Check that off my list

The day after my last post, also the day after the anniversary of the earthquake, I was thrust into a rare experience brought to you by the life and times of a privileged foreigner living in Haiti.

   

Indeed the story I am about to tell is one that I still can’t fathom happened. It’s pretty crazy. It was both the longest 36 hours of my life, and the shortest. In fact, I am pretty sure we entered the Twilight Zone, adrenaline kicked in, and just in the knick of time the stair still unbuilt appeared to save us from tumbling down into an abyss of unknown and potentially fatal decisions. [I apologize in advance if this post is unwieldy and long. I don’t have much time to dedicate to editing what I write] 

Friday, January 13, 2012 (doomed from the beginning?)

I had spent the night at the Oloffson Hotel with Winter and Rick, and as I was getting ready for work just after dawn broke, I received a desperate phone call from my coworker Stephanie. “I need help and I don’t know what to do. I’m in so much pain and I can’t lie down. Something is really wrong.”  Despite being an excitable person, I am also rational and calm in high stress situations. I asked for a more detailed description of her symptoms and realized quickly that she needed to go to a hospital.

You see, Stephanie had left work early the Tuesday before, complaining of stomach pain and nausea. She did the same Wednesday, and Thursday our coworker Meaghan checked on her and said she looked really ill. It had been 4 days since she had been able to hold any food or drink down, so I knew she would be weak and very dehydrated. To me it was obvious from the beginning that she needed more than just a doctor’s visit. I told her directly that I thought a hospital would be best because I was sure she’d need intravenous fluids.

On my way to her house, the realities of Haiti set in and I was running through all the possibilities I could think of. Best-case scenario, it’s just a “little” parasite or amoeba. A couple pills and some serious re-hydration and she’ll be back to it in a day. Or was it cholera? That’s an epidemic here. Shit. God knows what the worst-case scenario could have been—tropical maladies are scary and numerous. Upon reaching her, my suspicions were confirmed. She was a pallid-green and barely mobile due to both pain and feebleness. Comfort wasn’t even an imaginable concept. She was SICK.   

I had no car, no knowledge of an emergency room in Haiti, no personal doctor’s number…essentially, we had nothing. And Garry, our country director and all around go-to guy, was out of the country. I called a few people for advice, which turned out to be good for support and concern, but not too useful for information. Winter, however, helped me check for the address of the one and only recommended hospital by the US Embassy.  

Our acting #1 administrator came to get us in his car. He took us to Hôpital Canapé Vert, the supposed best hospital in Port-au-Prince, only to find out that they don’t take emergencies. Well, now what? I had no idea. We drove down the road a bit to Hôpital St. Louis, a small, private Haitian hospital. Reputations and recommendations aside, we just needed to get Stephanie somewhere. She was moaning from pain, and vomiting because she said it was the only thing that gave her any relief. That right there was proof enough that things were messed up. 

The doctor asked her some questions and did a quick examination. I translated because she was in no state to think or speak in a foreign language. Almost immediately, they hooked her up to an IV and added antibiotics. The doctor disappeared, as did our Haitian coworker/administrator. We were alone in this hospital, with no clear prognosis, and no plan of action. I ask the nurse what was up. She told me that they think it’s just a bad intestinal infection—something she ate. Riiight. Okay. But how do we know? 

Stephanie’s pain became more acute, so when the doctor showed up again, I asked him to give her more medicine and he asked us to go get a sonogram and x-ray to check for appendicitis. Okay, at least now we were doing something to find out what might have been wrong. Proactive. Still nerve wracking.
 

HELP’s driver and office assistant came to get us from the hospital to go do these tests, but the hospital wouldn’t let us go without paying. “But we’re probably coming back, and we are an organization. We’re not just going to skip on the bill.” Nope. You gotta pay, or leave someone behind. So I forked out my money, because there was no way I was leaving Stephanie alone.  

