Wildflower Junction

Dealing with digital loss: The risks of digitizing your life

2012-03-28T19:12:00.001-05:00

280 Gigabytes of my life died this week.

My photos from Europe. My medical mission work in Haiti. Vivienne's puppy photos. Even my journalism portfolio, buried in a cold plastic brick. Stuck inside the useless Western Digital HD, and breaking warranty is the only way to possibly retrieve them. The Geek Squad quoted me at roughly $800 for data recovery that wasn't guaranteed, which is impossible to afford as a student.

Vivienne, my 1.5-year-old German shepherd, happily rolls for a belly rub while
I mourn the loss of my external hard drive, containing all my photos from the past 5 years.

The photos were the most devastating loss. I never expected the backup of my old computer to go kaput, especially as I finally finished clearing my personal data in preparation for recycling. The old laptop has crashed multiple times in the past, and recently has been struggling to boot and shutting off randomly. The external hard drive, I rationalized, was peace of mind for my failing computer.

If all else failed, I'd have my important documents and pictures stored away in a tiny, expensive cave of plastic.

Wrong.

I'm glad I'm no longer seeking a journalism career, because most of my clips (including a broadcast assignment that was due this week), are gone. I never dropped the darn thing, safely ejected each use, and had used it the day before its demise.

The sole survivors are the articles published online, stored in Google docs, and the handful of personal photos I uploaded to Facebook.

I cried. As I've been so relieved to rid my life of material clutter, why was this digital loss so heart wrenching?

First, let's backtrack to several months ago, when I decided to digitize my paper "clutter." After hours of deliberation, I selected the files I wanted to preserve and trashed the others. I scanned all the important physical documents (excluding tax forms), and trashed them once they had a digital counterpart.

Every photo and document on my hard drive was a result of meticulous paring down of both paper and digital clutter in preparation for the "move" to a new, reliable laptop.

I am, for the first time in my dedication to paring down, feeling a sense of heaviness rather than lightness. Perhaps this is where my journey to minimalism dances at my personal boundaries -- after all, minimalism is merely living with what each individual deems enough, and nothing more. If my house was burning down, and I could only take what was most important with me, I'd grab my German shepherd Vivienne and that external hard drive.

So is it worth digitizing everything? Yes. But perhaps online-based storage resources like The Cloud and Google docs are much more reliable than external HDs. But if you choose, like me, to rid yourself of the material paper and photos and preserve them in bits and bytes, digital loss is a devastating risk of the modern minimalist.

Minimalist Guide to Studying: 6 Tips to Simplify and De-stress

2012-03-23T12:47:00.002-05:00

Before my last organic chemistry exam, my kitchen table was flooded with notes. With all that clutter, I wasted time flipping through haphazard piles and cross-referencing notes online. Plus, I went through 20 pages of scratch paper doing practice problems.

Sound familiar?

Vivienne, my 1.5 year-old German shepherd, snoozes while I work on homework
I have recently been cutting back on paper clutter and investigating effective,
sustainable and minimalist study habits

With some consolidation and simple planning, you can simplify your academic routine. Here are some tips for college and graduate students on how save time, money and study more effectively.

A minimalist approach:

1. Clear your workspace.
Physical clutter is distracting. Before you sit down to study at your desk or workspace, clear off all those stray papers, books and supplies. Wipe down any gunk left behind. It's more inviting to start with a clean, clear, fresh surface.

Know what environment optimizes your concentration. Facebook is for social networking, not studying, so log off immediately. If you don't have the self control, ask a trustworthy friend to change your password and keep it from you until your exam is over. Need white noise? Turn on an air filter to zone out any chatter from roommates, TV noise, or rowdy dogs. Study well to music? Choose something that will motivate and inspire you. Listening to classical music can improve concentration, memory and retention.

2. Reduce paper waste.
Start taking notes on a laptop and digitize whenever possible. Save paper and money by halting mindless printing of notes and readings. Consolidate your digitized notes through applications like Evernote make note taking a breeze, and you can even digitally annotate important texts.

A lap-sized dry erase board is an excellent alternative to scratch paper. When I was taking intro organic chemistry and physics as a pre-med student, it was an excellent way to interact with the mechanisms and free-body diagrams. However, be cautious when purchasing dry erase markers and look for brands that are non-toxic and low-odor. Many claim to be non-toxic, but actually produce harmful neurotoxins. Do your research beforehand and make sure you're purchasing markers, like the refillable, recyclable AusPen, that don't harm your body or the environment.

There are plenty of affordable ultraportable computers that take up less space than a 5-subject notebook and weigh less than a paper-filled binder. Be sure to back up important files online through free services like google docs, or purchase an external hard drive. Kindles and e-readers are excellent ways to lighten your backpack and consolidate your textbooks, but you can also download e-reader applications to your computer to access them from your desktop.

3. Reduce mental clutter.
A recent breakup bothering you? Too stressed to focus? Clear your mind before diving into an intense study session. I usually try to meditate for a few minutes before starting, especially if I am feeling stressed or anxious. Be positive. Breath in deeply, straighten your spine, pull the crown of your head to the sky, and exhale any negative thoughts. Studies show negative thinking can harm your performance on exams.

4. Nourish your body and brain. For every hour you study, take a 10 minute study breaks and briefly review what you've been studying. Consume healthy snacks, like fresh fruit and veggies, to provide your body will the right fuel. Processed foods are low-grade fuel and can make you overeat, feel worse and more stressed. Your body deserves organic biofuel, not the toxic, preservative-laced GMOs that are found in most conventional junk foods. If you absolutely need a caffeine boost, skip the coffee, energy drinks and sodas, and instead opt for freshly-brewed organic green tea sans the sugar.

5. Sleep. Get 7-8 hours of sleep every night (although some specialists recommend 9-10 hours for teens and young adults), especially before an important exam. It's tempting to pull an all-nighter when you feel unprepared. I have stayed up all night countless times in my college career and drowned my body in caffeine. And you know what? It's not worth it. It may work a few times, but it's unhealthy in the long-term, makes you feel like crap all day, and takes days to recover. Sleeping ensures optimal learning and promotes better recall if you study before bedtime.

6. Don't procrastinate. I know, I know. This is where I constantly fall short. If you plan ahead and follow these steps before your test is just hours away, you'll be less stressed, happier and healthier. Not to mention you'll boost your retention by spreading out studying and gaining more time to just... enjoy.

Wardrobe Decluttering Challenge & Starting Over

2012-03-22T16:37:00.001-05:00

Athena sits by the 66qt storage tub that will contain my entire wardrobe. I am challenging
myself to pare down my excess clothing and minimize possessions before I move cross-country.

I love the concept of starting over. Remember that first day of college, or moving to your first apartment? If you were like me, you had only a few possessions and a small suitcase of clothing, ready to be on your own.

With no debt, car payments and bills to pay, we were free.

Fast forward: I've accumulated a lot of junk and clutter since that first day in my freshman dorm, including some hefty loans from Sallie Mae. From outdated textbooks to University knickknacks, it's time to eliminate excess. In a few months, I will be graduating college and moving more than 2,000 miles from Louisiana to Washington for medical school. I will sell or give away anything that doesn't fit in the tiny trunk of my Acura, which will enable me to forgo extra moving expenses.

Why am I downsizing my stuff? To obtain financial freedom and freedom from material ties, travel lightly and sustainably, and live a healthier life.

In the journey to minimalism, we all have to start somewhere. As a reformed shopaholic, clothing has always been my kryptonite. There's no magic number I hope to reach, but I know I still have some serious downsizing to go.

I've been paring down my wardrobe for several months now. I am only allowing myself a 66 qt tub (pictured above) to contain my wardrobe, and anything that doesn't make the cut will go to my local Goodwill.

Here is my Pre-moving Wardrobe Decluttering Challenge:

1. Get rid of the excess storage bins containing accessories, shoes, and seasonal wear. Get rid of half the contents and consolidate to dresser.

2. Get rid of the dresser. Declutter half the contents and consolidate to closet.

3. Get rid of half the clothes on coat hangers. Then get rid of all the hangers.

4. Pare down entire wardrobe to fit in 66qt tub.

5. Declutter more.

MINIMALISM + DECLUTTERING = FREEDOM

We put so much time into cleaning, maintaining, buying and replacing our things. By decluttering your possessions, you can achieve the liberty and lightness of starting over.

Things won't make us happier in the long run. Experiences endure and fulfill. Things only weigh us down.

By pursuing a minimalist lifestyle and challenging yourself to posses only what you need and cherish, you can save money on packing and storing your possessions and become more conscious of how your stuff is preventing you from achieving freedom

10-Step Wardrobe Declutter for College Students

2012-03-22T15:38:00.000-05:00

RETURN TO THRIFTY ROOTS

My mom and dad are frugal, and clothes beyond a couple shirts and a pair of jeans were considered luxuries growing up. My parents rarely shop for clothing and can fit their combined minimalist wardrobes in a small suitcase.

Though I admire my parents' thriftiness today, in junior high school, I pined for my friends' endless wardrobes and shopping sprees. Some refused to wear the same outfit twice, and I was caught up in the glamour of "new" after years of hand-me-downs.

As soon as I started earning money in high school, I rebelled by spending every single cent of my earnings on brand names and labels.

Puppies are very helpful when looking for ways to declutter clothing and hangers.
(Athena, German shepherd, 19 weeks)

I used to love shopping for new clothes. Retail therapy was my heroin.

I was driven by quantity over quality under the delusion that I needed choices in my closet. Rationalized needing another grey sweater or another pair of tennis shoes. I chased the trends. My consumption was anything but minimalist. It was a rush dumping my new purchases on my bed, often on super clearance at Nordstrom Rack or from Forever21.

But none of my clothes matched or even fit well. The clearance T-s shrank in the wash, the jeans sagged and gaped in all the wrong places. Most wouldn't survive the first washing, yet still found a place in my overflowing closet or stuffed in a dresser drawer. When I'd open my closet the next week, I'd again have "nothing" to wear.

Overconsumption. Then repeat. It's a cycle in which our culture thrives. But what are the implications?

SHOPPING INTO DEBT

Worse than having nothing flattering or matching that I could throw together without valuable morning minutes, my clothes were causing me financial turmoil. By my freshman year of college, I began over drafting my bank account as my food expenses competed with my trips to the TJ Maxx clearance racks. With a meager student-worker income, I was using student loans, money I was going to have to work hard and save to pay back after graduation, to support my shopping addiction and needed out.

PARING DOWN AND DRESSING WELL

Inspired by blogs like miss minimalist and her 10-item wardrobe and Courtney Carver's Project 333 from Be More With Less, I have been paring down on my wardrobe for several months. A total of 8 years of accumulation. At first, my decluttering efforts were painful and difficult as I faced my financial mistakes--did I really spend $60 on a blouse that I always returned to the hanger? $200 on that "investment" Anthropologie dress I wore once and didn't feel pretty in?

After countless trips to Goodwill and a costly wake up call, I am finally down to quality clothes I love.

By narrowing down my color palate to blues, browns, blacks and purples, I am aiming to create capsule wardrobe, where a minimal amount of quality pieces interchangeable mix and match.

If you declutter your wardrobe now, you can see and appreciate what you do wear, find what flatters you, save money by spending mindfully, and start dressing for success. Start here:

10-STEP WARDROBE DECLUTTER FOR COLLEGE STUDENTS

1. Get rid of anything you haven't worn in 3 months (even if it still has tags). You can overlook seasonal clothing for now, but be honest with yourself--are you really going to wear that lime green peacoat next fall? Chances are, you're not going to need the clothes you are saving for later as a college and graduate student. Plus, with less clothes, laundry day will be a breeze and you'll save money and time. Throw out anything with holes or stains, or recycle into a rag for cleaning. As a senior in college, I keep one business casual outfit and interview suit on hand for career fairs, interviews and internships. Any more than that is generally unneccesary for a college or graduate student.

2. Donate anything you don't have a specific occasion for. Gold sequined formal dress, I'm talking to you. Unless you're planning on wearing the outfit for an event. Get rid of any "maybes" or "just in case" items. You can borrow a formal dress or outfit if the need arises. If you're saving something for an event more than a year away, consider loaning it out to someone who can use it in the meantime and reclaim that precious closet space. You can also sell new and higher-ticket clothing items if you're willing to take the time to list it on Ebay, or a free service like Craigslist.

3. Do you love it? If the answer is "no," it needs to go. Toss anything you feel insecure in. Does it hurt you/ itch you/ make you feel icky? If you aren't comfortable wearing it all day and have to change, give it the boot. Do you feel frumpy in your sweatpants? Toss. Can't walk in those shoes for an extended period of time? Toss those wedges if they notoriously cause bloody blisters. They might fit someone else better, so don't hoard something someone else might need. To get over the pain of tossing out that precious spent cash, imagine the smile on a Goodwill customer's face when they discover it's perfect for them.

