Ramblings: After the Hurricane (the continuation)

Wednesday 5 October

Visited children in Chabanne area before noon…

Then commenced cleaning Beverly’s room—had to mop up water from the bedroom floor, scrub the entire bathroom from dried dirty rainwater

Took down the curtains and washed them.

Sweeping, wringing out, bleaching that nasty mop.

Also sweeping out upstairs front room where lots of mango leaves and quite a bit of water as well.

Thankfully my own room was minimally affected—just had to sweep out some mango leaves blown in from that front room.

Then eat with the family—scandalize Pastor by coming down in my shower cleaning attire: gym shorts and top and bare feet (usually those shorts are reserved for evening only, after the house is empty of visitors and bedtime is near). He was displeased (although he didn’t say so directly) because we happened to get visitors as soon as I came down.

Then we all gather into the Patrol to go view the River again: we park at the site and trek up the muddy slope. I chuckle at Felix who is first out of the car but chooses a difficult route up the hill: instead of opting for the track where motos have driven, he starts clambering up through the bushes and clumps of mud. He may not be foolhardy but he is also apparently not an outdoorsman. Being used to scrambling about in mud and over rocks myself, I’d purposely worn my camp shoes and tied my skirt in a knot to lift it free of the mud. I was glad of this and my rain poncho as the rain began driving down as we stood to spectate with the masses.

Gathered along the bank was the predictable crowd, observing the highly interesting activity in the river below. The waters have greatly diminished, thank God, and now the roiling brown waters are not nearly so frightening. There were a few large excavation tractors down in the bed, pushing up piles of gravel and diverting the water into new tracks. Whether this is serving a legitimate purpose or is for the mere sake of activity I’m still not sure, but certainly the drivers were busy (and amused.)

There were also a lot of people crossing.

Typically folks took off their shoes and picked their way through the water, carrying bags and bundles, and sometimes one another. We witnessed a few couples consisting of a man carrying a woman piggybank, shoes still on her feet. I was awaiting the inevitable tumble, but while we were there we didn’t see any falls.

We didn’t stay long as the rain picked up again, but I was encouraged.

No large vehicles are crossing yet—we only saw motos. Pastor seems to get a kick out of frightening his wife sometimes; when we climbed back into the Patrol he drove forward, right down to the water’s edge, into a crowd of people staring and several calling out warnings.

He just laughed and insisted he wasn’t going, he was turning around. I was sure we’d be stuck in the mud. But that Patrol is not to be underestimated. He did succeed in turning us around and squelching us back through the mud, unharmed and unstuck.

Men.

Thursday October 6

Today was a work day.

I worked hard, cleaning and preparing for school.

I wrung out the soggy sheets from Beverly’s room and spread them to dry, first along the railing between second and first storey inside the house, then out on the roof later in the afternoon when the blessed sunshine came out.

I did more sweeping and wiping down in Beverly’s room and the usual laundry (I wash clothes every day so as not to get behind.)

Then for about three hours I set myself at the table we’d asked [badgered] Pastor for, and planned and created school stuff: addition tables, maps of Haiti, worksheets for La Nourriture and Nutrition, Fast Facts addition sheets, and the Bible pages.

After the afternoon meal there were dishes to wash and laundry to bring in…

Productive day.

Friday 7 October

Apparently everyone noticed my efforts yesterday.

Several people commented they thought I worked particularly hard. “Wow—it’s good!” they said. I didn’t think the work inordinate—usually during the week we work all day, except half of that work is at school, not inside the house.

Every day we do dishes, laundry, school preparation, maintain communications, and usually during the week I aid at least one student with his homework or study.

Anyway…

Today was another visiting day.

Pastor, Kiki, and I drove out to Caimann to visit some students who live up on a “mountain.” We parked the Suzuki and then scrambled up an alley trail, precipitous at the best of times and now filled with fallen branches and palm fronds. Ooo, it was slippery.

Fortunately, we made it up and then met Saloubens, one of my second graders, near the top. His family’s house was in good shape. He was excited but seemingly bashful to see us; he slipped on his mother’s sandals and formed part of the usual queue to escort us about.

Saloubens, John Theodore, and Eneldine, all students in my class, live in that area. John Theodore and Saloubens are immediate neighbors. Saloubens and some others escorted us up to Eneldine’s house, which involved going down and then scrambling up a couple more hills to where the house perches atop a hill. The views were spectacular and the air was good.

The kids are excellent runners there, accustomed to sprinting up and down the hills with nothing better than sandals on their feet. They run for the joy of it, but I’d guess running down those hills, gaining momentum and then lunging up the next is preferable to fighting gravity constantly on the decline.

Eneldine’s house didn’t appear too bad, but her parents told us it had been damaged in the earthquake and the hurricane worsened the issues.

I was so happy to see them!

And we got to see John Theodore on the way out.

