La Cucaracha

Recently someone asked me what I am most looking forward to about going home in May (little over a month away, what? where did the time go??). Without even thinking about i blurted out, "Going 24 hours without seeing a cockroach". I stopped to think about it, and really? What about ice cream? Or hot showers? Or my family? But let me try to explain.

I think it's fair to say that I am less phobic than the average person when it comes to dealing with cockroaches. My first experience with them came freshman year of college when I ran across the hall to figure out why my hallmates were screaming and standing on their desks...and then patiently chased the cockroach out from under the bed, caught it in a plastic cup, and let it go outside. Yes, really.

Then there was the movie Wall.E, with the cute cockroach sidekick. How could you not love that faithful, indestructible little guy who closely resembles a cricket?

As an RA senior year my attitude towards the little buggers hardened, as I was responsible for making sure that people didn't transport them or their eggs upstairs or into other dorms from storage boxes in the basement of my building.

I was expecting to deal with lots of strange insects in Haiti, and I have seen some beautiful spiders, waged war on tiny but vicious mosquitos, been perplexed by the steady nowhere to nowhere trek of miniscule ants trooping across my walls, and been bitten by a horde of angry red ants I mistakenly invited onto me when leaning against our little roof garden. That one actually ended with me whipping my shirt off and madly slapping myself trying to get rid of them all. I'm sure a bunch of neighbors saw me and were permanently convinced that I am insane, but there was nothing else to be done. I must say though, that the cockroaches here really go above and beyond the call of duty. First off, there are apparently several different types. I didn't know this. There are the tiny roaches which can be found in every crevice of the kitchen and dining room, no matter how often we scrub it or chase them out with boiling water. There are the medium size ones that at least have the decency to scuttle out of sight when you turn the light on. We mutually scare the hell out of each other in the bathroom at night, when they panic not knowing where to hide from the sudden intruder, and I flip out because in their panic they ran across my foot.  And then there are the giant ones, and they fly. Cockroaches are not supposed to fly. They scuttle, they are stealthy and sneaky, that's why we don't trust them. But flying puts them almost into the 'bat' category, and that I simply cannot handle. After the appearance of one of these sends me (and all the other girls) screeching from the room, we regroup, remind ourselves that we are at least a thousand times their size, arm ourselves with flip-flops, and attack without mercy. We maintain an uneasy equilibrium.

Recently the situation has gotten out of hand. I think that the sudden spurt of activity from our resident plumber/handyman has forced several communities of cockroaches out into the open. A few days ago I was attacked by a particularly frenetic one while in the shower. Later a medium-sized one appeared on my bed, sitting innocently next to my pillow. In broad daylight!! That combined with picking a few small crawly ones off my pant legs prompted me to take apart my entire room searching for the source. I found nothing, no purse-like garnet egg capsules, no hidden homes underneath the mattress, not even a few loners hiding underneath my dresser. I was at least comforted by knowing they're not living in my room, they just find it a desirable vacation destination. I still slept that night with my bed pulled out away from the walls into the middle of the room (not sure how this was supposed to help, but it made me feel better) and had dreams that the pantry downstairs had been invaded by a horde of cockroaches 6 inches long and for some reason I was expected to sleep down there.

So, ice cream? hot showers? family and friends? All wonderful, and I'm very excited for them, but now that my creepy crawly buddies have invaded even my dreams, they are officially the number one thing I am excited about leaving behind.

