November 2, 2008

I apologize straight away for the length of this entry, but it was a whopper of a day.

 

Patrick and I have just collapsed onto our bed.  Our feet are tired, our heads swarming with thoughts and projects and a whole new “to do” list, our skin itchy from the last mosquito stop at the all-you-can-bite-buffet they’ve made out of our legs, and a fatigue is settling as we finally sit in front of a fan in our guest house room and unwind.

 

The morning started peacefully.  Breakfast was mangoes and coffee—perfect.  Patrick was feeling like his old self again today which is a blessing, because there weren’t many pit stops on our tour-de-Haiti today.  Thank goodness for Cipro that stopped Patrick’s GI bug in its tracks.  We were looking forward to today’s church service—a chance to preview what we were in for on Sunday’s here for the next 4 years.

 

We followed Patrick and Francois who were carrying a car full of children to the church.  The drive took us through a new part of Port-Au-Prince: down “Martin Luther King Blvd”, up winding mountain roads (a new challenge for Mr. Driver Extraordinaire!) into the mountains where houses were stacked on the hillside like concrete-colored legos.  The streets were swarming with people heading to and from church in their best Sunday outfits: a little boy sported a bow-tie, little girls in lace, and men in suits.  We eased through a bustling street market where fruits, vegetables, clothing and a variety of household goods were laid out on blankets along the sidewalk.  Again, kudos to Patrick who continued to narrowly misses people squatting in the street who were not at all concerned by us driving inches from their toes. 

 

I saw the beauty of Haiti today.  On our trip in March, I was so taken aback by the austere landscape—the concrete, the trash, the barbed wire, the smoke.  I hardly saw green.  But today, my eyes saw Haiti’s color.  As we wound through the mountains, the green seemed to spill out at me.  The mountains rose up all around us as the air cleared, their patchwork fields clinging to the steep incline.  We caught glimpses of the ocean for the first time since our plane landed, when we’d come atop a hill.  Red flowers climbed vines that ran along the top of the walls.  The mass of people in the street created an earthly rainbow of color—the inspiration for many Haitian art pieces.  I smiled at myself.  It is always a relief to find beauty again.  I suppose seeing it is sometimes a choice, but when found it elevates the spirit and deepens the connection to a place.

 

The church building was nestled deep in a neighborhood—a cinder block building from the outside like the rest, an open room painted Pepto-pink on the inside with rows of pews facing an alter covered with silk flowers.  Francois lead us to the front of the church where we sat in the pew and earned a healthy dose of curious glances and shy smiles.  The children were particularly interested, and came in a parade to greet us with kisses on the cheek and “bonjour’s”--A beautiful way to start church for us as we were instantly moved.  Patrick Villier later told us that this was his original home church and that he and Francois had lived in the neighborhood until just a few years ago.  He told us that the church—that was today sparsely filled, used to be packed only years ago.  But in 2004 the neighborhood fell victim to violence after the coup d’état that ousted Aristide.  Homes were broken into and people randomly shot.  And now the half-empty church bears witness to those losses.

 

The next 45 minutes were filled with a Haitian female pastor giving a sort of call and response, the congregation singing and chanting back at her.  All were filled with spirit, waving hands and swaying, chanting with eyes shut and voices lifted.  Even the youngest of the children seemed to be caught up in the energy.  A small band made up of a drummer, a synthesizer, and base guitar added background music to hymns and readings.  Patrick and I felt relaxed and were doing our best to pick out various words that sounded familiar although certainly no meaning could yet be built from our collection.

 

After the first song, Patrick had to step outside with Patrick Villier to move around our cars.  While outside, he asked Patrick V. if there was an ok place to pee.  They spoke to an old woman who indicated he was welcome to relieve himself in a little alleyway beside her house.  Patrick obliged, and moved into the small space.  When he looked up, he realized that the wall neighboring the woman’s house was the church wall, with many cinder-block openings creating windows.  He came face to face with a whole pew of women who looked curiously back at him, probably wondering why he was looking at them from the outside.  And then, Stage Fright.  No pee-pee for Patrick.  He was going to have to hold it until a more private opportunity arrived.