Into the bustling streets of PAP we went: Stephanie walking in the fetal position holding onto one of my arms, while my other was holding up her IV bag. The car ride was tough. Traffic and potholes can make driving in PAP unpleasant without pain. Poor Stephanie endured all of this, only to arrive at a lab without a doctor to interpret her lab results and about 50 people in line before her. Welcome to medical care in Haiti. [It’s worrisome on many levels]  

We went to a different lab, but they could only do one of the tests there. In other words, we were obligated to go to multiple labs in order to complete these tests. On top of that, neither Stephanie nor I had enough money to pay for these exams, so while Stephanie was waiting for her sonogram I ran home to get all the money I had. Met them back at the lab just as they were finishing up, paid, and talked to the doctor who told us that the sonogram showed no burst appendix. She surmised: a bad intestinal infection it was. Back to the hospital for more antibiotics and observation.  

It was about 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Stephanie, for the first time all day, seemed to be a bit better. The little hospital admitted her for the night. I said I would stay with her. Our office assistant told me she would pay for it and leave us there for the night. 

There we were: two white women in a small room with walls that were once an uplifting sky-blue now gray with dirt and dust, with an old creaky, hand-crank hospital bed. It was a room without windows or a light in the bathroom, and the television only played one channel and had no sound. Stephanie managed to get comfortable enough to take a nap. I made more phone calls, canceled classes, gathered more belongings from our houses and came back, prepared to stay with her over night. 

Shortly after I got back, Stephanie woke up screaming in pain. The HELP office was closed by then and because it was Friday, everyone had already gone home to be with his or her family. Luckily, Stephanie’s father works for the State Department. Stephanie had resisted using this connection because everyone was telling us it was just a little bug and conditions seemed livable, but this was the tipping point. We agreed that she needed to make a phone call and within 30 minutes a US Embassy duty officer was at the hospital with an armored suburban ready to move us to a new medical facility called Bernard Mevs/Medishare Hospital. Hope. The owner called us right away, and speaking English, said that they were ready and waiting for our arrival, reassuring us that she'd be taken care of. 

Not so fast. While we thought the bill was paid, it in fact was not, and we weren’t notified of this small and insignificant detail. There we were again, fighting for the hospital to let us leave. I communicated our plans to the nurses—they seemed to be in agreement with me—yet still could not let us go without paying. But we didn’t have enough money for the overnight bill. I negotiated with them, arguing that we weren’t spending the night, therefore did not need to pay the entire bill. I finally made them an offer they couldn’t refuse; we got it on paper, signed by the present parties, and our release was granted.

The armored suburban pulled out of the hospital gate. It was awesome—inch-thick windows and doors so heavy you had to put a shoulder into it to close them—although, I didn’t have enough time to fully admire it because I was busy making phone calls to our people in the US and Haiti, Stephanie’s parents, and the new hospital’s administrators. I imagine that riding in a tank is comparable. 

When we arrived at Bernard Mevs/Medishre Hospital a doctor greeted us before Stephanie could get out of our private tank. He was part of a visiting team of doctors from University of Cincinnati, American, and serious about getting Stephanie the right care. I finally felt like I could breathe for a minute. Relief. They set Stephanie up with a new IV drip, more antibiotics, and morphine for the pain. Even these doctors initially diagnosed her with a bad intestinal infection, but were insistent on monitoring her pain and vitals over night. In the case that it grew worse, though, they had me make more phone calls, one of which was to our insurance company to notify them that we may need a medical evacuation. Conor, our executive director who was on vacation at the time, and Kim, our operations manager were very helpful.  

Drugged up, Stephanie fell asleep for the night. I was pumped up with adrenaline and made friends around the hospital quickly, ate some food for the first time that day, helped with some translation, and was permitted to watch a few operations and treatments I never would have seen if we weren’t in Haiti. I loved it. Felt like maybe going into the medical field would be a good move for me.  

