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.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
General Musings of a Banal Variety
I've gotten into a routine here. That means things are not so fresh anymore, and the only ‘stories’ I have are about...
...Walking 45 minutes on dusty roads in 95 degree heat to get home from the bank.
...Or walking along wide rivulets of green liquids throughout downtown.
...Or talking with Juslie about the experience of 'gender inequality' in Haiti- those discussions taking the form of Juslie telling me how uncomfortable she is routinely fending off older men (Juslie is a very mature 16, but even by her own account, still a child).
...Or trying to locate a Polaroid camera in St. Louis so that Tom can bring it down for me. Rather than giving sandals or washrags or some such necessity, I want to give photos as a gift to some of the women I've met. Photos of them, or their children, or them with their children.
...Or how long it takes me to scrub my laundry and hang it out to dry in the sun.
...Or how I sit by the river near the house every now and then, getting through strange waves of sadness.
...Or how I ate the best mango I’ve ever tasted while I was staying at a hotel on Wednesday.
...Or how I get yelled at all the time, how people make kissing noises at me all the time, how men tell me they love me all the time—and I don’t even hardly notice anymore.
...Or how I am often asked if I am a Christian and whether or not I’ve yet been saved by Jesus. This happens in broken Creole (on my part) and I usually admit to having grown up Catholic and hoping that shall suffice and satiate curiosity enough to change the subject.
...Or how taxi drivers always give me their telephone numbers and shrug their shoulders when I refrain from sharing my own. They want to be my friend, and maybe more, and I never know who to trust. So I say thank you, I’ll call you if I need a ride, and they really want me to call them when I need more than a ride. And their cars are falling apart, and all the lights on the dash are lit up most of the time, and the windshields are caving in because the glass is ubiquitously cracked, and the door handles only work from the inside, and the heat seems to always be on, and everyone whether drive or bystander is a mechanic by necessity.
...Or how I should probably start wearing a wedding ring of sorts in order to thwart unwanted advances.
These are the things I’m thinking about these days.
Sometimes I find the humor in it, sometimes I'm just tired, sometimes I can't get my mind to wrap around everything that is so different from my 'other' life, sometimes it all feels familiar, and sometimes I look forward to going home.
It's when I'm not seeing the humor that I'm not writing here on this blog, when I make it more difficult to Keep up With Grace. I guess I haven't been seeing the humor for almost a week.
This upcoming week, I will start doing in-depth interviews with a subset of the caretakers I've already surveyed. I can hardly wait for this phase to begin. In my world here in Haiti, everything, up until this point, has been moving towards this end. When I finish that, I go home and my world will revolve around making sense of what I learn from all this data collection.
I'm alone here at the compound for the next few days. Three weeks ago, I would have been frightened or uncomfortable with this situation. But now, I've got the hang of things. And it feels good.
...Walking 45 minutes on dusty roads in 95 degree heat to get home from the bank.
...Or walking along wide rivulets of green liquids throughout downtown.
...Or talking with Juslie about the experience of 'gender inequality' in Haiti- those discussions taking the form of Juslie telling me how uncomfortable she is routinely fending off older men (Juslie is a very mature 16, but even by her own account, still a child).
...Or trying to locate a Polaroid camera in St. Louis so that Tom can bring it down for me. Rather than giving sandals or washrags or some such necessity, I want to give photos as a gift to some of the women I've met. Photos of them, or their children, or them with their children.
...Or how long it takes me to scrub my laundry and hang it out to dry in the sun.
...Or how I sit by the river near the house every now and then, getting through strange waves of sadness.
...Or how I ate the best mango I’ve ever tasted while I was staying at a hotel on Wednesday.
...Or how I get yelled at all the time, how people make kissing noises at me all the time, how men tell me they love me all the time—and I don’t even hardly notice anymore.
...Or how I am often asked if I am a Christian and whether or not I’ve yet been saved by Jesus. This happens in broken Creole (on my part) and I usually admit to having grown up Catholic and hoping that shall suffice and satiate curiosity enough to change the subject.
...Or how taxi drivers always give me their telephone numbers and shrug their shoulders when I refrain from sharing my own. They want to be my friend, and maybe more, and I never know who to trust. So I say thank you, I’ll call you if I need a ride, and they really want me to call them when I need more than a ride. And their cars are falling apart, and all the lights on the dash are lit up most of the time, and the windshields are caving in because the glass is ubiquitously cracked, and the door handles only work from the inside, and the heat seems to always be on, and everyone whether drive or bystander is a mechanic by necessity.
...Or how I should probably start wearing a wedding ring of sorts in order to thwart unwanted advances.
These are the things I’m thinking about these days.
Sometimes I find the humor in it, sometimes I'm just tired, sometimes I can't get my mind to wrap around everything that is so different from my 'other' life, sometimes it all feels familiar, and sometimes I look forward to going home.
It's when I'm not seeing the humor that I'm not writing here on this blog, when I make it more difficult to Keep up With Grace. I guess I haven't been seeing the humor for almost a week.
This upcoming week, I will start doing in-depth interviews with a subset of the caretakers I've already surveyed. I can hardly wait for this phase to begin. In my world here in Haiti, everything, up until this point, has been moving towards this end. When I finish that, I go home and my world will revolve around making sense of what I learn from all this data collection.
I'm alone here at the compound for the next few days. Three weeks ago, I would have been frightened or uncomfortable with this situation. But now, I've got the hang of things. And it feels good.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Friends on the road
These two came running towards me when they saw I was taking pictures. Click on any of these for a link to more....
Patience Bank
Not really a bank. It's bingo and lottery mixed together. All over the place. One is always within 15 feet of either a Patience Bank or a Rapid Bank.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Padlocks and Broken Keys
I woke up this morning, not feeling so great. So, I decided to stay home from the group trip to the Citadelle, a "vast mountaintop fortress, constructed to combat another invasion by the French" (Lonely Planet, p. 400). I figured I still have some time, and I didn't want to become weak during the donkey-ride to the top.
The group (Dr. Pat, 3 volunteers, and Bernard driving) was set to leave around 8 am. I decided to get my laundry from the line around 7:30 am. As I was unlocking the inner gate, the key broke off inside the padlock. The beauty of this house is that once you are locked in, you are locked in and no one can come in to get you. On the other hand, you are locked in and cannot escape unless all of your keys are in order.
A couple of expletives after breaking the key off, we called Nixon (Dumel's brother) who has the only other set of keys to the house while Dumel is out of town. While Nixon was on his way over before church, we realized he would not be able to enter the compound because the huge bolt on the inside of the outside gate was in place. Devoted readers may recall my recent commitment to always, always, always bolt the frontgate. So, since he would be unable to reach the inner gate to free us, we had to think creatively before he arrived. Mind you, we also had to plan communication with him in our broken Creole. Consulting our English-Creole one-way dictionary, I had made a list of relevant words prior to his arrival, including, but not limited to: bolt, lock, broken, inside, key, padlock, roof, and throw.
So, by the time Nixon showed up, we had an entire system rigged. We had gone to the roof with the thickest clothesline available inside the house. Then we had filled a Nalgene bottle 1/4 full of water (for weight) and tied it to the clothesline. This would be the capsule into which he could place the keys. But before we could throw anything from the roof over the compound's external wall/gate, we had to decide upon the location with the greates chance of success. If we threw it straight out the front, it was likely to get caught on a random wire traversing the property. If we threw it over the back, Nixon would have to climb his way through random foliage. If we threw it over the side into the neighbor's property (where currently a house is being constructed, and fortunately the lot is open), we merely had to be careful of the razor wire. This was no small feat, as a clothesline, carrying a Nalgene bottle filled with the only set of spare keys, caught midway up on the razor meant some sort of uncertain doom and gloom until someone came by with the jaws of life or some such far-flung instrument. We settled on throwing the rope into the neighbor's property as the chances of success were indeed greatest. Much to our elation and surprise, we were able to communicate the plan to Nixon through gestures from the roof-top. And within moments we were free to the world.
After the others left the compound, I rested, finished a great book, and caught up on some emails. It was lovely. Then I rode a tap-tap into town. During the 20 minute ride, 3 males told me they loved me-- including two boys around the age of 10. It turns out I'm pretty popular. A wonderful dinner finished the evening off; the three volunteers who have been here for the past week or so are on their way out. We celebrated their last night out with a bottle of wine, some overcooked spaghetti, a late omelette. greasy french fries, and funny stories.
