July 2012 First Three Days

This is the short side of the property which is on the beach.

They stole the string,” Jim pauses to let his words take effect.  “I don’t get it, I say, fingering a string of mango caught in my teeth.

      The day before, day two, he and Jasmine, the founder of the orphanage were able to identify the four corners of the 13 acre new property and stake out the wall and where the gate would go. Samaritan’s purse was working on the road as agreed and said they will help dig the footer for the security wall which was a mood lifter for Jim.

      Jim had hammered in the stakes and strung 3000 feet of string for the bulldozer to follow. I look at Jim incredulous.  He couldn’t mean what I thought he meant.

      He looks at me with a mixture of amusement and exasperation adding.  “Sadly some people thought they needed the string more than we did and took it right off the stakes in the night. The night watchman was there.”Does anything ever change in Haiti?

Just a few of the kids eating at Jasmine’s.

      Jasmine (story at the bottom of our website), is founder of an orphanage which is little more than a jumble of wood frame buildings arranged haphazardly in the dirt surrounded by a block wall topped with a foot of curled barbed wire.  The buildings, bleached and weathered two years after the earthquake are connected by 4 ft. strips of plywood that rattle when you walk, but keep your feet out of the mud in rainy season. The orphanage has been the victim of theft, stones hurled over the wall, and other indecencies too numerous to mention here. 

      There are 52 children, from babies to teenagers.  Jasmine’s husband Greg is currently in the US taking care of business so Jasmine and a staff of 11 Haitian women, care for the children.

      There is always a horde of volunteers at Jasmine’s.  There are about 25 now, mostly college girls cuddling and cooing at the babies, teasing and laughing with the older ones.  Most have hair stretched back severely and look drained from the unrelenting heat and humidity.  Youth triumphs, however: and there is still a lot of good humor all round.

       I sit in a square covered area with four benches that face each other.  I notice one small boy, face deformed from a birth defect wandering among the others, longing for attention.  A sunburned volunteer scratching her bites utters with a sigh that most of the children have small boils on their heads in spite of frequent baths.  I see what looks like a fungus that has cleared a patch of hair from a shiny black scalp on the baby she is cuddling.

       Most of these children are not orphans as Webster defines it, which was upsetting to me when I learned of it our first year working in Haiti.  Mothers give away their children because they simply don’t want them, perhaps can’t feed them, or prefer not to keep one that has a defect of some kind.  Orphanages have become an institution in Haiti, relieving parents of their responsibilities.  Adoption is a long drawn out legal process, but 30 are in the process at Jasmine’s orphanage.  She has the required license.  The Haitian government prefers this way over private adoption which is far more difficult.  It is a way for them to collect more money.

Back to arrival day.

 I sit on that plane with dread weighing on my chest like a cannonball waiting to be launched.  How many times have we done this?

      From my window, the terminal shimmers in the heat.  I give my packaged plane food to the graying Haitian lady seated next to me.  Earlier, she spills milk on her paperwork.  She and I blot it up with our napkins trying to salvage her customs form.  She cannot read or write so she must be helped with her forms.

       I pull my hair up into a ragged knot preparing for the heat, dreading the hustling, the shuffle of bodies, and the mad dash for luggage. 

       We file off the plane, walking a long corridor to customs.  I make a beeline to the bathroom through crowds of first timer volunteers, beaming with their high hopes, chattering to each other excitedly, decked in their matching t-shirts. I envy their enthusiasm and breathe a prayer asking God to give me the joy of a first timer.  I sit leaning on the wall on the first suitcase Jim pulls from the gyrating black conveyor belt.  My arm is asleep from the backpack slung over my arm and my knees hurt.

       One by one, Jim locates each piece of luggage, which I guard expertly, sweeping my eyes from side to side, trying to look like someone a thief would be afraid to tangle with.

        With luggage stacked around my feet, Jim negotiates with a policeman for one porter to pull two suitcases.  We will get the rest.  Negotiations complete, we have procured a porter with a wide white smile, merry eyes and a stiffly pressed shirt.  He grabs the two largest, pulling them behind us.  Jim and I lug two 50-pound cases heavy with food and tools, our carryon’s stacked on top and backpacks slung over our shoulders.

       Indian UN workers roam among the crowds with their weapons, some affecting a swagger as they keep the peace.  I wonder how they would walk without a weapon.  Many Haitians blame the Indians for the cholera attacks.

       Through the gate, Jim presses some bills into our porter’s eager hands and for once there is no arguing, just smiles all round.  It has been a relatively easy arrival.  They have made some improvements at the airport.  My mood is improving.

