Ramblings: Sitting Through a Hurricane Was Never on my Bucket List: Hurricane Matthew visits Ti Goave, October 4 and 5 2016

12 A.M. 4 October 2016

Sitting through a hurricane was never on my bucket list.

Waking up through fits of dozing to a splash of rain or ferocious gust of wind slapping banana fronds against the window bars. If this wind was preying upon our New Hampshire home we’d pull the shutters over the double-paned windows, built to weather freezing, sleety winters. Here, in this capacious, breezy house, the full windows that bless us with light and air are four by four foot squares of screen behind iron grates. Previously I’d considered the grates as intruder-prevention. Now I see the prevention of debris: limbs, torn roofs and tumbled stone. In 150 mile per hour winds, I can’t fathom what may be wrenched free and whipped through the air. Praise God broken glass is not on the list of concerns. Not from my own windows at least.

Not sure what is a concern. The sea level’s what we’ve been watching all day. The first look this morning was of a gray ocean, rougher than usual but definitely docile for a hurricane’s path. Next look from a different vantage and time showed churning waves, swelling and crashing moody turquoise and steely blue on the charcoal sanded shore beneath white skies through which smoke colored clouds played tag. The sea was still quite calm, unthreatening, for the predicted tempest.

But we have little to fear from the sea, even if it does rise. Between us and the churning salt waters is not much land, true, but between us is a twenty-foot sea-wall, a border before that quarter-mile stretch. And around us is a two-storey concrete house stocked with food and water.

In the courtyard are several vehicles ready to take us inland, up the mountain to a friendly ministry, if that water level rises. Pastor has assured us we can go if we must. Of course, no one wants to leave.

Earlier today I packed a bag to grab lest we depart. As I collected toothbrush, soap, and prescriptions, I said to myself I didn’t want to go.

But my reluctance is mostly due to convenience. “Don’t you dare stay because it’s inconvenient to leave,” I then upbraided myself, praying God would keep my pride in check.

We’ve been praying for the storm to divert, of course. Please God, as you’ve done before, stem the tide and silence the winds. Bring calm to this place.

However, we’ve also prayed for protection. And right now, as the wind and rain continues, I pray for that continued shelter. For our loved ones, students and families. O Lord, shelter your children. Give them a dry place to lay their heads. Give them sturdy walls and a roof to hold against the wind. O, Father, get them free of the mud and coursing waters. Set the course of those waters around them—set your children on firm, dry, sturdy ROCK from which they will not be shaken. Lord, literally and physically be the foundation we need.

…

Father, let this be the worst and give us safe harbor. Shelter this country, buoyed by the prayers of your people. Let your name be glorified in this storm’s cessation. By your name, Lord, stop it.

Shield Haiti, shield Jamaica, take care of the Morses and family, of the Lopez’s family. O Father, keep us from harm.

…

Thank you for protecting your children through the earthquake—all these beautiful souls. Please protect them again. Keep Males and Anita safe, and safe-guard all the mountain dwellers from mudslides and wind damage.

Thank you most of all for the PROMISE that you are here, and should we live or die, we are with you—it is GAIN.

7:20 A.M. 4 October

Pastor and I were up before 4 looking. I was listening all night, dozing in fits, wearing earplugs against the increasingly tumultuous wind. Then Pastor knocked at my door around 3:30 and asked if I wanted to look. I nodded, dropping the earplugs into my pocket and followed him. It wasn’t bad at 4—windy and rainy but not bad. Pastor shined his powerful flashlight along the tree line, and at that point branches were swaying but nothing was broken. We looked out from the front balcony, then from the west window, then out the back windows, and then I returned to bed.

But perhaps around 5 it got fierce. Bad wind and rain. Roused from bed by the rage around 6:15. I got up and was dressing when Saintilus (our six-year old resident) came in. He said something about Beverly’s room and I remembered my responsibility to her belongings (she’d left for Port au Prince the day before as precaution, not wanting to be stranded in Ti Goave and miss her flight on Wednesday.) I finished dressing in an increased fervor then opened the door to Beverly’s room. Phano was already inside moving things. Those blessed windows were letting in blowing sheets of rain, soaking the floor and the things I’d neglected to move earlier. Fortunately, I had come in at midnight and turned up the mattress. Together, Phano and I shifted the bed further sideways and piled stuff against the shelves—the space farthest from the windows. We covered some things and the bed with the deflated air mattresses as we had no tarps.

We did the best we could and I prayed nothing was damaged irreparably. Then we shut the door and went downstairs. It was loud.

