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)

Elections

Yes, I am well aware that I am failing miserably at this whole blogging thing. Jarrett Allen never lets me forget it. Maybe it will be one of my New Year’s Resolutions…?

Anyway, I have many experiences to catch you all up on, but I feel the most pressing is the election. (Look for a summary post of my goings-on later) On November 28, 2010, the presidential election took place in Haiti. Let me preface this by saying that there was and still is a lot of hubbub about this election.

First of all, elections in Haiti have a history of going sour—it’s not uncommon for the president to refuse to leave office and things often escalate to violence—and people had been preparing for this one like we were going to war. I mean the shelves in the markets were bare. No one was out and about. Even the nightclub down the street from my house closed out of fear and caution. And if you know me well, you know that this just made me want to go out more. If there was going to be violence or excitement, I wanted to witness it. Come on, I am in Haiti after an insane earthquake, in the middle of a serious cholera epidemic, and during a tumultuous election and I am not going to have anything to show for it? Really? That’s simply unacceptable.

To my perverse dismay, everything went relatively smoothly, in my neighborhood anyway. I still did not get to go out because the students were being total chicken-shits, but I suppose I can’t blame them. Based on previous experiences with elections, they probably have good reason to be overly cautious. Instead, I sat around with them all day watching the progress on TV. By about 2 pm the majority of the candidates were calling for an annulment, claiming widespread fraud in favor of Jude Célestin, which they are saying mostly occurred throughout the polls in PAP.

Protests broke out in parts of PAP and throughout other areas in Haiti, namely Cap-Haitian, where tensions were already high due to the cholera outbreak that many angry Haitians blame on the UN Peacekeepers. But demonstrations seemed to calm down by the Tuesday after Sunday Nov. 28 and we all went back to work, markets were reopened, etc.

A few days later, some reports came out that it was looking like Mirlande Manigat and Michel Martelly were leading the polls, and that Jude Célestin, the corrupt candidate from Préval’s party Inité, was out of the running. I thought, oh good, things are okay. The candidates who the Haitian people really want to be in the 2nd round will be there, but little did I know that we had just reached the eye of the hurricane.

We’ve spent the last two weeks hovering in a state of mixed emotions, mainly comprised of relief, anxiety, frustration, and anticipation. What would the CEP (Counseil Electoal Provisoire) release? [Note: There is little faith in this organization, as they are believed to be in bed with Préval and the ruling political party Inité. They are the ones responsible for making sure the voting process is proper and just, but citizens say the CEP officials were stuffing the ballot boxes with votes for Jude Célestin; hence, crazy tension.]

Tuesday, December 6, the office closed at 4 pm sharp because the CEP stated they’d release the results at 6 pm. The tension was palpable. If Jude Célestin would make it into the next round, you could just feel in the air that the entire country would lose it. The students gathered in the kitchen/living area with nervous stares and eagerness. Huddled around a little radio, we waited and listened.

In this photo: Kenal (white hat), Samuel (black shirt), Barthelemy (green shirt), Marc Arthur (white shirt), Léonel aka "Senegal" (Tommy Bahama style shirt), Hégel (blue shirt), and Makelot (red stripes). More students were sitting on the stairs nearby and at the kitchen table.

The results were in: Mme Manigat won around 34% and Jude Célestin barely slid into 2nd with around 24%. He beat out Martelly by less than 1%. Everyone was up in arms. The reaction in the street was instantaneous. Gunshots, yells, screams, arguments…it was on. We entered a new phase of unrest, especially since everyone knew that Célestin had cheated.

Everything shut down again. I knew it would be days until I had to work again…days until the markets reopened. Stuck at home.

It’s been five days now of staying mostly at home, eating peanut butter and bananas, taking multiple cat naps per day, basically living the lazy life and going stir crazy because of it. I am not good at staying put, particularly when I am told that I have to. The first day of demonstrations, I went out to the street to see what was going on.

