For a moment the sun pauses on its arc across the sky; the heat is still searing but there's an imaginary pause all the same. The leaves, like palms outstretched in the light, listen too. Clouds, continents in oceans of enamel blue - grand and morphing inventively, shifting shapes of symmetry - slows to still. All these speak of His greatness. There is Spirit. Not one entity but a Spirit complicit in all. The tiniest to the greatest. A greatness pervading the least likely, the least expected, the least deserving. A tiny germ vital to the greatest construct. A still, small voice of calm . .
We must be at the mid-way point now, half way through the trip - at least in terms of days. Though productivity is not a constant; and we will achieve more as our departure nears. The milestones of time I have plotted out are the 1st of the month (this coming Saturday - pretty random but feels significant), the tenth (around the time the container arrives at PAP from Miami), then, say, the 20th that gives time for potential haggling at the port to get the thing through with as little aggravation, and with the lowest costs, as possible. Then on the 24th we take a bus to the Dominican Republic with, hopefully, every loose end tied and every challenge resolved as fairly as possible. I have to say, I am looking forward to reaching this point: when we've resolved all, or most, of the objectives and can leave with a small bag of essentials and make our way home.
Right now I feel uneasy about the length of time we are grazing here - almost three weeks so far, and although it still feels like paradise, there's a kind of conditional joy attached to these comforts, that linger amidst the well-being and contentment, but they are my own imagined issues, I'm sure . . taking so much from the sisters causes me some guilt, its a kind of repressed state of being that lingers in the background - I want to give to them (and although we have determined between us to make a significant contribution to some of their projects) - their giving, and in abundance, is quite magnificent . . . and we're 'taking' it all: their privacy, their food and sharing in their community whilst they give it all freely I feel somehow in the way. Of course, I realise that these concerns are self-made and we are helping the children in their care. But I don't see that as any justification, but they give as freely as we are giving, admittedly, and this makes it an acceptable collaboration, I suppose. There's an unhurried pace to life in the convent and the nuns are so kind and welcoming. We are with them for three meals a day - unless we are out on the road - which from the start I have been trying to ease back from because I was worried it might be too much for them. And yet I can see it must be my awkwardness in receiving so much kindness from relative strangers. I have spoke to some of the nuns, and Gisele, in particular, and she is adamant that we are no trouble and that in fact the sisters feel we are the ones giving. One couldn't buy this experience and we have got to know all the nuns that live in the guest house, about a dozen sisters. And much to my shame, and to make matters worse in a way, we haven't been all that specific about when we are leaving. The head sister has been unbelievably generous insisting we stay as long as we like. And granted, she knows that the container has suffered from delays in getting here - and that originally our departure date was the 29th of January. So there we are!
We retire early at night and we make as little disruption as possible and try to relax and enjoy the gift that the sisters are giving us so freely. Darren and I were painting rocks today with one of the sisters . . honestly, it feels more like convalescence than any form of work. But we accept it when things are slow and we try to be patient while we wait for things to arrive or take shape. Sister Gisele is a delight - she painted a beautiful palm tree on the face of a smooth pebble. We had something else planned for the first half of the day but things changed at the last moment.
At night - particularly those close to the weekend - there's loud music coming from the main road. A loud DJ, music and bottles clashing. It's hard sometimes to sleep with the sweltering heat, the hard ground, the competing animals barking and calling together with the mesmeric chorus of grasshoppers . . but one does block-out that nocturnal cacophony in-time as fatigue envelops the din and one soon wallows asleep.
Monday, 27 January 2014
Sunday, 26 January 2014
Saturday, 25 January 2014
Friday, 24 January 2014
Thursday, 23 January 2014
Adoration . .
Darren's gone into town with two escorts to research a few things. I've chosen instead to remain here at the convent where it's relatively quiet and peaceful. My body feels a bit hammered today, fragile after the 5-mile hike yesterday around, up and down Petionville. The sun is fierce so I'm in the shade.
As mass ended a Florence bell rang out from the darkness. It was somehow comforting to think of a Tuscan haze, terracotta and cold beer. It was coming from a solitary church some way off, amidst shanty and rubble. Over there the camp fires heat breakfast. Parents ready their children for school and themselves for work. Riding tap-tap or taksi.
In the church there's Exposition all day. Long lines of children make there way from the school below into the church for a few minutes of fidgety contemplation. I can hear them sing.