 

Communion was held.  We were introduced, and asked to help.  I was given a tray filled with gram crackers to be given to the children.  Patrick helped Patrick Villier pass out the wine and bread.  I had the honor of carrying a silver tray along each isle letting one child after another reach in for a cracker.  Women in the congregation would help direct me to a child I might have missed.  If I offered a tray to a kid who felt himself too old, they would shake their head and look down.  Surely they were hungry, but had grown out of such treats.  I was moved.  After feeling a little uncomfortable with everyone staring at us before our introductions, moving among the children helped soften smiles.  And the beautiful children, wearing dresses fit for Easter Sunday, all lined up in the front two rows, where all grins.

 

As the communion song was coming to an end, Francois turned to Patrick and said, “Now your turn.”  what?  “the sermon, its time.”  Patrick looked at me with terror in his eyes.  “I want to cry.  I think I’m going to throw up.”  All I could do was shake my head.  Of course he was going to have to give the sermon.  Trial by fire.  But my stomach turned over for him.  How on earth was he going to deliver a sermon to a group of people he was just barely getting to know?  Wasn’t the cardinal rule of a minister, “know your congregation?”  And although Patrick is great off the cuff, this was asking a lot.  Francois, her maternal instincts flaring after reading shock and awe on Patrick’s face, quickly whispered in Patrick V’s ear.  He came over to Patrick and reassured him that if he wasn’t ready to give a sermon just yet, we could just introduce our selves and talk a little about why we were here, and he’d do the sermon.  Clearly off the cuff for Pastor Patrick isn’t a challenge. 

 

So a little reassured and forewarned by a few minutes, we were each called to the microphone to address the congregation with Pastor Patrick translating.  We stumbled through shy hellos, thanking them for their kind welcome, discussing our hopes for our work, and our honor to be living and learning among them.  We sat down, hearts pounding in our ears.  Soon, I imagine we’ll get over the shock of a moment’s notice, but we aren’t there yet. 

 

After church, which ended soon after our shining moment at the pulpit (Pastor Patrick had picked a church with a short service in case Patrick was still sick—BLESS HIM!) we were encircled by several children, all curious to get close, and a little braver than when we first arrived.  One child grabbed my hand and started feeling the skin on my hand, another reaching up to touch my hair.  I love how children are so brave and investigate that which seems different.  I had to fight back a few tears at the interaction. 

 

Then on to the Villier’s for a Sunday lunch “and celebration” as Francois insisted.  We arrived to their beautiful home designed and built by Patrick himself.  Mango trees filled his yard and offered our first cool breeze.  Their sweet green scent kissed the air filtering out the smoke and pollution outside. 

 

Francois shoo’d us out of the kitchen and into the living room while she prepared a feast.  We sat with Patrick and Pastor Guy and discussed everything from the state of Haitian politics, to the American presidential election, and the extent of CONASPEH’s work including the orphanage that Pastor Guy helps run.  We were invited to join Patrick in his meeting with President Preval in the midst of this conversation, which left us dumbfounded.  Really?  Meet the President of Haiti?  Is it really our place to be in on such a moment?  But who are we to refuse?  Smiles.

 

Lunch was a feast—a Creole masterpiece.  Easily the best meal we’ve had since we exited the plane only 6 days ago.  Rice and beans, avocado salad, mashed potatoes, fish in spicy red sauce, carrots and cake.  By the time the meal started, there were 10 adults and 4 children and not a single one went hungry. 

 

Our last agenda of the day was to accompany Patrick and Pastor Guy to their weekly radio show as they discussed politics and religion in Haiti.  We were anxious to see them in action, and curious to see the studio set up.  But of course, you are saying, we should have been prepared to also SPEAK on the radio show.  Lets just say the surprise wasn’t as heart-stopping this time.  We figured it out when they set up two chairs in front of a big red microphone and indicated we were to sit there.  We looked at each other shaking our heads.  Here we go again. 

 

Patrick, Guy, and a third pastor spoke passionately for over an hour about the state of Haitian affairs.  We thought that maybe, just maybe they had talked themselves out of time for the Bentrott Radio Hour, but no.  This was a 2 hour show (of course it was).  Pastor guy then introduced us to an invisible radio listening audience.  Patrick started translating for us.   We were to say hello. “Bonjour” we both meekly voiced into the big red foam ball poking in our faces.  The first topic of discussion was volleyed to Patrick: How are the elections in the U.S. addressing the economic situation, and how will they affect Haiti?  Wow.  Big volley by Pastor Guy.   Patrick did great—gave a nice overview of the economic situation, the complexity of American foreign affairs, discussed his understanding of the candidate’s platforms, and his hope for renewed diplomacy by a newly elected president.  The beauty of using a translator is that we have to speak in fragments, allowing for time for our minds to scramble for the next phrase to come tumbling out.  I also got fielded a political question: What is the current state of America, and how will that affect the election?  I did my best to outline the big-ticket items being discussed, the worries on the minds of America and our place in the global community. 

