Haiti In Retrospect

As the van taking me to the airport pulled out of Deschapelles, tenderly making its way over speed bumps, I was fully aware that I had left a part of me in that oasis of fertile land, lush gardens, genuine people, and splendidly contrasting realities. What I learned, most evident and pertinent in my stories and writing, ultimately dropped me in a room, mirrors on all sides, reflecting the complex truths and realities of the world, applicable to my every day life. These reflections were not foreign, though, for I had seen them in Deschapelles; in Hopital Albert Schweitzer.

It would be a shame, though, to portray the hospital as a place in which everything is wonderful, for one cannot ignore the suffering that is endured by the patients old and young, passing away and being born. This struggle, an outstretched hand grasping for what life may linger within reach, is the most essential reality, and in many ways the most relatable one, for it is universal. Not only does this struggle impress, it provides a foundation for the things that are done in the hospital to help those in need.

In watching doctors, nurses, and family members working to bring patients back to health, I began to realize how important communication is to a community, regardless of its size. Watching these interactions occur every day made me reflect upon the lack of face-to-face communication in the United States. Advances in technology (Facebook, Cell Phones) have allowed us to talk through inaudible mediums such as the chat box or the text message, and from what I have observed, these forms of communication simply will not suffice if we are trying to strengthen, heal, build, or maintain a community. In fact, an excessive amount of virtual communication results in what I would unofficially describe as ‘Real-Time Communication Potential Deficiency.’ Some of us begin to lose the ability to interact with and speak to one another genuinely and articulately. This realization sparked my interest in a young patient of about 19 who spoke English extremely well. He was an amputee, and I had seen him in the surgery ward a couple days earlier, but never had any conversation. I decided it was important to make a connection while in Haiti, and knowing his passion for literature and English, I befriended him. For a couple days, he would teach me French as I taught him English, and what came of that communication is something I won’t ever forget, for it was fortifying and comforting, free of pretensions altogether.

The determination and commitment with which those involved with the hospital conduct themselves can be explained by one fundamental philosophy, a phrase coined by Albert Schweitzer himself, which is “Reverence For Life.” These words are embedded in more than just the hospital entrance, for they are evident in those who enter and leave HAS every day: Doctors, nurses, patients, and, as I like to believe, visitors.

Patient Connection

As I strolled through the surgery ward yesterday afternoon, I peered around each corner cautiously, dreading that I might involuntarily spot an unwrapped amputee. By the time I reached the third room, occupied by about 5 patients, I found who I'd been looking for. He is a young man, about twenty, and an amputee victim; wrapped. I am unsure how lost two thirds of his right leg, but I didn't ask: the cause of his injury was not the subject of my visit. He greeted me with excitement, upright in his bed, English literature scattered at his side. His English is immaculate, especially in grammar and conjugation, two of the most difficult aspects of the language.
"Did you finish them all?"
"Yes, of course."
I should have known. They were apples eaten to the core, tossed aside, and he was anxious for more.
"Do you know of Edward Abbey?"
"No, I do not."
I brought with me Desert Solitaire, an all-time favorite of mine, and I figured he would appreciate an author who could bring to him, in beautiful clarity, a foreign desert landscape and make it feel like home. An author who, in the book, lived his life in ways that parallel a Haitian mindset: abandon and reserve; freedom and self-governance.
"Thank you, thank you very much." He expressed an eagerness to bite into a fresh apple, from which I knew the book wouldn't last more than 24 hours before the hunger returned. "I will help you with your French if you help me with my English," he suggests.
"Sounds great, I will come back in a couple of hours."
"Okay, thank you, this will be good for both of us," he confirmed. His tone was always confident, strong, and affirmative.
Walking away, I smiled and shook my head, still struck by the unyielding dedication to growth and knowledge that the young man exhibited, his limited financial support and resources notwithstanding. I returned to my computer, determined to prove to myself that I, too, could be motivated as he was: foolish. After an hour of struggling with my own level of commitment to growth, I walked leisurely back through the hospital doors, where a sign reads, in French, "Reverence Pour La Vie," or "Reverence for Life." That young man, I thought, showed a reverence for life in his exuberance and willingness to learn. I am comforted and reassured by this sign, for I know that such reverence is not by any means, quantifiable. One either has it or does not, and although I am at a loss to explain exactly what reverence for life means, when someone who possesses it comes about, there is no question.
"How's the book?"
"Juicy."

Day 4 - March 1st

This morning started out with a delightful breakfast of the Haitian version of Froot Loops cereal along with an array of real fruit and buttered toast. The juice we typically have at breakfast is squeezed from a fruit that is the hybrid cross of an orange and a lemon. This cross is a complex process carried out by the expert gardener, Levy, a towering 6' 5", delightful Haitian man. After an early breakfast, Uncle Ian and I picked up a young Haitian woman interested in the youth malnutrition project in and around Deschapelles along with a high school student, Stephanie. The experienced driver, Lionel, guided us up to the dispensary in Tienne, navigating the ill-maintained mountain roads with expertise and carefulness.

One of the most prevalent health issues in haiti is the malnourishment of children, especially in mountain villages such as Tienne. Malnourishment results in stunted growth that will affect the child for the rest of their life. Many older people, even to the age of 70, are far underweight partly because of the malnourishment they received as a child, which is evident in 120-pound grown men.

Not only is a lack of necessary nutrients an issue, but the level difficulty to access clean water is extremely high, initiating a distribution of purifying tablets to each dispensary. These tablets are intended to reach the households, encouraging the consumption of completely clean water among all communities.