       We look hopefully for our driver, who is nowhere in sight.  Jim seats me on a low piece of filthy concrete on a flyer I find buried in the dirt.  Haitians press around him, offering assistance, encouraged by the prior exchange of bills.  I swat at flies and strike up a conversation with a narrow jawed man with a shiny pate, sallow skin, eyes rimmed in red.  His nose dips sympathetically toward his chin.  He is dressed in a dirty blue shirt and wrinkled khaki pants.  He gestures wildly using smatterings of Spanish, Creole, French and English, making a valiant effort to converse with me.   I manage to decipher that his car has broken down and he is waiting for a mechanic.  I nod with genuine sympathy. “ Lo Siento,” I utter.

       Two hours later, our driver appears.  He left the Haitian Queen at 12:30, ample time to make the airport run.  I suspect he took care of a little personal business on the way.  Jim grabs my hand and I pull myself to my feet, an exploit not as easy as it used to be.

       We drive through the bowels of Port Au Prince through a haze of dust, the same old sewage, tin shacks and men relieving themselves by the road in plain view.  The driver makes his usual financial appeal, to finish his house, he says.  He is one of the lucky ones, with a good job, volunteers that lend him a hand, a continual recipient of lumber and supplies.  I guess it never hurts to seed the clouds, a Haitian pastime.

       Smoke spews from trucks, cars and motorbikes, the traffic a gnarled, honking morass. Jim remarks that things have improved.  I crane my neck eagerly inquiring, “Where?”  I do agree with him though.  On the radio, a sportscaster shouts play by play a soccer game in French.

      After reunions at the Haitian Queen, we eat, push our luggage under wood bunk beds, tie up the mosquito nets and make the beds.  The cold shower feels welcome especially with the new shower head that I brought with me than takes weak pressure and makes it feel like more.  We fall into bed, only to toss and turn most the night.

First day…

         We eat a can of tuna with instant coffee, don hats and walk the mud road to the clinic to check on the large orange truck, our allotted vehicle and we need it ASAP at Jasmine’s orphanage.  Parked in high grass, it is covered in cobwebs which we beat off the doors and windows with a stick and pull open the doors.  The engine roars to life, but the brake pedal is flat on the floor.  The morning air hangs still and heavy as we trudge back to the house in quest of another vehicle.  It feels as if the earth is boiling underfoot.

Assembly line to bring metal through the wall and onto the property to stack.

Jim last on the line and the stacker.

       At the current orphanage, there is an urgent need to transport the metal framework for 27 bldgs. from the property next door to Jasmine’s property.  It will save a $700 charge for storage.  She plans to have us load the truck multiple times and unload inside the wall onto the orphanage property.  Since we have no truck, Jim suggests making a 2-foot square hole in the wall, pass the materials through to her property, form an assembly line of volunteers to pass each piece along and then Jim will stack in piles.  Everyone loves this idea since it will save time and energy and the wall will be easy to repair.  It takes about four hours.

Roadwork that keeps us detouring.

       Jasmine joins us as we drive over to the new property, on roads that seem like a maze.  Deep trenches are being dug on each side of the narrow roads leaving a sliver down the center for dump trucks of gravel to be unloaded.  We drive in and then back out of road after road, trial and error,  negotiating numerous dead ends filled with potholes, water and mud,.  We finally arrive at the site.  I ask Jim if he will remember the way tomorrow.

       The property is almost devoid of trees but has a fine view of the beach. (see top picture) The coastline is a mixture of the sublime and the wretched but the view is breathtaking from a distance.  The property is a long rectangle with the short side on the beach.  We walk the property, about 13 acres and chat with the bulldozer operator who has started the access road.  The property, formerly gardened is covered in trenches that will have to be leveled with a bulldozer.

Tractor and heavy equipment operator from Samaritan’s Purse

       Jasmine explains to Jim what she wants and where the security wall should be placed.  The pitiless sun rises to its zenith.  We are running short of water and head back for lunch.

       Next morning, I awake to the crowing of roosters and Haitian’s shouting over the fence, laughing uproariously over some inside joke.  There is a violent shift from shadow to light as the day begins.  I roll off my damp sheets, pad to the kitchen, fill the kettle and heat water for coffee.

Jim stretching the string between stakes for the footers to be dug
for the third time.