Kembe

Back in February, I started asking around to figure out where the nearest Catholic church is. After a very tangled chain of questions/people, I established that a very ambiguous "we" think the blue and white church you can see across the ravine might be Catholic. Armed with that information, Nate and I ventured out one Saturday morning and attempted to find it. This was more difficult than it sounds, because to get there you have to go all the way down the hill, get across the ravine, and then work your way back up the hill trying to maintain your bearings through windy narrow streets. After several dead ends and much backtracking, the blue and white bell tower finally popped up in front of us, and we found an office tucked in the wall of the courtyard where I was able to ask what time mass was the next morning. She told me 6am. I was so excited about the chance to get to Catholic mass that I didn't even realize this would mean waking up while it was still dark. But, get up early I did, and stalled until it wasn't quite 'dark' anymore (although it sure wasn't 'light' either!) before setting out for mass. And I was so glad I did! Turns out the service didn't actually start until 6:30, (more like 6:45, Haitian time), but getting there early meant I actually got a seat. The church was absolutely packed, even by Haitian standards. And mass was wonderful, great worship, the congregation was awake and involved, and everyone clapped after the sermon! (Don't know why, but this made me really happy).

One of the colorful characters I've met in our neighborhood is Madam Girard. I think she's probably over 60, but still a ball of energy. Her house is situated about 2/3rds of the way up the hill with a clear view in all directions, and she takes it upon herself to know everything about everybody in our neighborhood. When you need to coordinate something, or find someone, you mention to anyone within earshot that you'd like to talk to her, it spreads by word of mouth across the neighborhood, and 10 minutes later she appears. Last week she appeared unexpectedly on Friday afternoon and announced that she was taking me to church. I was very confused; this was the first I'd heard about it! And unfortunately I was in the middle of something and couldn't go with her. A few days later I realized that she was probably trying to take me to Stations of the Cross, a prayerful meditation on Jesus' walk to Calvary that happens in Catholic churches around the world on Friday afternoons during Lent. Yesterday I made sure to keep my Friday afternoon clear, and headed over at 3:15 (Madam Girard was pretty sure it started at 3:30), and arrived to a nearly empty church. Shoot, apparently it's not happening. Now what. Frustrated, and wanting to escape the piercing stares and whispering I inevitably attract whenever I go anywhere, I tucked myself into a pew in the corner and bowed my head. Crankily I thought, "Well, I walked all the way over here, I might as well stay and pray for a while." Thank goodness when I don't make time for prayer, God steps in and makes the time for me.  Thirty minutes later, more people started to trickle in and it became obvious that something would be happening in the church eventually, so I decided to wait around until it did. Gradually the section I was sitting in filled up, and I realized I had unknowingly chosen a seat in the tiny old lady section. I was surrounded by very short, mostly deaf, at least 70-year old women. This got awkward later when every time we stood up I literally towered over everyone around me.

Deciding to wait around for something to happen in Haiti can be a rather large commitment. Sometime after 5pm the priest arrived and the Stations of the Cross started. By this time the church was full, and I have never seen people take this meditation so much to heart. For starters, it took over 2 hours to get through the 14 stations. Very few people had programs, but everyone seemed to know the accompanying prayers and songs from memory. The songs that go with the stations are more like laments. In American churches, they have an unfortunate tendency to become emotionless dirges sung by less than enthusiastic participants (Americans just aren't very good at music, I'm starting to think). But here people poured their whole heart and soul into these songs, and sang them lovingly, powerfully, as the laments they are; reaching into places of pain and suffering in their own lives and connecting that to Jesus' suffering on the way of the cross. I suppose in most of the Stations of the Cross I've ever led or participated in, the meditations have centered on the emotional anguish. Yesterday I realized that in America we tend to have little to no experience of physical suffering, and we too easily gloss over the physical suffering of Calvary. It's hard for us to relate to, it's messy and uncomfortable. But here in this church, on a steep hillside in a Port-au-Prince slum, I was probably the only person there who hadn't experienced physical suffering as a part of daily life, especially during the past year. Carrying a cross up the hill to Calvary? The women around me could relate, they've carried water weighing nearly as much as themselves up the steep hill under an unmerciful sun every day of their lives. The people who gathered in the church were tired, coming from the end of a long week. Here was a place to pour out their suffering, their pain, their despair, and know that Jesus carries it all with them, every step of the way. They drank in the words of the service like they were filling up on strength and energy.