I headed to Débussy (one of the other student houses) because I couldn’t stand being inside and I had told Lubin, a student, that I would visit despite the disorder. I wasn’t really afraid, but just in case, I walked with my cell phone in hand ready to dial Mathieu in case something went down. (Mathieu is a medical student who was very concerned for my safety, yet was too afraid himself to walk with me. They’re all a little bit too paranoid if you ask me. At some point, they need to stop being so afraid because the fear itself is inhibiting progress here)

Anyway, there weren’t many people out, mostly men, except for the women selling bread and canned milk. A stench of burned rubber and smoke filled the air. On every corner there were simmering tires leaving behind mounds of black soot and wires. People had obviously been throwing rocks and shoving piles of the rubble further into the street. Navigating through the mess, I finally made it to the house, where I enjoyed the student’s company and had a nice break from Noam Chomsky’s Hopes and Prospects.

I’ve been venturing out everyday a little bit. Most of the time I went with a student or Michael. One day Agronome, a lovely HELP student who is very considerate and helpful, took Michael and myself out to try to find some food. Right as we were leaving a huge riot broke out in the direction we were heading. On the radio they were reporting guns and machetes to be present. Needless to say, we turned around and walked the other way. It was later reported that many people were shot at that demonstration.

Last night, Michael and I had had enough, and we thought we’d go see if this local bar was open. As it turns out, Muncheez was totally open and we got to enjoy an odd mix of blues/jazz, reggae, bad ballads, and Sweet Dreams are Made of These. It was strangely comforting.

Things aren’t really calming down, but places are starting to slowly reopen. People can’t go this long without work, food, etc. So while the riots continue, everyday life is picking back up anyway. It’s a good thing, too, because with everything closed, it’s difficult to find clean water, food, and medical attention, all of which are not helping the cholera epidemic. I guess we’ll see what happens in the coming week. For now, I am staying safe and simply waiting for it to be over.

Rolando and the Hardware Adventure

Saturday October 23, 2010

A few days ago I had a bad day. I had a whole entry written about everything that was wrong…mostly things related to homesickness, sleeping by myself in a concrete box (I really miss Oscar), and about being alone as an American woman in Haiti. But it just isn’t good to harp on the negative, so I’ve let that day go along with the post.

Saturday October 23 could have been considered a bad day, since pretty much everything went wrong. It went so wrong I spent most of the day laughing. It was quite the welcome to Haiti.

The day began with me heading to the HELP Center in order to meet our motorcycle driver at 8 AM. He was taking me to the hardware store so that I could get a quote for all the equipment I would need for my garden/compost project. First of all, I was already feeling like this would be an “experience” because I was going alone and my Creole is still baby talk. All I knew was that I needed to ask for a “proforma” and ask for a “ti discount de 5%.” (Creole has some funny English words…discount being one of them) So with my list in hand, I grabbed a helmet, hopped on the back of Rolando’s bike, and we were off. [Side note: I really love riding motorcycles; it’s too fun. And I still want a Vespa. Nothin’ like the wind in your face.]

Unfortunately, my joy ride didn’t last very long. We were about 20 minutes into our journey towards A&B Hardware when the police pulled us over. (Welcome to Haiti) I noticed they were pulling all the motorcyclists over and checking their licenses, so I simply stayed on the back of the bike while Rolando (HELP’s motorcycle driver/errand boy) dug around for his papers. Then I thought that maybe the police were giving him a hard time because I was white. Great, I thought, I’d have to try to explain in Creole that he is my chauffeur and that he is paid by my employers, etc, etc. It turned out that wasn’t the case and that I didn’t have to explain myself. But the police asked me to get off the bike and go stand in the shade. At that point I started really wondering what was going on. Was I going to be stranded somewhere in PaP? I had no idea where I was. What would I do? I didn’t even have Garry’s number. (Garry is HELP’s director in Haiti)

Luckily the policemen were nice and spoke French (yay!), and I found out that the problem was Rolando only had a copy of his license. (Welcome to Haiti) Not a big deal, but they did confiscate his bike and keys. I called Linedy, who manages the HELP office and she just said don’t worry. Don’t worry? I mean, I stayed calm of course, but couldn’t you at least tell me if somebody is coming to get us? Whatever, I just went with the flow and Rolando made some mystery calls to mystery numbers from my phone (so as to save himself the credit). He just looked at me every few minutes and said, “Mimi, Garry ap vini, l’ap vini.” That translates to Garry is coming, he’s coming. OK, I was reassured; at least somebody was coming. The next challenge was how long would that take? Traffic is notoriously bad in PaP. (Welcome to Haiti)

