava along the way to keep ourselves hydrated. We also ate peanut-butter and honey sandwiches, but they weren’t nearly as satisfying as the guava.
***
A few more things about Thursday’s adventure in data collection:
-Juslie and I did our best to entertain several children while their mother was focused on speaking to us. I held one while he drew absent-mindedly on my clipboard. Juslie held a baby that kept trying to nurse through her t-shirt (by way of explanation, this baby belonged to a neighbor—we weren’t preventing the baby’s access to its best form of nutrition just so I could do the interview. Eventually, the baby’s mother came to feed it something better than Juslie’s t-shirt.)
-During another interview, one of the children heard me saying the word “Mamba”. This particular child is still in the program, and as such, still has Mamba at home. She started yelling “Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba” until her older brother (about 7 years old) scooped some into a cup for her. The kids love the Mamba.
-I’ve lost my voice. The sore throat began on Monday evening and stayed with me for four days. This definitely was not the week for such maladies. Oh well, right? By Thursday, my voice was nearly gone and I wonder if it sounded more soothing than usual, because the last woman I interviewed appeared exceptionally comfortable (even though she didn’t have a clue what I was saying until Juslie translated).
-When we came down from the mountain, Juslie looked up and said, “I’m looking at that mountain and thinking that I can’t possibly have climbed it. I know I did, though. A spirit must have overtaken me.”
-As is often the case, my presence causes a stir. About halfway up the mountain, one little girl saw me and ran screaming towards familiar looking faces. She had mistaken me for a zombie; this sort of thing happens not infrequently.
-One man, carrying multiple machetes at his side, stopped Cherfulis in an attempt to bargain for me. He wanted Cherfulis and Juslie to “Give me that white person.” In the city, the hopeful bargainers are usually on tap-taps. This was the first such experience I’ve had with a man wielding at least five machetes. I knew enough to shake my head and keep walking. Each time the three of us have traversed the rivers, all the folks washing themselves, their clothes, and their mo-peds have done their best to negotiate with Cherfulis and Juslie so that everyone might make money off me—you know, share the profits. As best I can, I understand and see that the poverty here is so extreme, and that I represent the possibility of some sort of escape, however temporary. But, I must admit, after these events happen over and over again, I being to feel tired and a bit guarded.
***
One more thing. I’ve decided to do my best to separate working and living environments after this experience. If I have any say, I’ll never ‘work’ from ‘home’. It turns out to be rather difficult (as I have stated before) to live (eat, relax, read for pleasure, brush your teeth, take your medicines, bathe, etc) in the same place where one completes professional activities (a.k.a. ‘work’). This is made even more difficult by the fact that the same room where one sleeps also serves as the office where one stores all research data and fiddles with it when one is not out collecting it. While realizing the good fortune (and even convenience) of my situation, I must note that it has proven challenging. For instance, when am I done ‘working’ for the day? And, when I’m not sleeping, am I supposed to be ‘working’? Everything I see is a trigger for me to ‘work’ even at 9 pm. Maybe this is not too distinct from the sage advice to not s*** where one eats. Interestingly enough, we wash (and sometimes store) our dishes in the bathroom sink between the shower and the toilet.
***
As long as Hurricane Dean continues on its current path, I will depart from here next Friday, August 24th. There is so much to finish between now and then, but I am certainly excited to go home.
***
A few more things about Thursday’s adventure in data collection:
-Juslie and I did our best to entertain several children while their mother was focused on speaking to us. I held one while he drew absent-mindedly on my clipboard. Juslie held a baby that kept trying to nurse through her t-shirt (by way of explanation, this baby belonged to a neighbor—we weren’t preventing the baby’s access to its best form of nutrition just so I could do the interview. Eventually, the baby’s mother came to feed it something better than Juslie’s t-shirt.)
-During another interview, one of the children heard me saying the word “Mamba”. This particular child is still in the program, and as such, still has Mamba at home. She started yelling “Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba Mamba” until her older brother (about 7 years old) scooped some into a cup for her. The kids love the Mamba.