4. Declutter clothes that don't express your true identity. No one really cares what you wear. Stop dressing to be someone you're not. Stop dressing to impress people who aren't already impressed with your personality. In college or graduate school, most of us don't have the same wardrobe requirements as others with a 9-5 job, so consider the clothes that make you most comfortable while allowing you to look put together. Do you live in your University hoodies and sweats? Declutter those button-ups you never touch. Not a partier? Get rid of all those flirty tops and mini skirts unless you wear them regularly or can repurpose them for a more casual outfit. When I decluttered, I had heaps of tight-fitting outfits in case I ever went dancing or clubbing. (Turns out, I'm perfectly happy to go to the bar in jeans and a v-neck, which also happens to be my daily uniform. I'd rather walk my dog and read on a Friday night anyways!)

5. Count everything you have. So once you've done the first 4 decluttering steps, it's important to assess what you already have. Numbers can be enlightening. For example, if you know you have 5 good pairs of jeans, you'll be less likely to splurge on duplicates you don't need. Count every shirt, pair of shoes, and sweater in your closet and/ or dresser. Even count your socks.

6. If you buy something new, get rid of something else. Follow Leo Babauta's minimalist philosophy of one in, one out. If you still can't quit the shopping bug or need to replace an article in your wardrobe, you have to pare down on another. This prevents overflowing dresser drawers and an overflowing closet with nothing to wear.

7. Stay away from clearance racks to avoid the temptation of clothes you don't need. Of course if you need to replace an item, first go to your local thrift or second-hand clothes store for more sustainable shopping. I've found some gems at my local Goodwill. Only buy clearance if the item is good quality, flatters your body, and matches something you already have.

8. Shop mindfully. For your health and the environment, avoid cheap synthetic fabrics that are seeped in chemicals. Consider cost per wear and be willing to buy one quality item, such as a wool, cotton or cashmere sweater over multiple synthetic imitations in acrylic or rayon. Even better, when you have to buy new, purchase clothes made sustainably and locally out of organic fabrics. Be an informed consumer and look for "Made in USA" tags and be conscious of the companies that sell clothes made in sweat shops. When making clothing purchases, be sure to bring your own shopping bags and say no to plastic or paper.

9. Stop mindless consuming. I challenge you to be content with what you already have & "shop" your closet. Put yourself on a spending freeze until your pare down to your essentials. Pick your favorites and cut out the rest. When you start recognizing the pieces you love to wear and turn to every week, a decluttered closet will save you time and money because you'll be more content with what you have.

10. Build a capsule wardrobe. Only keep clothes that can be mixed and matched to create a variety of outfits and styles. The capsule wardrobe uses a handful of quality "key" pieces to build versatile looks. When you wear clothes that look great, you wont need to chase trends for fleeting complements--you'll always look put together. I have decluttered 80% of my wardrobe but am still seeking new opportunities to pare down and solidify the items that create my style and flatter my shape and skin tone. I love variety, and by creating a capsule wardrobe, most of my clothes match and can be dressed up or down depending on the accessories with a minimal amount of pieces.

Do you have any tips for building a minimalist wardrobe and decluttering? Please share in the comments section!

Sustainable, minimalist menstruation: Reduce waste and have a happier period

2012-03-21T15:49:00.002-05:00

Disclaimer: This post is about that time of the month and not for the faint of heart. I believe women should reclaim and celebrate their menstruation, and this article is for frugal women looking for sustainable alternatives to conventional throw-away products.
***

Photo credit: Health Bitch Daily

POISONING OUR PERIODS

Menstruation for me has always been heavy and painful. After countless embarrassing tampon leaks, allergic reactions to pads and debilitating cramping, my periods were wearing me out.

Not only that, but I discovered that sanitary products are brimming with poison.

About 99% of convention tampons and pads contain toxic chemicals like chlorine-treated cotton/ rayon fibers that produce dioxins, a carcinogenic by-product leached by chlorine linked to breast and other cancers, birth defects and reproductive disorders.

Other ingredients include polysorbate 20, a mildly toxic chemical found in everything from food to cosmetics that has been linked to skin irritation (why would you put a skin irritant in something destined for your vagina? Ick!) and cancerous tumors in mice. Products labeled "fragrance" often contain phthalates, which are suspected hormone disruptors and banned in Europe.

Perhaps my irregular periods were also being influenced by the chemicals in my menstrual products. After I'd use them, they'd follow the trash to the landfill, creating more waste and chemical leaking.

Terrible for my body, harmful for the earth.

Here are some sustainable, healthy alternatives I love, perfect for women with a frugal budget. As a minimalist, it's important to minimize the toxins entering your body through food, clothing, your environment, medicine and sanitary products like tampons and toilet paper.

It may cost more short-term to purchase natural, organic products, but you're paying for long-term health benefits.

TAMPONS NO MORE: MENSTRUAL CUPS

My brand-new trusty Moon cup, size B, for a very happy, minimalist period.

I never have to buy a conventional tampon or pad again.

I have been using menstrual cups for about a year now and they are one of the best experiments I've tried in minimalism. They collect the fluid instead of absorbing it--check out this Wikipedia article on menstrual cups for a detailed run-down of how they work.

A menstrual cup typically costs $20-35 online, but pays for itself after a few months. It's made of medical grade silicon and can last several years with proper care.

I tried the more well-known Diva Cup that I bought with a coupon from Whole Foods, but lost it somewhere during my travels between Louisiana and Haiti. I recently purchased the Moon Cup, which I like much better and find more comfortable and protective than the Diva Cup.

I almost gave up menstrual cups after my first period trying the Diva Cup because there was definitely a learning curve. I struggled figuring out how to fold and insert without causing leaks or making a mess. In removal, I also had to learn to properly break the seal of the cup, otherwise was in lots of pain! Here's a video that helped me learn how to properly insert the cup.

It took me a few cycles before I was able to use the cup without leaks and mess, and now I won't ever go back. I can't even feel the cup when it's in place. Although I have abnormally heavy periods, I can go up to 12 hours without having to remove the Moon cup. Amazing stuff.

I think it's incredible seeing the changes in the cycle and the actual amount of fluid each period--something I never realized while using conventional pads and tampons. A woman loses an average of 3 tablespoons of blood each period.

ORGANIC COTTON WASHABLE PADS

Soft and comfy, these are my reusable organic cotton menstrual pads from Lohanstore.

For women who don't use tampons or prefer to mix-and-match tampons and pads, I would recommend trying reusable, washable organic cotton pads. I have always suffered from pad-induced rashes, but organic cotton pads are incredible soft and add less bulk than a conventional pad.

They're typically expensive, but sustainability pays off in the long run. When you think in terms of cost per use, they're a perfect, frugal alternative.

There are a bunch of great reusable organic cotton menstrual pads on Etsy that I'd recommend checking out. I love my organic pads from Loganstore--especially because they are low maintenance (just throw them in the laundry), and hang them in the sun to naturally bleach out any staining.

A HEALTHY UTERUS

Since you can reuse these producs, that means no tampons and pads in landfills! Bonus: There have never been any cases of Toxic Shock Syndrome (TSS) caused by menstrual cups since they were first patented in the 1930s.

Better for the environment and your health.

HERBS FOR THOUGHT

I have been drinking oat straw and raspberry leaf tea for several months in an attempt to regulate my periods as well as taking vitex and black cohosh supplements. These "women's herbs" have been used for centuries to regulate hormones and menstrual cycles, as well as improve fertility. More on that next time.

Let me know in the comments if you've tried any sustainable menstrual products. Happy menstruating!

Next stop, medical school

2012-03-21T13:22:00.001-05:00

Four years from now, you can call me Dr. Piche. Seriously.

I was accepted into Bastyr University's naturopathic medicine doctoral program, which starts mid-September. As I've continued to adopt a more minimalist lifestyle and non-toxic approach to food, my view on wellness has profoundly changed to celebrate non-invasive, natural therapies over the mass drug prescriptions that dominate conventional medicine.

I'm sailing new waters: dreamy beach-view of the St. Marc Channel in Montrouis, Haiti.

Bastyr quickly replaced University of Texas as my top choice medical school, especially after discovering their dual-track program in naturopathic medicine and midwifery. My dream is to open a women's wellness center and offer a home birth/ natural birth practice as well as mother-newborn care.

Back two years ago when I decided to pursue my original goals for medical school and OB/GYN specialization, I took a medical anthropology class at LSU called Medicine Body Power. It has been one of the most valuable classes I have taken as an undergraduate, because before then I hadn't ever studied conventional medicine and seen it for what it truly was -- a cultural medicine that operates for profit (Western medicine/ biomedicine).

We studied complementary and alternative medicine, Chinese/oriental medicine, homeopathy and naturopathy among a variety of other forms of cultural medicine, and the desirability of biomedicine diminished.

As a minimalist woman devoted to effective, affordable preventative therapies and lifestyle change through nutrient dense foods and exercise, I was jaded after two years of working in the emergency room and wanted out. I didn't want to pump my patients' bodies with drugs to suppress symptoms. I wanted to heal, to treat the root of the disease, and to treat the whole person. But the options in Louisiana to pursue a career in natural medicine are slim. Naturopathic doctors cannot even obtain licensure in Louisiana!

My medical anthropology class launched an investigation into America's shady birthing industry, and the documentary The Business of Being Born was a revelation -- I could still deliver babies and heal women as a midwife and naturopathic doctor, without the toxic drugs and invasive, often unnecessary surgeries. When I found Bastyr's medical program, everything fell wonderfully into place.

Don't get me wrong-- I have an immense amount of respect for biomedical doctors. In fact, after Bastyr, I am planning to attend a fast-track general practitioner MD program so I can practice natural and holistic medicine in the south. I just believe in many cases, biomedical treatment emphasizes symptom suppression over disease treatment and ignores the implications of poor lifestyle habits, especially because food is medicine.

Fast forward: In only a few months, I'll be packing my trunk with all my possessions and moving 2,500 miles to Washington state. It's not easy going against the norm. But I found something I'm passionate about, and I'm willing to move cross-country and go horrendously into debt to follow that passion.

Weighing a baby at the mobile malnutrition clinic. Montrouis, Haiti.

I'll be graduating this summer with my degrees in mass communication and anthropology, so finally completing my pre-med prerequisites, landing an interview, and receiving my acceptance letter came in a delightful, life-changing whirlwind. Working at the medical clinic in Montrouis, Haiti this past summer was an incredible experience, and I plan to return better equipped with a solid education in primary care and general medicine, as well as training in natural birthing and midwifery.

The direction of my blog is changing after many months of downsizing and preparing for Bastyr. I hope I can share my latest endeavors in minimalism, medical school, and frugal green living, especially as I take on the challenge of moving with only the things that fit in the trunk of my car.

Photo blog: The hike to Capiat

2011-08-10T21:24:00.000-05:00

Capiat is a mountain village scraping the clouds above Montrouis, Haiti. It's perched on an icy spring that bubbles like crystal, irrigating acres of vegetables and breadfruit trees.

Last Thursday, I made the 4-hour hike with a team of missionaries from Alabama. It was strenuous, but breathtaking.

Here's a photo blog of our journey up the mountains and into the mountain oasis.

It was perfect weather for a hike. We left at 10:30 am, as tropical storm Emily threatened to thrash Haiti's southern coast with heavy rainfall.

The sky in Montrouis was a delicious blue. We set out on a road steep road leading to Capiat.

Horses, donkeys and goats graze nearby, with no owners in sight. As I panted with the ascent, I fought the urge to try my luck at bareback riding.

After 45 minutes of hiking, we made it past the first village and onto a bridge with an amazing view. One of the missionary women took my photo -- hope you're happy, Ma!

Taking photos was an excellent way to chug water and catch our breath. The road took a sharp turn skyward after this point, the most tedious part of the hike.

As we climbed higher into the mountains, the coast reappeared and shimmered behind towering palms.

We reached some farmland on the outskirts of Capiat. My Keens were muddy and kept sliding off my feet as the road narrowed into a rough trail.

Nearing the summit, we walk through more irrigated farms and a new perspective on Haiti's coast.

We reached Capiat. Families gather along the cement constructed waterways directing the fresh water spring down the mountain.

Men and women gathered to wash clothing, bathe and socialize under breadfruit trees.

Children from Capiat poured out of the village to stare at our team of blancs and Canaan kids.

Whitney (left), me (center) and Rebecca, part of the Birmingham missionary group, cool off in the deliciously frigid mountain water.

The missionary women visiting Canaan posed before some of us (daringly) submerged ourselves in the icy oasis.

I was incredibly happy to have made it. Capiat mean't that the the rest was downhill from here...

The sky was getting dark and it started sprinkling. We decided to leave, fearing tropical storm Emily was finally done brooding in the ocean below Haiti.

We passed more horses and donkeys tied up next to the road, while little kids peeked out of small houses and called out for candy.

