Creole – believeinthelightblog

Hurricane Matthew took his sweet time to hit Haiti, twisting and turning, strengthening and slackening. First he’s a force five kind of fellow, then he’s more like a four. First his terrible temper explodes, then his random rage subsides. First he’s travelling alone, then he has female company. He picks up Tropical Storm Nicole and they carouse through the Caribbean on a riotous first date.

My hurricane education was quick and immersive. I could give anyone a run for their money on the Saffir-Simpson wind scale now. The forecasts for Haiti were dreadful; a direct hit, biblical rains, 140-mph winds, infrastructural damage and massive loss of life. In the end and in our safe suburb, Hurricane Matthew was all talk. There were heavy rains and strong winds but nothing worse than I’ve experienced at home. This was not the case in parts of the north and south; Matthew was merciless there.

So, I learned more than I ever wanted to know about the weather and I also learned who I am in a hurricane; frightened and singing my own song to soothe myself in the form of my very first blog post. After five days on lockdown, I went back to work on Thursday feeling totally triumphant. I survived a hurricane! My friends and family helped me to survive a hurricane!

But a terrible thing happened on Thursday night. When I first arrived, my boss Gena from Mayo warned me that I would hear gunshot in the streets occasionally. She said, “Sometimes ripe mangoes drop from the trees and it sounds like gunshot. Don’t confuse the two”. I asked, “Why are there gunshots? Do people just discharge their firearms?” I was thinking of celebratory gunfire at Indian weddings. Oh, the innocence. Oh, the fresh-off-the-plane, long-gone innocence.

I go to bed early here, usually around 8 pm. I was lying in bed making a mental list of all the things I had to do the next morning. My housemate was going overseas and I had to move to another location because I’m not allowed to stay on my own without the means to communicate in an emergency; another reason to fast forward the Creole lessons. I was thinking, ‘Clear the fridge, remove the rubbish, take your clothes off the washing line, don’t forget your medication’ when I heard a woman shouting outside. I may not speak Creole but distress leaps language barriers. She repeated the same word over and over; it sounded like army! army! Two gunshots. Silence.

The dogs started to howl. I went to the window where I could smell gunpowder. Whatever had just unfolded, happened very close by. Surely the police would come now and an ambulance for anyone who was injured. Sirens sound all day long here but not when you need them. No vehicles arrived. I felt sick.

There was a locked gate and an armed security guard between me and the possible scene of a crime but my first concern was for my own safety. I’m ashamed of that and it added to the trauma of the experience later. I thought about going out to investigate but I can’t even express how ungoverned this city is, how cheap life is here. There’s no gun regulation, no police presence that I’ve seen; you can get shot for taking a wrong turn in traffic. So I lay in bed, grasping at straws, thinking, ‘Maybe I misinterpreted the situation. Maybe the lady was just drunk and the shots were fired by hooligans’. I couldn’t convince myself so I picked up my Creole dictionary and switched on the light.

There was ame, meaning armed. That could have been it; a shouted warning about an approaching gunman. Then I opened the page that I already knew contained the answer; anmwe, meaning help. Jesus Christ. Somebody screamed for help and nobody came to her aid. And I was one of the faceless, pitiless nobodies.

It was the last straw. The very last straw in an ever-expanding bale. The last time I cursed on the internet, I regretted it straight away and apologised afterwards. Not this time. I thought, ‘This fucking godforsaken country with its hurricanes and mosquitoes and hot sun and cold showers and casual shootings and complete ANARCHY. I fucking hate it and I’m not safe and I’m going home’.

I cried all morning after a very bad night’s sleep. I cried when I woke up and I cried in the shower. I cried behind our huge metal gate as I waited for the bus and messaged my sisters. I tried to be understated but sisters know the international code for SOS; it’s ‘I don’t want to worry you, but …’ I cried on the bus and I cried in my office. I wondered if I could get a transfer to NPH in the Dominican Republic, just across the border. Maybe people didn’t shoot each other in the streets there. Asking me to work that day was like saying, ‘Just step into this giant kiln and do a whole new job there now. In a language you don’t know. After a shooting’.

Then a WhatsApp from Gena, ‘Will come find you in a while. So sorry this is your intro to Haiti. Things will get better. I promise’. More tears and some snots. Gena came to find me and walked me to St. Damien Hospital, just a short distance away. It’s the only free paediatric hospital in the country. They’re bracing themselves for an outbreak of cholera there now; Matthew’s poisonous parting gift.

Gena’s been here for more than twenty years and everyone knows her. I felt like I was trailing a roaming bishop as people stopped to chat, share hurricane stories and get advice on the pressing issues of the day. She took me to visit a sick girl from her orphanage and discussed taking an abandoned child back home with her; some children spend months in the hospital, unclaimed. She had a laugh with every child we met. It was my first real reminder of why I’m here.

We returned to the office and outside, on a piece of playground equipment, we had a heart to heart. Gena said, ‘This right here, this is the shittiness. The first month is awful for everyone’. She promised to ask a local girl to help me with my language studies. She called a driver to bring me to the shop, where I spent €13 on the strongest mosquito repellent I could find, one for forests and swamps. It’s going to be an expensive habit but I’d spend my whole stipend to keep them at bay. The day ended with ice-cream and dulche de leche at a communal table with Spanish, English and Creole flying. In post-hurricane Haiti that felt like an outrageous treat.

So, I have no idea what actually happened on the street that night but please pray for all the anonymous souls in this city, living tough and sometimes brutal lives. I hope I just fashioned something from nothing here. I wish I never learned the Creole word for help.

I repeat two of the other words I’ve learned to myself, over and over. Ou kapab! You can do it! One week of the shittiness has been endured and I just might survive another. Today I can’t promise anyone here or back home a single other thing.

Bad bites, innit?

The scene of the heart-to-heart. Every meeting should take place on a Sway Fun.

Off I tells you! Off!

The sun sets on the day that started badly but ended well.

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.