The group (Dr. Pat, 3 volunteers, and Bernard driving) was set to leave around 8 am. I decided to get my laundry from the line around 7:30 am. As I was unlocking the inner gate, the key broke off inside the padlock. The beauty of this house is that once you are locked in, you are locked in and no one can come in to get you. On the other hand, you are locked in and cannot escape unless all of your keys are in order.
A couple of expletives after breaking the key off, we called Nixon (Dumel's brother) who has the only other set of keys to the house while Dumel is out of town. While Nixon was on his way over before church, we realized he would not be able to enter the compound because the huge bolt on the inside of the outside gate was in place. Devoted readers may recall my recent commitment to always, always, always bolt the frontgate. So, since he would be unable to reach the inner gate to free us, we had to think creatively before he arrived. Mind you, we also had to plan communication with him in our broken Creole. Consulting our English-Creole one-way dictionary, I had made a list of relevant words prior to his arrival, including, but not limited to: bolt, lock, broken, inside, key, padlock, roof, and throw.
So, by the time Nixon showed up, we had an entire system rigged. We had gone to the roof with the thickest clothesline available inside the house. Then we had filled a Nalgene bottle 1/4 full of water (for weight) and tied it to the clothesline. This would be the capsule into which he could place the keys. But before we could throw anything from the roof over the compound's external wall/gate, we had to decide upon the location with the greates chance of success. If we threw it straight out the front, it was likely to get caught on a random wire traversing the property. If we threw it over the back, Nixon would have to climb his way through random foliage. If we threw it over the side into the neighbor's property (where currently a house is being constructed, and fortunately the lot is open), we merely had to be careful of the razor wire. This was no small feat, as a clothesline, carrying a Nalgene bottle filled with the only set of spare keys, caught midway up on the razor meant some sort of uncertain doom and gloom until someone came by with the jaws of life or some such far-flung instrument. We settled on throwing the rope into the neighbor's property as the chances of success were indeed greatest. Much to our elation and surprise, we were able to communicate the plan to Nixon through gestures from the roof-top. And within moments we were free to the world.
After the others left the compound, I rested, finished a great book, and caught up on some emails. It was lovely. Then I rode a tap-tap into town. During the 20 minute ride, 3 males told me they loved me-- including two boys around the age of 10. It turns out I'm pretty popular. A wonderful dinner finished the evening off; the three volunteers who have been here for the past week or so are on their way out. We celebrated their last night out with a bottle of wine, some overcooked spaghetti, a late omelette. greasy french fries, and funny stories.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Chada
We were waiting for some business to be taken care of at Chada, and these kids (among many others) were hanging out with us.
Waiting at Blue Hills
This picture was taken by Jose, a fellow who lives in Blue Hills. The housing here was built by an NGO (Food for the Poor), and it all looks the same. This building is the community center-- it's one of the places where three volunteers have been conducting interviews this week. They are working on a project for Meds & Food for Kids that is different from, but similar to, the one I'm here to complete. Everyone looks very happy to be waiting their turn, huh?
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Daily Visions
This is where I spent my Tuesday. The bay is filled in with garbage. There are at least two explanations: (1) piling garbage here extends the land and keeps the water from encroaching upon the homes built along the bay; (2) there are very few places to dump garbage and this community houses infinitely more than its fair share. On this day, a group of men and boys was shovelling loads of garbage into a wheelbarrow to move it a farther away from the entrance to a school house. And of course, there are children playing everywhere.
Monday, July 23, 2007
A few pounds lighter
Whatever anyone says about getting deathly ill in a place like Haiti, it’s no fun. Trust me. I really thought I was going to die. But it can only be a story if I look for the humor in it.
Data collection on Friday went well; I spoke with dozens of mothers and got loads of information. That night, one of the new volunteers invited me to stay with her the fanciest-schmanciest hotel in Cap Haitien. There was AIR CONDITIONING and a POOL and PEOPLE TO WATCH. It was luxury and I was so very excited. But, by the end of the night, I was sick, sick, sick. Get ready; this is going to be a long one.
When I say I got sick, I don’t mean I developed a gentle sickness. This was a nasty illness of projectile proportions. Read no further if you cannot cope with reality. My body retained no substance. During one desperate attempt at self-treatment, I sucked on a tootsie-roll pop; that too sent my body into angry convulsions. After 10 hours without any intake but plenty of going-out, I called Dr. Pat (who I now know is my Personal Savior). I hadn’t wanted to bother her because she is so busy, but I knew that even my tears of fear were making worse my rapid dehydration. I lay on the bed in the air-conditioning. By this point, I was no longer a fan of the air-conditioning (notice that the caps lock is not in use—not a coincidence). In the last 4.5 weeks, I seem to have habituated to this oppressive tropical heat; my fingertips and toes were numb from the cool air. It wasn’t just from fever. I could not move my body (at least not voluntarily), and my greatest wish was for my mother. It’s true. Laugh if you will, but any of you in the same situation would have cried for your mother too.
So, I was becoming more and more dehydrated, hallucinating a little bit, gripping the sheets in the hopes that it might quell the nausea. I knew I would die. I knew my best hope was to get to a hospital, but asking for treatment at a hospital in Cap Haitien is evidence of an almost certain death wish. How could I get back to Florida (if not St. Louis)? Would my basic and pathetic emergency insurance hire a helicopter for me? Would someone fly down to Cap Haitien from the U.S. to carry my wasting body to better care? What could be worse: feeling as horrible as I did in that hotel room or feeling that horrible while trying to navigate international air travel? Nobody was around. And I cried. My body was wracked with tears (and other intermittent convulsive non-voluntary activities as well).
Dr. Pat walked in. She said, “Okay. What’s going on? When’s the last time you threw up? When’s the last time you had diarrhea? Have you kept anything down? Why are you crying? Do you think you’re going to die? You’re not going to die. I’m going to find some oral re-hydration serum.” She took my pulse (it was just over 100) and said she’d be back. If there is one thing about Dr. Pat, it’s that she gets down to business. She looked in the ‘depot room’ (whatever that is) used by the Haiti Mission when they come into town to save lives. Upon not finding any oral re-hydration serum in the ‘depot room’, she informed me that she was walking down the hill to find ingredients to make her own solution. I’m sure I limply nodded my head. When she left I did a bit more dehydrating.
Dr. Pat returned with Tampico (a rather vile fruit punch) and some baking soda. She mixed them together, and I took a small sip every five minutes for the next hour. It wasn’t half bad, especially compared to all that had recently passed through my mouth. Nixon (one of the Meds & Food for Kids employees and another hero of mine) arrived a while later with bona fide oral re-hydration serum from Meds & Food for Kids’ stash. (I think it was expired and no longer being given to the organization’s patients, so don’t start thinking I was stealing from starving children.) At this point I was doing whatever Dr. Pat told me to do. She’d call to me from the computer where she had set up shop in the hotel room, “Okay Grace, time for another sip.”
Around 3:30 pm I wanted to be back at the factory ‘compound’. What!? That’s right, it turns out I feel more comfortable there than at the hotel. I decided I would rather dehydrate in a familiar bathroom and in familiar buckets. Who thought this place would feel like my home away from home? Also, I was determined to go wherever Dr. Pat was going, and she was headed back to the factory. And, oh, what a wonderful journey it was.
Nixon arrived at the hotel to retrieve us. At first, the streets in the city were eerily serene. So calm, in fact, that Dr. Pat commented on it twice. I heard her through my nausea but didn’t comment because the effort of making any noise paved the way for projectile vomiting. Once we got to the other side of the city, there was a bit of a jam. Then we were at a standstill. Seven thousand, I repeat, 7,000 Haitians from all over the country were marching down the only road toward to the factory. Any other day, I would have been in hog heaven. Not only was it a great cultural experience, but also a people-watcher’s dream. I sat in the front seat, certain of my imminent expiration, and knowing that if I lived, I would have to write about this on my blog. I knew that it was sort of funny that I was stuck on a street in Cap Haitien on the one day that 7,000 people were marching from all over the damn country, and that traffic was stopped, and that I was holding my breath in attempts to control incontrollable bodily functions, and that people were singing beautiful hymns as they passed, and that the rain made everything not too hot, and that it was an awesome sight. And when, 45 minutes later, we finally got moving I had yet to ‘dehydrate’ myself further.