I was amazed at this donkey, weighed down but walking ahead of his master. Most of the time, I see donkeys refusing to budge while their owners whip them on the side of the road.

It was a relief following the road downhill after a strenuous ascent.

The rusting roof of a house peeks out from behind a cornfield.

A tiny house is engulfed by the mountains.

From the mountains, we could see the tip of Gonave Island.

A stunning photo of the coast and the dazzling water of the Saint Marc Channel.

As we neared Canaan, more horses munched. As I once again considered a bareback ride to carry my tired body home, a man popped out of the bushes and startled me.

All signs of a storm disappeared, and in the last leg of the hike, we were able to see the distant Massif de la Selle (left) and Gonave Island (right) on the horizon.

As the Canaan kids and fellow missionaries made it back to Canaan in Montrouis, it felt amazing to be alive and exploring this beautiful country.

Thanks for hiking with me!

Foreigners at Pierre Payen Hospital: Mamba babies and medical specialists

2011-08-08T20:47:00.000-05:00

Scuttling, scraping daggers on the tin roof. The rats are active again. The sound makes me cringe and uneasily eyeball the cracks in the cement walls of our tiny house.

It’s a cool, mournful evening after the first rain in a week.

I feel stressed out today—this week has a sense of urgency, especially as my time left in Haiti dwindles. The clinic is in serious need of an organizational overhaul, and not just for supplies and storage. The staff is incredibly busy, but without an administrator, it is not operating efficiently. I’m praying it will get better, because today reception turned away several sick babies and elderly people. The doctor was home in Port-au-Prince with a cold, leaving only two nurses to see all patients.

There is a team of American doctors and Canadian nurses visiting the hospital in Pierre Payen until Sunday, including a pediatric urologist and orthopedic surgeon.

Caroline and I have a lot of time to pay to Haitian waiting rooms.

We woke up earlier than usual to rally the moms of babies in the Medika Mamba program requiring extra medical care. It was hotter than ever, and even with the raspy air conditioning, the truck reeked of sweat.

I hardly notice the smell anymore, this pungent perfume of hot bodies. But today it made me pine for ice water and a swimming pool… And some Febreeze.

Perre Payen Hospital has a homey guesthouse and a large, well-constructed facility with high walls and breezy ventilation. Once we were admitted past the guard at the iron gates and thrust among waiting patients (some sitting, most standing, but all cramped in the hallway clutching their files), a nurse arrived to sort the babies to specialty doctors and therapists based on their needs.

The hospital examination rooms were roomy, but sparsely supplied, painted in the surprisingly antiseptic hue of yellowing newspaper. The orthopedic doctor had only an exam table, a wheelchair, basic orthopedic wraps and an x-ray machine. The urologist had an examination table and a packet of sterile gloves, seeing patients behind blue surgery drapes pinned above the doorway like flapping laundry.

The foreign staff walked fiercely from room to room, hair frizzed and sweat rolling. It was funny to watch them move while Haitians patiently waited, falling their faces with manila envelopes containing scribbles of their insides and histories of their pain. More than once, I was grabbed and asked to translate. I am sorry I had to refuse them. I am trying to hard to wrap my brain around Creole, even with my French language background.

James is a 13-month-old with an ectopic bladder. His condition requires multiple specialized surgeries to repair his bladder and reconstruct his genitalia. He lives in Sous Bogne, the little community below Canaan, and in a previous post I talked about my visit to his home with Katie my first week in Haiti. He has been rejected from two hospitals in the states already for lack of funding, especially because he will need a lot of recovery time and after care following his surgeries. As the pediatric urologist examined him, we were told nothing new… except that he is at the perfect age for surgery and that his condition is treatable. The doctor said it will be almost impossible to treat him in Haiti, and offered his contact information for his hospital in Nebraska.

Please pray that James’ surgery will be accepted and covered by this doctor’s hospital. He will need to stay in the states for a while, accompanied by someone from Canaan because it will take months for his mother’s birth certificate to be found in the Haitian national archives. James needs the surgery now, and Haitian time is slow time. I wanted to throw up my hands and scream when the doctor explained the specific microscopes her needed for an effective surgery and recovery.

Haiti doesn’t have this type of medical care readily available, especially not for babies in poverty.

A little girl, Gueraldine, has had severe joint malformations. She was discontinued from the Medika Mamba after failing to gain weight, but she’s still scrawny and malnourished. After she fell in February, her wrists began to jut abnormally, which was formerly diagnosed as untreated breaks.

The orthopedic surgeon who examined Gueraldine today gave some clarity—it’s a congenital condition, and the x-rays revealed missing bones in her hands and wrists. The doctor and physical therapist were able to mold her two removable splints out of casting. It was painful to watch the baby scream as they pushed her angular wrists into normal positions and wrapped them tightly. However, it was a relief to learn simple stretches the mother could perform to aid in proper growth and development. Plus, the baby doesn’t need extensive surgery, which was a relief to the mother and us—less letdowns and hoop jumping this way.

The Haitian doctor Jean Robert was expecting a pediatric cardiologist to be with the team of Americans, so the 5-year-old requiring heart surgery for her defect was turned away. She’s been waiting for 2 years now to see a pediatric cardiologist with the means to operate in Haiti. Unfortunately, the specialty equipment is difficult to come by, especially for short-term doctors and surgeons.

Since the team does have a general doctor to see all the patients that don’t fall into the available specialty categories, there’s another baby at Rousseau with a chest and lung malformation will still need to be looked at, although our hopes of specialist treatment are dashed. After the Mamba mobile clinic Wednesday, we’ll be bringing the mom and the x-rays we obtained in St. Marc to wait once again in Pierre Payen.

Waiting, waiting and more waiting. It’s so difficult for me to sit still and accept that this is how life rolls in Haiti.

People die waiting.

Caroline and I vented with M&Ms and danced the cha cha with some of the younger girls, Magdalena and Jessica. It was my first genuine smile of the day, besides entertaining the babies in the sticky hospital heat. Thank you to chocolate and my fiesty Haitian friends.

It’s only 8:30, but I want to just lie in bed and decompress. I need a massage, but I'll settle with some IB profen for now. The mosquitoes are munching.

Before the storm: Medika Mamba and mountain hikes

2011-08-03T21:24:00.000-05:00

There’s a tropical storm, Emily, hours away from making landfall in Haiti. It could turn into a hurricane, so Canaan has been storing drinking water and positioning rain barrels and old oil drums to collect rainwater, and checking the cisterns for any leaks.

I’ve taken clean water for granted. Water is a daily discussion at Canaan, and a few of the boys’ chore are solely to clean the water tanks and filter water for consumption. It’s a luxury to have drinkable water delivered straight to your faucets, or any water for that matter. In villages with a single well or water pump, women crowd with paint-crusted buckets and stained bleach jugs to catch precious drops, hauling them miles home on dry, fumy roads.

With all the work it takes, I am grateful for rain to fill our buckets for showers. And until then, I'm praying for the families living in the tents and shacks to weather the storm with ease.

Mamba is in full swing, and the past two days have been hectic with the missionary team and Mamba researchers from Georgia. I have sensed some of the Haitian mothers’ apprehension with the amount of Americans peeking in on exams, procedures and watching the rusty gears turn in our tiny rural clinic.

Each week, word of the Medika Mamba program spreads like pond ripples in the villages sprawling across Montrouis. I felt stressed as the new admissions to the malnourishment program crammed under the shade of sparse willows, packed in CESANOJE’s hallways and spilling into the consultation rooms.

We saw close to 50 patients and checked about 15 potential cases of malnourishment. I had my face between my knees with exhaustion in the heavy heat between patients, wondering how the mothers could bear waiting in the breezeless afternoon.

Some of the babies were shaking with hunger or thirst after waiting since 6 am for the consultation. One boy had a 104 fever and was crying feebly as I poured medicine down his throat, too weak to swallow.

It was difficult to feel enthusiastic when most of the babies seemed to be sick and loosing weight, or staying the same. Most of the babies graduate in six weeks or less, but out of all the enrolled babies, we had zero graduates Tuesday.

We did, however, readmit some of the children into the Mamba program— babies who graduated plump and vigorous 3 months ago, but now whittled back down to malnourishment.

Discouraging.

There’s a science to the Mamba. We can predict like clockwork—a well-researched bell curve—with how much weight babies should be gaining with proper feeding of the Medika Mamba. With my translator, Jennifer, I was able to demonstrate proper feeding (allowing small spoonfuls for the child to eat slowly, or mixing the thick Mamba with clean water) to help prevent vomiting with the babies. Many of the mothers had been force-feeding their child, and causing them to become ill and refuse the Mamba.

There were a couple patients who improved, and I did feel joy in giving mothers praise for their progress. Graduation from the program is a source of dignity and empowerment for the mothers as well—a contrast to the emotions of shame and avoidance we often see in those new to the program.

Malnourishment is as much disease as it is stigma.

Three women, public health researchers from Atlanta’s Moorhouse School of Medicine, interviewed mothers in the program to see if or how their breastfeeding habits changed when their malnourished babies were given Mamba to eat.

I’m really looking forward to their findings, although I was skeptical at first. Many of the babies are cared for by women other than the mothers, so we had to figure our which moms qualified for the study. In addition, many of the mothers had stopped lactating or stopped breastfeeding before the baby reached 6 months, when other foods can be introduced to supplement. This caused the malnourishment in the first place.

It’s awesome that Canaan will have a study that’s relevant and informative for others advocates of the Medika Mamba program to follow. I’m considering coming back for some research myself, focusing on the re-admissions to the Mamba program.

For the mobile Mamba clinic in Rousseau, I arrived with a nasty headache. I forgot my Excedrin at Canaan. One of the Haitian doctors, Dr. Guidson, saw me clutching my head and brought some migraine pills. I ended up sleeping, knees curled up to my nose, on a lopsided hospital bed while Caroline and Mis Joanne saw patients. With the tropical storm looming, many of the mothers stayed at home. My little power nap was magic, and I felt great around noon when the hospital closed, in time for the jarring drive back to Montrouis.

When Caroline and a couple visiting from Kansas City, Josh and Rachel, made our daily 2-hour hike up the mountains, we ran into groups of Haitians riding horses and carrying spades and shovels. A little girl followed us all the way back down, begging for candy and our (empty) water bottles.

A teenage boy attending English school in Montrouis asked me for my phone number, tagging behind me for the last 20-minute stretch of our hike. He was incredibly pushy, resolute and undeterred by my age. He’s the fifth Haitian male to ask me for my phone number, and wouldn’t accept no for an answer… even the fact that I don’t have a Haitian phone, and emptied my purse to prove it.

Perhaps it’s cultural for the men to approach a potential female interest with frustrating tenacity.

I can’t believe I have two weeks left in Haiti. Tonight I sat on the cistern at the top of Canaan’s hill—an enormous, panoramic view of Montrouis. It felt incredible to share prayers and stories with Americans conscious of Haiti’s needs and who share my love for this island. The team cooked cake and brownies for the Haitian staff, and we stayed late singing, playing guitar, and watching one of the babies, Marlucia, dance across the cafeteria table with every strum.

Rambling update: Beach bugs, graduation parties and swiveling hips

2011-08-01T22:09:00.001-05:00

I'm rubbing red eyes as I type this blog, courtesy of my shower—a concoction of concrete cistern rainwater and a cap of bleach to sabotage microscopic vermin. There’s still no running water at Canaan since the second generator, the clinic's main power line, came to a sputtering halt last week. The big generator is still broken down, and all of Canaan has been operating sporadically from a small gasoline-powered generator.

Lack of running water has helped me appreciate every precious drop. Conservation is key. Thunderstorms have washed my laundry the past few nights, and that water has been preserved to flush the toilet and wash hands. There’s no such thing as single-use water, except perhaps for drinking.

The water business has hardly has put my spirits down. I feel so grateful to be in the company of my new Haitian friends. It's funny how living and eating together knits cultural gaps.

A team of 11 college-aged missionaries from Alabama arrived Saturday, two couples arrived Sunday, and three women conducting Mamba research arrived today, which has livened up Canaan with new faces.

With new arrivals, the Canaan kitchen has been running on almost constant generator power, which means meat and veggies have been added to the rice/beans/pasta repertoire. It's so nice to have refrigeration! The influx of variety has elevated my mood to an all-time high here.

What can I say; I'm a guiltless foodie.

Canaan spent all Saturday preparing for the high school graduation party of Rose May, a Canaanite who came at age 15 after living in domestic child slavery. She started her ABCs and plunged into English.

Just 7 years later at age 22, she was cheered by all of Canaan and her guests in her cap and gown, proudly clutching her high school diploma. I hope I can share more of her incredible story in a later post.

Caroline and I started off Sunday with an hour-long hike up the mountain behind Canaan. We passed a few families with babies enrolled in the malnutrition program, and women who I had talked to while taking vitals at the clinic. They called out to us like old friends.