They took in one little boy who had just been hit by a car. His lower leg was torn up. You could see his bones and chunks of muscle were missing. He hardly had any clothes on, and they wouldn’t let his family back in the OR area. An excellent team of doctors and nurses surrounded the poor thing, but they were all scary white people and didn’t speak his language. They were trying to ask him about his pain levels, but he didn’t understand. I held his hand, and asked him how he was doing. He said he was cold and afraid. I asked them to get him a blanket, then he was able to talk about his pain, but he was clearly in shock. They pumped him up with drugs, and soon he wasn’t feeling much at all. Doctors cleaned his wound—picking out morsels of gravel from his tendons, squirting some sort of sterile solution over his bone—and finished by wrapping him up with some loose gauze.  I asked how his leg would recover, and the prognosis was grim. If he could avoid infection (difficult in Haiti) his leg would heal and just look a little deformed where he lost the muscle mass. Otherwise, he’d probably become an amputee. Damn.   

I eventually grew tired and they set me up in a hospital bed right next to Stephanie’s. That's the royal, white privilege treatment.  

Saturday, January 14, 2012

I woke up early. Wandered outside to find some Haitian hospital staff so that I could ask where to get some good kafe griye (Haitian coffee). They got some and brought it back to me at Stephanie’s bedside. She woke up soon after and said that the pain had gotten worse and far more concentrated on her right side. 

I called the doctor in.  

5 minutes later I was back on the phone. “Hi, Kim. Sorry to wake you up at 4 am your time, but the doctors say we need to med-evac Stephanie. They think she has appendicitis and they can’t test for it here because the only CT Scan in the country is at this hospital and it’s broken.” As it turns out, a sonogram will only show a burst appendix. So that was good. Her appendix hadn’t burst…yet. 

After countless phone calls and 3 pages of notes later, it seemed like we had arranged for Stephanie to fly to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. One person got to go with her. We decided that I was the best candidate because I had been with her through everything, could recite her medications, and had spoken with all the doctors. One problem: I didn’t have my passport. 

HELP’s driver came to get me at the hospital. We rushed to my house to get my passport and pack a bag for Stephanie and myself, and then sped back. We made it in just enough time to check Stephanie out of Bernard Mevs/Medishare, get her into the car, and make it to the airport.  

A small private jet with an EMT and RN on board would be escorting us to Florida. We entered the PAP airport through the elite, private entrance. Customs was completely different. It was one little guy in a tent checking passports and “official lists.” 

Once our plane landed and our names were cleared, we drove right onto the middle of the tarmac. Our med-evac team checked Stephanie’s vitals and the Bernard Mevs/Medishare representative, Howard, made sure the transition went smoothly. They strapped Stephanie into the stretcher on the plane; I crawled in to sit in the back. I had never been on a private jet before! It was only a 2-hour flight, Stephanie slept for most of it, and I got a nice nap in, too. 

We arrived at the Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport, where all the crazy rich people have their aviation clubs. Row after row of private jets, all lined up like little models. The yacht club of the air. After clearing customs in the US, Stephanie was transferred to an ambulance-van and I followed in a regular car. We went straight to the best “trauma” ER in Del Ray, Florida. 

It was about 4 in the afternoon by now. The med-evac crew helped check Stephanie into the hospital, while I stayed with her to chat with nurses and doctors again. The story became pretty standard and boring at that point because we’d repeated it so many times. A few hours and a CT Scan later, the hospital confirmed that Stephanie was suffering from acute appendicitis. Amazed that her appendix hadn’t already burst, we wheeled her into the surgery ward and prepped her for the operation. 

I felt like a nervous mother finally getting relief after a long 36 hours of uncertainty and witness to suffering. It was a standard procedure. Soon Stephanie would be feeling better, and the whole experience could be filed under the “Adventures of Life in Haiti” category. I stayed with her until her real mother arrived that night at 11:30 pm. Then my dear friend, Rick, took me out for a late dinner and a good night’s rest.  