I looked at my watch; it was now 10 AM (2 hours after we had initially set out on the adventure). While we were waiting on the other side of the street for Garry, a Tap-Tap (the Haitian public transportation “buses”) broke down right in the middle of an already busy street…only about 30 feet down the street from the police motorcycle checkpoint. And the Tap-Tap didn’t just stall. Oh no, the whole front axel just dropped onto the asphalt. (Welcome to Haiti) The truck wasn’t going anywhere for a long time and in kicked the cacophony of hundreds of horns and honks.

Garry eventually made it through the gridlock to pick us up, and we were back on route to the hardware store. Ahhh, sweet victory! We were going to make it!

A&B Hardware turned out to be a total bust. They didn’t have everything I needed, and not only that, but you can’t pick things up and put them in a basket. You have to describe to them what you want and they get it out of the back for you. This meant there was huge potential for a large margin of error. After hearing “pa gen sa” (don’t have that) one too many times, Garry and I gave up on A&B. (Welcome to Haiti)

We got back in the car, and I just assumed that was it, I’d have to wait another week to get my equipment. But then Garry drove around the corner to a place called Eko Depot (a total rip off of Home Depot…same colors and knock-off logo). This was the place! It was like hardware heaven! They had everything I needed and more! And I could put my stuff right into a basket and take it home with me that very day! I was thrilled. Who knew a hardware store could bring so much joy.

We crammed shovels, wheelbarrows, pitchforks, and much much more into Garry’s little SUV (like an old Rav4 size SUV) and headed back to the HELP Center. I think we finally made it back around 2 or 3 pm. Ahhh, what a day, and it was far from over.

After organizing everything at the center, it was time to head home with Joanna for a quick rest and shower before going out with Conor to hear some live kompa. Joanna works in the NY office and was on her first visit to Haiti. She stayed with me, and it was wonderful! Even though I hadn’t been here much more than a week, it was so nice to have another American female around. Plus, she is totally awesome! (I was quite sad to see her leave a few days later)

Joanna brought some Newman’s Own pretzels with her from NY that we proceeded to devour before going out. Mmmm, a break from fried plantains and beans & rice. We were all tired, but mustered the energy to go hear this good kompa group, Fasil. The venue was pretty cool, although we were seated in the back, and since I wear flowers in my hair, I was placed on the bush-side of the table. My head was literally in the plants, but it wasn’t a big deal because the Prestige made the whole day better.

Prestige is the Haitian beer. It’s very similar to Red Stripe of Jamaica, and even comes in a similar bottle. Add in some groovy Afro-Caribbean beats, and you have a wonderful evening. Kompa is great! It’s pretty relaxed, but also upbeat. I like it. One dances kompa to kompa music, but I have yet to learn how to kompa. Watching all the other attendees crammed on the dance floor was enough for me that night. It’s a pretty sensual dance, so I hope to learn with some familiar people before jumping into a serious dance scene with strange men.

The concert was great, but we didn’t even make it to the headliner because it was already around 1 am and we couldn’t last any longer. The next time Fasil plays I will drink some coffee and prepare for a really late night, full of dancing and hopefully drunken splendor.

Welcome to Haiti! From potential disaster to delightful beer and music, all in a day’s work!

Exhausted, but alive and well in Port-au-Prince

Where to begin… So much has happened in the past 24 hours and I’m still hovering in a world of disbelief. It has yet to sink in that I am here relatively permanently. I am not going home in a week. I am not going to see my kitten boy or snuggle with him at night, and I am not going to see my best friend everyday. My mom’s care and my grandparents just across the street are no longer my reality. Now, I will be calling Port-au-Prince (PaP) my home and HELP is my new family. Although overwhelmed by just about everything, there are two things that stood out the most to me: a) the state of the country and b) the incredible hospitality with which I was greeted.