Back home this heat would be the height of Summer. The view from the wall reminds me of a London park. The sun is intense, and quickly burns - although this can be deceiving and one can easily sit too long in the brain-washing heat. Shadows fall across swept paths and parched grass. The contrast is complete. The riot of colour invites me never to leave.
On the narrow path besides the wall there is a steady of flow of traffic. Cars ferry sisters to work. Open trucks laden with water for thirsty plants and blossoming flowers. An elderly sister, I know from mealtimes, walks hurriedly passed on some mission. She announces, "Adoration . ." She's just come from the church. She annunciates the French vowels beautifully with a broad smile. Prayers prompting some urgent fiat. And tired, too, in the mid-day sun.
The sky is baby blue. Growing lighter just above the rooftops. A sharp blue. The children can be heard playing out during their break, the generator keeps the power on, the trees stir, too, heralding the breeze.
I shared a few more precious moments with Sister Gisele. Sitting by the door. She speaks softly, her French lovingly articulated; we chatted about the Annunciation - I guessed rightly that the word might be the same in French. Though her pronunciation gave the word much more opulence. She showed me the picture from her wall. A faded monochrome print - redrawn in parts by her own hand, but clearly the Annunciation. Mary holds her heart. Gabriel elucidates unambiguously. Few words were needed between us - despite our limited communication, we could still convey our appreciation of this event - we each love the poignancy of this magnificent occasion.
As mass ended a Florence bell rang out from the darkness. It was somehow comforting to think of a Tuscan haze, terracotta and cold beer. It was coming from a solitary church some way off, amidst shanty and rubble. Over there the camp fires heat breakfast. Parents ready their children for school and themselves for work. Riding tap-tap or taksi.
In the church there's Exposition all day. Long lines of children make there way from the school below into the church for a few minutes of fidgety contemplation. I can hear them sing.
Back home this heat would be the height of Summer. The view from the wall reminds me of a London park. The sun is intense, and quickly burns - although this can be deceiving and one can easily sit too long in the brain-washing heat. Shadows fall across swept paths and parched grass. The contrast is complete. The riot of colour invites me never to leave.
On the narrow path besides the wall there is a steady of flow of traffic. Cars ferry sisters to work. Open trucks laden with water for thirsty plants and blossoming flowers. An elderly sister, I know from mealtimes, walks hurriedly passed on some mission. She announces, "Adoration . ." She's just come from the church. She annunciates the French vowels beautifully with a broad smile. Prayers prompting some urgent fiat. And tired, too, in the mid-day sun.
The sky is baby blue. Growing lighter just above the rooftops. A sharp blue. The children can be heard playing out during their break, the generator keeps the power on, the trees stir, too, heralding the breeze.
I shared a few more precious moments with Sister Gisele. Sitting by the door. She speaks softly, her French lovingly articulated; we chatted about the Annunciation - I guessed rightly that the word might be the same in French. Though her pronunciation gave the word much more opulence. She showed me the picture from her wall. A faded monochrome print - redrawn in parts by her own hand, but clearly the Annunciation. Mary holds her heart. Gabriel elucidates unambiguously. Few words were needed between us - despite our limited communication, we could still convey our appreciation of this event - we each love the poignancy of this magnificent occasion.
Tuesday, 21 January 2014
middle of the night
Day 14: I can hardly believe it.
I'm up at 4.30am which for most of us is the middle of the night.
It's a bit of a struggle dressing whilst contorted in a limited space, like being below deck, with my back taking a few seconds more to adjust after a night's sleep on the hard ground. But within minutes all is well and I take the short walk over to the convent for a freezing shower, a cold shave and clean clothes. My head full of the dreams of the night before only add to the surreal stupor I'm in at this hour. Then into the church where the sisters are gathering for their morning prayers. I follow their lead in standing and sitting through alternating psalms in a sleepy haze. They sing with such fidelity - their demeanour is serene - voices sharp and arresting. Through the open window the hill still sleeps. The church is dimly lit and has a comforting, prayerful ambience that offers the best antidote for a rude awakening.
Darren and I have a great routine going. I return the key the usual spot and he gets up soon after. We compliment each other quite well - and work great as a team. It was quite random how we came together to share this adventure - or so we think - yet, we also acknowledge that other higher things are at work too. And by our own strength we are nothing.