        The day pans out much as the one before with much accomplished and string stretched again from the stakes for the wall.  Heading back to headquarters, Jim accidentally hits a dog that runs in front of him.   Haitian’s drive with total disregard for the reality of death.  You have to drive the same in self-defense if you dare to drive at all.  Generally, dogs are not domestic in Haiti, but are small feral looking mongrels, with pointed snouts, all ribs and yellow eyes.  They are not wild, but don’t elicit much regard among Haitians.  Still, you don’t stop on the road in Leogane when something like this happens, lest a stoning or some unsolicited third world development occurs.

       Jim is rolling out more string from his stakes that were also pulled out during the night for the rest of the footer trench.

Standing on the new road into the orphanage on the property.

       We have settled into a rhythm and each day seems filled with hope and sometimes despair, but overall things are going well.  Below you can see that by Day 12, the road is in, the footer is 2/3 dug.

       Next week 20 trucks of cement, 20 of Gravel, and 3 trucks of sand will be ordered for the wall, also 3 of each for the columns.

Mario who broke his foot when his
motorcycle overturned.  He is from
Cartagena, Columbia and is staff.

 Every day is a series of events such as Mario, house staff from Cartagena, Columbia breaking his foot on Sunday when the motorcycle falls on it, vehicles stranded, a lady failing to give us change and me losing it completely…the frustrations piling up…the daily hurdles magnified by the heat, but some victories too, including attitude adjustments orchestrated by GOD.  

Jim loading everything to take back for the night so it won’t be stolen.

Off the Bed and Out of the House

I sit low in the car and stare through the Florida haze. face taut with strain. I open the door a crack, lift my legs with my hands and pivot. My hands grip the top of the door; knuckles white and hoist myself up. My breath is ragged as if I’ve been running. The sliding doors reflect the afternoon sun. One foot in front of the other, I make my way over 100 yards of tarmac and through the yawn of doors. My eyes focus. They are on the left. “The riding carts.” I hobble over to the closest one with a hangdog air, grimacing from the tortuous pain.

Grasping the handles, I slump into the seat. “How do these things work?” Press the on/off button….nothing happens. The machine is plugged in so leaning way back to the side, legs in the air, I yank the plug. Sitting on the cord, pushing the button with my right hand while clutching the lever, I jerk forward, slamming into some shopping carts. Heads turn. I smile awkwardly and stammer, “My first time.”

I have sunk to new depths. I rode a cart around Lowe’s today. Yes, the ones I see at Wal-Mart, and often smugly and unkindly remark to Jim that “the rider” would be healthier walking.

Unrelenting, mind-numbing pain humbles you. Pulling myself, literally from bed each morning groaning and moaning, my knees feel like thumbscrews are being tightened by some invisible force. They pop, swell, and throb. A wimp through and through, I huff and puff like a woman in labor.

Gone are those perceptions of myself as the strong woman striding through the jungle while others fall by the path. Medicare is just seven months away and all those MRIs, PET scans and other acronyms will be possible….. Old is something to embrace… “JUST GET RID OF THIS PAIN.”

I have arthritis. “That’s all?” you say. “There are people far worse off than you.” Sadly, my tolerance for pain is not as tolerant as previously assumed.

A nurse practitioner with a smoker’s voice prescribed Celebrex and something only temporarily for pain, not that addiction tops my list of concerns at this moment.

In the midst of my depression, I started to call a friend that is older by a few years, knowing she would be sympathetic and offer good advice. Turns out she had fallen and broken her femur and is in the hospital. That put things into perspective.

The Bashful Renter

The picture on the right was taken in Haiti.  

Jim is probably telling me the error of my ways.... or could it be words of endearment? I am smiling after all.

 

We have this old house built in 1960, blue and white frame with patchy grass, a repo we bought for about $40,000 years ago. The meager rent supplements our support when and if a renter feels obliged to pay it. In the hurricane of 2004 a tree fell on the roof demolishing it and rain soaked most of the house. Jim let some people he found living under the bay bridge, a family of six from Oklahoma live in it and fix the roof in exchange for free rent. Needless to say they stayed quite awhile.

The history of renters in the house has been colorful, most of which I cannot relate to you and remain a godly person. The family currently renting it is three months behind so Jim thinks… “I’ll give him a little work.” Jim is swamped with paperwork on some Haiti projects so it makes sense. “Win Win” right? The man’s a “tree cutter downer” so Jim hires him to cut down some brush on the hill behind our house.