There's a creole phrase, "kembe", which literally translates to "keep", but also means "hold on" or "stay strong". It encompasses a lot of Haitian life: the patience, the waiting, the quiet strength. As we ended the last station, with Jesus lying in the tomb, the final words of the priest "kembe, zanmi(friends), kembe" followed us as everyone drifted out of the church and hurried towards homes in the enveloping darkness. Kembe through another week of life and pain and uncertainty. Kembe until next week when they will gather to pray these stations again, and again every week until finally...Easter, the victory, the symbol of everything we kembe for.

adventures in public transportation

This week has been a lot of fun. The kittens are getting bigger. They look less like rodents and more like cats now, which is exciting. And so we've been taking pictures. Of course.

Tea-kitty.

I wish I could say this was not my idea.

 I have caught Nate carrying around a kitten in his shirt several times now, and the best part is that our janitor/doorman, Soufrant, is deathly afraid of kittens. Yes you read that right. He just dislikes cats, but kittens are to him, in the words of one of my college roommates, "little tiny furry terrors". So of course, we've been chasing him around the building with kittens all week. It's been great. Today I found out the girls have named them. The big one (pictured here) is Tom, the middle one is Jerry, and the littlest has been named Cecelia, for reasons unclear to me, but hey! I have a cat named after me, woohoo. 

Another awesome part of last week was that I got to see Mike Ruth! I'll just say he's my non-biologically related uncle. He was in Haiti doing mapping work for World Vision and some other NGOs, and I got to meet up with him in Petionville on Sunday for lunch. 

Sorry it's kind of dark, Haitian sun makes pictures very difficult.

The incredible view from Mike's hotel. 

Getting up to Petionville was an adventure, and my first solo attempt at public transportation (before I've always had someone from the orphanage I could follow blindly). People who move to totally new places often talk about "integrating with the local culture". The meaning is that you have your own cultural way of doing things, and when you move to a new place you should be conscious of the way you do things, and make an effort to replace some of those ways with the local ways. This includes things like eating stuff you didn't realize was edible, learning to function by candle-light, showering from a bucket, not eating in public places, dressing very formally for church, etc. In this case, I decided it was time to integrate Port-au-Prince public transportation into my way of life here, instead of asking Dr. Bernard to arrange for a driver to take me all the way to Petionville on what should be his day off.

As you may know, during my semester abroad in Europe I used public transportation extensively for the first time, and found out that I was pretty good at figuring out how it worked in each new city, and really enjoyed the challenge.  Unfortunately, this knowledge really doesn't translate to Haiti. I set out on Sunday morning armed with knowledge of point A and point B, but only a very vague idea of how I was going to get from one to the other. Luckily the rule that you can figure out any transportation system via trial and error (as long as you're willing to walk a lot when you make mistakes) is still true here. I found a tap-tap that brought me to the city centre, and then walked north until I found a fairly large street going the direction I wanted (up the hill), and waved down another passing tap-tap. When that one pulled over for gas, I hopped across the road to a motorcycle taxi stand and showed a driver the address of Mike's hotel. Then the fun part, flying up the mountain on the back of a motorcycle, (you may pretend I was wearing a helmet and protective gear, if that makes you feel better), weaving in and out of trucks and cars, and honking the horn excessively. After about 20 minutes of this, I realized the driver actually had no idea where he was going, and made him pull over and ask for directions. Aaaand back down the mountain we go. I decided to think of it as a scenic detour, and really the view from that road (Route de Kenscoff) is gorgeous. After a couple more stops for directions we finally got to the right place, the driver started to demand more money because it took more time and gas than he expected, then took one look at my face and thought better of it. Probably he remembered that I was - unlike your typical blan in Haiti -capable of telling him it was his own darn fault for lying about knowing the address.