His manman told us that they’d lost some clothes in the siklon, including John Theodore’s uniform shirt. She didn’t think he could come to school. We assured her, as we always will, that he should absolutely come. Uniforms are not important. Not to us.

We all trekked back to the car together, gathering a larger following the closer we got to the main road. We’d put two boxes of the Manna Packs in the Suzuki, and as soon as Pastor took one out, slitting the tape with his key, even more people came forward, holding out their hands and setting supplication in their voices.
Our intention had been to give food to our students’ families, but Pastor didn’t turn anyone away. He got out the second box after the first was depleted and continued to relinquish packs to the supplicants. That is my word: relinquish, give up, surrender. But if I were him I would have done the same—how can we deny food to the hungry?

As we drove back, Pastor finally closing the box and declaring the impromptu distribution finished, we discussed what had happened. I mentioned to him my caution: I know sometimes people ask for food so they can then sell the food and gain profit. But in saying those words I recognized my fault: so what? Any one we saw is likely to be in an at least semi-desperate situation, and whether they want the food to take home and immediately cook, or whether they want to be prepared for the coming days, or whether they want to whip up the batch of rice and then sell it from the street side, we have no right to deny them. Perhaps the money is more useful now than the food itself; perhaps money can be used to buy water, soap, pay a hospital bill or purchase a new roof.

So I finished by saying aloud, “I hope that the people who needed food most got some. I hope that it will be helpful.”

Pastor agreed. “Everybody need manje,” he said in his typical way. (Manje is the word for both food and eat in Creole, and Pastor always says manje, regardless of the language of the rest of the sentence.)

We returned to the house, me hopeful that our students’ families would get their allotment, and half-discouraged anew at the sheer magnitude of need all around us.

Pastor then became occupied with other things and I looked around for what the pressing priorities were. There’s always something to do.

Short while later and Madame Rose suggested we drive over to the school and assess the damage.

By “we” she meant Kiki, Jonas, and I. I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of driving through the hurricane-affected streets, but couldn’t deny her question “it’s a good idea?” Yes, it was.

So, we three took the Suzuki and slowly made our way to school.

I squeezed uncertainly past that downed tree with its hacked off trunk reaching out to pierce cars, then under the drooping electrical wire at the end of the road, and, with Kiki and Jonas helping as lookouts, we pulled out onto the main road and were away.

We were blessed with easy travels.

The gate was stubborn to open (as usual), and the courtyard was full of mango casualties (unusual), but otherwise the school was in praiseworthy good shape. The biggest issue was the second grade classroom upstairs. Through those lovely real windows with glass-panel openings, rain had lashed in and made a sizable pond on the floor. And (probably from clanging against the wall in the wind) the windows between classroom and hallways had broken, scattering glass over the floor. Both were difficult to remedy.

We started by sweeping and mopping downstairs, spreading out damp notebooks on the desks and benches. Nothing was really wet. A few posters had blown down and the ink had leeched away, but in the office and classrooms the great majority of papers and supplies had been sheltered. Praise God!

While I was sweeping the first grade classroom, littered with leaves, dried mud and small plaster debris, Madame Rose’s little brother JeanJean came inside.

He said he needed to take the Suzuki to go to Port and was leaving us his car.

I stared at him.

“Is your car a Standard? Because I can’t drive a Standard.” This is not exactly accurate but definitely safer than the alternative.

“Yes,” he said, then smiled and shook his head. “No it isn’t.”

Now I wasn’t sure what to believe.

So I fetched the key, him telling me to hurry, hurry, and he backed out the Suzuki, the 2014 Suzuki, and I pulled in his Suzuki—his 1990 something Suzuki. I got in the car, adjusted the seat, and then stared at the gear shift. There were no letters. I contemplated for a moment, then gestured to JeanJean. He complied, “I knew you would need me,” and went through the allotted spaces.

So then I started it up and pulled it into the vacant space, rueful.

This wasn’t the ideal vehicle by any means.

But it was Automatic and it was the same size as the other car, so managing it should be the same.

We continued cleaning.

Upstairs I stared at the glass, wondering what to do. Obviously picking up shards barehanded was a good way to wind up in the (less than sanitary) ER needing stitches (at least my Tetanus was up to date.)

I took a cloth from the office and wrapped it around my hand, picking up the pieces I could and putting them in the cardboard box trash can. It was serviceable for all but the littlest bits which needed sweeping, and the window with its jagged remnant.

Jonas found me trying to mop up the water, deemed it admirable but futile, and declared he’d sweep it out into the hall instead. He was right. The water was too deep for mopping with that skimpy yarn mop.

Kiki and I swept mango debris into a soggy pile in the courtyard and then we were ready to leave. Notebooks are drying, most of the glass is gone and all should be contained, every room has been swept and now we know—we again have been sheltered and blessed.

Driving home was adventurous. JeanJean’s car lacks the smoothness of Pastor’s Suzuki, and also the reliability. I noticed immediately the brakes are delayed, and on the second road when I had to brake quickly against an oncoming vehicle, the car died.