Meanwhile Stan, a genteel man at our church gives us some winter clothes…nice stuff; said we could use our own judgment about how to disburse it. Thinking of the heat in Haiti, I call the renter’s cell and ask if they need winter clothes. “Oh Yes,” he says….”Me and my tree crew sure could use those shirts.” I hear buzz saws in the background and think… “He’s working! Maybe some rent!” Hope springs eternal. Jubilantly I ask, “Could you call your wife and let her know I will drop off the clothes?”

I wait a reasonable length of time, in case the wife wants to spruce the place up a bit. The clothes are on hangers and in boxes and my car is sagging from the load. My kids even throw in some clothes of theirs in case there are girls in the house who are needy.

I pull into the drive…count three cars and a pickup truck. I’m wondering…how many people live here? There is an old washer and dryer stacked out in the carport, trash everywhere. The new blinds I bought at Wal-Mart are gone and a faded United State flag blanket is pulled over one window and varied and sundry things drape the others.

I knock at the door which used to be white and is now blotched with mildew and filth. A squirrelly dog and a pit bully type dog growl and go into a frenzy of barking and clawing at the window sill Jim had so carefully painted months before. Didn’t the lease say” No PETS?” I’m seething inside at this point.

I hear the woman inside shout “Shad UP” to the now hysterical dogs. I wait expectantly at the door. After 10 minutes, I decide she is not going to open the door, so I stalk back to my car and pull open both car doors. A pile of long sleeved shirts spill onto the driveway.

I hope she’s watching as I pick them up carefully and struggle pitifully under my load up the driveway to the porch. It’s 30 degrees and the wind is whipping my hair backwards into my glowering face.

I remind myself…what good is it to help the poor in Haiti if I can’t even help here? I will invite this lady and all the other people who are apparently living with her here in this little 912 sq ft house to our church. I’m at the bottom of the driveway due to all the junk cars parked haphazardly ahead, so I trudge back and forth, stacking the clothes in neat piles on the chairs on the porch and on top of a log, no doubt a leftover from one of the tree cutter’s cuts.

The love of Christ is not really flooding my heart and the freezing wind does not help. I want to tell the woman that no matter how poor you are…you could clean up your yard….that I would starve before I would “not pay the rent,” how I had lived in tiny little trailers and a small apartment with the girls in an 8 x 8 room with Whitney on the floor, how I’d slept in hovels in Africa but managed to sweep and have some pride in my abode.

I didn’t say any of those things, however. I meekly leave everything, go home, complain big time to Jim, ask God to forgive me for my bad attitude which is still creeping up even now.

Truth is…I would like to evict them and all those folks living with them…but I have

“A KIND MAN FOR A HUSBAND WHO GIVES EVERYONE THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT.”

Perhaps God will honor that and they will pay the rent once in awhile.

Love,

Karen

PS Our tickets are booked back to Haiti to work on two projects at opposite ends of the island. You are welcome to join us!

"Two Projects, Two Places, One Month"

I have a bad attitude the whole week. It’s Sunday October 24, 2010. Church at 6 AM. Showers and transportation have been sporadic. I smooth my rumpled skirt, a sad gesture and fear the odor which permeates the air may emanate from me. My longing for cleanliness is reaching desperation.

I puncture the plastic bag of water with a pen, spill it into my lap, pour quickly into the plastic glass, sprinkle Taster’s Choice into the cold water and gulp. No way to heat water where we are sleeping. A few granules stick to my teeth. My personal hygiene leaves much to be desired at this point. I turn, hoping Jim isn’t watching.

Our Second Arrival in Port Au Prince en route to Cap Haitien.

A haze of brown dust hovers over Port Au Prince, a cloud that clogs our eyes and nostrils, and coats our teeth as we drive to Tortug Air to take a flight north to Cap Haitian. Pastor Henoc transports us and our luggage to another hangar. Four of us squeeze into the back seat, jammed tightly together.

Desperation and filth stretch before us, the odor nearly overpowering, the sidewalk lined with garbage. Pigs and goats squabble over raw garbage and sewage. A woman steps into the alleyway with 4 crates of eggs balanced expertly on her head. Colorfully dressed matrons glare from rickety makeshift dwellings made with packing cases, tin and cardboard. Children fight in a puddle over a seemingly priceless treasure.

Stepping expertly over excrement, a dirty faced street urchin rubs his stomach and stretches his hand to us in one practiced motion. An old woman huddles in a doorway and scowls when I take her picture though the glass. I don’t blame her.

Our clothes stick to us as we tumble from the dirty beige Toyota Land Cruiser. Inside the hangar our luggage is checked as we hand in our passports. I glance nervously towards the door. Jim has my passport and is coming in another load. I have a fear of being separated from my luggage. The luggage handler assaults me with a disoriented verbal bombardment in Creole. I see Jim’s rugged face smiling as he appears in a sea of faces in the third car load. I relax.