One household we visited had a child who was unable to walk or stand for an extended period of time due to a developmental illness, attributed in this situation to genetics. Illness aside, it was apparent that this family was determined to provide for the child everything it needed, even if that meant that each individual would end up sacrificing a portion of the minimal resources they possessed. This willingness to ensure the well-being of family despite the lack of resources is an intangible value that holds true throughout families in Haiti. Another family we visited along the way had two parents, neither of which had attended school, and two children, both of whom were attending school. The mother spoke about her determination to provide her children with what she never had, an act worthy of some consistency in life. Unfortunately, impoverished Haitians do not receive consistency and assuredness in life most of the time, and still the spirit to move forward and provide consistency for each other remains, giving hope to communities like Tienne.

The Hospital

Hôpital Albert Schweitzer is a powerful, moving place in which one can see clear examples of both immense suffering and great triumph. The first clinical ward that one comes across when entering the hospital has patients suffering from many different ailments, from broken legs to viral infections. All the patients in the hospital are seriously ill or need surgical attention, as my uncle explained to me. This is largely because before being admitted to the hospital, a patient must have a referral from a physician, which can be obtained at any of the four dispensaries (smaller clinics) in the surrounding area. These dispensaries are equipped with the necessary materials and physicians to treat many ailments and some of them can hold births. For an uplifting experience, one is advised to visit the "Hanger"clinic. Hanger is a prosthetic and orthotic company in the United States that has launched missions in many developing nations, one of which is Haiti. There are quite a few amputee patients in Haiti, either because of the earthquake or common motorcycle accidents. The technicians at the Hanger clinic provide every patient that comes in with a new prosthetic limb, after which the patients undergo physical therapy to get used to their new component. Behind the Hanger clinic, my cousin Nicolas, runs an arts program for the handicapped and youth; a collaborative effort that creates a safe place for younger people and patients to spend time together. This aspect of Deschapelles is a truly special, encouraging process to see.

Day 1 - February 26th

Arrive in Port au Prince

Drive to Deschapelles

I left Miami this morning at 7:45 as my mom headed back to Durango. The plane landed at around 10:00 A.M. in the Port au Prince airport, or, the “Toussaint L’ouverture Aeroport International.” Note: Toussaint L'ouverture was a Haitian war hero who led the revolution against the British invasion and established Haitian independence in the 1790s. He is well known for his tactical genius. After sailing right through customs, I retrieved a cart for my bags at the modest charge of $2. However, I made a naïve mistake in that I left the cart unattended in an effort to squeeze through the dense crowd to my baggage, looking a fool for my hastiness. After an unsuccessful attempt, I returned to find that the cart had been taken. It was indeed a rookie mistake. Or a senior mistake (I have visited 3 times previously). I purchased another cart, making sure this time around to keep it close to me. One aspect of travel in Haiti that I did recall was the overwhelming number of Haitian men standing just outside the airport, desperate to help me carry my bags in search of a meager tip. My mom had told me to make it clear whom I had “hired” to aid me. With a definitive nod of the head to a man in a plaid collared shirt, I sifted through my pocket for two dollars. Apparently, though, it takes two different men  - granted, the uniforms were the same – to escort me fifty meters to my ride. Thus, twenty minutes and I had strayed far from my plans of frugality, dolling out fifteen dollars. 

“Do you have a tip for me?” the first man asked.

I reached into my pocket and handed him the two dollars I had purposely placed in my right front pocket separate from the other cash I had so as to expedite the tipping process and to avoid any potential awkwardness. With my Uncle Ian (Ian Rawson, director of Hôpital Albert Schweitzer) in sight, the second helper held up five fingers, letting me know the tip he desired. I knew his estimate was about 225% too expensive, but bargaining would have been foolish at the time. I greeted Uncle Ian and he led me to an official Hospital car and we exchanged chatter about the immediately evident devastation of the earthquake in the form of a hobbling, one-legged man or the faint, distant view of the collapsed presidential palace. The spirit, though, in Haiti, is one that makes many people reluctant to speak of past tragedies with sadness. Uncle Ian explains to me the mindset of the Haitian people that focuses on what positives came about because of the tragedy, and the same mindset that continues to look in a forward direction.

We visited an elegant hotel on the southern end of Port au Prince to pick up an Irish architect, Ray Ryan, who was fascinated by the design of both the Hospital and our family house in Deschapelles. We dashed through the congested streets of downtown Port au Prince, engaging in a "mechanical ballet," as Mr. Ryan described it, with every other spectacularly colorful vehicle on the roads. One would be hard-pressed to find a stop sign or traffic light in Haiti, and nearly every road lacks a median or at least a lane divider. Oddly enough, in fact, there are few automobile accidents that occur, Ian informed me. Motorcycles are a different story altogether. Thankfully, we made good time getting out of Port au Prince, unfortunately at the expense of my sense of safety and security.

We climbed up a mountain pass, which is dwarfed in size by Coloradan passes but dramatic in its own right. We were outside the city a solid thirty miles when we began to see small groups of people meandering down the arid mountainside. They had no urgency in their step, yet there travels were obviously not purposeless. A small vendor sold goats, as they lay dead, roped to the man’s cart. At first, I was surprised and disturbed by the sight, but it was evident to me that such a sight was a Haitian commonality. We reached the top of the pass and began our descent into the Artibonite valley, a more fertile area of Haiti. Two more hours left us pulling into our family house, Kay Mellon; Mellon being the surname of my great-grandfather, Larry, who founded the hospital. Recalling past trips, I headed directly toward the refrigerator where, as expected, an ice-cold Coca-Cola awaited me. I grabbed it promptly and placed my feet up on the ottoman as I sat on the rocker overlooking the valley.

Uncle Ian, asks, “Shall we head up to the hospital?”

“Surely.”

To Be Continued.