Right as we passed the city’s most revered spot, a commemoration of the heroes and leaders of Haiti’s Slave Revolt, I began to expel the contents of my stomach out the car’s window. It dripped on the door. My body convulsed until I nearly fell out the window. Nixon pulled the car over. Dr. Pat passed tissues to me. I continued to relieve myself in every way. A small crowd of Haitian faces formed around the door where I heaved and drooled and revealed my undignified self. They were just watching— nothing better to do on a rainy Saturday afternoon, I suppose. In the midst of it all, a honking truck reminded me further that I was quintessentially experiencing Haiti. The honking continued and wouldn’t stop because we were, quite simply, in its way. Never mind that the cause of this short stop (much shorter, mind you, than a parade 7,000 people strong) was a person whose body seemed to be exploding out of the car window. I finished my work, gave a wave of apology to the truck behind, and we drove on. Nixon asked me if I was scared. Through my tears, I nodded affirmatively. He told me, “Don’t be afraid. Everything is okay.” And I believed him because Nixon is one of my heroes.
I spent the rest of Saturday and the night lying in bed here at the factory, pondering the same concerns about being airlifted to Florida. Was that even a possibility? My mind fumbled with logistics. Pat told me to keep drinking the oral re-hydration serum (it’s really just Pedialyte—have you ever had it? It doesn’t taste too great.). She reassured me that I wasn’t going to die and that in the worst-case scenario, we’d go to the hospital for an IV. The next 24 hours proved to be far less noteworthy as they involved my slow recovery. Currently I’m operating at about 80% capacity, but that’s measured in Haitian capacity. This means I’m functioning at roughly 60% of the Grace with which many of you are familiar.
Now I know why Haiti not a place to get sick. This sort of thing kills people here. Luckily, I had Dr. Pat.
Data collection on Friday went well; I spoke with dozens of mothers and got loads of information. That night, one of the new volunteers invited me to stay with her the fanciest-schmanciest hotel in Cap Haitien. There was AIR CONDITIONING and a POOL and PEOPLE TO WATCH. It was luxury and I was so very excited. But, by the end of the night, I was sick, sick, sick. Get ready; this is going to be a long one.
When I say I got sick, I don’t mean I developed a gentle sickness. This was a nasty illness of projectile proportions. Read no further if you cannot cope with reality. My body retained no substance. During one desperate attempt at self-treatment, I sucked on a tootsie-roll pop; that too sent my body into angry convulsions. After 10 hours without any intake but plenty of going-out, I called Dr. Pat (who I now know is my Personal Savior). I hadn’t wanted to bother her because she is so busy, but I knew that even my tears of fear were making worse my rapid dehydration. I lay on the bed in the air-conditioning. By this point, I was no longer a fan of the air-conditioning (notice that the caps lock is not in use—not a coincidence). In the last 4.5 weeks, I seem to have habituated to this oppressive tropical heat; my fingertips and toes were numb from the cool air. It wasn’t just from fever. I could not move my body (at least not voluntarily), and my greatest wish was for my mother. It’s true. Laugh if you will, but any of you in the same situation would have cried for your mother too.
So, I was becoming more and more dehydrated, hallucinating a little bit, gripping the sheets in the hopes that it might quell the nausea. I knew I would die. I knew my best hope was to get to a hospital, but asking for treatment at a hospital in Cap Haitien is evidence of an almost certain death wish. How could I get back to Florida (if not St. Louis)? Would my basic and pathetic emergency insurance hire a helicopter for me? Would someone fly down to Cap Haitien from the U.S. to carry my wasting body to better care? What could be worse: feeling as horrible as I did in that hotel room or feeling that horrible while trying to navigate international air travel? Nobody was around. And I cried. My body was wracked with tears (and other intermittent convulsive non-voluntary activities as well).
Dr. Pat walked in. She said, “Okay. What’s going on? When’s the last time you threw up? When’s the last time you had diarrhea? Have you kept anything down? Why are you crying? Do you think you’re going to die? You’re not going to die. I’m going to find some oral re-hydration serum.” She took my pulse (it was just over 100) and said she’d be back. If there is one thing about Dr. Pat, it’s that she gets down to business. She looked in the ‘depot room’ (whatever that is) used by the Haiti Mission when they come into town to save lives. Upon not finding any oral re-hydration serum in the ‘depot room’, she informed me that she was walking down the hill to find ingredients to make her own solution. I’m sure I limply nodded my head. When she left I did a bit more dehydrating.
Dr. Pat returned with Tampico (a rather vile fruit punch) and some baking soda. She mixed them together, and I took a small sip every five minutes for the next hour. It wasn’t half bad, especially compared to all that had recently passed through my mouth. Nixon (one of the Meds & Food for Kids employees and another hero of mine) arrived a while later with bona fide oral re-hydration serum from Meds & Food for Kids’ stash. (I think it was expired and no longer being given to the organization’s patients, so don’t start thinking I was stealing from starving children.) At this point I was doing whatever Dr. Pat told me to do. She’d call to me from the computer where she had set up shop in the hotel room, “Okay Grace, time for another sip.”
Around 3:30 pm I wanted to be back at the factory ‘compound’. What!? That’s right, it turns out I feel more comfortable there than at the hotel. I decided I would rather dehydrate in a familiar bathroom and in familiar buckets. Who thought this place would feel like my home away from home? Also, I was determined to go wherever Dr. Pat was going, and she was headed back to the factory. And, oh, what a wonderful journey it was.
Nixon arrived at the hotel to retrieve us. At first, the streets in the city were eerily serene. So calm, in fact, that Dr. Pat commented on it twice. I heard her through my nausea but didn’t comment because the effort of making any noise paved the way for projectile vomiting. Once we got to the other side of the city, there was a bit of a jam. Then we were at a standstill. Seven thousand, I repeat, 7,000 Haitians from all over the country were marching down the only road toward to the factory. Any other day, I would have been in hog heaven. Not only was it a great cultural experience, but also a people-watcher’s dream. I sat in the front seat, certain of my imminent expiration, and knowing that if I lived, I would have to write about this on my blog. I knew that it was sort of funny that I was stuck on a street in Cap Haitien on the one day that 7,000 people were marching from all over the damn country, and that traffic was stopped, and that I was holding my breath in attempts to control incontrollable bodily functions, and that people were singing beautiful hymns as they passed, and that the rain made everything not too hot, and that it was an awesome sight. And when, 45 minutes later, we finally got moving I had yet to ‘dehydrate’ myself further.
Right as we passed the city’s most revered spot, a commemoration of the heroes and leaders of Haiti’s Slave Revolt, I began to expel the contents of my stomach out the car’s window. It dripped on the door. My body convulsed until I nearly fell out the window. Nixon pulled the car over. Dr. Pat passed tissues to me. I continued to relieve myself in every way. A small crowd of Haitian faces formed around the door where I heaved and drooled and revealed my undignified self. They were just watching— nothing better to do on a rainy Saturday afternoon, I suppose. In the midst of it all, a honking truck reminded me further that I was quintessentially experiencing Haiti. The honking continued and wouldn’t stop because we were, quite simply, in its way. Never mind that the cause of this short stop (much shorter, mind you, than a parade 7,000 people strong) was a person whose body seemed to be exploding out of the car window. I finished my work, gave a wave of apology to the truck behind, and we drove on. Nixon asked me if I was scared. Through my tears, I nodded affirmatively. He told me, “Don’t be afraid. Everything is okay.” And I believed him because Nixon is one of my heroes.
I spent the rest of Saturday and the night lying in bed here at the factory, pondering the same concerns about being airlifted to Florida. Was that even a possibility? My mind fumbled with logistics. Pat told me to keep drinking the oral re-hydration serum (it’s really just Pedialyte—have you ever had it? It doesn’t taste too great.). She reassured me that I wasn’t going to die and that in the worst-case scenario, we’d go to the hospital for an IV. The next 24 hours proved to be far less noteworthy as they involved my slow recovery. Currently I’m operating at about 80% capacity, but that’s measured in Haitian capacity. This means I’m functioning at roughly 60% of the Grace with which many of you are familiar.
Now I know why Haiti not a place to get sick. This sort of thing kills people here. Luckily, I had Dr. Pat.
waiting and waiting
I have been very sick. Now that I'm sure to survive, a new post will come soon....
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Third post in one day
I just learned that my research design has been approved by the university. Let the data collection begin!
The Front Gate
This is the gate to the 'compound'. The one I raced to bolt after that scary night last week.