Week 4 in the north of Haiti, second group.

We board a small prop plane. Porters heave part of our luggage into the tail of the plane. The pilot looks like a kid. Dirt in the aisle crunches under my feet. I lower myself heavily into a battered beige seat; the only air is warm air. Paint peels around the grimy oval windows that have no shades. We bump down the runway and wobble in the air making it look like we are waving with the wings. Circling the airport at Cap Haitien 30 minutes later, I spy a plane just like ours resting on its stomach with each blade of the propellers bent at right angles….both sides. Wheels didn’t come down. Hmmmmm. Glad I wasn’t on that flight.

Back to Sunday Morning

I pull on a slip under my wrap around skirt (last minute thought); grab my camera bag and sunhat. Jim and I walk down the dirt road to the church which is just ½ mile away past the 25 acres we will build on.

I pray out loud as we walk, thanking God for our supporters, His goodness and mercy and the many blessings we have. A peace settles on me. We greet smutty faced snotty-nosed children lining the streets with “Bonjour.” My bad attitude evaporates. I’m happy.

We sit in wood pews and I feel vibrations from the rumbling generator that powers the big speakers and mike. The sound of old hymns in Creole echoes through the rafters and out the bars of massive windows that frame palm fronds swaying in the breeze. Children are decked out in their best with bows and crisp shirts.

Pastor Henoc, a mountain of a man with sad eyes dominates the platform as he delivers the message in his granite voice. Thin bodies lean forward with eager faces to hear words of exhortation from God’s Word.

Tears cloud my vision as I feel like I’m 9 years old sitting in Kenya, listening to the Kikuyu sing, watching my Dad smile before he preaches in his quiet style In Swahili.

My blood sugar drops suddenly (no breakfast) and I have an overwhelming desire to lay down on the pew and sleep. I fight it, as I know there is a can of tuna in my camera bag. I take solace knowing it will only take 15 minutes to open it with the rusty can opener at the place we take our meals. After the service as we stroll along the road, I’m suddenly aware that my wraparound skirt is not wrapped around, a semi-National Geographic moment averted by the somewhat inappropriately aforementioned slip.

We are traveling with a design team including 13 surveyors, architects, civil engineers, electrical engineers, and structural engineers from Engineering Ministries International, EMI. Also, present during planning of the university in Cap Haitien are Greg Schuenke, president of VOHM, Michael Cooper, a professor from Trinity University and Pastor Henoc, the visionary who is preaching as I write this.

This Christian University is hoping to offer an alternative in a smaller city to replace the many universities in Port Au Prince destroyed by the earthquake.

To be continued next month………...

Another use for duct tape. Jim splints a little boy's arm who is injured playing soccer. There was no way to x-ray his arm.

Why are they sad? Church at Rancho Bernardo in San Diego is trying to change that.

We saw so many faces like this and wonder what their stories are.

These are fortunate enough to be in a school that teaches them up to 5 languages and good basic education thanks to one lady, named Sherrie Fausey who 10 years ago left everything to go to the slums of Port Au Prince, Haiti.
She was thrown into the hall on the second story and watched in horror as her bedroom collapsed during the earthquake.

Her two story 8 bedroom orphanage was completely destroyed.

Jim, as often is the case is overwhelmed with the immensity of the task. We can only help those that God puts in our path and hope it makes a difference. You play a large part in that and we thank you.

Singing by flashlight is half the fun!
Volunteers from the Church at Rancho Bernardo lift their voices in praise!

Rainy season is great.

Nothing like a mudbath for the toes.

It's like a free spa and the heat and mud are absolutely free!

Those pesky drills.

At first we thought they might be afraid of the puppets.

Maybe it was us they were afraid of???

No couldn't be.

The twins were always smiling. They loved the puppets.

Sherrie Fausey who runs the orphanage and school, me and Denise....puppet master!

I found her!!!!
This is the little girl who stole my heart from a previous trip. I know she had no clue who I was and it probably scared her silly to have this white person pick her up when ordinarily she would not get much personal attention.

Sweet little boy, same orphanage.












One orphan bathing another.

Denise arranging tools in the new shed built by the

Church at Rancho Bernardo.

David helped build it!

They were singing "I will make you fishers of men."

Last day some R&R for a hardworking crew.

These are some of Sherrie Fausey's school children. Just loved their faces.