I spent the next day at the hospital with Stephanie and her mom. Got to talk to some loved ones, but arranged to fly back to PAP the next day. My work was done, and it was time for me to go home. Still, how many people get to say that they were medical-evacuated out of Haiti? Not many. What a story this will be for the rest of my life.

Now that it's over, I'm experiencing a mix of emotions. I've never felt so alone in a place before...living in Haiti requires sufficient self-reliance and gumption. There's no doubt I have both of those, but this made me realize that I'm here as an individual. Simple as that. If I get shot, I hope for my sake, that I am cognizant enough and prepared to get myself care. It's also horrible to think of how many Haitians die of appendicitis. A condition that is easily treatable, but because of a lack of access to medical care must leave many hopeless. Doesn't matter for a foreigner though. Most come here with evacuation insurance. And off we flew. To our country where we could get "proper" care.

Bon Ane! Happy New Year!

A lot has happened in the 7 months since my last post, including the end of 2011 and the completion of my first year in Haiti.  On the work front, I am still with HELP, teaching English and directing the waste management program, but I have since become the ESL Program Leader, an official resident advisor, and a Leadership teacher. Throughout the summer months, I developed and wrote the ESL curriculum, trained a new teacher, and implemented an intensive ESL orientation program for the incoming scholars. It was a challenge; I made some mistakes, learned A LOT, and, ultimately it’s proving a valuable and successful experience. I feel honored to have this opportunity, even though those who are close to me know that it has made me cry, celebrate, scream, and even think about quitting my “job” on multiple occasions. The hard work paid off in a congratulatory and satisfied compliment from my directors. SCORE!

Personally, I have made many more friends and explored more of Port-au-Prince and Haiti. I’ve enjoyed getting better acquainted with Haitian music and culture, and my command of Haitian Creole has made leaps and bounds. None of this would have been possible without my dear friend Winter, who has played a primary role in introducing me to all things Haitian, including the language. I’ve also started playing Capoeira (a Brazilian dance/martial art). It’s a ton of fun, a great way to stay in shape, and has exposed me to a whole new community of Haitians and foreign workers. I love it…and might even take it seriously enough to get “baptized” and try for my first belt! I want those cool, white pants, man…

I am currently back in PAP (Port-au-Prince) after a 2-week winter vacation in California. When I left, I felt so sad to leave Haiti. I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t ready to leave Ayiti Cheri. I even shed a few tears on the airplane. Of course, once at my mom’s, I thoroughly enjoyed hot showers, salads, lots of bandwidth, my plush bed, and the company of good friends and family. The Monday or Tuesday after Christmas, though, I was ready to return. The celebrations were over, I had seen my dearests, and my soul was yearning for Haiti. But, I was still looking forward to the trip to our family’s cabin in Aspendell (Bishop, CA). I hadn’t been since August 2010, right before I left for Haiti.

Mwen te sezi vre. (I was in total awe). It was as if I had never been there before, or seen anything like it. Every two minutes (from the drive to the walks in the mountains) I exclaimed, “It’s so beautiful!” Jarrett thinks I am NUTS and have emotional problems. I think I am simply present and conscious of how profound my connection is to nature, particularly with the Eastern Sierras. Anyway, the long of the short is that I love it up there, and that trip marked a shift in my experience Stateside. Why would I keep myself from that? There is a lot of history there. I grew up in those mountains. Was it just nostalgia? Was it appreciation that I couldn’t have had until I experienced the absence? I still don’t know, but not a single day has gone by when I haven’t thought about it up there. Whether it be the view of the porch and aspens from our dining table, or the feeling of inhaling that crisp, clean air with views that simultaneously take that very same breath away, I can’t get Aspendell off my mind.

At present, neither place is feeling “right.” The States were sterile and cold. There is sadly no sense of community in the suburbs of SoCal. When I am away, I miss my walk to work and the people I see on the way everyday. My students, my banana lady, my neighbors out chatting on the corner, the school children in colorful uniforms of all shapes, patterns, and styles, little girls with ribbons and bows bouncing with their braids with every step, the guys playing dominoes and blasting Konpa out of a boom box on the street, my gas station friends…they are my community. Just thinking about it brings the biggest smile to my face.