It’s charming how the longer I’m here, the smaller this island becomes. Between the bustle of market and the serenity of the coast, there are welcoming faces and skinny limbs waving Bonjou. A walk a morning here does more for the soul than body.

Church was fun, despite the heat. One of the babies started fussing in the service, so I scooped him up and he immediately sank into sleep on my hip, drooling as his head slid onto my chest. Haitian church is vocal and active, and he miraculously dozed as my hips swiveled to hymns and the flies hummed.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that the orphanage kids love Justin Bieber with ferocity. I left my iPod unmanned on a cafeteria table, and before I could say "baby," a feisty 13-year-old Thadjina had scrolled down to the "J"s in her hunt for Justin Bieber songs.

While I don't have any Biebs in my iTunes library, I did have a song my brother Justin wrote after a rough break-up. The table filled with preteen girls who picked up the chorus of his song after a few refrains, entranced by the fact my brother was an artiste with the Biebs' namesake! The girls demanded to see photos of him, and once I showed a picture of my twin with long, side-swooped hair, they unanimously agreed he looked like Justin Bieber.

Whenever I see Thadjina, she'll sing me part of the song, "How could you be like that?" and giggle like it's our private joke.

Hear that bro? If my iPod circulates anymore, you're on your way to becoming a new heartthrob.

We went with the Alabama team and a truckload of Canaan kids to a private beach just outside of Montrouis. The water was absolutely delicious and boyant --a summary of this past weekend at Canaan.

However, while I sucked the salty nectar through my pores and thought how lucky I am to be in Haiti, I was stung by a tiny jellyfish-like water bug on my chest. Robin and a few of the others were stung -- apparently the beasts multiply when it rains. I still have a painful rash trailing a couple inches on my breast.

There’s been plenty to celebrate. Tonight was Caroline’s birthday, and we had a great night at one of Montrouis’ resorts—Moulin Sur Mer. It was great to decompress after another day of thorough clinic cleaning and chipping away at the massive inventory project I started 3 weeks ago.

I feel blessed and ready to sleep.

Haitian parenting, gender roles and the story of dimples

2011-07-29T20:44:00.000-05:00

Since noon, a tropical storm has perched its horrible, languid self over Montrouis and buried Canaan in somber grey. It’s the kind of idle day I long for at home. Staying indoors, reading, taking naps. But in Haiti, it’s miserable not being able to get out and explore.

Especially when it’s Friday when work is finished, and the beach is a 15-minute walk down a mountain.

Since beach-destined paperbacks and my iPod’s indie rock genre were re-routed to my bunk bed and absorbed most of today’s boredom shockwaves, I’ll share a few things I’ve been saving up.

Last week, we drove a mother and her 8 mo. old daughter to St. Marc for an X-ray. Tired bodies crushed together in the truck, cramped with our mobile Mamba clinic supplies.

Haitians stuck out their thumbs like hitchhikers or waved at us with both arms as we passed, asking for a ride in the empty truck bed. Younger children jumped in as it bumped along, some naked and careless and not bothering with any gestured formality.

The young mother breastfed her daughter and shielded her baby’s eyes while the truck lurched up and down the mountainside. After working the Mamba clinic for the past two weeks and seeing so many young mothers or female caretakers detached from their children, I was struck by the tenderness of the gesture. Cradling the tiny girl’s head under her breast, clucking softly to the baby, and of course the willingness to cram herself in the truck alongside strangers to drive to a far-off hospital, seemed almost beyond the call of duty for the typical mother.

Affection is often treated like it's impractical.

My first week here, Elsie told me a “good” mother provides enough food for her children to live without starving; that’s all that’s required to meet that guideline. I refused to believe that can be true, at least not entirely.

She told me a story about a young missionary woman who went to the beach and saw a Haitian toddler alone. She played with the child while the parents watched not far away. When it was time for the missionary to leave, the parents emerged and, seeing the young woman absolutely adored the child, put the baby back into her arms and asked her to “keep.” Shocked, the young missionary refused.

However, the next morning, the parents arrived at Canaan with the child dressed neatly in her best clothes, clean and perfumed, to ask the missionary to, please, take their child. For real. To keep. The parents had discussed it seriously all night and decided they wanted to give their baby to the missionary. They did not love the girl, and knew she would be better off with someone who did. Once again, the missionary refused – she couldn’t just put a baby in her carry-on back to the states – but Elsie said it was a lesson in Haitian parenting.

Detachment is a survival mechanism. Show someone else’s baby love, she warned, and they might just try to give their child away.

But there are exceptions for everything.

Single mothers make up the bulk of Haitian family units from my experience in Montrouis. Women of some relation raise the children, commonly older daughters or grandmothers, while the mothers are at the market during the day, bartering and selling. Fathers are absent from the picture, some working their cattle under the banana trees, some in odd-jobs in Port-au-Prince, while the kids grow up.

The women at Canaan hired to take care of the babies at the nursery are my age. Early 20s. No experience with children. Yet they’re living like many Haitian women that age— 24/7 single moms.

It’s been rare from my experience so far, but there are some fathers actively raising and loving on their children. For example, every week, this adorable Haitian dad proudly totes his all-pink bundle of a 5 mo. old girl. The baby’s mother died shortly after giving birth of infection. Malnourished and sick, she was enrolled in the milk program at CESANOJE – open to infants under 6 months who do not qualify for the peanut-butter based Mamba. This dad, however, took all responsibility of child rearing. The baby’s finally alert and putting some chub on her little cheeks, only months ago hollowed with starvation.

Most of the “orphaned” children at Canaan are actually just motherless. Many have fathers or older siblings that live in Montrouis and the surrounding towns. But without a mother, the family unit crumbles. Just this week, a father asked us to take his little boy and presented us with his mother’s death certificate.

Dead mothers make orphans. Dead fathers make hungrier bellies.

Working at Canaan, I’ve noticed distinct gender roles. The men are laborers, in charge of maintenance and construction around the orphanage, clinic and school. The women do the cooking, the cleaning, and all the laundry. None of the men here do their own laundry, not even the boys in the orphanage – the girls inherit that chore. Ironically, the women at Canaan hold the powerful leadership positions when it comes to leading incoming missionary groups and negotiating donations with non-profit relief agencies.

Even the clothes here are gendered. Men wear pants and jeans, while women wear dresses and skirts paired with Ts and the occasional tank top. Some of the bolder 20-somethings wear tight Capri pants. I’ve never see shorts, except on hairy white legs of missionary men and on young girls chasing through slums of Port-au-Prince’s.

Just yesterday, Doctor Jean Robert and I were sipping our black coffee after breakfast, when we received a call. Without a goodbye, he shoved his dirty dishes in my direction and walked off, leaving me fuming. Was he handing me his dirty dishes because I was a woman? Everyone took care of their own dishes and did their own washing, and I pointed this out to the doctor later that day. He seemed unruffled, and I decided to resign myself to cultural norms. If I didn’t pick up his dirty dishes, one of the overworked Haitian women would have to do it.

Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow without resentment.

The gender distinction is particularly interesting when Caroline and I are on Mamba duties. Two white woman driving through town to pick up food is met by laughing men, partly in surprise and more in rude amusement, following us in a herd as we load up the 50 lb sacks of white Texas rice and pinto beans. Women, in our festive skirts and poker faces, carrying our heavy loads to the truck bed while they shake their heads and grin as if to tell us, this ain’t no women’s work.

Cute Haitian Folklore: The Origin of Dimples

The Haitian doctor working at CESANOJE (nickname for Canaan’s community clinic, Center de Santé Nouvelle Jerusalem), shared with me some cute folklore: The story of dimples.

When Haitians talk about dimples, they also point to their lower backs, where the spine curves into the buttocks.

To get dimples, a mother has to push her fingers hard into her baby’s cheeks and lower back during those formative days. Then, voila! Dimples. If someone doesn’t have dimples, their mother either didn’t take an active role in the dimple making, or push hard enough.

Every time I see a Haitian with dimples, I can’t help but smile and imagine a mother’s fingers prodding the cheerful indentions.

Mango guts, melon cores and chunky Mamba thighs

2011-07-27T20:41:00.000-05:00

Posing with the fruit purchases... so happy!

Mangos smell rich and womanly under their soft yellow skins, sweet and steamy and damp like fresh mountain rain. Their perfume mesmerized me as I zigzagged through Montrouis’ open market, skirts swishing as women bargained and young boys begged, their hands held open like empty prayers.

After dulling my palate with two weeks of rice, pasta and white bread, the flavor almost choked me. There’s something embarrassingly sensual about biting into a mango, tearing the skin with your teeth. Juices dripped down my chin, and I felt like a child. Or a vampire, sucking zealously on raw flesh.

The texture of a mango is similar to a fine pâté once you get past the stringy bits near the skin. The hard core is a palm-sized heart, emerging from the goopy fruit almost alive, like the trembling meat in an oyster shell. I saw children sucking on the mango hearts like lollypops, leaving the cores smooth and brown.

I had never peeled a mango before, and some of the younger Canaan girls laughed as my fingers clumsily stripped the fruit to keep the precious orange heartstrings intact. The 12-year-old, Marceline, took the mango from me and stripped it meticulously with a knife, peeling it like a sweet potato. Under the swaying tungsten kitchen lights, the naked mango looked and felt like a slimy fist of raw chicken.

Our purchases from the market, minus a couple of mangos we couldn't wait to devour.

Caroline, the full-time director of the Medika Mamba malnutrition program in Montrouis arrived back at Canaan this week from a month-long hiatus. She picked up Creole after only four months mission work thanks to her background in French. I would have been lost without her navigation through the Montrouis fruit venders.

The key, Caroline said, was to play the vendors against one another and let them compete for business. We drove the Mamba truck to the middle of Montrouis to exchange USD for goudes. A bare-chested Haitian man lazily flicked at flies as he did the transaction: 800 goudes for $20 (40 goudes for every dollar).

The market starts on the curb of the winding highway of down-town Montrouis and extends a hair's length from honking tap taps or gestures of high-speed passers-by, filling the market with a stench of diesel. Haiti's Rte 1 cuts through the market's bustle, while a tangle of merchants with massive bowls or cracked tupperware aggressively wander like auctioneers. The more relaxed of the vendors sit under lopsided shelters, displaying everything from glass-bottled beverages to raw meat dizzy with flies.

As soon as we had money, women with huge bowls of melons, avocados, limes, mangos and spiky green and brown fruits I’ve never seen before swamped us. Unable to negotiate in the chaos, with fruits thrust under our noses and rubbed against our skin amid yells of “bon bagay!” (meaning, “good thing!” in Creole), we climbed in the truck and rolled down one of the windows. Caroline bargained ruthlessly, chastising the women as they advertised their wares at twice the street value to us blancs.

When we finally agreed on a fair price, the rapidly truck filled with fruit:

For $5 (US), we bought 13 plump, healthy avocados, picked that morning just miles down the road.

For $1, a handful of fragrant limes. For $2.50 a piece, two swollen and aromatic melons.

For $5, a bucket of mangos, warm from the afternoon sun, that made us drunk and salivating from sweetness.

Total price: $16 US, and we watched as two of the women strutted back home, finally selling all their goods after a long day at the market.

Caroline, Amy, Robin and I devoured the fruit, speaking only with “mmm”s and “ahhh”s.

The avocados need a few days to ripen, but with some garlic, lime juice, salt and pepper, we plan to make guacamole to eat on chips that a missionary team is bringing for us Saturday, per Caroline’s request. We prepared a fruit salad with the mangos and melon, juices marrying in a ceramic mixing bowl and nestled in one of Canaan’s industrial-sized refrigerators. I hope we can stretch it out over all our meals tomorrow, but we put such a dent in the mangos we might be back at market tomorrow.

Today was incredibly fulfilling, in addition to belly-filling. Canaan operates on routine, and I’ve fallen into the predictable cadence as I start my third week in Haiti. Wednesday means Medika Mamba at Rousseau, the rural hospital in the mountains.

We had quite a few babies graduate from the peanut-butter based malnutrition program today at Rousseau, and Montrouis Tuesday. I love seeing emaciated babies transformed into giggling bundles of meaty arms and chunky thighs. We document these transformations with photographs, and the difference is astounding.

Graduation from the Medika Mamba program is the difference between shriveled, stunted bodies and those healthy rolls that make me smile. It’s death conquered by vitamins, protein and crucial calories.


Women and babies line up for Mamba assessments at Rousseau Hospital.

Twins get undressed to be weighed and examined.

I am exhausted, though. Caroline led us on a 2-hour hike into the mountains. My sweat glands were on overdrive as we climbed the steep rocky path. Like most afternoons, the air felt smarmy and damp and made my glasses slip incessantly down my nose. Out of nowhere, the mountains in the northeast echoed with thunder, and my sweat mingled with dense raindrops.