-I’ve lost my voice. The sore throat began on Monday evening and stayed with me for four days. This definitely was not the week for such maladies. Oh well, right? By Thursday, my voice was nearly gone and I wonder if it sounded more soothing than usual, because the last woman I interviewed appeared exceptionally comfortable (even though she didn’t have a clue what I was saying until Juslie translated).
-When we came down from the mountain, Juslie looked up and said, “I’m looking at that mountain and thinking that I can’t possibly have climbed it. I know I did, though. A spirit must have overtaken me.”
-As is often the case, my presence causes a stir. About halfway up the mountain, one little girl saw me and ran screaming towards familiar looking faces. She had mistaken me for a zombie; this sort of thing happens not infrequently.
-One man, carrying multiple machetes at his side, stopped Cherfulis in an attempt to bargain for me. He wanted Cherfulis and Juslie to “Give me that white person.” In the city, the hopeful bargainers are usually on tap-taps. This was the first such experience I’ve had with a man wielding at least five machetes. I knew enough to shake my head and keep walking. Each time the three of us have traversed the rivers, all the folks washing themselves, their clothes, and their mo-peds have done their best to negotiate with Cherfulis and Juslie so that everyone might make money off me—you know, share the profits. As best I can, I understand and see that the poverty here is so extreme, and that I represent the possibility of some sort of escape, however temporary. But, I must admit, after these events happen over and over again, I being to feel tired and a bit guarded.
***
One more thing. I’ve decided to do my best to separate working and living environments after this experience. If I have any say, I’ll never ‘work’ from ‘home’. It turns out to be rather difficult (as I have stated before) to live (eat, relax, read for pleasure, brush your teeth, take your medicines, bathe, etc) in the same place where one completes professional activities (a.k.a. ‘work’). This is made even more difficult by the fact that the same room where one sleeps also serves as the office where one stores all research data and fiddles with it when one is not out collecting it. While realizing the good fortune (and even convenience) of my situation, I must note that it has proven challenging. For instance, when am I done ‘working’ for the day? And, when I’m not sleeping, am I supposed to be ‘working’? Everything I see is a trigger for me to ‘work’ even at 9 pm. Maybe this is not too distinct from the sage advice to not s*** where one eats. Interestingly enough, we wash (and sometimes store) our dishes in the bathroom sink between the shower and the toilet.
***
As long as Hurricane Dean continues on its current path, I will depart from here next Friday, August 24th. There is so much to finish between now and then, but I am certainly excited to go home.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Cherfulis and the Coconuts
Cherfulis is a great guide. He also is good at using a machete to hack away at coconuts after a hot day of work.
...I promise there is another post coming tomorrow.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
The Sock-Hop
A rapidly dwindling readership means it's time to get back to writing.
I've been on the data collection trail for the past week or so. And in case anyone is wondering, I did in fact acquire a Polaroid camera. Thus far, the mothers love the pictures. I love them too. The whole 'instant' business really is remarkable. At the last home, a swarm of people came around to see the magic as the image was revealed on that little square. They were also, as I understood it, rather surprised to see me up the mountain.
Arriving at these interview sites requires quite a bit of walking and hiking and wading through rivers, etc. Cherfulis (in the picture) leads me throughout the area. He walks quickly and with purpose, but he slows down to cross the rivers. Typically men crossing on foot remove only one shoe (and one sock if they are wearing socks), then hop across on one foot. (As far as I can tell, women either aren't wearing shoes, or they just slide both shoes off before crossing). I have not seen any of these guys lose their balance. Yet. Maybe if that happens, my presence will (momentarily) not provide the sole form entertainment for everyone washing in the rivers.
Tom brought some new food along with him this time. And there is a lot of it. This has been a pleasant surprise for my palate and my stomach. He got a whole variety of ready-to-heat-and-eat Indian meals (from Trader Joe's I do believe). And then, tons of mashed potatoes in the 'just add water' category. Both items are fabulous on their own, and together they are heavenly. Since we don't have the facilities for preparing rice (or we didn't think of the instant kind), the potatoes act as a bed for the delicious topping. This turns out to cost far less than those freeze-dried meals. It's all just fabulous, I tell you.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Grace and Juslie at Chada
Maggi, one of the volunteers who was here a couple weeks ago, took this picture. Juslie is to the right. Madame Bwa is ahead of us in orange.
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