An "Experience"
When one tap-tap after another was too full to take us to Wednesday's mobile clinic, Juslie and I walked. We walked for quite a long time. It was hot and sunny. No surprise there. We also had to make our way through trash piles and meander along gutters full of plastic refuse and green liquids. No surprise there either. But we made it and took care of our business with Madame Bwa. Bwa is Creole for wood. This woman can get things done- she is strong and a community organizer by necessity, so her nickname is Madame Bwa. After a few minutes at the clinic, we left. The tap-taps were all full on the way back too. So, we walked downtown-- 45 minutes navigating similar conditions. There we were able to grab a tap-tap on L street. L street is tap-tap haven. There are throngs of people on L street. If you need to get somewhere, you go to L street. If you are coming from somewhere, you end up on L street.
Within 5 minutes of entering the tap-tap, a woman wearing a green and white checked dress was perched on my lap. My thighs were eventually damp from a mixture of her sweat and mine. It was just great. Several other people sitting on the benches were supporting the bodies of other paying customers. One rear end was stuck at eye level. I still don't know what the owner's face looked like. I tell you this to set the stage.
A man who looked about 45 years-old (which means he was probably about 35) started talking. And people listened with rapt attention, smiling and laughing intermittently. Juslie whispered to me that he was sharing funny stories about tap-tap rides to Port-au-Prince, describing women with legs the size of tree trunks sitting on his skinny little lap. He told stories with lessons about how important it is to treat everyone well, because one never knows another's powers. He said that usually a poor person has far more to offer than does a rich person. Other passengers interjected, and through most of it I had no idea what was going on. I just saw people getting on and off the tap-tap, leaving the conversation as quickly as they entered it. No names were exchanged at any point. This man commanded everyone's attention during my entire 25 minute ride; I noticed less and less the sweaty person sitting on my thighs. I asked Juslie if this sort of thing happens often (that is, a single person telling stories on the tap-tap). She said that every now and then, someone will do this; "He is giving an experience", she said. "It's beautiful."
****************
The not-so-beautiful experience for me is that I am still waiting for institutional approval to commence data collection-- a research project being the purpose for my 10-week stint in Haiti. For the past 4 weeks, among other things, I've been setting things up for the project... and waiting. The picture shows me waiting.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
My Favorite Topics are Food and Transportation
Food Topic 1:
Yesterday I whipped up some long-life cheese in a bowl, cooked some noodles in the hotpot, stirred it all together, and ate some relatively delicious macaroni and cheese.
Food Topic 2:
Distraught over not being able to eat fresh fruits and vegetables on a regular basis (despite finding myself in the Carribbean), I decided I would climb the mango tree just outside the gate. I stared at it from the inside for quite a while before setting my sights on a beautiful and ripe-looking piece of fruit. I figured that since it was late on Sunday afternoon, there wouldn't be too much of an audience to witness my attempts at shimmying up this tree. However, upon opening the gate I realized that there was indeed a large enough audience to render my planned acquisition of this perfect mango little more than an unsafe spectacle. Also, there was a fresh splatter of pee (there are fresh splatters of pee along most houses, trees, and standing objects) at the bottom of the tree; I wasn't too excited about beginning my ascent in a puddle of dirt and urine. Still craving a fresh and juicy source of vitaimins, I went back inside, pouted, and ate raisins instead.
Transportation Topic 1:
On Friday, I spent over an hour driving with Bernard to a rural mobile clinic. Bernard had the radio tuned to some lively Haitian music and we played air piano for a while. I know I've spoken of Haitian modes of transportation previously, but my amazement never ceases. On this particular morning, careening along uneven dirt roads, we were passing busloads (retired yellow school buses shipped from abroad) of people squeezed 3 and 4 to a seat. I remember being perturbed at age 12 when the school bus was so full that I was wedged between a couple of girls much larger than my petite self. That was child's play compared to the buses in Haiti. Filling the inside of these buses until people are squirting out of the windows is not enough; the tops are also dripping with people. The roads are so dirty and dusty that a truck left idle on the side for a single day will bear a greater resemblance to a clay statue than the vehicle it purports to be. From what I understand, it's more common for Haitians to travel by a retired school bus than air from Cap Haitien to Port-au-Prince. This means that their bodies are squeezed in or on large buses whose wheels cling to the eroded and dusty single-lane roads of denuded mountains. If they look over the side, they'll see vehicle graveyards.
Transportation Topic 2:
Apparently the chances of bodily harm while using tap-taps are equally extreme. These converted pick-up trucks haven't reached capacity until 3 people are sitting up front, 10 people are sitting on 2 benchs in the truck's covered bed, 3 people are hunched over in a modified standing position between the two rows of sitting people, and 3 people stand on the truck's bumper. That comes to a grand total of 19 bodies. Not included in that calculation are bags of rice, broomsticks, grocery bags, babies, or empty buckets. Have I mentioned that the horns on these tap-taps can be the vehicles' most interesting features. They all sound the same, but their methods of employment are widely variable. For example, on a single day last week, I rode in one tap-tap whose horn was sounded by pressing the air-conditioning button (there was of course no air-conditioning); later in the afternoon, I rode in a tap-tap whose driver had to grab a wire hanging near the steering column and touch it to the key in the ignition in order to complete the electrical circuit that sounded the horn. Ingenuity I tell you.
The fare for such an adventure is equal to 14 or 18 cents. But sometimes the real cost is much greater for those standing on the back bumper. Should a car following too closely behind fail to press its brakes in time, the lower legs of the standing passengers are often crushed. Back home, such an injury may require surgery, a cast, and temporary immobility. Here, such an event is far more than inconvenient; it leads to either permanent crippling or amputation. This is why Dumel (and every other person I know) advises me not to take those tap-taps offering standing room only. I have every intention of heeding this advice.
Now, I am going to work on perfecting the art of impromptu macaroni and cheese. And then I'm going to read some Bill Bryson. Today is Sunday, and I'm taking the day off.
Yesterday I whipped up some long-life cheese in a bowl, cooked some noodles in the hotpot, stirred it all together, and ate some relatively delicious macaroni and cheese.
Food Topic 2:
Distraught over not being able to eat fresh fruits and vegetables on a regular basis (despite finding myself in the Carribbean), I decided I would climb the mango tree just outside the gate. I stared at it from the inside for quite a while before setting my sights on a beautiful and ripe-looking piece of fruit. I figured that since it was late on Sunday afternoon, there wouldn't be too much of an audience to witness my attempts at shimmying up this tree. However, upon opening the gate I realized that there was indeed a large enough audience to render my planned acquisition of this perfect mango little more than an unsafe spectacle. Also, there was a fresh splatter of pee (there are fresh splatters of pee along most houses, trees, and standing objects) at the bottom of the tree; I wasn't too excited about beginning my ascent in a puddle of dirt and urine. Still craving a fresh and juicy source of vitaimins, I went back inside, pouted, and ate raisins instead.
Transportation Topic 1:
On Friday, I spent over an hour driving with Bernard to a rural mobile clinic. Bernard had the radio tuned to some lively Haitian music and we played air piano for a while. I know I've spoken of Haitian modes of transportation previously, but my amazement never ceases. On this particular morning, careening along uneven dirt roads, we were passing busloads (retired yellow school buses shipped from abroad) of people squeezed 3 and 4 to a seat. I remember being perturbed at age 12 when the school bus was so full that I was wedged between a couple of girls much larger than my petite self. That was child's play compared to the buses in Haiti. Filling the inside of these buses until people are squirting out of the windows is not enough; the tops are also dripping with people. The roads are so dirty and dusty that a truck left idle on the side for a single day will bear a greater resemblance to a clay statue than the vehicle it purports to be. From what I understand, it's more common for Haitians to travel by a retired school bus than air from Cap Haitien to Port-au-Prince. This means that their bodies are squeezed in or on large buses whose wheels cling to the eroded and dusty single-lane roads of denuded mountains. If they look over the side, they'll see vehicle graveyards.
Transportation Topic 2:
Apparently the chances of bodily harm while using tap-taps are equally extreme. These converted pick-up trucks haven't reached capacity until 3 people are sitting up front, 10 people are sitting on 2 benchs in the truck's covered bed, 3 people are hunched over in a modified standing position between the two rows of sitting people, and 3 people stand on the truck's bumper. That comes to a grand total of 19 bodies. Not included in that calculation are bags of rice, broomsticks, grocery bags, babies, or empty buckets. Have I mentioned that the horns on these tap-taps can be the vehicles' most interesting features. They all sound the same, but their methods of employment are widely variable. For example, on a single day last week, I rode in one tap-tap whose horn was sounded by pressing the air-conditioning button (there was of course no air-conditioning); later in the afternoon, I rode in a tap-tap whose driver had to grab a wire hanging near the steering column and touch it to the key in the ignition in order to complete the electrical circuit that sounded the horn. Ingenuity I tell you.