The house is always loud. But this time the greatest noise was the wind.

Just from the porch we could see broken branches. Actually, I’d noticed while dressing that the banana trees shielding my bedroom were gone—decimated by that wind.

After a short while Pastor and I went down to the ocean. The water is still low, thank God. But will it stay low? Despite the generator we can’t get on the internet, so I can’t see or give updates. The gorgeous giant mango tree at The Beach, the little resto-pub next to Pastor’s house, at the top of the sea wall, that gorgeous tree under which so many took shady repose, is kraze, broken. Half of it is spread through the yard, half of it still stands in mighty, broken glory.

Mangoes are down everywhere. Guess I didn’t notice the number of mango trees until I saw the amount of (sadly unripe) fruit on the ground. And those mango leaves are the ones that will blow into the house and pile up in puddles on the floor. Water is gushing down the gully (drainage ditch) at the roadside, but not overflowing.

I don’t know when an abatement is expected. No idea how long hurricanes usually last. I’m thinking of the neighbors, those on the ground, those in Chabanne, a neighborhood low down to the ocean, of Felix, who stayed the night at the hospital. Pastor is now sitting in the car listening to the radio for news. It’s pouring and blowing, I can see from where I’m standing in the doorway scribbling away with my red pen, still wearing the wet clothes in which we trekked down to the beach, scraping through the branches of a felled tree in the gateway of The Beach. I should probably change, but it seems futile. Surely I’ll just get wet again.

O please God, let this pass quickly. May this be the worst. Can’t get through on the phone to anyone. No communication possible.

Wednesday 5 October

Soon after writing yesterday I joined Pastor in the car to listen to the radio, and he tried calling with his phone. He was able to get through to Touttoute, who passed the phone to Beverly. They were staying at CLS in Port au Prince along with three other students and one teacher. She said they stayed up til 4 AM talking. That’s not unusual. The last time the boys visited they were up until 3 AM and then had to arise at 5:30 for church.

It was good to talk to Beverly, who said the weather in Port was nothing more than light wind and rain. After we talked, Pastor encouragingly rubbing my back, worried I was worried, we went inside for breakfast. Spaghetti and bread and peanut butter—typical breakfast fare.

Then I washed dishes. Later in the morning we drove out in the Patrol, the family and I. I got the front seat where I could take proper video and photos through the unshaded line in the tinted windshield, and Madame Rose, Michama and Lhens sat in the second row. We had to wait in the road for trees to be cleared. Jonas, Kiki and Viriel from the house were working with other men and machetes to hack away at the trees. They lopped off branches then, if necessary, commenced chopping up trunks into moveable pieces. We tailed them up the road to the last block, where one of the men persisted in assaulting the trunk with only one arm wielding a machete. I imagined how much easier this would be with a chainsaw. But the work was surprisingly quick. And they did it all in the driving wind and rain, Viriel without even a jacket, his white tshirt plastering to his torso, shorts and flipflops making me worry for his health. Goodness, they were all prone to get sick if they kept in those drenched clothes.

But after the last tree was shifted out of the way just enough to let a car pass by, threateningly close between wall and severed trunk, Jonas, Kiki, and Viriel opened the hatchback clambered dripping into the third row of seats.

We turned cautiously, as always, onto the main road, driving beneath a drooping electrical wire, and saw to the right a large tree blocking the whole street. Well, Felix wouldn’t be coming home from the hospital that way.

We turned left and I held my phone up to the windshield recording Ti Goave under siege. A surprising number of people were out, most of them on foot.

I wondered where they were going, but then considered that being out in the rain might be the better alternative. Slogging barefoot through puddles, embracing the wetness, was probably preferable to sitting at home, hunched up and lamenting every drip. There was nowhere they could go to be dry, so they might as well be wet and look around at other people being wet.

Soon we reached the Spectacle: the river. Our school is located on National Road, the road which connects East and West, the road we take to and from Port au Prince and on which many are uncomfortable driving. The bridge connecting the edge of Ti Goave with Tapion was gone.

You would never have known a bridge was there.

As we approached the river in the Patrol (Pastor’s impressive, deeply-tinted windowed, don’t mess with me vehicle), the number of people increased, and were more stationary. Clumps of folks in everything from appropriate brilliant yellow rain slickers to bare feet and tank tops were formed with their backs to us. I was recording video on my phone pressed close to the windshield, wondering what the hold-up was. Then I gasped.