I had a wonderful lunch with Mike, talking about life at the orphanage, his work for World Vision, and Haiti in general. I found myself ordering the biggest steak on the menu. Guess I'm craving protein? We're basically on the reverse Atkin's diet here. I probably enjoyed it more than I have enjoyed any other steak in my life, thank you Mike! When it was time to go, I looked at my map to find out the name of the street that led back down the hill, and then wandered around Petionville until I found it. This was the part where I got my first real sunburn in Haiti. On the one hand I'm proud of myself for not getting terribly burnt before this. On the other hand...ow, and my neck is now peeling. People were definitely confused about seeing a white girl walking. ("What is she doing? Where is her driver? She must be lost. White people don't ever walk anywhere!") But eventually I flagged a tap tap and squeezed in between a very old farmer carrying a rooster, and a young mom with her adorable baby. Down in the city we got dropped off in a part I didn't recognize, but I just picked a direction and it happened to be the right one and I saw landmarks I knew. I walked the 10 blocks or so to where I knew I could catch a tap tap home. At the end of the trip I decided to spring for a motorcycle taxi up our hill...I was tired, my feet hurt, and I didn't care about not being pathetic, I just wanted to be home and take my shoes off. In my defense, what I call a hill is technically a small mountain. 

Interestingly the taxi ride up the hill, which lasted approximately 40 seconds, cost 15 gouds. That's approximately 40 cents. The tap tap ride from the city all the way to Petionville (a trip of at least 20 minutes)? Also 15 gouds. Somehow that is just not right. Economist friends, please tell me. Did I get super-ripped off, or could the rate difference really be that big?

A picture's worth a thousand words...

I was going to try to describe a recent attempt at leading yoga...but I think this picture pretty much sums up the hilarity:

 And this picture holds several hundred thousand words. This is a pile of all the books I read between September 15th and January 5th. Some I brought with me, some my mom brought for me, and some are in the library here.

 

And for my fellow bookworms...titles, authors, and comments...

Kittens and Clouds

This light and fluffy blog post brought to you by Mother Nature.

We have a very sweet cat here who lives in the kitchen and pantry and does wonders for our mice problem. Or at least she did until she learned to beg from the table. But I don't see mice anymore, so I think she's still doing her job. Last week she had 3 kittens! I had somehow failed to notice that she was pregnant (?? I don't pick her up very much, and she's so skinny to begin with. I guess I'm used to fat American cats and just thought she was finally approaching normal cat weight.) So now there are three white and black kittens living in a box in the back of the dining room. They mostly just look like blind rats at the moment, but they're still pretty cute, and we're very excited for when their eyes open in another week and we can start playing with them.  

Mimi and her 3 kittens

The other big event of the past week is that dry season is officially over. Hallelujah! It has rained several nights in a row this week, after nearly two months of no rain at all, and it is such a welcome relief. Thursday night a huge storm came through, and Friday morning we woke up to clear blue skies and amazing clouds! I had forgotten what it was like to be able to see the mountains on the other side of the city, or the island (Île de la Gonâve) out in the bay. Sometimes the mountains here remind me of Ireland, because they are green, but covered in brush, not trees. The first thing I noticed when I woke up and looked out the window was how vibrant all the colors were when not seen through a thick film of dust hanging on the air and coating every object. "Oh right, this is a Caribbean island! It's gorgeous here!"

After breakfast I went up on the roof to take pictures of the incredible clouds. I've always been a fan of clouds, but thanks to my friend Maria's amazing cloud blog (The Accidental Naturalist) I've started noticing them a lot more on a day-to-day basis and I have quite a collection of cloud pictures from our roof. But these clouds were making everybody do a double take and say "woah, awesome!" I know because the girls asked to borrow my camera, and when I looked later to see what they'd been taking pictures of, I found nearly 30 pictures of the clouds. Not the bay and the clouds, not the mountains and the clouds, just the clouds, they were that captivating.

I think part of what made them spectacular was that they were very close.

Clouds hovering just overheard, and churning above the opposite mountains.

Clouds over the bay, this is so delicate it looks like a painting!