At the same time, I can say: Ayiti kole nan bounda m’ tankou yon pete (Literally: Haiti is glued to my ass like a fart. Correctly translated: Haiti is annoying me!). Everything here can be a challenge. Going to the market can take 3 hours. The dust, the traffic, the harassment from policemen…it’s exhausting!

My respite is teaching. I adore my students and my time in the classroom. Yesterday, I taught one of my favorite lessons so far. I’ve designed the 3^rd year ESL curriculum to be more of an English style ESL class. Essentially, we’ll be studying ESL through various readings (and other materials, like images and film), and then doing a lot of discussion and writing to troubleshoot lingering grammar challenges. If that’s confusing shoot me an email and I’d be happy to explain more. It’s a really interesting course, and is proving effective and engaging for both the students and myself. (Much gratitude is due to Grace and Libby, two of my best professors at Oberlin, for they always created dynamic courses that continue to inspire me in my lesson planning and teaching)

Would you like to know what we did? What a silly rhetorical question, of course you do!!! We are wrapping up our “ESL through Media Literacy” unit and before the break had been discussing profiles. Who do we profile and why? What are the advantages and disadvantages of focusing on one person? How and from what sources do we collect information? etc etc. They responded quite positively. One of our sample profiles was about one of my favorite actors, Viggo Mortensen. (This is the privilege that comes with being the teacher…you can indulge in yourself a bit, but in all seriousness it was an excellent example).

For homework over the break, they had done some vocabulary, comprehension, and analysis work. This class period, however, we steered away from the interpretation of media and focused on the creation of it. I asked the students to review the Viggo article and come up with a list of questions they think the author asked Viggo and the other interviewees. Then I asked them to generate their own list of general interview questions that one could use to start any old interview. We discussed what details made the Viggo article compelling, and how that information might have been collected. I asked them to think about how to get those anecdotes and specific details, noting that descriptions of environment and physicality can be advantageous.

Then, I turned them loose on each other. We finished the last 45 minutes of class conducting our own interviews in English. Everyone got the chance to do an interview and be interviewed. They loved it! They were completely immersed in the process and had a lot of fun talking about their personal stories. I didn’t even have to scold anyone for speaking Creole once; they were so into it! Naturally, there was an odd number of students, so I had to be interviewed. My interviewer was truly excellent and asked me some pertinent and probing questions about my “life story” and my personal experience in Haiti. Their homework is to write a profile of the person they interviewed based on their notes. I am really excited to see how the profiles turn out next week!

On a more somber note, today marks the 2 year anniversary of the earthquake that devastated Port-au-Prince and, by default, much of the country. Jodi a nou sonje tout moun ki mouri e tout moun ki kontinye ap viv malgre tout difikilte. AYITI CHERI.

I'd like to take a moment to remind my few readers that Haiti is defined neither by its poverty nor its tragedy. Do not look upon Haitians with pity. Be compassionate. See them as equals, as real human beings whose stories include pain, suffering, struggle, victory, and celebration...just as any of our lives from the "developed" world. Haiti is a beautiful country, with a rich and triumphant story, full of incredible people with souls, hopes, dreams, and intelligence, and a culture that rivals those esteemed in Europe/the West. 

Until next time everyone! Thanks for reading, despite my lack of discipline to post. 

Mr. Big Stuff, who do you think you are????

Yes, I am currently on a Jean Knight kick, but rest assured that the song and title of this blog post couldn't be more perfect. Just keep reading!

The other night I decided to stay at the office through the rain to get some extra work done and putz around on the internet while I had the chance. A student, Richard, was willing to stay and escort me home.

We left the office around 8:15 at night. Once it's dark out, I usually take the "safer" route home, which is slightly out of the way, but has street lights. This time, though, there was a police car stationed along the quicker route, so we decided it was equally safe and headed that way. What we failed to evaluate was how this might appear to police, who aren't accustomed to seeing blan (white people), let alone a white woman, walking at night down vacant streets with a young Haitian male.