After prayers we sit and breathe in the soft electric light. The arrival of the priest is signalled by headlights and a noisy diesel engine . . then he sweeps through to the sacristy - its early for him too. The mass is swift and in French. I can easily keep pace of the order but certain sitting and standing is out of the sync with the ebb and flow of the English Mass. It's wonderful all the same.
After breakfast I'm standing on the edge of the road watching thick traffic and waiting for Jude. We agreed 7.30am. But I didn't hear back from my text yesterday checking if we were all the set for today. I met Jude two years ago, he's the proprietor of a guest-house in downtown Port-au-Prince (PAP). Delmas is a busy, run-down district close to the airport. His house is large with balconies and balustrades, tiled floors and ceiling fans with no shortage of plasma screens and wifi. The house completely survived the earthquake, Jude was out in his car at the time. He's a rich bloke by Haitian standards. His dad lives in very different surroundings, an hour north of PAP and runs an orphanage which we were due to visit today. After some time, while I was standing watching the road, Jude cancelled by phone - Friday instead. The orphanage is a desperately poor place - you'd think they'd receive plenty of help from other quarters but sadly not. And so regardless of the reasons or criticisms I recognised their need and wanted to help somehow. There are about 25 children there, situated in Arcahaie, mainly boys; rough and resilient. And ever since my first visit two years ago I've wanted to try and help bring some stuff for them - especially play equipment for the boys. There's a huge climbing frame in the container for them and a few beds.
While watching the morning rush I was impressed by the smiles from everyone - the warm summer stream of bodies and buses. Bikes arriving and braking, immaculately dressed children sandwiched between driver and parent. The innocence of it all . . and the parent's strict determination to get the child through the gate in time. And the child, with sleepy complacence, oblivious to it all.
I'm up at 4.30am which for most of us is the middle of the night.
It's a bit of a struggle dressing whilst contorted in a limited space, like being below deck, with my back taking a few seconds more to adjust after a night's sleep on the hard ground. But within minutes all is well and I take the short walk over to the convent for a freezing shower, a cold shave and clean clothes. My head full of the dreams of the night before only add to the surreal stupor I'm in at this hour. Then into the church where the sisters are gathering for their morning prayers. I follow their lead in standing and sitting through alternating psalms in a sleepy haze. They sing with such fidelity - their demeanour is serene - voices sharp and arresting. Through the open window the hill still sleeps. The church is dimly lit and has a comforting, prayerful ambience that offers the best antidote for a rude awakening.
Darren and I have a great routine going. I return the key the usual spot and he gets up soon after. We compliment each other quite well - and work great as a team. It was quite random how we came together to share this adventure - or so we think - yet, we also acknowledge that other higher things are at work too. And by our own strength we are nothing.
After prayers we sit and breathe in the soft electric light. The arrival of the priest is signalled by headlights and a noisy diesel engine . . then he sweeps through to the sacristy - its early for him too. The mass is swift and in French. I can easily keep pace of the order but certain sitting and standing is out of the sync with the ebb and flow of the English Mass. It's wonderful all the same.
After breakfast I'm standing on the edge of the road watching thick traffic and waiting for Jude. We agreed 7.30am. But I didn't hear back from my text yesterday checking if we were all the set for today. I met Jude two years ago, he's the proprietor of a guest-house in downtown Port-au-Prince (PAP). Delmas is a busy, run-down district close to the airport. His house is large with balconies and balustrades, tiled floors and ceiling fans with no shortage of plasma screens and wifi. The house completely survived the earthquake, Jude was out in his car at the time. He's a rich bloke by Haitian standards. His dad lives in very different surroundings, an hour north of PAP and runs an orphanage which we were due to visit today. After some time, while I was standing watching the road, Jude cancelled by phone - Friday instead. The orphanage is a desperately poor place - you'd think they'd receive plenty of help from other quarters but sadly not. And so regardless of the reasons or criticisms I recognised their need and wanted to help somehow. There are about 25 children there, situated in Arcahaie, mainly boys; rough and resilient. And ever since my first visit two years ago I've wanted to try and help bring some stuff for them - especially play equipment for the boys. There's a huge climbing frame in the container for them and a few beds.
While watching the morning rush I was impressed by the smiles from everyone - the warm summer stream of bodies and buses. Bikes arriving and braking, immaculately dressed children sandwiched between driver and parent. The innocence of it all . . and the parent's strict determination to get the child through the gate in time. And the child, with sleepy complacence, oblivious to it all.
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