The fare for such an adventure is equal to 14 or 18 cents. But sometimes the real cost is much greater for those standing on the back bumper. Should a car following too closely behind fail to press its brakes in time, the lower legs of the standing passengers are often crushed. Back home, such an injury may require surgery, a cast, and temporary immobility. Here, such an event is far more than inconvenient; it leads to either permanent crippling or amputation. This is why Dumel (and every other person I know) advises me not to take those tap-taps offering standing room only. I have every intention of heeding this advice.
Now, I am going to work on perfecting the art of impromptu macaroni and cheese. And then I'm going to read some Bill Bryson. Today is Sunday, and I'm taking the day off.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
A Short Note on Fear
Last night, I had just finished posting on this very blog. I was preparing a few documents in preparation for today and I suddenly heard people outside the window. They weren't right outside, but I could hear crowds of people at an indeterminate distance. I listened for a few moments before going to find Tom, who was working late at his own computer in another room.
His fan was oscillating on high, and he was working toward the back of the house. He hadn't heard anything. I asked him to come listen to something, and he reluctantly pulled himself away. We stood on the porch in front of the huge iron gates. Dumel had recently left and we hadn't yet bolted the gates shut. But I didn't learn this until later.
The din was growing. I asked if Tom was a little scared. He said he was. I admitted I was. The crowds were getting louder and there was screaming and banging on metal up towards the main road. At this moment we were more curious than anything. We decided to go to the roof to see what we could see, and to find out just how close or how far away this commotion was happening.
From the roof we could see almost nothing. Except for a few fires toward the city. And hordes of people on the main street, perhaps 200 feet away, gathered in nearly complete darkness, and revealed only in the headlights of a few slowly passing trucks. People were running and screaming.
I had been instructed by more than a couple of folks working for large NGOs here in Haiti that during a political uprising, the road near the compound (the Rue de Nacional) would likely become chaotic. It's the only road that leads to Port-au-Prince from Cap Haitien. These people who had 'seen it all before' recommended that, should anything like this happen again, we lay low until someone came for us. (I still don't know who that person would be, save for Dumel).
In any case, after being frozen on the roof for what was either seconds or minutes, Tom and I looked at one another without saying anything. I now know that we were simulatenously recalling previous conversations and imagining similarly terrifying situations. We ran down the stairs to the first floor and began frantically turning out every light-emitting device: power strips, headlamps, the modem. In utter darkness, I checked the front gate (see photo above) and this is when I realized it wasn't bolted. Amidst the uproar, I jammed the bolt into place. Then we ran back to the stairs, not quite sure where we would be safest if people began crawling over the walls or throwing fire into the compound. I got Dumel on the phone, and from his end I heard the same uproar. My adrenaline was pumping. This was fear. I'm certain that, from the first moment I heard the sound of so many people gathering until the moment I was on the phone with Dumel, no more than 4 minutes could have passed. My voice and my hands were shaking. I hung up with Dumel and sat beside Tom on the stairs, nearly dropping the phone because I couldn't keep a grip on it.
It turns out that Haitians love soccer. They especially love Brazil's soccer team. And Brazil had just defeated Uruguay. In a final shoot-out. In the semi-finals of the Copa America. And everyone in Haiti had been glued to their radios during the match. And then they were celebrating in the streets. And we were safe in our compound. And Dumel had giggled at me over the phone. And then we called Adolfo, the regional UN security official (who happens to be Uruguayan), and finally made an appointment for him to appraise the security of the compound.
His fan was oscillating on high, and he was working toward the back of the house. He hadn't heard anything. I asked him to come listen to something, and he reluctantly pulled himself away. We stood on the porch in front of the huge iron gates. Dumel had recently left and we hadn't yet bolted the gates shut. But I didn't learn this until later.
The din was growing. I asked if Tom was a little scared. He said he was. I admitted I was. The crowds were getting louder and there was screaming and banging on metal up towards the main road. At this moment we were more curious than anything. We decided to go to the roof to see what we could see, and to find out just how close or how far away this commotion was happening.
From the roof we could see almost nothing. Except for a few fires toward the city. And hordes of people on the main street, perhaps 200 feet away, gathered in nearly complete darkness, and revealed only in the headlights of a few slowly passing trucks. People were running and screaming.
I had been instructed by more than a couple of folks working for large NGOs here in Haiti that during a political uprising, the road near the compound (the Rue de Nacional) would likely become chaotic. It's the only road that leads to Port-au-Prince from Cap Haitien. These people who had 'seen it all before' recommended that, should anything like this happen again, we lay low until someone came for us. (I still don't know who that person would be, save for Dumel).
In any case, after being frozen on the roof for what was either seconds or minutes, Tom and I looked at one another without saying anything. I now know that we were simulatenously recalling previous conversations and imagining similarly terrifying situations. We ran down the stairs to the first floor and began frantically turning out every light-emitting device: power strips, headlamps, the modem. In utter darkness, I checked the front gate (see photo above) and this is when I realized it wasn't bolted. Amidst the uproar, I jammed the bolt into place. Then we ran back to the stairs, not quite sure where we would be safest if people began crawling over the walls or throwing fire into the compound. I got Dumel on the phone, and from his end I heard the same uproar. My adrenaline was pumping. This was fear. I'm certain that, from the first moment I heard the sound of so many people gathering until the moment I was on the phone with Dumel, no more than 4 minutes could have passed. My voice and my hands were shaking. I hung up with Dumel and sat beside Tom on the stairs, nearly dropping the phone because I couldn't keep a grip on it.
It turns out that Haitians love soccer. They especially love Brazil's soccer team. And Brazil had just defeated Uruguay. In a final shoot-out. In the semi-finals of the Copa America. And everyone in Haiti had been glued to their radios during the match. And then they were celebrating in the streets. And we were safe in our compound. And Dumel had giggled at me over the phone. And then we called Adolfo, the regional UN security official (who happens to be Uruguayan), and finally made an appointment for him to appraise the security of the compound.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Today I Ate Chicken...
A whole lot of chicken. This morning I ate some 'long-life dairy dessert" mixed with granola (transported all the way from a bulk bin at the St. Louis Whole Foods store). Then I worked at the computer all day, reading reports, putting documents together, and going through some translations with Guslie (apparently I've been spelling her name all wrong until now. Oops). By the time 5 p.m. came around, I was h-u-n-g-r-y. Surprise, surprise. So, I took a tap-tap to Ti Boukan (the closest restaurant) and ordered some spicy chicken. I couldn't help myself. I knew there wouldn't be any bones and I think that's what sealed the deal. I won't say I enjoyed every second of it, but neither will I say that I was horrified. I just needed chicken and fried plantains dipped in ketchup. I carry ketchup around in my bag now. Even the waitress was surprised; she guessed my usual order and then I tricked her by devouring poulet ti boukan.
Here are some other things:
1. The keys on my laptop are covered in brown dirt.
2. I believe that Miller Lite is not for sale in Haiti. However, there was a Miller Lite can floating in the ocean by the Labadie fisherman picture posted yesterday. It all comes full circle.
3. While I wear a thick layer of SPF 45 each day, my skin is tanned (by both sun and dirt).
4. During our weekend get-away, little boys (I think the little girls must have all been working) would lay down beside us on their bellies and elbows. They'd rest their heads in their hands and just watch. From only a couple feet away. This wasn't because there was no place else to rest, either. Intermittently, they'd rip off all their clothes and jump in the water where one can find Miller Lite cans.
5. I'm wearing my hair in a puny pony-tail these days. If you know me, you know this is weird. I haven't had hair this long since.... Well, I don't know when. I would not call the look flattering, but it certainly is convenient.
6. The official currency of Haiti is the gourdes, and it's the only note that exists. However, every service and thing in Haiti is bought and sold by the Haitian dollar. Curiously enough, the Haitian dollar does not exist. That means the Haitian dollar is a concept. Hmmmm. Haitians seem to prefer conceptual currency. Five Gourdes equals one Haitian dollar. When I ride in a tap-tap, the driver asks for 1 dollar. That means he (and 'he' is always a 'he') wants a 5 gourdes coin. At the grocery store, the bottle of ketchup I bought was labeled at $12. That means the cashier asked for $12, I paid her with a 100 gourdes note, and she returned a 25 gourdes note and three 5 gourdes coins, telling me that $4 was my change. The official receipt indicated that the total due was $12, the cash tendered was $20, and the change given was $4. The bill at the restaurant tonight was $68. So, we paid 340 gourdes and left a 50 gourdes tip. Not too many people can read, but they all sure can multiply and divide by 5 at the drop of a hat. When I talk to Guslie about gourdes she calls me crazy. Dumel says I need to start thinking in Haitian dollars because my talk of gourdes is confusing.