So the chef (Creole for policeman) called us over. "Bonswa, ti blan. Sa w ap fè avek ti neg sa?" (Good evening little whitey. What are you doing with this little Haitian?) I'm thinking: okay, that's reasonable. I guess this does appear to be a little out of the ordinary. So I explain to him in my best Creole that we are on our way home, and that Richard is accompanying me there. There is no problem. I'm fine. I'm not afraid. I know him; he is my student.

He responds (in Creole, but I've translated it), "Why are you walking? Where is your car? Blan don't walk in Haiti, especially not at night."  Ah, yes chef! You are right. I am the only blan in Haiti without a car, so that is why I walk. I also live very close to where I work, so I don't need a car. 

Chef: Where are you from? Let me see your passport.
Me: I'm American and my passport is at my house.
Chef: "Si ou pa gen piyes didantite, n'ap arete w." This means, "If you don't have an ID with you, we're going to arrest you."

All this time, the student I am with isn't saying anything. He was obviously afraid of the police, and whether or not they were serious, he didn't want to mess around.

Me: "Tann, tann, tann." (Wait, wait, wait). "Ou pa ka fè sa. Mwen pat konnen. Sel bagay mwen genyen se yon kart dasirans." (You can't do that. I didn't know. The only thing I have is my insurance card).

Until then, I thought it wasn't too serious, but they kept threatening arrest, so I started to get concerned. I turned to Richard. Still nothing. He just reiterated what the policeman said, saying that I needed to carry an ID, otherwise I could be arrested. Grreeeeaaaaaat! Garry (my big boss, HELP's country director) was out of town, so who was I going to call if I ended up in Haitian jail? It would be an experience, that I knew for sure. How many blan ever get arrested in Haiti, let alone an attractive, young lady blan?

After accepting my insurance card as a form of ID, I figured it out. They just wanted to talk to me, and keep me there as long as they could. So I indulged them a bit in conversation. Told them a little about myself, blah blah blah. Which of course led to, "Eske ou gen menaj?" (Do you have a boyfriend?)

The correct thing to say would have been, "Wi, m geyen menaj. Ayisyen memn!" (Yes, I have a boyfriend. A Haitian one even!) But I am seriously bad at dealing with these men, and said, "Mwen pa bezwen menaj" (I don't need a boyfriend). This only invited them to continue.

Oh bel famn (pretty lady) I'll be the best boyfriend. I want to take you to Petit Goave, the most beautiful beach in the South. You can be my queen, and we'll start an empire together. Let's join our names, and have children. Obama's mom is white. We can be like Obama. Please, give me your number. I have to have you. Insert any other pick-up lines or come-on's you want. This chef was intense, and it went on for about 20 minutes.

I finally appealed to them to let me go home because it was late and not safe for a lady to be out on the streets at this hour with a big backpack. It was around 9 pm by then. Oh, but that just got me into more trouble.

Chef: "Wi, se twop ta. N ap menen ou lakay la." (Yes, it is too late. We'll take you to your house)
Me: "OK. An ale. N ap mache ansemn? Se tou pre" (OK, let's go. We'll walk together. It's very close)
Chef: "Ahh no, cheri! N ap menen ou nan machine la" (Oh no, sweetie! We'll take you in our car)
Me: "Se vre?" (Really?)...."uuuhhhh...OK...an ale." (OK, let's go)

And off we went, literally down the street 200 yeards and around the corner, me in the back seat with the lights flashing and everything. Escorted home by the police. What a riot! At least I didn't go to jail, nor was I fined, AND, the kicker, I got away without giving them a real ID or my number. SUCCESS!

Mr. Big Stuff! Who do you think you are? Mr. Big Stuff! You're never gonna get my love!

Come on, really? You're going to use your "authority" to holler at me? Uh-uh buddy. Not gonna happen...