Flying in to PaP in itself was an experience. As you descend into the airport you can see all the decomposing ships that had gotten stuck on the reef or a sandbar with little white triangle sails zipping all around. The closer we got to the tarmac, the more I could see the destruction from the earthquake. Tent camps and shantytowns are scattered everywhere. As you may imagine or remember from the pictures just after the earthquake, there is rubble everywhere. The camps take up all the space where there isn’t rubble, and just up the street from my apartment there are still tents in the street. Everybody just goes around them, but what else can you do? They aren’t going anywhere soon. These tents and makeshift shelters will be the Haitian way of life for many years. Nobody is cleaning up the rubble, and few are rebuilding. I passed by a couple of construction sights on my walk to the HELP Center from my apartment, and I wonder if they are rebuilding with plans and materials that can withstand a 7.0 earthquake. I hope so, but somehow I don’t think they are.

I had the opportunity to go into one of the camps with Michael because Conor (the executive director) had arranged a meeting with this NGO called SOIL and I thought I’d go along. SOIL installs and maintains toilets and they compost the waste. It’s pretty cool and reminds me of the Living Machine at Oberlin. They’re even trying to come up with ways to bribe more people to use them. Anyway, the camp was pretty dismal. Life is hard there, but like I mentioned these camps are fully expected to be permanent, so they’ve strung up electrical wires and have giant water reservoirs where they can get water for cooking, bathing, and washing clothes. This particular camp had been built on what once was a park with a soccer field (of dirt) and a basketball court. Building the camps in these open spaces makes sense, but the people, particularly the children, of PaP have nowhere to play. It’s sad. They just sit around the camps all day, since most don’t attend school.

But, this brings me to b): The Haitian People and their hospitality. It is no exaggeration what they say about the kindness and tenacity of Haitians. Everyone in the camps greeted us with smiles and a “bonjou!” The same goes for pretty much everyone I saw or met from my flight to PaP to all the others throughout my day at HELP.

Itelier (a LOVELY student) and Roman (the driver) came to get me at the airport around 8 AM. They brought me right to my room in one of the dorm houses. There I met Michael (my boss) and Linedy (sometimes the d’s in Creole are pronounced like “dz”, so her name is the equivalent of Lindsey) who showed me around the house, introduced me to some of the students and helped me get a little settled. But I didn’t get to rest. At this point, my adrenaline must have been pumping because I took a quick sponge bath and walked with Michael and Linedy to the HELP center. The welcomes never stopped and neither did the happy faces. I met so many people who kept showering me with “Glad to meet you’s” and “We are so happy to have you’s.” What I don’t think they quite understand is how happy I am to be here. And how excited I am to learn their names and their stories. I can tell already that they will make a wonderful second family for me. How could I not already love them? Some of them who don’t speak much English at all were still eager to talk to me and welcome me to their country. It just feels so right. Now if I could just remember everyone’s name! (I have about 160 names to learn, ahhh!)

I think that’s a long enough first post from Haiti. There is plenty more to come… Look forward to descriptions of my living quarters, the food, the classes, etc.

I love you all and miss you dearly. Mom, pet Oscar for me and tell him I love him.

Leaving

Tomorrow night, I will fly on the red-eye from Los Angeles to Miami, then from Miami to Port-au-Prince. The flight gets in just before 8 AM to Haiti and the following is what I have received in preparation (as it turns out I've learned quite a lot):

"We'll send our driver with a student to meet you at the airport on Wednesday.
As the main terminal collapsed in the earthquake, you'll go through
immigration in what was originally a building for handling cargo. Once you
clear immigration, you'll go outside, turn right, and walk following a
chainlink fence on your left for maybe a couple hundred yards before reaching
the area where people can meet you. Our student will be holding a sign with
your name on it. The driver can take you to your room, where you can
drop off your things, get cleaned up, and then come to the office when you're
ready. Then we will be delighted to welcome you here!"

It's real, and it's here. And I am not packed. I am sitting here watching the Daily Show going over my packing list, but not actually making progress. So far I have 3 piles: Clothing, Toiletries/Accessories, and Stuff. All are growing, but none is in the suitcase.

I think it's time for me to stop writing in this blog as if it is some sort of catharsis and just get'er done. Beace out beoble. (That's Arab-American speak for peace out people). Wish me luck.

The Final Countdown

Sorry! I had to include Europe in this post. Only because "The Final Countdown" is one of those epic songs that gets stuck in your head and you start to hate after the first minute. Cruel? I don't think so...it's a guilty pleasure.

