Jean-Claude

The man in this picture is named Jean-Claude. I met him in Haiti in 2008. He came to the mission with his son to get assistance with food. They took part in the children's nutrition program there.

I met many other Haitian people that day, but none stuck in my mind the way Jean-Claude did. We had a lengthy conversation about the jobless plight of people in Haiti, and I remember being struck by how unfair it all seemed. Here was an intelligent man, fluent in three languages and willing to work, but who could not find a job because there simply were none. I couldn't help but think that if he could just get to America, his language skills would land him a job. It just seemed so unfair.

I still think of Jean-Claude and wonder what happened to him. If I ever go back to Haiti, I'll bring this picture with me and find out.

Down by the Dock in Haiti

I have never felt as embarrassed and ashamed to be a "rich American" as I did on the day our mission group walked down to the "dock" in Haiti. I say "dock" euphemistically, because there was no dock; just old, dilapidated wooden boats in the water, and a mob of Haitian men standing at the edge of the shore, calling out for work.

"Two dollars! I'll carry you. Two dollars!"

They crowded around us, hurriedly collecting around the slimmer teenagers who didn't weigh as much, but quickly moving on to the larger middle-aged women and men who also had to be carried. A few dared to raise their price to $3.00, but were underbid by their hungry competition.

And they were hungry. That was the saddest part. Most of the Haitian people I met were too proud to beg for money. Instead, they offered to work for a pittance. But every now and then, one of them would simply, quietly state, "I am hungry." I wished I had a dollar for every person I met, and silently berated myself for not bringing every dollar I had to this impoverished nation. Next time, I vowed.

For now, we stood mobbed on the bank as Haitian men began scooping the Americans up onto their shoulders and carrying them out to the weathered boats where we would sail 13 miles to Tortuga Island, bringing toys, clothes and food to the children there. We couldn't walk to the boats ourselves; the water went up to the shoulders and sometimes over the heads of the men, and the rocky ocean floor would cut up our feet. It was not lost on me that our feet were deemed too delicate while theirs were not, despite the fact that we wore shoes and they didn't.

They carried us on their shoulders as water sloshed against their chests and faces. When we reached the boat, they heaved us up higher on their shoulders, muscles straining as Haitian men on board grabbed our arms and pulled us up onto the boats. It was clumsy; we were heavy. But not nearly as heavy as my heart as I realized the disparity in our lives and how unfair it all was.

The Drive Through Haiti

I held my camera out the window and snapped pictures as we drove through Haiti.

Here I'll share some of my initial thoughts during the six-hour bus ride from Port-au-Prince airport to northwest Haiti, as I recorded them in my journal in 2008.


We're at the mission compound, tired, grimy, and achy. We had a six-hour bus ride through the countryside. I think we saw most of Haiti. We went through dusty deserts with cactus, tropical areas with mangoes and coconuts, and small brush fields of sugar cane. We went up mountains and drove through streams. We saw many towns and experienced Haiti.

At first, the drive was nerve-wracking. Apparently, whoever blows his horn has the right-of-way IF he has the bigger automobile. There were lots of buses and trucks crammed with people. Our driver went as fast as he could over potholed, rocky roads. We bounced so much we're bruised. He squeezed our bus between vehicles and people, running both off the road. It was harrowing going through the crowded towns where the driver still didn't slow down despite the pedestrians milling next to the road. There were a few times we had to maneuver around or stop for cattle, donkey and horses. There were also a lot of goats, but we didn't stop for goats. Are they Haiti's equivalent of squirrels?

Along the way I saw:

• Huge pigs eating piles of garbage
• New Orleans style cemeteries
• Huge piles of rock in the road
• Broken-glass topped cement walls to keep out trespassers
• Turquoise blue Caribbean water
• Women carrying everything on their heads
• Watermelon markets
• 4 people on a motorcycle
• a canvas wall with cellphones attached for sale

What I didn't see: McDonald's, Walmart, Subway, or Starbucks. Thank God!

A Peaceful Church in Haiti



Church in Haiti


Though I rarely go to church here in the U.S., going to Sunday worship during my mission trips in Haiti and Nicaragua were among the highlights of my trips there. The church in Nicaragua wasn't much more than a concrete three-walled garage. The top of the walls didn't meet the roof, so a breeze blew through, waving the sheer white curtains hung on the cinder block windows. The congregation was dressed in their finest, and the sermon was humbly delivered in Spanish. As the children sang to the accompaniment of a guitar player, I felt truly grateful to witness the beauty of the the moment.

I felt that way again while attending church service in Haiti. The pink-painted walls and homemade decorations were joyously hung. The minister was soft spoken and the congregation was kind and welcoming. When they began singing hymns in Haitian Creole accompanied by simple hand-clapping, I felt blessed to be there among them.

That feeling of peacefulness was nearly ruined when a visiting Hellfire and brimstone minister from Kentucky took the pulpit and began evangelizing and shouting the message of God. I could sense that the translator was uncomfortable repeating his words and the children in the pews could not stifle their giggles. I was embarrassed to be associated with him and remembered what I don't like about church in America. If our churches were as serene, humble and unassuming as those I visited in Haiti and Nicaragua, I'd be at church every Sunday morning.