It's 9:20 pm, and I have more work to do before shower and bed.
Here are some other things:
1. The keys on my laptop are covered in brown dirt.
2. I believe that Miller Lite is not for sale in Haiti. However, there was a Miller Lite can floating in the ocean by the Labadie fisherman picture posted yesterday. It all comes full circle.
3. While I wear a thick layer of SPF 45 each day, my skin is tanned (by both sun and dirt).
4. During our weekend get-away, little boys (I think the little girls must have all been working) would lay down beside us on their bellies and elbows. They'd rest their heads in their hands and just watch. From only a couple feet away. This wasn't because there was no place else to rest, either. Intermittently, they'd rip off all their clothes and jump in the water where one can find Miller Lite cans.
5. I'm wearing my hair in a puny pony-tail these days. If you know me, you know this is weird. I haven't had hair this long since.... Well, I don't know when. I would not call the look flattering, but it certainly is convenient.
6. The official currency of Haiti is the gourdes, and it's the only note that exists. However, every service and thing in Haiti is bought and sold by the Haitian dollar. Curiously enough, the Haitian dollar does not exist. That means the Haitian dollar is a concept. Hmmmm. Haitians seem to prefer conceptual currency. Five Gourdes equals one Haitian dollar. When I ride in a tap-tap, the driver asks for 1 dollar. That means he (and 'he' is always a 'he') wants a 5 gourdes coin. At the grocery store, the bottle of ketchup I bought was labeled at $12. That means the cashier asked for $12, I paid her with a 100 gourdes note, and she returned a 25 gourdes note and three 5 gourdes coins, telling me that $4 was my change. The official receipt indicated that the total due was $12, the cash tendered was $20, and the change given was $4. The bill at the restaurant tonight was $68. So, we paid 340 gourdes and left a 50 gourdes tip. Not too many people can read, but they all sure can multiply and divide by 5 at the drop of a hat. When I talk to Guslie about gourdes she calls me crazy. Dumel says I need to start thinking in Haitian dollars because my talk of gourdes is confusing.
It's 9:20 pm, and I have more work to do before shower and bed.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Daily soccer game
Every evening, when it cools down just before sunset, these guys play soccer outside the 'compound'.
Toy truck
Kids are innovative; even with toys, necessity is the mother of invention. This toy truck is made from tin cans. Earlier today, I saw a little boy holding a piece of string that was dragging an old plastic bottle and the plastic top of a calculator. He was having fun.
A constant audience
In a matter of moments, even though there weren't telephones here, word had spread that strange folks had come to buy peanuts. About 50 people came to see it all for themselves.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Oh, Brother
Luke (my little brother) has been living in Peru for almost a year now. He is finishing up his time there, and just sent me three photographs from one of his final projects. These ain't digital.
Today, I went along to buy peanuts. Lots of peanuts. I need to learn Creole. I have some great pictures, but the computer is behaving too strangely to upload them. Soon....
We are spending this whole weekend at the beach. I can hardly wait.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Staring at a warm beer
An unopened can of warm Prestige is on the table beside me. This is Haitian beer, brewed and canned in Port-au-Prince. Apparently it has won the World Beer Cup Medaille d'Or. Has anyone ever heard of this World Beer Cup? In any case, it was as I stared at the beer that I realized today is the day that most people who read this are thinking about fireworks and picnics.
Today felt like a normal day.
1. Woke up at 7:13 a.m., saw that I had a bit of time before Gusly arrived, and decided to finish proofing a couple of documents.
2. Dug into my food stash and ate one portion of "dairy dessert with mango", a "long-life product". Basically it was a yogurt.
3. Rode in the back of a pick-up truck over to Chada, Wednesday's mobile clinic site. Spent 3.5 hours there, weighing and measuring kids that didn't want me anywhere near them. Everything takes place in a small cement room with a roof of metal sheeting, and there were at least 13 people inside at any given time. It gets hot and kids get cranky. One unhappy 18-month old, whose 9-year old brother had brought him in, took a nice leak on the floor (understandably, diapers are not a purchasing priority in the face of malnutrition). Luckily, I got my backpack out of the way before the liquid reached it.
4. Felt overwhelmed by the mounds of trash outside that serve as both playground and bathroom for most kids. Watched kids flying kites made out of trash.
5. Snapped out of it. Weighed and measured more kids who would clearly have preferred to stay near their mothers' breasts.
6. Rode the pick-up truck back from Chada. On the way, stopped for a big jug of drinking water. Ate a Clif bar. Almost got rear-ended by a speeding vehicle with bad breaks.
7. Washed my arms and face at home. Blew the dirt out of my nose.
8. Sat with Tom and Dumel to discuss some programmatic strategies for the site that is being set up this Friday. Since I'll be eventually engaging in research with this cohort of caretakers and kids, I won't be going to this site until it's time for me to collect data (which won't happen until I hear from the IRB anyway). But, I pretend to help them think through some new programmatic strategies.
9. Ate a piece of bread with some 'long-life' cheese on it.
10. Scrubbed out 2 used joint-compound buckets, purchased down by the dock yesterday. These are hot commodities. I'm going to use mine for food storage.
11. Filled the roof-top water tanks.
Now, I'm thinking about going out to dinner. Maybe I'll take a picture or two for posting afterwards.
Today felt like a normal day.
1. Woke up at 7:13 a.m., saw that I had a bit of time before Gusly arrived, and decided to finish proofing a couple of documents.
2. Dug into my food stash and ate one portion of "dairy dessert with mango", a "long-life product". Basically it was a yogurt.
3. Rode in the back of a pick-up truck over to Chada, Wednesday's mobile clinic site. Spent 3.5 hours there, weighing and measuring kids that didn't want me anywhere near them. Everything takes place in a small cement room with a roof of metal sheeting, and there were at least 13 people inside at any given time. It gets hot and kids get cranky. One unhappy 18-month old, whose 9-year old brother had brought him in, took a nice leak on the floor (understandably, diapers are not a purchasing priority in the face of malnutrition). Luckily, I got my backpack out of the way before the liquid reached it.
4. Felt overwhelmed by the mounds of trash outside that serve as both playground and bathroom for most kids. Watched kids flying kites made out of trash.
5. Snapped out of it. Weighed and measured more kids who would clearly have preferred to stay near their mothers' breasts.
6. Rode the pick-up truck back from Chada. On the way, stopped for a big jug of drinking water. Ate a Clif bar. Almost got rear-ended by a speeding vehicle with bad breaks.
7. Washed my arms and face at home. Blew the dirt out of my nose.
8. Sat with Tom and Dumel to discuss some programmatic strategies for the site that is being set up this Friday. Since I'll be eventually engaging in research with this cohort of caretakers and kids, I won't be going to this site until it's time for me to collect data (which won't happen until I hear from the IRB anyway). But, I pretend to help them think through some new programmatic strategies.
9. Ate a piece of bread with some 'long-life' cheese on it.
10. Scrubbed out 2 used joint-compound buckets, purchased down by the dock yesterday. These are hot commodities. I'm going to use mine for food storage.
11. Filled the roof-top water tanks.
Now, I'm thinking about going out to dinner. Maybe I'll take a picture or two for posting afterwards.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Being a vegetarian....
While I was walking in the city this afternoon with Gusly (the young woman I've hired as an interpreter and project assistant), my ankle gave out and I tripped just the slightest. She said that it was because I am a vegetarian (not because there are treacherous puddles, dips, wheelbarrows, trucks, cars, mopeds, rocks, and seemingly random pieces of solid matter blocking every step). Maybe it's being a vegetarian that makes me less sturdy on the Haitian soil. Since the beef episode over a week ago, I'm back on the vegetarian wagon. Back in recovery. The thing is, despite all the hypo-glycemic attacks where my blood sugar drops, my jawbone collects the facial sweat that then drips down my neck, my hands start shaking, and my palor fades, I can't bring myself to eat meat. You'd think that would mean I'm hungry enough to consume whatever I can get my hands on, but I just can't do it. I still go for the rice and beans, or the newly-discovered cheese and barbecue sauce sandwich that leaves me wanting more just 37 minutes later. By the way, this cheese and barbecue sauce sandwich is my new favorite food. The little restaurant where Gusly took me today is my new favorite place. It had AIR CONDITIONING and 100% PINEAPPLE JUICE and FROMAGE & BBQ SAUCE sandwiches. I'm eating there again tomorrow if I have any say about the matter.