It really is the final count down, though. I leave in 5 days. Come next week, I'll be on the ground in Haiti, probably settling into my new apartment, meeting all the students, and adjusting to what will be my routine for the next year. It's hard to imagine how much my life is going to change in just 5 days time. I don't really know what to expect, and I am surprisingly OK with that. Contrary to most people's intuition, I am feeling like the less I know the better. Obviously I know the big things like my arrival date and time and the contact information for the H.E.L.P. headquarters. I've been told somebody will be fetching me at the airport, but I don't know who; I know I have an apartment, but I don't know exactly where. The unknowns aren't bothering me one bit. I am ready to get thrown into it. Plus, I honestly don't believe that extra information is going to "prepare" me for anything. Just gotta go with the flow and be flexible. I know I'll be taken care of, and I know I'll figure it all out in due time.

Believe it or not, a quick trip to San Francisco and Stanford has finagled its way into my schedule. While I am so happy to attend a family gathering and see Timmons one last time, it's crunch time, and I will return from NorCal with one more full day to get it all together. Stressful! Attempting to get ready early, I've been running around doing all the little errands that creep up on you and can take over, like getting a pair of jeans hemmed, buying DEET, and the like. (I really don't want to get Dengue Fever, although it feels inevitable)

Goodbyes and departures are always sad. I am spending my final days indulging in all the things I will really miss, i.e. See's Candy, frozen yogurt, crisp beer, and good company to name a few. But, I am ready to get down there. I'm excited to learn, to share, to be inspired, to meet amazing people, and to forge connections. Only 5 more days... Yee-haw! Bring it on!

Good Advice from Zia Nicoletta and Co.

Contracts and waivers signed, now it's officially official; I am going to AYITI!

The anticipation is growing, as is my distaste for travel preparation. It makes me anxious. I haven't been sleeping well. It's nerve-wracking. It seems no matter how much laundry I do or how many lists I make, I feel like the time is flying by without much packing progress. Only 2 weeks remain before I leave.

I have been communicating with Michael (the ESL teacher already there) about what to expect and what is actually available. Here are a few things I know:

1. HELP has a driver! It's generally unsafe to take public transportation, so if I need to go anywhere outside of the neighborhood, the driver will take me. I have NEVER had a driver. I think I will feel pretentious and ridiculous, but I intend to become his friend. Hopefully, that will ease my discomfort with the idea.

2. The open-air markets, supermarkets, and general stores have reopened in Port-au-Prince. Life goes on, even after great disasters. It's like my family in Beirut reminded me when I visited in 2008: just because there is a war going on outside, doesn't mean you stop living your life. The necessities (ie. soap, shampoo, food, etc.) are apparently readily available in the capitol. That makes things easier, I think.

3. I get a mosquito net for my bed and screens mounted on my apartment windows. That's a big deal since many frightening diseases are mosquito transmitted.

4. HELP is going to give me a cell phone. Cool?! I am a bit confused about why I'll need it, but I imagine it's for contact purposes in Haiti.

5. They tell me Skype doesn't work very well down there. I have a feeling video chat will be a rare occurrence. So expect emails, not calls! Sorry!

6. Lastly, I am coming home for Christmas! HELP will pay for 2 round trip tickets to the USA, so I requested a winter break. It will be particularly nice because my cousins from Italy will be visiting and I haven't seen them since my junior year abroad!

Now for the good advice that so earned the title of this blog entry.

Sunday evening, I had dinner with our good family friends the Merhmand/Tinozzi's. Whenever we get together we spend most of our time laughing and enjoying Nicoletta's incredible Italian cooking. It's always a convivial experience, and of course, my going to Haiti was brought up a few times. Sara thinks I am going to be crawling over rubble strewn streets, scavenging for food. My mother is afraid I will be kidnapped and raped. Not that these are not genuine concerns--truly the worst of the worst scenarios--but they are slightly exaggerated. After appeasing those worries, we started in on imagining my daily life. Most of that was uninteresting, save my future laundry habits.

Nicoletta gave me great advice, that I think should be a slogan for all people who have to wash all their laundry by hand. From here on, it will be dubbed the Tinozzi Method.