It's like thunder! Lightnin'! The way you love me is frightenin'!

It's been almost 4 months since I last wrote, and I know that all of you out there are aching for me to write. Instead of trying to catch you up, I'm just going to continue from this point forward. Maybe I'll make some "looking back" posts, but judging by my current blogging statistics, it's unlikely. Anywho...

It's officially the RAINY SEASON in Haiti. That means hot, hot heat during the day with about 99% humidity and thunderstorms throughout the afternoon/evening to cool everything off for the night. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of experiencing a Haitian rainstorm, allow me to elaborate:

It begins with a sprinkling, seemingly harmless, but nonetheless persistent. This could last anywhere from 10 minutes to a couple hours. Then, BOOM! The downpour begins, and is often accompanied by thunder so powerful it rattles your eardrums and shakes your heart from within your body. It's unsettling and invigorating all at once; I have yet to keep myself from jumping.

The duration of the storm is unpredictable. Sometimes is will only last about 30 minutes. If it lasts much longer, the consequences become worse. This is largely due to Port-au-Prince's TERRIBLE drainage, which means the more it rains, the more the streets flood. And when they flood, you better not plan on going anywhere, otherwise you'll be trudging through a foot of water. But the streets don't simply fill with rain runoff. No, sir! The floods carry all the mud and trash that people throw in the street, too.

Once the water level settles, banks of said mud and trash become visible throughout the streets. Seemingly shallow puddles disguise themselves in 6-inch deep potholes. Unpaved "sidewalks" become slippery, slimy mud pits. This makes for eventful walking, especially since it's rarely light out after the rain stops and street lights are few and far between.
Who wants to mail me rain boots?

I discovered a good portion of this the other night when I was making my way over to the Hotel Oloffson (a beautiful old, run-down gingerbread mansion--once a vacation palace to the presidents, now a hotel and low-key hangout for journalists and RAM fans--see link). Michael, Hervé, and I went there for their Monday night twoubadou performance.

I LOVE twoubadou! It's considered traditional Haitian music which includes guitar, drums, saxophone, accordion, maracas, banjo, and singing. There aren't many young people who play it anymore, so it's also fun to go see these old guys rock out. They're the cutest! And they still have moves! Crip Prestige (Haitian beer), the Oloffson porch, a slight breeze, some dancing, and of course, twoubadou, make for a great night. Next time I'll take some photos.

In other news, I am become my own ti menaj (little boyfriend), as I bought myself a bouquet of flowers. My students tell me that a beautiful woman in Haiti isn't supposed to buy herself flowers, but I could care less. They're pretty, they brighten up my room, make me smile, and it supports the guys who trek those flowers down from the mountains. Plus, I retort that if getting flowers the "right" way means having to get a REAL ti menaj who is possessive and jealous , then I am better off being my own boyfriend. They think I am totally NUTS! And I think I'm the best boyfriend I've ever had...well...minus the obvious setbacks.

Alright, I need to get some rest before a big day of teaching (superlatives for a few classes, and a podcast for the advanced group). Thanks for tuning in folks... A pi ta (Until later)!

WHAT?

I live in Haiti! WHAT?

Just having one of those days, looking out over my desk onto the courtyard at work, thinking "Holy cow, I live in Haiti. How did I get here again? Why am I here?"

But then I snap out of it and realize how normalized my life has become here, and how proud I am to be working for HELP and with HELP students. Every time I feel like giving up because of loneliness or frustration, I remember all the sacrifices my students have made to get to where they are, and how much they are still willing to give up. Throwing in the towel and fleeing home is always an option for me. I am lucky to have choices because my students don't. At least not in the same sense that I do. This is their one chance. It's all or nothing, so how could I desert them just because I've had a pretty bad month? I can't. They mean too much to me to leave. I don't really know if I am making that much of an impact on their lives, but I am certain that they have already changed mine forever.

(For those of you waiting for the Oscar memorial post, it's coming...I've just been struggling to find the right words)