The novelty of living on the first floor of a factory is wearing off. Dear Heather had the good sense to ask, "Why again are you living in a factory?" I don't think there is any "again" about it. This perhaps is something I have failed to disclose. Meds & Food for Kids produces the Medika Mamba at a sort of compound. There is a small garden where Dumel (who is not only the production manager, but also an agronomist) plants peanuts for experimental purposes. Outside, there is a sheltered work space where the peanuts are shelled and roasted. Near that work space is a peanut storage room that also holds a dehumidifier. Closer to the house, there is an employee shower. All the production takes place inside, on the second floor of the factory/house. Up there, among other things, are peanut grinders, storage rooms for powdered milk, vegetable oil, sugar, and rations of the Medika Mamba for distribution. On the first floor of the factory/house are two bathrooms, an office, and two large rooms that house some wooden cabinets and something that resembles a ping-pong table but has proven to be much less entertaining because it has dishes and water bottles on it. Finally, on the first floor is our living room/bedroom/work space. Its windows open into the garden/roasting/shelling/diesel-generating areas. The reasons I am staying in the factory are myriad, rent-free accomodation is just about the best.
But a few things make this 'lifestyle' a bit challenging, not the least of which is lacking any food preparation facility. I can prepare boiled eggs in the hot-pot, and I can eat the previously mentioned freeze-dried meals from REI. It turns out that these are quite tasty, and they had better be since I dropped a significant portion of my summer budget on just 13 of them. I did notice packages of Ramen noodles at a store in the city today. Eating in restaurants gets a little expensive (and bland when one is a vegetarian in Haiti), and I'd prefer to cook, but Ramen may just call my name. I also feel just a little bit stranded. It gets you down to be in the 'compound' all day, which can happen not infrequently since the city is a 20-30 minute car-ride away.
Did I mention that the compound is entered through a huge iron gate, and is surrounded by 12-foot high walls that are topped with razor wire? It's a strange combination of feelings. Sometimes, I feel like I'm back in college, eating only foods that can be prepared in a hot-pot and drinking powdered lemonade mix, but without all of the fun that is part and parcel to dorm living (such as the utter excitement of newly-discovered self-determination). Also, there are more lizards and large furry spiders here than in a dorm.
Furthemore, it's just a little embarassing to have to brush my teeth among the employees (all of whom I like very much) who show up at 7:00 am while I'm still in pajamas. A whole lot of reality, but not a whole lot of privacy.
Friday, June 29, 2007
26 and counting
This picture is me right now. I feel a bit more haggard than I did about a week ago, and I think this picture proves it. (Just so you know, the World Book definition of 'haggard' is: 'looking worn from pain, fatigue, worry, or hunger; worn by care; gaunt'. It can also mean 'wild and untamed', but I don't think I've gotten there yet.)
Dumel, Tom, Maggie (the nurse), Charlene (an undergraduate intern from St. Louis), and I returned not too long ago from a moblie clinic about 45 minutes away. MFK has a few mobile clinics running at all times; this is one way they distribute the Medika Mamba (the awesome fortified peanut butter that helps malnourished kids get well quickly) around the Nord Department of Haiti. We are also in the process of setting up a new mobile clinic about an hour away where I'll likely begin my research project. This is a place of about 18,000 people and no health services locally available. So, Dumel arranged with a pastor and a fellow who owns a megaphone to spread information about the mobile clinic so that people will bring their sick children next week when it all starts.
The interpreter I have hired starts on Monday morning and I anxiously await all the new adventures her services and finesse will bring. Such adventures include not only the commencement of data collection before too long, but also regular trips to procure food, and the capacity to bargain for transportation.
Today was my birthday. A group of us went out for dinner at a nice place in Cap Haitien. Tom has an outing planned for next weekend, when things have settled down a bit around here. I am hoping that it involves air conditioning (if only briefly).
Thank you for all the comments-- they help keep me going.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Today, my teflon wore off...
...and that means this all feels a bit more raw than it did yesterday or five days ago. The thing is, there isn't anything romantic about just surviving. And just for the record, I'm not at all equating what I'm doing with 'surviving'. Not even close. I'm merely a witness to relentless activity and fatigue. I guess I must acknowledge that it isn't too far from voyeurism.
Today I was out for 6 hours buying the following items: 2 upright Lasko fans (US$100 each) for the factory; iodized salt; sugar; 3 dozen used joint compound/motor oil/transmission fluid/paint buckets; one pair of sandals; 2 phone cards; matches; and, a dishpan (they wouldn't sell just one, so I had to buy 3). Bernard drove and brokered deals during the first half of the day, and Nixon (Dumel's brother) did the same during the second half. Driving here is by necessity a sport requiring nimble reflexes, quick decisions, agility, multiple muscle movements, and fearlessness; being a passenger requires only a little less. Amidst Bernard's baritone voice (accompanying one or more of Cap Haitien's radio stations) and Creole lessons with Nixon, I noticed a few things that appeared to be rules rather than exceptions. Here is window into the way I saw things....
1. Single mopeds carrying three and four fully grown adults.
2. Cars with alignment so poor that steering wheels were muscled into place.
3. Men pushing carts they rented early in the day, hoping to earn a little money on top of the lease by transporting goods across town. In one case, the 'goods' consisted of at least 200 bags of cement mix. A related observation: one must purchase drinking water to quench his or her thirst, and the heat is obscene.
4. Tap-taps, a seemingly ubiquitous form of transportation; 1984 Toyota pick-up trucks holding dozens of people each. The overflow passengers stand on the metal bumper and hold onto the sides of the bed. The fuel is diesel; some people on mopeds and in the open tap-taps pull their shirts up to protect their noses and mouths from the dust and exhaust (posye in Creole, Nixon told me). It hurts to breathe.
5. People deftly maneuvering worn-out bicycles among the chaos of all other traffic. Most carry at least 2 people who often balance goods on their heads.
6. Muscles. While I am accustomed to powering my transportation, creature comforts, and activities with fossil fuels, almost everything here is powered by sinewy muscle.
7. Taxis in the form of old Toyota Corollas; their tires are bald. The roads really are as horrendous as I'd been told. What many of us would assume to be trip-stopping barriers are driven through and around.
8. People wearing Aeropostale t-shirts. What are Aeropostale t-shirts doing here? "My name is...." mechanic shirts. Harvard shirts; Dallas shirts; "I'm sexy" shirts on older women; of course the list goes on.
9. Convoys of beautifully air-conditioned UN trucks.
10. Vendors selling nail polish out of metal wheel barrows.
11. A dead pig in the street; a casualty of the sport of driving. Likely, a devastated owner was not far away.
12. And old man, laying listlessly on a blanket beneath a mango tree, wasting away.
13. Younger men, characterized by the above-mentioned sinewy muscles, cleaning out the sewers. There is no trash collection here, and perhaps one would assume there not be. But, this is what we don't witness because our trash is removed systematically: men standing waist-high in the open sewers, pulling out the tarred and stringy and smelly plastic bags, styrofoam containers, plastic bottles, decomposing food, and unidentifiable masses. You can see the stringiness and blackness of it all mixed with human refuse when you look at a picture, but you can't smell a picture. It is noxious.
None of this was romantic or lovely or beautifully simple. It was gritty and raw and infinite. It wore away my teflon.
Today I was out for 6 hours buying the following items: 2 upright Lasko fans (US$100 each) for the factory; iodized salt; sugar; 3 dozen used joint compound/motor oil/transmission fluid/paint buckets; one pair of sandals; 2 phone cards; matches; and, a dishpan (they wouldn't sell just one, so I had to buy 3). Bernard drove and brokered deals during the first half of the day, and Nixon (Dumel's brother) did the same during the second half. Driving here is by necessity a sport requiring nimble reflexes, quick decisions, agility, multiple muscle movements, and fearlessness; being a passenger requires only a little less. Amidst Bernard's baritone voice (accompanying one or more of Cap Haitien's radio stations) and Creole lessons with Nixon, I noticed a few things that appeared to be rules rather than exceptions. Here is window into the way I saw things....
1. Single mopeds carrying three and four fully grown adults.
2. Cars with alignment so poor that steering wheels were muscled into place.
3. Men pushing carts they rented early in the day, hoping to earn a little money on top of the lease by transporting goods across town. In one case, the 'goods' consisted of at least 200 bags of cement mix. A related observation: one must purchase drinking water to quench his or her thirst, and the heat is obscene.