“Oh, my,” I said, and stopped recording. For there was the river, or what was usually a river. Then it was a swirling, churning, frothing, rushing chocolate mass, unforgiving and so, so fast. It shouted death to anyone who might try to cross. That was my thought, anyway.

Once this summer while still living in Korea I was en route to a meeting and noticed pedestrians gazing down the street and gesturing. After a few steps I looked up and saw to what they pointed: a billowing column of black smoke against the sky. I immediately thought of 9/11, of bombs, of plane crashes, of disasters, and of my loved ones, somewhere in the city.

As it turned out, there was a fire in the empty building across from my destination. I stood in my appointed place with a mass of spectators, our heads tilted back to watch the orange flames and erupting smoke. No one was hurt (to my knowledge) as the building had been vacant for construction. Fire fighters were already hosing down the incendiary floors when I arrived.

But that ominous black cloud was one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen.

I immediately recalled it upon seeing the raging river.

It didn’t look like a river anymore. It was angry, fierce, monochromatic and destructive. As we stood at a (seemingly) safe distance on the embankment to take photos, the group near us suddenly jumped back shrieking. They felt (or thought they felt) the earth shift beneath their feet and feared collapsing into the waters below.

It was a legitimate fear.

We left soon afterwards, piling dripping back into the Patrol to splash homeward.

When we pulled up to the gate, however, I hopped out to quickly check on the ocean again. It was still contained, waters sullied but not pounding the wall.

Later after I’d wrung out my dripping clothes in the shower I laid down wrapped in my sheet, still mercifully dry. The wind was still raging outside, loud and disruptive, but considering how well we had withstood so far, I wasn’t really afraid.

However, seeing that river reaffirmed my concern for our neighbors, our students, and any not blessed with such a solid house as ours.

After I’d risen with Saintilus, who had taken to shadowing me after Beverly’s departure and frequently came into my room for no other purpose than to be held, the storm had lessened.

We went downstairs where the family was more or less gathered, outside door opened to lighter skies and wind. From there on, perhaps 2 PM, the storm came in spurts, but the wind and rain were no longer consistently tempestuous.

We stood on the roofed porch and watched light rains falling, smiled at Matthew’s departure, then retreated hastily when a downpour ensued and blew water into our faces.

At about 4 PM Felix and I drove out in the Suzuki, the automatic vehicle which Beverly and I drive, stopping for Kiki who closed the gate behind us. The sky was darkening as evening approached but the rain was light. However, I purposely put my soggy sneakers back on as I expected us to trod through puddles or at least be caught in another sudden downpour.

We went first to the hospital as Felix had to return a key—he said returning the key alleviated him of another night shift duty. We tailed him into the hospital (the same one to which we’d brought Jameson) and saw a couple of patients on those ER cots, in front of windows partially covered but surely not sufficient shelter against the rain.

I was glad the visit was brief. I don’t know if I could work there—I’d surely be overcome with frustration at the sheer lack.

We left the hospital and Felix took us on a cruise around town. It was encouraging; surely Ti Goave has been blessed by God’s sheltering hand.

Surely God listened to all those prayers sent up on our, and many on my own, behalf. Thank you, you faithful!

The market was completely deserted—of course. Folks were walking, dodging puddles and streams. We got closer to Chabanne and suddenly the road was gone—it was just water.

Cocoa colored and flowing swiftly, it obscured a three-way intersection and was coursing toward the ocean. A group of people stood in the middle directing traffic. I’m not sure if that was their sole purpose, or they also just needed some entertainment.

Felix sat for a moment contemplating, then drove forward.

I was for the first time afraid, at least highly nervous, afraid we would be stuck in the water or be swept off course by the flow. I remembered Luke saying to be aware.

“Lots of people come to a river or water in the road and say, ‘We can make it.’ For lots of people that’s the last thing they say,” he’d cautioned me on the phone—one of our conversations in which he advised me to leave Ti Goave but respected my choice to stay.

I didn’t want our last words, or at least the last words we said in that car, to be that we could make it through this flood.

I closed my eyes.

Fortunately, Felix isn’t foolhardy. (A good quality in a doctor.)

“Okay, Jesus,” I said, as Beverly has taught me. Kiki and Felix laughed.

We got out. Felix got advice on turning from those traffic directors in the middle of the deluge and we were neatly free of the water within two minutes.

“You don’t trust me. You don’t trust my driving,” Felix said.
“I trust you. I don’t trust the situation,” I answered as we drove up a flood-free street.

