The Tomato is Red

It’s 2 pm on a Monday afternoon. I’m in a small bedroom in a rundown house in a lawless city in a broken country. I don’t know why I’m here.

I’ve been in Port-au-Prince since Thursday night when I arrived on the last flight from Atlanta. Gena from Ireland and Norma from Argentina came to collect me from the airport. Annette from Sweden took charge of me when I arrived. I was shocked that first night. Shocked at the accommodation – such a basic bedroom, such a fortress feel, with an armed guard at the entrance and keys to every door and gate, keys that I can never let out of my sight or give to anyone for fear that they’ll rob me in the night. Or worse.

I fell into my little room with two overstuffed suitcases, all stunned and stumbling. I couldn’t make the light work and I didn’t want to disturb anyone so I went to bed in the dark, distressed because I couldn’t see to unpack or put up the mosquito net that I had gone to such great lengths to procure.

I was excited getting up on Friday, despite the 4.30 am start, despite the lack of hot water to shower in. I was looking forward to seeing where I’d be working and meeting the people I’d be working with. The driver came to collect us and we mini-bus-meandered through the city, climbing at times and stopping off to collect various, random staff members; the butcher, the baker, the candlestick- maker, or so it seemed. The city was alive at that early hour; colourful, loud, dusty. I was drinking it in, delighted to be in such an exotic environment, thinking about the photos I’d take of all the sights with my new camera, like the queues of elegantly-attired locals waiting for visas at the American Embassy; such surprising sunrise style.

We arrived at Tabarre, the NPH centre where I’ll be based; more guards, more gates. We went straight to morning Mass at the neighbouring hospital. I was warned to expect corpses in body bags laid out on the floor. There were none that day; no patients had passed away. It was a beautiful service. I was welcomed by the friendly Mexican priest Hugo, the singing was soothing and I left feeling happy and serene.

My working day is 7 am to 2 pm. There was a bad start. About 80 special needs children attend the school at Tabarre. I know some of their faces from the NPH page on Facebook. Their smiles are the reason that I left one life behind and flew 4,000 miles to start another. At first they were all kisses and hugs and shouts of ‘nouvo’ and ‘blan’ which was fair enough; I am new and very white too. Then one child sank his teeth into my arm and I froze. Haitians speak Creole. I have a few words but not the one I needed in that precise moment; stop!

I tried not to panic. There was no broken skin so I cleaned my arm and retreated to my cool, air-conditioned office to read some files on my desk. One of them mentioned the prevalence of HIV among NPH beneficiaries. I stopped pretending I wasn’t panicking. I texted all the work colleagues whose numbers I had to express my panic as politely as possible. They reassured me but I wasn’t convinced. ‘Tis a rough welcome’, Gena replied and that summed it up. It was just one little boy’s exuberance but I felt rejected, assaulted and woefully out of my depth.

I stood to observe a school lesson and learned my first Creole phrase; tomat la se wouj – the tomato is red. Tomato talk won’t get me too far in a crisis but it’s a start. I joined the other volunteers for lunch and there was goat stew on the menu. I couldn’t do it. Goat is something I’ll have to build up to, not a day-one-delicacy. I was insulting the cook and my hosts. It felt like another tiny failure on my part and they were starting to accumulate.

Then it was home to a weekend of lockdown and hurricane talk. There is a great feeling of unrest on the streets of Port-au-Prince at the moment. Elections are coming next weekend. In the meantime, there is no government, no proper state machinery, no stability. Crime is at a high because poverty and hunger are also peaking. Most Haitians survive on less than $2 a day. I spent ten times that on a quick food shop that filled a small basket.

So we can’t stir outside the curtilage of this house. There are about fifty steps between my bedroom door and the front gate. That’s my radius of activity for now because Hurricane Matthew is coming, so there’ll be no work for a few days. Matthew’s slow-moving centre is expected to hit Haiti tonight. Poor Haiti – as if it hasn’t suffered enough. Poor me too – clearing the yard of all potentially air-borne missiles on day three of my big adventure. Plant pots, rat traps; they’re all under cover now.

If any or all of this seems self-pitying, I apologise. I’m lucky in lots of ways. Unlike many of my 2.6 million new neighbours in this sprawling city, I have secure accommodation, a reliable food supply and enough money to get by. My work colleagues have been gracious and helpful and every Haitian I’ve met has been beautiful, curious, courteous and kind. I thought twice about sharing any of this because I don’t want to seem ungrateful or reflect badly on anyone. If I’m struggling, it’s because I’ve been naïve, not because anyone failed to warn me what was ahead. I need to be honest though and I need support from home until I find my feet in this truly chaotic country.

I’m reading “The Big Truck That Went By – How the World Came to Save Haiti and Left Behind a Disaster” by Jonathan M. Katz. He says, “Most foreigners arrived with good intentions: to help the poorest people in the hemisphere, people who could never seem to catch a break”. I recognise myself in that sentence and I’m wondering if good intentions are ever enough. For now, I’m just thankful to Jesus that one thing is the same in Haiti as it is at home; tomatoes are red wherever you go. Otherwise, and especially until the hurricane passes, all bets are off.

Relaxing in the courtyard on Saturday.

I sent this photo to my family to prove I was well.

The mosquito net finally goes up.

Using the quiet time to learn Haitian Creole. The word for stop is rete. Better late than never.