Step 1: Put a little soap in a bucket filled with water.
Step 2: Swish around your clothes.
Step 3: Let it soak, overnight.
Step 4: Go to bed.
Step 5: Wake up.
Step 6: Rinse.
Step 7: Hang, to dry.

In summation, and this is verbatim from Zia Nicoletta: "Soak, Go to bed, Rinse, Hang...And you do this everyday, so your laundry never piles up!" (Now repeat with an Italian accent).

There you have it folks; soak, go to bed, rinse, and hang. This could be the best advice I've gotten thus far.

Bonjou ak byenvini!

"Hello and welcome" to my new blog for my upcoming adventure in Haiti (Ayiti). You will notice that I am trying to incorporate Haitian-Creole into this blog as much as possible. It is a central part of Haitian culture and I can't wait to learn it. Plus, I enjoy seeing the French influences when it's written out.

Now, let me begin by explaining the title of my blog. In Haitian tradition, when somebody wants to tell a story, they ask "Krik?" And when people want to hear said story, they respond "Krak!" Isn't that awesome?!!! So, here we go fellow readers...Krik? (I am going to assume you are all yelling "Krak!" enthusiastically at your computer)

Most of you reading this already know that in about 3 weeks Port-au-Prince, Haiti will become my new home for a year. Yes folks, that's right, I got a job! I will be the Assistant ESL Teacher for the organization HELP (Haitian Education and Leadership Program).

HELP awards merit-based scholarships to disadvantaged Haitian students so that they can attend university. These students would never be able to afford college if it wasn't for HELP. It's practically a miracle that they even made it this far. And the program is quite successful: 90% of students granted these scholarships graduate and 100% of those find a good job in Haiti. The key words being "in Haiti." These students are not only dedicated to improving their personal situations, but also their country. With steady work, they are able to provide for their families, often sending their relatives to school, and contribute to breaking the cycle of poverty and helplessness.

In addition to their normal university schedules, the students are required to take Spanish, English, and leadership courses. Enter: me! I will be working with the head ESL instructor on revamping the ESL curriculum to include better testing components and to reinforce the leadership program. Needless to say, I am getting more and more excited everyday about working with these students!

For more information on HELP, check out their website: www.haitianeducation.org

Enough about the job, my biggest concern now is getting ready. How exactly does one prepare for a country which has recently been ravaged by a 7.0 earthquake and has pretty much remained in piles of rubble? Well, to be honest, I don't really know. I have no idea what to expect. Haiti has dropped off the radar in the news and I don't think the situation has much improved. When I first found out I'd be going, I immediately thought I needed to take my own backpacking camp with me. A Tent, water purifier, sleeping bag and pad, Sierra cup, knife, etc. etc. were all on my DO NOT LEAVE WITHOUT list. But, thank goodness for Michael, the head ESL instructor  who is already down there. He pretty much told me that HELP has all of that kind of stuff in their emergency equipment. So I suppose I don't need to worry about it. However, I think I'll still take my water purifier and knife. They could be really handy, and won't take up that much space.


I also realized that I am going to a tropical country where diseases such as AIDS, Malaria, and Dengue Fever have been a problem even before the whole country crumbled. So yesterday I went to a doctor who specializes in tropical diseases. He was an old man spewing about how awful all these maladies are and how dangerous his patients' said Haiti is. These diseases do sound terrifying, and since most are carried by mosquitoes (who already eat me alive), I will be taking Malaria pills and dousing myself in 40% DEET. Oh, and get this, beyond the fact that mosquitoes love my blood, I am also aesthetically the prime target for those Malaria-carrying buzzers. Apparently, they love black clothing, shiny jewelry, and sweet perfumes. This is no joke; he was completely serious. Guess what I was wearing in his office? Exactly that, a black blouse, a pair of costume gold earrings, and some nice gardenia scented perfume.  I thought to myself: No black? Really?!! No big gold hoops? WHAT? No perfume? That's no good. I can't wear deodorant because of an allergic reaction. Perfume was my only French-inspired hope to covering up my stench. Oh well, I signed up for this; and despite these slight obstacles, I know I'll figure it out.