Felix stopped frequently to call through the window at friends, students, co-workers. Everyone responded favorably. The most common response was “byen, grace a Dieu,” and “n’ap swiv,” which, according to Felix, is an informal sort of “we’re just watching.”

We saw a large, tinted-window Patrol across the way. It was Pastor. We rolled down the window to greet him.

“Ah, I see you and say, ‘Somebody took my machin!’” He was out cruising the town on his own. He said the church was okay—no serious damage. We drove our separate ways again.

At one point we parked beside a giant tree. Felix spoke with some young ladies, one in a thick, furry hoodie, then we stepped out and ducked into an alley. At the end was another large tree, broken and atop rubble. There had been a house there; the tree had crushed it and killed a young boy.

Felix said they brought him to the hospital. I wondered how they would clean up the debris, packed in among other houses as it was.

We took pictures then ducked through doorways, dodging gutter water into a house. There was no electricity, no light, so my feet stumbled. We went upstairs into a bedroom where a young woman was sitting on a bed with her foot bandaged.

“My patient,” Felix said.

One of the household brought a flashlight so he could check her injury. By that time I’d gotten up my own flashlight app and could light the way for our feet on the way out.

We got back to the car and headed home, dusk falling. Already clean-up was underway, but it was still depressing to see so many broken trees.

I can’t help thinking about all the wasted bananas and mangoes. The light is changed all over with so many limbs and trees fallen.

We got back to the house and the generator was on. The girls were making popcorn and everyone was home and safe, if not wholly dry.

I was able to call Luke and my mom, staying on the line just long enough to say we were well, please pass on the message. No internet was available (still isn’t.)

We got our popcorn and laughed together. Pastor started a game of dominoes with Madame Rose and Lhens. Felix and I borrowed Beverly’s DVD case and watched Invictus.

After the movie we both went to bed. It was cool and quiet save for the occasional thunder.

This morning is similar. I don’t know if Beverly will be flying out today. It’s still raining and cool. There’s little wind and no thunder. Last night Pastor said the thunder and lightning portended the end of the hurricane. I wouldn’t know.

I feel wiped out—like the onset of a cold (grippe), and Saintilus, too. He’s sniffling and coughing.

After breakfast we’re supposed to head out and visit some students, bring them food. Hopefully there will be school tomorrow…some of our kids depend on school for a meal, not to mention they just need something to DO.

So maybe this week’s curriculum will just continue last week’s….

Beverly’s room is a mess. Mine is okay. There are many wet places in the house, and leaves are blown everywhere. The banana trees behind my room are gone.

But WOW, praise God we are OK. We are WELL. We are still residing in a secure, dry, comfortable house with plumbing and furniture and spare, dry clothes. We have food, water, and light. We have high-powered vehicles to take us about. We are blessed.

I pray today we can help share that blessing with others.

Later—

After breakfast we drove out near Chabanne to visit some students. We have a few students who live down there, dangerously close to the ocean which came in dangerously high.

Visiting that place wasn’t shocking to me – not after being down in the Ravine in Port au Prince, seeing those “camp” houses – but it’s still difficult to accept their reality.

This is the way people live.

They live in these shacks with tin roofs, tin and tarp walls, with dirt floors, with constant seepage and damp from sea and rain. They live with mosquito larvae in their water and sleep with an impossible number of people, crowding bed and floor alike.

Madame Rose is Haitian and she can’t accept it.

She shakes her head, says, “Wow.”

It’s a harsh reality.

But a blessed one.

We stood and peered into one house right at the water’s edge. It wasn’t that way before the siklon. Before it was a risky but (apparently) acceptable distance from the shoreline. Now, it’s half consumed.

Manman told the story that she woke up in the night to hear the sea, grabbed the children and rushed from the house.

Later, perhaps just minutes later, the sea moved in, swallowing earth from underneath and collapsing the rusted tin wall.

It’s a shame about the house, but it’s more of a blessing to hear this story from the inhabitants—they are still here to talk about it.

We passed out some Manna Pack rice (thank you, Feed My Starving Children!) and dutifully took photos of the downed trees, semi-collapsed house, and the ever-smiling children, with reddish (malnutritioned) hair and questionable sandals. When we arrived two of the little girls were trying to bathe, ducking partially out of sight to splash their partially clothed bodies.

We saw three of the four students, ones I unfortunately don’t know well being mostly confined to the second grade class. In the next few days we should go out more. It was good to see the kids eating when we arrived, but it’s better to know they have those Manna Packs, too. School won’t start again until Monday (and then if there’s no rain!)

(to be continued...)