It’s so peaceful here, watching lightning blaze in the mountains while the coast is serene, untouched blue.

Haitian bourgeoise and fast food cravings

2011-07-25T20:25:00.000-05:00

I lived one night like a Haitian bourgeoisie. It was an interesting opportunity to experience Haiti’s frightening rift between the rich and poor.

It’s the difference between mud and mansions.

We drove into Port-au-Prince Saturday night with Sister Glady to her deceased mother’s home, up in the mountains overlooking a portion of the earthquake-desecrated residential areas.

As we passed through Port, every wall and building is splashed with ugly political graffiti from the recent election, bearing candidates’ names and ballot numbers. The rich residential area was also violated by spray paint, but all the ugly melted away as we pulled the truck behind barbed yellow gates.

The house was gargantuan and stately, two-stories surrounded by curling flowers and bushes. It had elegant windows covered in ornate metalwork, scrolling hearts and crosses painted a lovely shade of yellow.

The stairs and floor was covered in colorful glazed stone with the same smooth texture as bathroom tiles. Every room (the rooms seemed endless, with multiple bedrooms and bathrooms and parlors) was decorated in Haitian paintings, hammered metal artwork, and tight woven baskets and vases. The furniture was inviting and cozy under the towering ceiling.

Two of Sister Gladys’ brothers were fixing up the house and were there to greet us. They have been adding bunk beds and accommodations for large missionary groups that come to Port-au-Prince to do relief work and construction.

Like most Haitian households, the windows were carefully positioned around the house to maximize ventilation and airflow. There was a constant breeze that chilled the house in the absence of AC. I love how careful construction can eliminate the need for AC and conserve a ton of energy, especially in a place with notoriously hot weather.

Sunday transformed the city. Port-au-Prince was tamed to easy traffic, well-dressed churchgoers, and crows strolling lazily to the market. There was less honking, less chaos, and a colorful city at ease. Besides a man jumping in the bed of our truck and attempting to steal Katie’s suitcase (VERY unsuccessfully… we had that sucker bound right under a tarp!), the drive was much more peaceful than my past ventures.

We dropped Katie and decided to take advantage of the vacant streets and tour Port-au-Prince by truck. We passed the rubble of downtown, and Sister Gladys pointed out a collapsed third story of a school, where more than 300 children perished to falling cement and earthquake tremors. We drove by the presidential palace, still in ruins and surrounded by matchbox-shaped tents and shacks where the most beautiful park in Port used to flourish.

I remembered a conversation I had with Sister Gladys’ brother, Jean, who was born and met his wife in Port. His wife came back to Haiti after spending 40 years in the U.S., and cried as she walked the streets of her childhood. Cherished memories were replaced by pain and ugliness.

I visualized her tears mingling with the trash and filth of tent city and wished they were enough to make it go away, to heal this broken community.

The English church, Port-au-Prince Fellowship, was a solid reminder that faith can bridge cultural differences. For every foreign missionary, there was a Haitian dancing, clapping and joining in the worship. The band was led by an American man playing guitar, but backed up by an all-Haitian band: 4 women on vocals, a man on keyboard, a man on drums, a woman on saxophone.

I felt at home. The sound of English swelling out the open windows to mingle with the Creole voices at the Haitian churches in service next door made me feel united. I was reminded that Christians bridge the gap between Haiti and home, in this culture different in so many ways from my own.

We ate Haitian fast food after church and met up with Shirley and Alex, a young couple and friends of Sister Gladys who opened a young boys’ orphanage in Port-au-Prince last year. The sandwich, French fries and vanilla cupcake was delicious, but loaded with Mayonnaise and other condiments. Epi d’Or is an extremely popular fast food joint in Port, and offers everything from bacon cheeseburgers and ice cream to traditional Haitian food and cakes. Like the grocery store we visited in Port, the building was huge, packed with people of all nationalities and walks of life, and guarded heavily by security officials carrying impressive guns.

But I’m back to reality now, listening to someone’s donkey braying and the soft whack of a machete in the garden.

I’ll be up late tonight typing a clinic report for the organization overhaul I hope to finish soon. It’s looking fantastic, and we have a huge donation of surplus supplies, including Lactated Ringer’s for cholera, for the hospital in Petit Gôave. Montrouis is not well equipped by any means, but it’s great to see medical supplies pooled where they’re most needed.

Tonight, I have had education on my mind. For a Haitian family to put their child in kindergarten, the cost is around 1500 Haitian dollars a month – a sum out of reach for most families. Education is not free here like it is in the U.S. Many of the schools are pumping money directly into the pockets of corrupt government leaders. Without education, these kids will not be equipped to move Haiti forward. Please pray with me for available primary education and an end to government corruption.

Petit Gôave, kerosene lamps and culture shock

2011-07-23T13:21:00.000-05:00

The blanc, white girl with glasses and eyes that squint in the unforgiving Haitian sun. A source of comedy. I watch, numb and awkward, as an old woman seizes my hand and pumps it up and down, shouting a mocking “Bonswa, blanc!” and calling out to her neighbors, forming a tight circle around me and the Canaan kids I have been walking with through the tent city of Petit Gôave, a coastal city south of Port hit hard by the earthquake.

Singled out, shouted at, grabbed and jostled. It was culture shock Friday. Temporary paralysis and humiliation followed.

It’s an area wrought with cholera and parasites. I pulled my face into an awkward smile and fought the urge to pull out my hand sanitizer. The kids I escorted stared at the dirt as the people hurled insults at me and the three other American women I walked with. It started out as a harmless greeting – white people are a rarity in this area and blanc is more to identify someone as non-Haitian than a charged racial comment.

Two boys who lived at an orphanage in Petit Gôave were leading us to see the new houses their Christian alliance has provided for the broken community. I imagine we looked like a mismatched parade. I held some of the younger girls’ hands as we walked through shacks bearing USAID tarps and the. Men and women clad in clothing castaways from the U.S. (graphic Ts from every forgotten Middle School team to College fandom, cheerleader uniforms, even torn Barbie ballgowns) would occasionally shout blanc and point a finger our way, mouths gaping and then erupting in laughter.

One of the older girls instructed me in succinct English to keep my eyes low and ignore their Bonswas. We were now attracting a large crowd. Anxiety bloomed with the lush banana trees and mimosas. I saw a man walking our way heft his machete in our direction—the tool of a worker, used to slash through the thick stems of banana trees and not an uncommon sight—to point us out to his children. I felt a lurch or fear as we finally stopped and turned around. No one wanted to see the rest of the houses anymore. We were already to get away.

I was exhausted, and what had started out as a day promising the beach and relaxation had somehow brought us here: in the midst of rural Chaos and unsettling poverty, walking through the slums of Port Gôave and trying not to stare at the tattered clothing and stink og feces. Six hours in the back of a bouncing truck, south past the traffic of Port-au-Prince, simultaneous dehydrated and needing to pee, and finally arriving at Sister Gladys’ city of birth alongside 20 Canaan kids, all coated in smoke and dust.

Then, the climax. The old woman who had put my handshake and glasses on display had followed us. Now, she straddled the dirt path, blocking us from passing. As she balanced a large aluminum tub on top her head, she gave me a toothless grin and started shouted to another woman nearby. She shouted back, and they started gesturing one another aggressively.

Still clinging onto the hand of a little girl, I felt myself pushed around the shouting woman and running down the path alongside 20 others. Through closed teeth, the older Canaan girl told me the woman was saying she wanted to fight us – to fight the blancs who had arrived in their part of town. She said if we crossed her path and touched her or any of her neighbors, she would fight us.

We half walked, half ran from the tent city, past a dried up river where some cattle and goats were tied, through sludgy green sewer run off, and down crusty streets to the safety of Sister Gladys and the orphanage.

Later, when we told Sister Gladys what had happened, she tutted her tongue in disbelief. "The people of Petit Gôave are warm and welcoming people. They must be getting restless." She said it was doubtful any harm would come to us, but we all felt uneasy at the display, the drama.

Could it be boredom? Or is there something brewing in Petit Gôave. It's been two years since the earthquake, and still half the city is leveled and confined to tent city. Nothing has been done for these people. They are another sad story, buried in rubble as deep as Port-au-Prince.

We ate Haitian food at a long table accommodating pastors and their wives. I found it interesting that while they all spoke Creole as their langue maternalle, their meeting was conducted only in French -- the language of elite education. It was ironic that a group dedicated to building homes, providing medical care and food for earthquake survivors, many illiterate and Creole speaking, chose to express themselves with the golden tongue of the Haitian bourgeoisie.

Sister Gladys herded us to the steaming bowls of rice, stewed greens in a flavorful sauce, and a small dish of tender meat. It was the most delicious meal I have had here. We washed it down with Coke in glass bottles, made from real sugar and not high fructose corn syrup. It reminded me of my trips to Mexico in high school, and lugging our glass bottles back to the small shops for a few pesos refund. I finally felt the life creep back into my legs, and it was already time to make the drive back to Montrouis and Canaan.

The drive back was even more jarring, but just as long—hours of retracing the grime and alternating scenes of towering mountains, glaring ocean and bustling commerce. The church bench we had put in the back of the truck collapsed from all the jolts, so Katie and I sat on the floor where the dust from the road slapped our tired faces.

Port-au-Prince is sensational at night. The women, crouched next to their market stalls since early in the morning, light kerosene lanterns to display their wares into the evening. Stereos boom like thunder. The flames burn high and seem to lap at their faces, mysterious and reminding me of the gypsies and fortune tellers in New Orleans’ Jackson Square. I wondered how easy it would be for one overturned lantern to burn down the entire tent city—people and booths and their dwellings and the trash are so packed together they’re sometimes indistinguishable.

As we rumbled over the last stretch of highway to Montrouis, I looked out behind me. The city lights bobbed and hovered like stars – an arm of cosmos molded in the arm of mountainside stretching to the coast.

The crowds did not seem to thin, but less children walked the streets at night. Men strolled loudly on the sidewalks and swerved through the streets on loud mopeds. Police men with rifles strapped to their chests and pistols in their fist stood stoically on intersections. Waiting.

I hastily rinsed off and collapsed in my bed. I felt like I’d never wake up, but rose with the sun (and the barking dogs) at 5:30 this morning.

It’s nice and breezy this afternoon, although I’m dripping sweat. I just hung up my laundry to dry, and I’m so glad I packed few items of clothing. It took me hardly 20 min to scrub finish. I read while the other missionaries labored at least an hour over their clothing. We might be heading with Sister Gladys to Port again this afternoon. I’m praying for some more rain and a safe and less painful ride.

Haitian hospitals, Medicine food and Creole lessons

2011-07-21T18:50:00.001-05:00


Child with Kwashiorkor symptoms.

It has been a week and a day since I arrived in Haiti, but it feels like longer. There was a funeral at Canaan for a man of Montrouis, and I have part of the tune stuck in my head. It reminded me of a New Orleans jazz funeral –- several trumpets and a trombone player played a lively waltz rather than a somber melody. It was a colorful affair, which I peeked at through the steel-barred clinic windows.

I had my first Creole lesson today! Pastor Joelle’s wife taught us the Creole Alfabét, which is almost exactly the same as French, and some basic classroom vocabulary for the women working as English teachers.

Here are a few works of the day that will be useful for the clinic, especially when directing patients to their place while taking vitals:

Chita (la) = sit (here)

(Pa) kanpé la = (don’t) stand here

Sòti = go out

Rantré/ antré = come in

My morning was rather monotonous. Katie and I resumed cleaning the clinic storage room and sorting supplies that we think need to be donated to the local hospitals. I’ll be typing the list for Sister Gladys this weekend.

We had to put a lot of supplies in a trash pile for being either trampled in the chaos, covered in dust or bug bits, and some once-sterile containers chewed through by rats. It was also frustrating to see so many surgical supplies YEARS past the expiration date, thrown messily in rotting boxes. It’s fantastic that American medical supply companies are donating to Haiti, but medicines and wound prep kits “good until 2001” aren’t ideal.

View of the mountains through the Mamba truck window, on our way to Rousseau Hospital.

We sang along to Adele from my iPod Touch until our feet were gray from shuffling around in dust.

Here’s my reflection of the day: Why in the world would a rural primary care clinic need Foley catheters, sterile bone saws with leg amputation bags and around 1,000 surgical gowns? It may be a dream down the road to offer care in emergency situations, but for now Canaan doesn’t have the resources (or the space!) to store these supplies. They need to go where there’s a pressing need or them, like the hospitals in Pierre Payan, St. Marc and Rousseau, with specialty doctors on staff to address these needs. Otherwise they’ll end up like the pile we trashed—dirty, rat-eaten and unusable.

Yesterday I woke up with nausea and abdominal pain. I had to sit with my head between my knees so I wouldn’t start dry heaving at breakfast. The change in diet has disrupted my digestion, but who knows exactly what set it off. However, it was a busy day and I had no time to take it easy.

