November 3, 2008

No, Pa Diesel. (No, Not Diesel.)

This is the title of my blog tonight largely because it became the one and only item on the agenda today.

Our ride to CONASPEH this morning was quiet.  I think we both were wondering just what would be in store for us today after such a whirlwind Sunday.  Arriving to school, the atmosphere was loud and full of energy as always.  Children’s voice singing and reciting in unison echoed around the concrete walls.  We soon learned that after a few morning errands, we would be teaching an English class, helping translate some letters written by the children to send to the U.S., and then end our afternoon with our Creole lesson.  Now that we had a little forewarning, I was looking forward to interacting with the students.  Patrick and I would have a bit of time to formulate a lesson plan and could team teach.  And I hoped to find a few moments to ready the clinic for the patients that might arrive tomorrow, and orientate myself to what supplies and tools were available.  

But first errands. 

The tire on the front of our jeep was bad, wobbly and not holding air well.  Given that every drive to and fro was a test to even the strongest of a tire’s stability, having one substandard wasn’t acceptable.  So we followed Francois and Patrick to the tire store.  The first store we tried in Delmas didn’t have our specific kind of tires, so we were going to have to extend our trip and travel up the mountain to Petionville where the right tires could be found.

But first a fuel stop.

We followed Patrick into a gas station to fill up.  Getting gas in Haiti alone is an experience.  The first time we did so, we drove in a place where attendants were all sitting around, but there was no gas in the pumps.  So we had to pull out and drive to another station in hopes we’d strike gold.  There really isn’t any rhyme or reason to the Haitian gas station.  Although built similarly to its American counterpart, the building accompanying the pump is usually completely empty.  After waiting in a line of cars, all inching into various angles in order to get advantage over the next open spot, eventually you are waved in to a pump.  Then you tell the attendant how much gas you want to put in, pay the attendant, and you are off.  Don’t even have to pump your own gas! 

After getting our gas, we looked to Patrick V to show us the way.  But no.  There was a problem.  The attendant had accidentally filled their car with diesel instead of regular.  Big problem.  We were a no go. 

So now it was the job of the attendants to fix the mistake.  Not having any sort of big lift or pit to work under the car, the car was instead jacked up with 3 different portable jacks leaving enough room for numerous attendants to scoot under the car on their backs and try to get to the gas tank to empty it from below.  I immediately had visions of a horrible traumatic scene as one of the tiny little jacks surely would give any minute... I only had my first aid kit.  I couldn’t watch.

So we made ourselves comfortable on a curb in the shade.  And we sat.  And sat.  Then sat some more.  Patrick and I pulled out our Creole books to try to use the time wisely since we were going nowhere fast.  This, of course, attracted on-lookers who came to engage us in conversations which went something like this:

“lsiejfliselifjsiefjlsiejflsiejf”

“m’pa komprann” (I don’t understand)

“LALSLIEJFPAOISEJFSIOJEF!!!!”

--shake of the head— “m’pa komprann”

Eventually folks would slow down enough so we did kompran a little.  Everyone who stopped, after finding out we were American and that we had no children (always question #2), asked us if we were going to vote.  We reassured them that we did (at least I think that's what we said).  The election is certainly a hot topic here.  The world is watching.

Well one hour bled into two, two into three.  Patrick observed that it was turning into something of a Seinfeld episode.  Couldn’t have agreed more.  But the most un-American thing about the whole situation was that no tempers were ever lost, no big sighs, no obvious discontent painted on the face.  Patrick V. just sat and took it all in.  “Big day," he said.  And sure enough, our big day was disappearing.  We had missed two of our classes, and we were quickly on the way to missing our third.  The day was becoming a wash after 3 hours were spent hovering in a gas station parking lot as cars coughed their thick exhaust in our faces, choking the air around us.  

We eventually had to leave Patrick V. at the pump by himself in order to take Francois to pick up her son from school.  We managed to get lost (missed a turn) as driving in the mountains in bumper to bumper traffic with all the same obstacles to dodge proved to be a bit of a challenge, especially with our thinking a little buzzed from all the gas fumes.

After dropping off Francois and her children, we headed home.  We were hot, sticky, and grimy.  The plans we dared to make for the day seemed to laugh in our faces.  Alone now in the car, I allowed frustration to creep in.  Although I fared well in the moment, it was hard to leave my own expectations on that curb.  Hard not feel like we had let down the folks at the school who likely left were wondering where we disappeared to and our tutor who may have had to catch a series of tap-taps in order to get to the school to teach us.  The dysfunction of it all was maddening.

We were able to salvage the night a little with help from our newly made friends.  The managers of the guesthouse, realizing the proposed length of our stay, fashioned a private room for us complete with a new paint job and a freshly built closet.  We were floored by the gesture.  So we moved into our new place this evening and dared to unpack a bit.  Now pictures stand on the dresser, clothes are out of bags and folded neatly in drawers.  There are now enough remnants of home hung and positioned around the room that it feels familiar.

Having a hard time shaking off the claustrophobia still clinging to me after our day at the pump, I climbed up on a chair to peer over the wall of the guesthouse and through the razor wire to watch the activity of the street below.  The manager’s wife, seeing my silly position, motioned for me to follow her up the stairs to the roof.

The frustration and subsequent homesickness that had weighed heavy on my mind lifted as I climbed higher and higher, as the air became more cool and fresh.  A breeze was now evident.  Stars winked at me as if laughing that I didn’t realize they had been here all along.  The mountains rose up in the darkness, evident by tiny lights stenciling their outline against the night sky.  I was able to breathe.  Felt like the first time all day.  And I let go of what had been dragging me down with the sight of my much-loved night sky.  Looking into its depths, the world around me disappeared for a moment.  I could have been anywhere… in the Colorado mountains on a camping trip or on my parents Kansas farm standing in the prairie grass.  The night sky is the one thing we all share, the constant, and reminds us that we are all living together on this tiny little earth, even when we feel miles and miles away.

I know our future holds many such days of frustrations, of a halt of plans, of a change in schedule.  And with that I’m glad to know the night sky waits to remind me of where I come from, reminds me of a place I understand, reminds me that those that I love may very well be looking up at the same moon, at the same deep night.  I’m glad to know that there are cool, fresh breezes if I climb high enough.  And that’s enough to give me the strength to forward to tomorrow.