4. Tap-taps, a seemingly ubiquitous form of transportation; 1984 Toyota pick-up trucks holding dozens of people each. The overflow passengers stand on the metal bumper and hold onto the sides of the bed. The fuel is diesel; some people on mopeds and in the open tap-taps pull their shirts up to protect their noses and mouths from the dust and exhaust (posye in Creole, Nixon told me). It hurts to breathe.
5. People deftly maneuvering worn-out bicycles among the chaos of all other traffic. Most carry at least 2 people who often balance goods on their heads.
6. Muscles. While I am accustomed to powering my transportation, creature comforts, and activities with fossil fuels, almost everything here is powered by sinewy muscle.
7. Taxis in the form of old Toyota Corollas; their tires are bald. The roads really are as horrendous as I'd been told. What many of us would assume to be trip-stopping barriers are driven through and around.
8. People wearing Aeropostale t-shirts. What are Aeropostale t-shirts doing here? "My name is...." mechanic shirts. Harvard shirts; Dallas shirts; "I'm sexy" shirts on older women; of course the list goes on.
9. Convoys of beautifully air-conditioned UN trucks.
10. Vendors selling nail polish out of metal wheel barrows.
11. A dead pig in the street; a casualty of the sport of driving. Likely, a devastated owner was not far away.
12. And old man, laying listlessly on a blanket beneath a mango tree, wasting away.
13. Younger men, characterized by the above-mentioned sinewy muscles, cleaning out the sewers. There is no trash collection here, and perhaps one would assume there not be. But, this is what we don't witness because our trash is removed systematically: men standing waist-high in the open sewers, pulling out the tarred and stringy and smelly plastic bags, styrofoam containers, plastic bottles, decomposing food, and unidentifiable masses. You can see the stringiness and blackness of it all mixed with human refuse when you look at a picture, but you can't smell a picture. It is noxious.
None of this was romantic or lovely or beautifully simple. It was gritty and raw and infinite. It wore away my teflon.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Beef, Mosquitoes, and Hunger
Yesterday morning I said 'good afternoon' in French to a man carrying a machete. Oops.
There is so much more to tell than time to tell it. Here a few highlights from Saturday...
Yesterday I ate beef for the first time in 9 years. A friend of Tom's from the World Food Program picked us up from the factory and took us to his house for lunch. His name is Mohamed, he is from Algeria, and he is my friend now too. I know he is my friend because he took us to a World Food Program party last night where I became very sick even though I was only drinking water.... I was chatting with some fancy person and began perspiring profusely. And I mean profusely, not just Haiti-style sweating. It was dripping from my face heavily. My arms became numb and I had to excuse myself from the conversation to sit on some steps. Mind you, I have no idea where I am and there are many, many people around. I could hardly hold my head up and couldn't move my arms. My mind started racing about how I would get back to the factory or back to St. Louis if this was some sort of intense tropical illness that my inferior immune system could not handle. Maybe I wasn't cut out for the tropics or this whole thing. Luckily, my new friend Mohamed took me and Tom home. I don't know too much about Mohamed but I know enough to like him. I have to admit that last night was pretty scary-- there's nothing like being sick in a place where you cannot speak the language and a UN security official has just described the latest kidnapping and how not to make yourself an easy target for criminals. In any case, I made it home and woke up alive and feeling much better.
I went to fill the water tanks on the roof and fond a frog in the water supply. So, I waited until the water level was high enough that I could reach in to scoop the frog out with a plastic bowl. Then I put the bowl-with-frog down and poured a bit of bleach into the water tanks since the water was looking pretty brown. While I was carrying the bowl with the frog downstairs to release it outside, it escaped (unsurprisingly). I am not, in theory, grossed out by much- but there was something about this little wet frog squirming in and out of my hands as I tried to catch it that made me squeal over and over. Instead of helping, Tom ran to get the camera. I love that a frog was living in the same water I use to brush my teeth. Just a little bit ago, Dumel (the production manager here) told me that having a frog in the water tank is actually a good thing because it will eat the mosquitoes.
Speaking of mosquitoes, I rolled over on some juicy ones while I was sleeping. They were so engorged that they couldn't fly away and instead left polka-dots on the sheet.
I am finding that constant hunger is a state of being here, even for me. We do not have our own means of transportation (yet, at least- it may happen within the month). Nor do we have a refrigerator or kitchen for cooking. Before I arrived, I knew that there was a restaurant about 1 mile away. I thought, "no problem, I can walk a mile for food." But it just isn't that simple. It is so hot, and the roads are terrifying to drive on, let alone walk on. And I can't walk alone. So, the situation proves to be very tricky. But, today we took a cab into town with Dumel. We bought a huge amount of diesel fuel and some cheese that doesn't need refrigeration along with some yogurt that similarly does not require refrigeration. Yum. Seriously, yum.
It also turns out that Tom and I make a good TV. It's not like we are TV stars-- just a TV. A good example: while we were waiting on the road for Mohamed to pick us up yesterday, a man walked up to us and said nothing. But he stood about 5 feet away and just stared, took the scene in, for about 10 minutes. It wasn't scary or anything, just different. I guess that is what a TV feels like.
One more thing-- I changed the 'comment' function on this blog so that you don't need to sign in to leave a comment. I hope it's helpful.
There is so much more to tell than time to tell it. Here a few highlights from Saturday...
Yesterday I ate beef for the first time in 9 years. A friend of Tom's from the World Food Program picked us up from the factory and took us to his house for lunch. His name is Mohamed, he is from Algeria, and he is my friend now too. I know he is my friend because he took us to a World Food Program party last night where I became very sick even though I was only drinking water.... I was chatting with some fancy person and began perspiring profusely. And I mean profusely, not just Haiti-style sweating. It was dripping from my face heavily. My arms became numb and I had to excuse myself from the conversation to sit on some steps. Mind you, I have no idea where I am and there are many, many people around. I could hardly hold my head up and couldn't move my arms. My mind started racing about how I would get back to the factory or back to St. Louis if this was some sort of intense tropical illness that my inferior immune system could not handle. Maybe I wasn't cut out for the tropics or this whole thing. Luckily, my new friend Mohamed took me and Tom home. I don't know too much about Mohamed but I know enough to like him. I have to admit that last night was pretty scary-- there's nothing like being sick in a place where you cannot speak the language and a UN security official has just described the latest kidnapping and how not to make yourself an easy target for criminals. In any case, I made it home and woke up alive and feeling much better.
I went to fill the water tanks on the roof and fond a frog in the water supply. So, I waited until the water level was high enough that I could reach in to scoop the frog out with a plastic bowl. Then I put the bowl-with-frog down and poured a bit of bleach into the water tanks since the water was looking pretty brown. While I was carrying the bowl with the frog downstairs to release it outside, it escaped (unsurprisingly). I am not, in theory, grossed out by much- but there was something about this little wet frog squirming in and out of my hands as I tried to catch it that made me squeal over and over. Instead of helping, Tom ran to get the camera. I love that a frog was living in the same water I use to brush my teeth. Just a little bit ago, Dumel (the production manager here) told me that having a frog in the water tank is actually a good thing because it will eat the mosquitoes.
Speaking of mosquitoes, I rolled over on some juicy ones while I was sleeping. They were so engorged that they couldn't fly away and instead left polka-dots on the sheet.
I am finding that constant hunger is a state of being here, even for me. We do not have our own means of transportation (yet, at least- it may happen within the month). Nor do we have a refrigerator or kitchen for cooking. Before I arrived, I knew that there was a restaurant about 1 mile away. I thought, "no problem, I can walk a mile for food." But it just isn't that simple. It is so hot, and the roads are terrifying to drive on, let alone walk on. And I can't walk alone. So, the situation proves to be very tricky. But, today we took a cab into town with Dumel. We bought a huge amount of diesel fuel and some cheese that doesn't need refrigeration along with some yogurt that similarly does not require refrigeration. Yum. Seriously, yum.
It also turns out that Tom and I make a good TV. It's not like we are TV stars-- just a TV. A good example: while we were waiting on the road for Mohamed to pick us up yesterday, a man walked up to us and said nothing. But he stood about 5 feet away and just stared, took the scene in, for about 10 minutes. It wasn't scary or anything, just different. I guess that is what a TV feels like.
One more thing-- I changed the 'comment' function on this blog so that you don't need to sign in to leave a comment. I hope it's helpful.
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