Doctor Jean Robert prescribed me some medication that the pharmacist, Henry, only gave me after teasing me in drawling French. Katie and I, along with Mis Elise and a translator from Canaan, hurriedly loaded the Mamba truck and drove 45 min to Rousseau, a hospital and health center deeper into the mountains than Montrouis.

It was the bumpiest drive I’ve ever been on. We passed a thick river, with naked children washing laundry and stretching linens to dry over skull-white stones. With their thumbs out like hitchhikers, people from Montrouis hailed us to stop so they could jump in the bed and catch a ride along the steep road.

The hospital was nice, but crammed with people waiting for consultations. We set up the Mamba supplies as mothers and grandmothers lined up on a crooked bench. Some of the children were so malnourished that their ages were indiscernible. A mother brought her 5-year-old son, smaller than the 2-year-old I babysit back home. He weighed a shocking 11 kg. An 8-year-old girl weighed only 14 kg, but could not be admitted into the Mamba program because of her age. The nurse gave her bags of rice. We also gave every family we saw to large bags of dehydrated soup – aid for parents as shriveled as their sick babies.

Here, food is medicine.

Rousseau Hospital. My camera was fogging up all day.

We admitted a new baby into the program that had severe edema (swelling) of his legs and belly. The edema is a symptom of Kwashiorkor, a form of malnutrition when the diet doesn't provide enough protein. He looked like a cartoon, his skin suctioned to his rib cage, while his legs and belly swelled like balloons. He was burning up with fever, but we were out of antibiotics. It was horrible feeling to let him leave without proper medication.

We finished the Rousseau Mamba consultations at noon. After a quick lunch at Canaan, Katie and I drove one of the young mothers and her sick 6 mo. old baby to the hospital in St. Marc for a chest X-ray. A doctor living in the states who serves Canaan in his spare time agreed to take on the baby as a patient. She has strange dimples in her chest, as if her rib cage has been pushed too far back. There’s strangeness in the way it juts, and the baby sounds like she has pneumonia or some kind of lung infection.We didn't have to wait too long for the X-ray, and there were no lead coats for protection. I stepped outside to put a cement wall between my body and the radiation.

I saw my first Emergency Room in Haiti at the St. Marc hospital. It was a large room, smaller than a waiting room from one of the hospitals I work at in Baton Rouge. Mismatched beds were squeezed together like an infirmary. The room was hot and still, except for a single ceiling fan. I can't imagine laying in that stagnant heat for treatment.

I was exhausted and still felt sick after the long day. After dinner, I fell immediately asleep and did not wake up until 6 am this morning: 11 hours, through the generator being turned on and off, without moving. I’m feeling better, but the pain comes and goes.

Mamba clinic, tap taps and collossal clutter

2011-07-19T20:36:00.000-05:00

More than 100 patients checked in at the Centre de Santé Nouvelle Jerusalem since 6 am. By 1:21 pm, 75 were still waiting to be seen by a nurse or doctor.

The numbers alone were discouraging. As much as I am an aspiring med student, I don’t have the credentials to step in and help see patients. I know I am needed in other areas, but helplessness pains me.

The clinic is understaffed, especially on Tuesdays and Thursdays when the Mamba clinic is open. I helped Katie and Mis Joanne, the RN who runs the malnutrition program year-round, weigh babies and check-in children (aged 4 and under) who qualified as malnourished to participate in the 8-week program.

This little pink house is perched on the hill above the clinic. Empty, but with an amazing view.

Depending on the child’s weight that week, they receive lime-green plastic pouches of Mamba: essentially peanut butter and vitamins. It was disappointing to see some graduates of the program once again returning as malnourished.

It’s absolutely crazy to me, but the program never worries about peanut allergies. There are none. Katie told me that when the babies are malnourished, they have no immune system. Without a functioning immune system, there are no allergies.

Christian Aid Ministries (CAM) made a delivery of medicine, which lifted our moods and even made the stern pharmacists smile. Katie left for an hour, and I took some infant patients on my own. Scary, in the sense that I was expected to pick up the process immediately, but also exciting!

The communication barrier has crumbled a bit today, too. I’ve picked up little phrases in Creole, and Christiane, one of the girls from Canaan, translates at Mamba each week. It was immensely helpful when explaining the program to the new Mamba initiates. Sister Gladys got back from the states yesterday evening, and she has promised to start daily Creole classes for the American staff. I’m starting to feel at home here, and I’m so encouraged to have a willing teacher.

When I finished taking vitals and checking patients in, my final number resting around 104 with people still registering. People are usually turned away at number 80 or so, except for children and elderly. But today that’s all I saw – mothers cradling their babies too sick to cry. An old woman curled into the fetal position on the concrete slab of sidewalk, ending abruptly at a field where goats and chickens wandered.

I heard one of the nurses whisper in exasperation, “We have an old woman outside, dying before she sees the doctor!” I felt so frustrated that there was no way to speed it up.

The shaded waiting area was too packed with others, like the old women, sick and waiting. They possess a disturbing patience with the slow-progressing consultations, something I hardly see at the Baton Rouge hospitals.

I suppose it’s better than the alternative: Nothing.

Today was also the start of a colossal inventory of the clinic’s supply room(s). The clutter was overwhelming. Katie and I spent a few hours of lunch digging through boxes of IV fluids, bandages, 52 pairs of crutches, and misc. medicine bottles (some in Hungarian!) among other things.

The storeroom is a classic example of how a plethora of cluttered medicine and supplies can actually limit resources. The staff often has no idea what medicines are available to treat patients. Katie told me that last week, there were several instances of antibiotic creams and medicines found only days after patients were sent away empty-handed.

There are stacks of surgical equipment and specialized machinery delivered in CAM shipments useless to the rural clinic. It might be better off donated to a Haitian hospital than gathering dust and bug casings.

If there’s a shortage, it’s in organization. I need patience if Sister Gladys passes this job onto me when Katie goes back to the states Sunday.

Here are a few photos of the chaos:

On Monday, I finally had the chance to check over the EKG machine that’s been gathering dust in the X-ray room at the clinic. With the X-ray stuck in a shipment of necessary medical supplies in customs at Port Au-Prince (2 years as of this summer!), the room is used for spillover storage of supplies. It’s missing leads and the clinic has no electrodes to use. Unless they find parts, it’s useless. I would love to see the clinic receive a gently used EKG machine for the clinic. There are a lot of heart patients in Montrouis.

Burning garbage is becoming a familiar smell in Haiti.

Although the clinic was busy, I tap-tapped with the three staff women into St. Marc, about 30 minutes of lush land and sweaty bodies squashed together, thigh-to-thigh. We needed cleaning supplies for our non-flushing toilet, and I needed to exchange some dollars into Haitian goudes. The sickly sweet smell of burning plastic smoked the streets. The entire population spilled onto the streets, selling every kind of car part and mattress size and cell phone charger and bootlegged French film imaginable.

I mostly walked with my head down, watching my feet as the sidewalk became a sludgy ditch, a potholed reserve of rancid water, and a muddy slope of garbage. We walked, in line formation, straight to the grocery store and back from the tap-tap station.

Horrible green facials from our impromptu spa night.

I enjoyed St. Marc, but felt like a circus act with my loose blond hair. Strangers reached out to pat my head, poke my arm and pull at my plastic bag of snacks. I would not have felt very safe without Jacques, a 19-year-old from Canaan who went along to translate and chaperone. We returned and immediately treated our blackened feet to a dip in the paraffin wax machine. Impromptu spa night, complete with masques one of the missionaries left behind!

The sun has gone down and I’m getting mauled with mosquitoes right now, so time to reapply nasty deet to my body. The “all natural” repellant doesn’t work for me against these tiny heathens (they really are smaller than any ones from Louisiana!). Katie and Amy baked a chocolate bundt cake, so we invited the doctor Jean Robert and a couple of the older boys to help us enjoy it in the garden next to our house.

It could just be the scenery talking, but chocolate tastes so divine here.

Enjoying cake in the garden, while I hid behind the camera!

Creole worship and a rainy Sunday

2011-07-17T18:50:00.000-05:00

The female staff house, where we spent most of today out of the rain.

It’s Sunday already, and my first time at a Creole Christian worship service. The Canaan church is a squat concrete building painted powder blue. The tin roof, coupled with short windows covered in mosquito wire, heats up the building like a convection oven. With no power during the day, the metal fans were lifeless and taunting on their wall mounts. I fanned myself with cardstock as we sang for an hour, repeating lines of gospel translated into Creole to different drum rhythms and pats of tambourines, and listened to Pastor Joelle’s sermon for another hour—the longest I’ve ever been in a church service. Breakfast had upset my stomach, so it felt even longer.

I had difficulty enjoying the new experience. The service was in Creole, and I caught snatches of the sermon when the Creole resembled French. One of the older Canaan girls was translating on and off, but I was too far away to catch what she was saying over Pastor Joelle’s bellowing voice as he paced back and forth behind the pulpit, his bible held high. This, like the singing, was very repetitive and met with generous rounds of “Meci, saviour!” and “Hallelujah, amen!” with upturned palms.

Half way through the service, a baby from the front pew started pulling on my skirt, so I pulled her on my lap and bounced her until she squirmed free and crawled to another woman in the row behind me. It melted my heart.

Again today, the clinic is closed. The three other staff women and I planned to go to St. Marc after church, but the tap taps (trucks you “tap” on the back of to catch a ride somewhere, like a public bus or open-air taxi) don’t run late Sunday afternoon and Pastor Joelle forbade us from leaving, in case we might be stranded. Since, I’ve had a lazy day that’s only made me a little homesick.

The sky was dreary and looked on the brink of a storm all day.

I tried interacting with some of the kids, but my duties as a clinic worker separate me from their chores and summer reading school schedules. Jessica, 13, took my arm and chatted with me in French and, without luck, tried to teach me “Leave me alone!” in Creole. I couldn’t quite nail down the syllables to repeat them correctly to her. Rosalie, 7, taught me “pays boire” and “za” (spelling?), to describe in Creole a “skinny tree” rooted outside the cafeteria door.

I relieved one of the young girls of a baby she was carrying, a 16-month-old with saucer-sized, exploratory brown eyes, as she wiped down the cafeteria tables. The baby just stared at me, putting tiny, endearing fingerprints on my eyeglass lenses. Anyways, they’re constantly smudged and slipping down my nose as I perspire.

I’ve read for hours today and have a headache. There’s no happy medium for my eyes—reading in either squinting sun or mosquito/ dog-inhabited shade. Our house is dark, but we burn candles to keep out mosquitoes and gnats. Wearing glasses here has also it difficult in the sun because I can’t wear sunglasses AND see. If I were to do this again, I would definitely have brought a couple pairs of contact lenses and risked getting eye infections. Wearing glasses (and toting my flashy Canon camera) makes me stick out even more and feel pangs of guilt for owning these luxuries.

Our toilet is broken. We spend the afternoon waiting for Pastor Joelle to come help us with a repair, but turns out we’ll have to manually flush with a bucket of water and the occasional cup of bleach to prevent gagging episodes. That’s another thing taking adjustment – scarce water for bathing and flushing and other hygiene rituals that often seem so mindless back in the states, but are regarded as wasteful and luxurious here.

We missed lunch since we had originally planned to eat in St. Marc. To tide us over until dinner, I went with the women to make a sandwich in the kitchen, where thousands of flies were diving leisurely around the entrance. I had never been in the kitchen other than to put my dishes away, but we were met with the fierce stink of rotting food. Since the generator has been broken, the kitchen’s fridge and freezers have not had power. I almost went into an episode of dry heaving when I opened the fridge door to spaghetti sauce rimmed with a thick sponge of mold and the reek of decay. We tried the cupboards, and a very tubby rat ran screeching up the wall into a hole in the ceiling. Appalled, but not yet totally having lost my appetite, we found some instant rice to snack on. The moment we poured the package into the pan, out dropped about a hundred tiny black squirming insects.

That’s when my appetite completely left me.

Needless to say, the meals are usually simple but flavorful. Other than some expected digestion issues, I have enjoyed everything that’s been prepared—usually varieties of pasta and rice with beans for protein. We ended up being called down for an early dinner around 4 pm, and my stomach is already grumbling as the sun goes down. Being hungry often is something I hope I’ll adjust to soon. It’s not pleasant, but here it’s a necessity. Food is expensive and not available to everyone.

Black expresso, Haitian style (minus the scoops of raw
sugar I've seen the older men and women drink!)

The most exciting thing that has happened today is the thunder and rain, plus my cup of morning black coffee. Rain means the week will be cooler, and the past few days we’ve had dark clouds… without the storm. But now, it’s a pleasant downpour. I’m glad I took my laundry off the line in the garden before it was soaked. It’s calming to hear the steady pings of rain on the tin roof of our house, and the earthy green smells it flushes into my bunk.