Garbage

Look at all those plastic bottles

When I saw the following statistics, I immediately thought about the beach I went to in Haiti. It was completely littered with garbage, as were other areas, since there was a lack of waste removal in the country. But people still swam in the water, and one daring man in our group got into the water with some of the local kids. While he was splashing around with them, a man's shirt washed up alongside an old suitcase. Gary put on the soaking wet shirt and grabbed the suitcase, pretending that he was about to catch a ship back to America. The kids found his antics hilarious. The rest of us stood in tiny patches of clean(ish) sand on the beach, afraid of what we might step on.  Not the kids. They ran up and down and splashed in the water just like kids on any other beach. The garbage didn't seem to deter them at all. I suppose they don't know any different.

I, on the other hand, found that beach, and these numbers disturbing:

The International Coastal Cleanup is the world’s largest volunteer effort of its kind for the oceans. On one recent annual Cleanup, 390,881 volunteers in 104 countries and locations around the world collected an astonishing 6.8 million pounds of debris. The Top Ten item cleaned up on this day were:

1          Cigarettes/Cigarette Filters (3,216,991)

2          Plastic Bags (1,377,141)

3          Food Wrappers/Containers (942,620)

4          Caps, Lids (937,804)

5          Plastic Beverage Bottles (714,892)

6          Paper Bags (530,607)

7          Straws, Stirrers (509,593)

8          Cups, Plates, Forks, Knives, Spoons (441,053)

9          Glass Beverage Bottles (434,990)

10        Beverage Cans (401,412)

As an avid recycler myself, I often pick up bottles and cans strewn across the grass in the park. It amazes me how many people throw their garbage down in public parks and into people's yards. I can't simply walk by. When I see recyclables littering the ground, I feel compelled to pick them up. Sometimes I feel embarrassed about looking like a bag lady, picking up trash along the road. But then I think, no; I shouldn't be embarrassed. The people who left their garbage there are the ones who should be embarrassed.

Orphans in Haiti

Life at an orphanage in Haiti

Witnessing a slice of real life in Haiti is exactly what I'd hoped for when I volunteered to go on a mission trip. We visited several orphanages and brought toys and food to the children. We played with them, colored with them, and sang with them. We held them for hours and let them teach us some Creole. I enjoyed these visits, but knew they were also manufactured. We were expected guests and the children anticipated our arrival. They cleaned up the grounds, wore their best clothes, and performed songs for us. It was wonderful.

But on the day I took this picture, another missionary and I arrived at the orphanage unannounced. We were picking up truck parts for a broken-down truck, and we were not expected. The scene at the orphanage was much different this time; more genuine, I'm sure.

The children were eating burnt beans and rice from an old pot with jagged edges. Some of the children were only partially dressed. We didn't see any adults while we were there, though it hardly mattered. The children weren't always supervised. They were still gracious, though not as forthcoming as they'd been the day before. Now they seemed shy; unsure of why we were there. While my friend and I waited for the truck parts, we watched these children live their lives. It was a scene I'd hoped to see on my trip; a glimpse of life in Haiti.

Mossa's Wheelbarrow

Mossa, Haiti 2008

Like many people, I have wondered if I could make a difference in someone’s life. I am just one person. I’m no hero. So what could I really do? I’ll tell you….


I met Mossa.

Mossa spends her life curled on an old foam-rubber mattress on the ground in northwest Haiti. Her one-room home has four cement walls that encircle her like a dark, cool, cave. There were doorways, but no windows. There was a table, but no chairs. Just Mossa lying on a foam mattress in the corner, where I imagined she’d spent a countless number of years.

There were bowls on the floor, like a dog’s bowls, and I was pained to see that they were empty when our mission group visited her one day. I wasn't sure how often someone came by and filled them. I knew that she couldn't care for herself; her body was folded up like a pretzel. One foot was behind her head. One arm was functioning, the other was shriveled and small; the result of a childhood illness for which she received no treatment.

This was rural Haiti. Clothes were washed by being beaten on rocks at the trickling stream. Electricity was non-existent and water was carried in water pouches slung over the back of a donkey. Small cinder block houses contained families of 8 or 20. Dirt footpaths lead to the church, where the minister ran a generator to power a few lights for the nightly service.

The folks in my group wondered what we could do to help her. Pastor Mike had an idea. If we could raise enough money, he would send a truck to town (3 hours away) and buy her a wheelbarrow. The price was steep by Haiti standards -- $100.

Those of us with cash on hand eagerly pitched in. Pastor Mike sent a truck to town and three days later they returned with a brand new wheelbarrow for Mossa.

She cried when the pastor picked her up and placed her in it. He wheeled her two miles on dirt lanes to church on Sunday. Mossa was surrounded by her community, singing and rejoicing with the whole congregation. It was a beautiful sight and we felt blessed to have been a part of it.

I didn’t change the world by going to Haiti. But I did something to change someone’s life. I pitched in and helped pay for a wheelbarrow; something so oddly easy, but with tremendous impact. It only takes a small gesture to change the world for one person. Mossa taught me that. Here, I’d tried to change her life, but really, she changed mine.