“Oh my goodness,” we all said, and I restarted the car. Yikes.

We laughed although I told them not to laugh because it was distracting.

And praise Jesus we got home safely.

Upon arriving at the house, Michama tells us that Marc Donald’s mama has called and said their house is really bad.

“You have to go there and take pictures,” she said.

Marc Donald apparently lives in the same area as Saloubens and Eneldine, where we went this morning, so I don’t know why we missed him.

I needed a break.

I washed up, we ate, and I considered that yes, Pastor had said he’d like to go out again tomorrow, but also those plans could (probably would) change, and we should not neglect this student. Especially as Madame Beverly had specifically said she wanted to know about Marc Donald’s house.

Blessedly, Madame Rose agreed that I should not drive there in JeanJean’s car.

“We need good machin,” she said.

Pastor and JeanJean were in Port au Prince, so we couldn’t expect them before evening, and Felix was visiting his house across the river, so for the moment we lacked transportation.

In the end, Felix drove us over to visit Marc Donald.

I laughed because when we called him he said he’d be coming home soon, which I knew could be anywhere from 10 minutes to two hours.

It was almost an hour and a half.

We took six Manna Packs in my backpack—no crowds this time—and set off, me extremely dubious because I didn’t know the house and neither did Felix.

Madame Rose was confident we would find it.

Okay.

We did, of course. Because once we entered the neighborhood, this time opting for the road rather than the narrow branch-infested trail, we were adopted by neighbors who led the way. One was Michama, a student at school; her father led us up the winding route, through yards, under clotheslines and over felled tin roofs and fences. Then we ducked through a gate and stood before the house.

Manman was there and she took us around to the back to show us the damage. Actually, the house doesn’t look bad. I was expecting wreckage—the splintered remains of a house tumbled flat. But the house was never good. Kay Marc Donald pa bon.

Manman showed us tarp over tarp over bits of a stone wall. Then Papa appeared and told us the needs. Beverly said we have people ready to help with construction, funds for building. I was to find out what is needed—a new roof, new walls, et cetera.

We need a new house, completely.

They need to build from scratch, a proper house with solid walls and roof. Fortunately, Papa says the land is theirs.

We need a house for eight people. Our cousins in Maine come from a family of eight children, two parents, various dogs, cats and horses.

Their beautiful house provides bedrooms, hallways, living rooms, kitchen, bathrooms, and a wide yard to comfortably accommodate that number. Here, a house for the same number of people is expected to be perhaps four rooms. Marc Donald’s family’s house is currently two rooms, filled with laundry lines and a bed on one side and cooking pots on the other.

Felix and Rose shake their heads.

I’m not sure what their expectations are, that family, but surely they’re not too high. Anyway, I gave the Manna Packs to Manman, reminding her not to wash the rice before cooking, and we took pictures of the family in front of the house.

Then we waved goodbye and two or three children alternatively clutched me as we made our way down the steep hairpin trail.

My entourage clung on onto the “main street,” and I called back to Felix, “I think you’re taking some children home!”

But Felix halted at the felled tree before the main road and said it was time to go on alone.

So we waved goodbye again and returned to the car.

Felix wanted to show me the clinic where he works once a week, just a short drive down the road. We passed more wreckage—fields of banana trees splintered and sagging, and lots of mud.

At one point we reached road reparation: they’ve apparently been using tractors to redistribute and arrange the dirt. Right now there are banks of earth and two clear lanes for two directions of traffic. Ours was flat and straight, the oncoming lane atop a bank. We drove into our lane to meet a taptap coming, packed with people and an aggressive driver.

We were at a stalemate. One of us would have to back up; there was no driving around.

But then another taptap pulled up behind Felix, sandwiching us between two overloaded vehicles with dirt banks on both sides, and untinted windows to reveal a very conspicuous blan in the front seat.

Felix’s face set in that serious, displeased way and I got worried. He wasn’t shouting but he wasn’t yielding either. I didn’t want a fight to start.

Fortunately, reason was on Felix’s side, and the driver in front of us eventually backed up, most reluctantly. The passengers sitting along the flatbed’s rim waved arms or fists at us, Felix calling through the window, “Wout sa pour mwen, mon frère. La pou ou. This road is for me, my brother. There is for you,” in a most rational tone.

The driver was not pleased.

I breathed out after we’d left the dirt lanes behind.

The clinic isn’t damaged, but the yard around it is full of downed branches and broken trees, like everywhere. It’s sad to see every time.

On the way back the sky was full of glorious, brilliant colors. I kept turning around in my seat to gaze through the back windows.

There is no shortage of remarkable sunrises and sunsets here. Every day God renders a miracle in the skies.

So it’s been another productive day. Full. Always things to do and people to see. I’m tired and dirty a lot, but it’s good. I’m glad I can be here and see and aid in any small way. After all, this is home now.