Tomorrow my duties at the clinic resume. I just want today to end...

Haitian Tourism: Egg Sandwiches and Club Indigo

2011-07-16T20:54:00.000-05:00

Haiti is beautiful. This is a view from the beach of Montrouis at Club Indigo where I swam and walked all day.
The water feels delectable -- and so shockingly clear.

Have you ever heard a pigs scream? It’s a pretty horrifying thing to wake up to, like vultures screeching. Katie told me later that she passed by a group of men standing by the pen, possibly preparing to harvest some meat. Amy said she thought it was a wild female pig, seducing Canaan’s male-only pigs, which made us all laugh.

At least I’ll know where the bacon is coming from.

I slept in until 8 this morning and listened to Florence and the Machine on my bunk. It feels like camping out – the couch cushions and draped sheets of childhood sleepovers – with the mosquito net draped over me. No air conditioning, but my body is rapidly adjusting. I enjoy the heat.

The clinic, as well as the rest of Canaan, is closed on weekends. Most of the staff has families that live in St. Marque, Montrouis, and Port-au-Prince, among others, so the weekend is their opportunity to go home. They stay in the dorm adjacent to the nursery during the week—free room and board, if they can rest with the screaming babies.

My delicious egg sandwich from the Haitian street vendor.

We also gave the kitchen staff off so we could sleep in and eat egg sandwiches from the vendor on National Route 1, which leads from Port to Montrouis. The egg sandwiches are the size of hamburgers, with thick po-boy style buns, ketchup, mayonnaise, hot sauce, straggly lettuce and “picklies” – a spicy salad of raw onions, jalapenos, pepper and vinegar. The woman who made our sandwiches came out and danced for us while Haitian radio blared, her arms outstretched wide as the horizon, her black body swaying as the food warmed on the press.

I’m rosy cheeked and raw after spending all day outside, near the beach. We drove the Mamba truck to Club Indigo, where Elsie is living with her (almost) adopted son. It’s one of the nicest resorts for miles. Before a hurricane hit Montrouis years ago, it was known as Club Mead and one of the largest gay beaches in Haiti. The beach was a hot spot for sex tourism, and HIV spread rapidly. Today Montrouis has a high concentration of SIDA, according to some clinic staff.

This is definitely one of Montrouis' tourist areas. Local men sold coconuts on the beach, and I caught snatches of
English from white vacationers (or possibly relief workers?) lounging with import beers.

Most of the Haitian vacationers here spoke French rather than Creole -- a symbol of status, education
and power in Haiti.

The sand on the beach was burning my feet, so I walked to the pool to cool off. As you can see, life here is
constantly enveloped in rich mountains. It started raining shortly after I took this photo.

Club Indigo was packed. I drank a frothy cappuccino and reapplied sunscreen almost religiously. It was wonderful and peaceful, and I was able to swim out in the crystal blue to a raft bobbing about 100m from the beach. I heard more French spoken than Creole, and even some English, as French is a sign of status and education in Haiti. It is a shocking transition from the slums of Sous-Bogne to Club Indigo.

I was able to treat my caffeine fix to a cappuccino at Club
Indigo, one of Montrouis' resorts.

We ate dinner at the snack bar, which served greasy American foods like hamburgers and Cokes, and watched a movie at Elsie’s house. I snuck outside to watch the sunset on the ocean.

Breathtaking? Heck yes.

A boat was tied up just a short walk behind Elsie's home at Club Indigo.

The waters look so much more mellow at night than under the blazing equatorial sun.

The sunset was vibrant and so quick. The sun goes down here around 7, much
earlier than I'm used to since Haiti is so much closer to the equator than Louisiana.

The past couple evening the other three staff women from the U.S. have watched Friends episodes and painted their nails. A paraffin wax machine was, quite randomly, donated to the clinic from Christian Aid Ministries, so they’re planning on using it to sooth their calluses tonight.

The kids like Rihanna as much as Justin Bieber, and I’ve heard “Oh nah nah, what’s my name…” sung from the cafeteria to the stoops of the water pump where the young men hang out and kick a semi-deflated soccer ball. Only snippets of the songs, never full verses.

A Haitian couple watched the sunset from the little raft off shore from Club Indigo's main beach.

I haven’t heard any American pop on the Haitian radio stations at Canaan, just Christian music in Creole, so I suppose they’ve heard the songs from the iPods and CDs of missionaries passing through. Katie said some Haitian radio stations play only American pop and rock, and many of the older Canaanites receive allowances for chores and good behavior to purchase their own laptops and iPods from the states. The DJ at Club Indigo today blasted techno versions of everything from Ke$ha to the Black Eyed Peas.

I’m in need of some silence right now. I am missing home a little bit. Making friends here is difficult because so many people pass through—and many goodbyes.

I’m praying for friendships and peace with my own transience.

At sunset, small motor boats hung their lanterns and bobbed between the mountains surrounding Club Indigo.

Sous-Bogne: The village down the hill

2011-07-15T19:31:00.000-05:00

Just an anecdote I forgot to mention about yesterday: I walked to Sous-Bogne — a little neighborhood down the mountain from Canaan — with Katie, an Alabama med student and volunteer for the Mamba clinic, to meet with the mother of a 7 mo. old patient with an ectopic bladder. Katie needed their original birth certificates and ID cards to bring to the U.S. Embassy to get the family Visas. Without immediate approval to travel to the states, the little boy might miss the opportunity for surgery and risk disease and death.

The trash in Sous-Bogne (pronounced “sue boy”) was the first thing I noticed. The smell was next. The path was more shattered glass than dirt. Soggy cardboard and clothing, plastic detergent bottles and paint tins were strewn around concrete dwellings.

Tarps and screens woven from dried palm leaves crackled as groups of boys burst out, snickering and energetic as they played with plastic suture wrappers discarded from the clinic. Wiry, patchy-feathered chickens clucked under the walls of cacti and twisting succulents.

Katie told me Haitians build only when they have money, which explained the incomplete skeletons of cement and plaster scattered across the landscape. The missing slabs of concrete were often plugged with the woven-palm mats, worn blankets or even plastic jugs and garbage.

Just half a mile walk brings us into a staggeringly different living space. Just down the road, the resort Club Indigo houses upper-class Haitian vacationers, missionaries’ families, UN officials and foreign soldiers working in Montrouis. The gardens are pristine and manicured compared to the dismal grey, brown and muted greens of Sous-Bogne.

When we reached the house, Maddie, a 17-year-old from Canaan, translated. The baby was rolling on his back in the shade while his mother washed clothes in a large aluminum basin.

Le garçon has a grin-shaped slit on his belly where urine oozes from his kidneys. Since he is prone to infection, doctors are arranging a private jet to take him to Indiana to construct a bladder, close the opening, and possibly reconstruct genitalia. His penis never formed, and he has hernias on his testis. I don’t know whether or not his growth will be stunted, but he was a giggly, clingy baby with deep dimples and thin, loopy braids on his head.

It was sobering to realize the hurdles this infant and his family have to overcome to obtain adequate medical care.

Noise & peace: Voices of Montrouis and… Justin Bieber

2011-07-15T19:30:00.001-05:00

Hilarious fact: The kids at the orphanage love Justin Bieber.

As I’m typing, there’s a boyish chorus of “baby, baby, baby ohhh…” punctuating the thunderclaps from the steps of the nursery. Robyn, a fellow volunteer, said some Canaanites even made up a dance to his Lonely Girl album. They may not care much for Harry Potter (today I’m missing the final installment!), but pre-adolescent Haitians are pumped about the Biebs.

I want it to rain today; the hillside next to the clinic is looking sullen and dry. Seeing the rainclouds envelope the mountains in velvet mist is breathtaking— a purple thumbprint of clouds.

I constantly feel like I’m seeing Haiti through a National Geographic magazine. Vibrant cascading blue, hazy and sharp, hungry and filling.

Life here is never quiet, between the dogs and children and trucks bumbling by. Singing fills spare silence. The women in the nursery clap their hands and hum to the babies. The Haitian radio loops techno, pop, Creole gospel songs and classical Spanish for hours at a time, mostly talking and taking callers with poor connections and chanting political jargon like an auctioneer (the DJ typically shouts “Hallo? HALLO?!” rather obnoxiously over the songs before any introductions are made).

Last night, a Haitian man sat shirtless on the hill above Canaan, shouting and singing prayers for hours into the evening. The rats scratch in the ceiling above my bunk. The rooster cackles.

I took vitals and helped triage patients for an hour, and spent the rest of this morning and after lunch filing paperwork and entering patient data onto the receptionist’s laptop. The system is disorganized and there were several files missing. It’s tedious to dig up files for returning patients and then file the mounds from the day, especially because I find a paper in the incorrect place for every new chart I file. According to Elsie, who runs the clinic, the filing system is an ongoing project. With an average of 80 patients a day, it is constantly backed up.

A few pathetic chickens wandered into the clinic. It was amusing to watching them strut lethargically between patients as if they, too, were waiting for the doctor.

The staff at the clinic is under tremendous stress because the medicine donations from doctors in the states have not come in for a few months. There are no more antibiotics left to prescribe to patients, so Elsie has been purchasing medicine with her personal money at the U.S. Embassy.

For an appointment at the clinic, people pay 75 goudes, about $2, USD. They receive free medicine to treat their ailment as long as the medicine is stocked. The clinic is also out of a variety of standard tests, including HIV. The parasite and urine screenings are the only tests remaining.

As I walked up the hill separating the Canaan property and the clinic, confident boys demanding chocolate and soccer balls in French. They called me Caroline, the name of the full-time Mamba clinic director, also blonde, who is away on vacation. Je ne pas du chocolate… I felt guilty for refusing them because they were playing soccer with soiled plastic containers, but I suppose the mission teams that cycle through each month supply them with toys, candy and chewing gum.

My eyes are getting heavy and I’m enjoying my lazy Friday evening. There’s much more down time than I ever expected, but time seems to run less urgently in Haiti. No one seems to stress — it’s a refreshing attitude that’s seeping deliciously under my skin. Speaking of refreshing, we finally have water in our house. I took my first shower this afternoon, although the humidity had me sweating before I pulled my clothes back on.

There’s an obese black lab, one of Pastor Henry’s dogs, throwing up outside my window, and a couple puppies toddling in the bushes. I miss cuddling my own puppy, knowing these crusty mutts aren’t for loving, but for safety and vermin control.

Between mountains and sea: first day of clinic work

2011-07-14T21:26:00.000-05:00

The view of the ocean from the hill above Montrouis. The clinic is just downhill to the left.

The scraggy dogs sleep all day under limping mimosas, but at night howl and moan and rustle past my bedroom window until sunrise. My day began at 6 am. I woke up covered in sweat, sun and stagnant heat but I slept peacefully through most of the night, with the occasional interruption from barking dogs.

The scrawny dogs that live at the bottom of the Canaan
hillside are constantly battling over territory with the
Canaan pastor's guard dogs.

After a breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes smothered in Medika Mamba (Creole for "peanut butter medicine"), the enriched peanut butter used to treat malnutrition. It's not much of a Haitian breakfast, but the peanut butter is a staple here, where Canaan houses 60+ orphaned children.

Today was my first experience at the community clinic. The new building still needs a tremendous amount of construction and electrical wiring, but it’s functioning well. Three nurses and a doctor staff the clinic during the week, as well as several receptionists and “floaters” who take vitals staff the clinic and help with patient consults. Remembering names has never been my strength, so I'm trying to focus on meaningful introductions. Luckily, the staff speak French and some speak a little English, so I was able to communicate and learn some Creole phrases. It's amazing how harsh syllables are sometimes the only separation between Creole and swooning French.

View of the mountains surrounding Canaan, a short walk
uphill from my house.

Elsie, the clinic's head nurse, taught me how to take the patient's vitals before their consultations -- an extension of the clinic used to triage patients. For most of the morning, I weighed infants, helped elderly Haitians onto the scale to take their weight in kilograms, and took temperatures and blood pressure. When the trickle of patients halted, I filed in reception. It was daunting at first, with more than 17,000 patient files from the past three years are crammed into two filing cabinets, but I finished in time for lunch.

It was difficult to communicate with patients with French alone, as the majority of Montrouis speaks only Creole. I need to improve my bedside manner -- a Bonjou is not enough to help assess patient needs. I did a lot of pointing, my own timid version of Creole I had overheard from the staff (and filled the rest in with French when I was unable to convey myself) to direct patients to the scale and to unbutton their sleeves for the blood pressure cuff. Haitians are friendly and to the point, especially when they come to the clinic. The smiles in Montrouis are infectious.

I love it here.

There were not as many patients as there normally are, 60 versus the normal 80, so the clinic closed early. I went on a hour long hike with Amy and Robyn, volunteers from North Carolina who are leading the Canaan kids in a summer English reading program. Just up the hill from Canaan is a gorgeous view of the ocean. Villages sprawl from mountainside to the beach, elegant and haphazard.

