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.
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