 

This was going to be a long hour.

 

Pastor Guy then addressed a new line of questions to Dr. Kim.  Oh boy.  He asked me to describe what’s most difficult to treat in medicine.  Huh.  I took the opportunity to give a little public health promo and talked about the fact that although hospitals are filled with people with complex medical issues, the most common of the worlds’ diseases are the result of environmental and structural influences; that many diseases can be cured with clean drinking water, an isolated sewage system, good hygiene, good nutrition and access to care.  And although a seemingly simple list, they serve very difficult problems to solve.  The following questions were a little more specific: 1. Tell me about the prostate? (oh boy)  2. What can you tell us about breast cancer?  3.  And the woman’s version of the prostate? What about that female cancer? Although taken aback at having to talk about urinary hesitancy and retention, pap smears and breast exams over the radio waves, I did my best to keep it simple.  I got the impression they were concerned about how to avoid cancer.  And although I gave standards of care for screening, I couldn’t help wondering how reasonable such advice was to the people listening.  Could they really get access to yearly pap smears?  And mammograms?

 

Then they opened up the last 30 minutes to callers.  And boy did they call.  All but one question were addressed to me, Dr. Kim.  Move over Dr. Drew.  First caller, “My whole body hurts, I got checked out in the U.S., but I’m no better.  Why?” then “I had surgery on my back, and now my privates are swollen.”  Clearly a detailed history and physical were not available, and getting this information from translators who were turning a deep shade of purple translating male genitalia was more than I could handle.  We then started referring callers to our clinic at CONASPEH where I would be glad to hear about their symptoms and do a proper exam.

 

I couldn’t help feeling a little ridiculous.  Here we were, bags still not even unpacked, a million questions and discoveries still to be made about the Haitian culture, and we were on the radio show giving advice and opinions as if some sort of experts on politics and Haitian health. We certainly aren’t ANY of those.  So we tried to keep our answers simple, humble, our advice so that no harm could come of it. 

 

And now I already have a line-up of patients for my clinic on Tuesday, plus the many more that likely were listening to the address given out by Pastor Guy about 5 times over the radio waves.  I have no idea what I’ll be able to do for them except to listen, do a thorough exam, and hopefully give them “consultation advice” on what labs/tests might better diagnose their ills.  Patrick V. and I had just discussed my desire to tour the clinics and hospitals in Port Au Prince so that I might get a better feel for the city’s resource and how clinics are well run.  But looks like I’ll have patients to see in the mean time.  Ready or not, here we go.

 

By the time we emerged from the radio station, night had fallen on the city.  This meant a whole new challenge for my handsome chauffer who wasn’t all that excited about driving in the dark.  Sure enough, we had to keep the car in low gear as weaving through crowds, traffic, and narrowly missing pot-holes was a hole new experience without help from daylight.  But aside from having to go a little slower, our first exploration out in the Port Au Prince night was beautiful.  Candles were lit in the street vendors shacks, music blared from clubs we passed.  The sidewalk sales certainly weren’t halted when the sun went down, and the city bustled as if unaware it was end of day.  We passed several masses of people marching and banging on drums, walking in the middle of the street forcing us to honk our way through the throngs.  This weekend was the Voodoo Day of the Dead celebration, and the echo of the drumbeats followed us well after we had maneuvered through the crowd.  We saw our first stars over Port Au Prince, and a thumbnail moon position low in the sky. 

 

A police barricade blocked our turn off to the road leading to the Guest House.  Our pulse quickened a little, but after the police recognized the color of our skin (I assume), we were waved through.  Turning around, I saw that no other car was quite so lucky.  I don’t know what was being looked for, but Patrick Villier’s reassurances that our whiteness was not a threat to us here seemed to ring a little true for the moment.

 

We ended the evening with a conversation in Spanish with two Cuban missionaries working with the handicapped population in Haiti.  They also are long-term dwellers in the guest house.  We agreed to be each other’s tutors: they will help us with our Creole, we will help them with their English.  A friendship was formed tonight, and we look forward to getting to better know our new housemates over the next 3 months.

 

Now back in our room, the activities of the day weigh heavily on our eyelids.  I don’t think even a Creole lesson can lead to too much tonight.  So with this, I bid you sweet dreams.