Villages scatter the mountains surrounding Canaan.

We followed a rock-paved road for a mile, and I saw a few mopeds hurl by crammed with 3 or 4 Haitian men and women and their groceries, clutching one another as they kicked up dust. A man on a donkey greeted us with a "Bonswa! Komon ou ye?" as goats wandered in the brush. I felt out of place with my camera strapped across my shoulder, looking like a blanc with my blond ponytail and grape-colored Keens.

At dinner, I was able to speak French with the Haitian doctor, Jean Robert, and share a delicious meal of noodles with pieces of pepper, onion and raisins. Earlier at the clinic, I met Mis ("nurse") Marice, an LPN from Haiti who speaks French as her langue maternelle. It has helped build my confidence in the language, and has made it much easier to translate the patients' Creole. I could ask her to translate the Creole into French when English was not sufficient. Although I stumbled through my rusty French vocabulary, it felt fantastic to smile and laugh and talk about my life. It's a grounding experience to make a friend and delight in a language not my own.

This is Canaan's cafeteria, where we eat all our meals.
Usually, we have to step over dogs in the process!

I am typing with some urgency because the generator is going to be shut off very early. The large generator that usually feeds Canaan electricity in the evening has broken down, so a tiny generator is burning the bulbs for the entire camp. There hasn’t been water in our house tonight, so I’ll make-do with the dredges of the laundry water and my spare bandana.

I'm off to bathe before the power goes, and the dogs claim the night. Bonwi.

Safe in Beautiful Montrouis

2011-07-13T19:59:00.000-05:00

Lam veritab, the Haitian "bread fruit" we ate for
dinner tonight. Photo cred: http://www.haitiworld.net/index.php

I've arrived in Haiti. I'm safe, full of a delicious dinner and settling in the female staff house. Some of the kids who live at the orphanage have been following me shyly around, chanting my name mischievously. I can't wait to learn all their names, especially the spunky preteen who greeted me with a gut-squashing hug.

The flight from Miami to Port-au-Prince was full of expansive skies and layers of aqua, turquoise and lagoon blue waters. I've never seen so much depth to ocean. The Louisiana bayou has its particular muddy charm, but driving to Montrouis along the coast was like skirting trembling sapphire.

This is a beautiful country.

At Toussaint Louverture International Airport, I was one of the first passengers through customs because I had no checked baggage. I had to leave behind the toaster oven I brought for one of the nurses of Canaan at the airport lost and found because, to my surprise, the US has an embargo on any boxes to Haiti until mid-August. It was disappointing to leave behind the brand new appliance and frustrating, too -- especially because I was delayed 30 minutes simply searching for an official to help me find a place to leave the oven without causing a safety scare!

I boarded my flight to Miami at the last call and as the gates were closing. I was frantic and sweaty when I squeezed into my window seat. After a calming hour layover, I flew to Port-au-Prince next to a chatty Haitian student named Whitney. She's also a 21-year-old studying to pursue a career in medicine.

Whitney gave me an airborne "tour" as we flew over the wounded city -- fleets of white and tarp-blue tents, rusted tin roofs and thick, clay colored rivers. She sounded distant as she recalled how the landscape shifted since the earthquake, almost like she has been estranged from a close friend. She shook her head as we passed the neighborhoods still in ruins, but sighed whenever the gorgeous water framed the turmoil. The wing of the plane seemed to trace the edges of tumbling mountains, draping the landscape in patchy brown and green as we descended.

The driver was late to get the the airport, and I had no problems waiting in the shade until a large Haitian man grabbed me and tried to bring me "to my ride." I asked him who he was with, and he said "for your organization." He obviously was not with Canaan. When I refused, he walked alongside me and demanded a tip until, exasperated, he finally moved on to harassing another passenger.

A very kind British relief worker saw me awkwardly shuffling at the exit of the airport and offered to call Canaan for me. She spoke quick, succinct Creole with one of the staff members find out when my driver was coming. This allowed me to relax and calmly refuse the several taxi drivers who approached me, speaking a melodious jumble of French, English and Creole.

When my ride arrived, I learned quickly why they were late. Traffic in Haiti is unpredictable, and it seemed like there were no rules to the road. Drivers on tap-taps (little trucks with an overhang and benches that serve as crowded taxis) peeled out without warning. Large UN vans barreled treacherously between men on scooters and bicycles. The roads from Port-au-Prince were were rocky and jarring and I was dripping with sweat in the back of Canaan's truck (no AC, no rolled-down windows) for the two-hour drive to Montrouis. I fell asleep for a leg of the trip and woke up with a pool of sweat at the small of my back. Hello, equator!

We had a delicious dinner of Lam veritab, known as "bread fruit," baked with SPAM into a potato-like textured pie, as well as pasta with raisins and green beans. Although my stomach has been upset today from the anxiety of traveling, dinner was fantastic and soothing.

The generators were turned on around 6 as it started to get dark. I'm grateful for Internet access and the opportunity to let my friends and family know I'm happy and safe! I'm getting my mosquito net and bunk set up. Here are some pictures of my cozy setup.

The top bunk gets the most breeze, and away from the rats and critters!

My cozy bunk in the female staff house.

It's been thundering all evening and sprinkling on and off, but I'm enjoying the damp, salty humidity. It's finally hitting me I'm here: this is my home for the next 5 weeks. The rough-looking mutts littering Canaan have started howling, and I'm missing my little German shepherd puppy, Vivienne.

No pictures of Montrouis yet, although there have been so many times today my heart has ached for the camera I shoved, without batteries or a working memory card, in my carry-on. Woops. Those will come soon, though!

Thanks for your prayers! I'm praying for a beneficial transition into life here at Canaan, and hoping I can be used here at the community clinic in wonderful ways.

Bonwi, my friends.

Packing Light: Long-term medical mission work in Haiti

2011-07-07T11:26:00.000-05:00

Backpacking at Mont St. Michel in France.
Everything I brought to Europe for the
winter in 2010 fit in my Osprey pack.

Six days left until I'm on a plane to Haiti. Fundraising put me at exactly where I needed to be -- $3,000! St. Paul Lutheran Church donated the last $1,000 leg needed to cover trip costs. I'm elated and ready to work.

I have almost finished packing. I decided early on not to check any bags with plane changes/ long layovers. I spent last winter in France and Hungary with about 15 lbs in my backpack, including food, heavy wool coat, sturdy leather boots, travel books and lots of layers. It saved a ton of money when I flew on the budget airlines (RyanAir and EasyJet), which all charge for checked bags.

My Osprey Aura 50 backpack is just under 3,000 cubic inches, but cinches down to fit into a small overhead compartment. It's much lighter than my old Osprey pack, which was great for long treks in my Girl Scouting days but not ideal for light traveling.

In Haiti, the average summer temperature ranges from 77 to 95 degrees, so I'm going to need less layers and lighter fabrics. My old apartment did not have reliable air conditioning, but I've been spoiled by central air after weeks of house sitting... It's time to get used to the heat again!

Since Canaan requires modest female clothing (no shorts), I found some breezy cotton summer skirts at Goodwill for less than $7 a piece. Everything fits in my pack with plenty of room left over--I'm shooting for less weight than my trip to Europe. However, the extra weight of bed linens is pushing me past my desired pack weight.

I was originally only going to bring 2 outfits to alternate, but I've since changed my mind. I'm not sure how easy it will be to do laundry. I want to be respectful of the locals and dress neatly. Hygiene is a priority for Haitians (and myself), so I am packing heavier than I would for 5 weeks in Colorado back-country. Plus, I plan to leave the majority of my clothes as donations to Canaan.

Here's my packing list for 5 weeks in Montrouis, Haiti (July-August).
Note: This list works for longer trips as well.

Clothes/Linens:

4 long cotton skirts from Goodwill (nicer one for church/ traveling)

6 cotton t-shirts

2 white undershirts

1 pair Patagonia baggie shorts for the beach

1 tank-top for weekend lounging

1 pair comfy socks

PJs (yoga pants and a comfy shirt)

Undergarments (undies/bra)

Bathing suit

Bandana & hair stuff

Microfiber camp towel

Twin sheets (& my tiny pillow splurge)

Keen closed-toe Whisper Sandals

Chacos

Toiletries:

Coconut Soap (I haven't used shampoo/conditioner since going soap & 'poo free in March)

Toothpaste/ Toothbrush

All-natural toothpaste

Diva Cup (I've saved SO much money with this thing)

Hand sanitizer

Baking Soda Deodorant (baking soda also relieves itching)

Sunscreen

Aloe Vera Oil (for burns, bug bites & dry skin)

Small Mosquito Repellant with Deet & a larger all-natural bug repellant to dilute

Doxycycline/ antibiotics (An anti-Malaria Rx)

Misc. First Aid items (Neosporin, Benadryl, headache medicine & probiotic digestive aids)

Other:

Passport

List of important phone numbers, copy of passport

Mosquito net

Laptop

Canon Rebel camera

Small battery-operated fan

Laundry Line

2 Water bottles

Headlamp

Ear plugs

Book

Bible

Journal & pen

iPod

Cords/ chargers/ batteries for gadgets

Traveling with contact lenses is a hassle, so I'm just going to stick to wearing my glasses the entire trip. I can bring my case/ back up pair and not have to worry about contact lens case, disinfectant & cleaning fluid, eye drops because contacts irritate my eyes, and replacement lenses. That's another pound or two of gear! The only downside is that I'll have to ditch my non-prescription sunglasses from my pack and rely on sunscreen and a bandana/hat for sun protection

It seems like a lot of stuff listed out, but the little items pack into a very small space. Everything fits in my backpack! Here's a slideshow of the items I'm bringing. The picture with my toiletries was deleted on accident, so another will be posted soon! Enjoy.

Thanks for checking out my blog, for your support and for helping my fundraising efforts be such a success! Please feel free to offer your packing advice and any tips for how I can pare down more!

Love.

UPDATE: One of the wonderful nurses at Canaan has asked me to bring a toaster oven to her new home in Montrouis. (It costs around $39 new at Walmart versus $100 in Haiti with shipping.) Since my backpack is my carry-on, I can take toaster oven as my one free checked bag. Perfect! Light packing pays off.

MINUSTAH: My lasagna dinner with a representative from the United Nations in Haiti

2011-04-26T13:51:00.001-05:00

United Nations emblem.

I received an e-mail Sunday from a family at St. Paul Lutheran Church inviting me to share dinner with them and their house guest--a man who works for United Nations from Port au Prince, Haiti. His name is Emmanuel, and he is Minustah de la Mission des Nations Unies pour la Stabilisation en Haiti, or the United Nations Stabilization Mission in Haiti.

Although Emmanuel is a native of the Republic of Burundi, he has been working in Haiti for several years in telecommunications. It was so wonderful to talk to him about Haitian culture, political affairs & Haiti's newly elected president (popular musician Michel Martelly), reconstruction after the earthquake, and NGOs in Port au Prince. He said that from his experience, Port au Prince is "not a problem" and not dangerous for travelers as long as I do not wander alone in the "red zones" or accept a ride from someone I do not know when I arrive at the airport. This is reassuring to hear from someone involved with the police in Port Au Prince.

Emmanuel's native language is French, and striking up a conversation in French helped overcome some communication barriers, though we mostly talked in English (and reminded me how rusty I've become since my month-long backpacking trip in France!). He said that being a French speaker allows him to understand Creole very well, the official language of Haiti, so I definitely need to intensively work on my conversational French. French is mostly spoken by the Haitian educated elite and remains the language of politicians, whereas Creole is spoken by the majority of the general public.

On a different note, I have been kicking myself all morning for forgetting to take a picture to share with you all! After all, I started a blog to streamline my experiences into a cyber scrapbook, with both the blurbs and visuals. I'll be sure to take advantage of the photo opportunity when I meet Emmanuel again this summer in Port au Prince. He will be working during the months I'm in Haiti, so we're planning on meeting again.

I'm so grateful to have a friend from Haiti with whom I've shared a meal and good conversation. It makes me feel like less of a stranger to the country knowing he will be working in Port au Prince during the months I will be serving Canaan in Haiti. I'm looking forward to new friendships and the enjoyment of new cross-cultural experiences!

Edit (4/29): Here's the fundraising update for the end of April!

Fundraising Update: Spring Break

2011-04-19T20:40:00.000-05:00

I've been enjoying the week off from school, but I've been working as much as I've been relaxing. I helped out at St. Paul Lutheran Church's quilters guild meeting last Saturday by providing childcare for the participants, which was a fun way to help supplement my fundraising efforts.

Here's the exciting fundraising update: Your support has been pouring in, and I'm less than half way to meeting my trip's financial needs at $1,725. Every week brings me closer to $3,000.

Thanks for checking in and for your support!