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.
Monday, 20 January 2014
many parts
Looking forward, looking back; the gap is narrowing and I am getting closer to being in the moment without the burdens of what and when and why.
However, two weeks ago I left my little, honest market town of Otley embarking on the final stages of this complicated and protracted endeavour. The idea was born on my last visit but has been achieved by the cooperation of hundreds of people who shared the responsibility of these aims: to assist the people of Haiti with a few material goods to help them in their time of serious need.
Beds, play equipment, shoes and clothes, food, tools, computers and phones. Some items inspired more giving than others. Laptops are interesting, for example. I have seen with certainty that the youngsters need them - like phones - but our perceptions of poverty make clothes and shoes and food more important than computers - but I know the kids need them like MP3s and smart phones - but we question this need. One lovely old sister here endorsed shoes as her particular plea. These do capture peoples sense of a very legitimate need - how can they lack something we all take so much for granted! . . . and I immediately wanted to bring these from home more than anything, though we didn't raise nearly as many as I was desperate for.
Giving at this end is quite hazardous as I have mentioned. Adults are sometimes insulted or undermined by too much free help. They can feel stubbornly embarrassed by handouts preferring the independence of self-determination by their own merit . . . It's quite reasonable, the ego is made up of a complex package of self-worth, knowledge of weaknesses and strengths. Also, measures of justice and merit, righteousness and altruism. The ego drives personal ambition and sacrifice. And possibly in an inconsistent way but hopefully evolving for the better of others in time and with wisdom.
And so the endeavour has been made possible on so many levels by so many willing to share the goals without personal gain or self-interest. My own involvement was exposed and apparent, whereas many gave and sacrificed for the success of the project quietly and discretely. A few resolved issues of great importance. And many made small sacrifices that were vital too for the overall success. Resulting in a 'whole' that is greater than the sum of its parts. Team work has many fruits and many constraints but again the outcome is far better as a consequence of a joint effort with each offering unique strengths. Interestingly, there always seemed to be some gravitational pull preventing us from succeeding. Was this the enemy? The final hurdle might be getting the container through customs - I've heard it can take up to a year in the worst cases. I felt a huge release when we arrived in the grounds of this convent - it felt like suddenly the great resistance that had been pulling on us for two years was broken. The long journey of team work requires so many compromises, concessions and flexibility to hold it together for the overall mission. Knowing when to yield and when to intervene is a fragile occupation too. The tireless efforts of others can be overlooked or taken for granted. Some have just a little to offer - some carry the success of the project in one finite act that only they can give. Building on these successes, learning from the set-backs and triumphs graciously - selflessly, and all importantly, keeping in mind the help we want to give others less fortunate than ourselves. Each stage of life's journey contributes to the next. Disparate concerns running through your life - whether they are many or few - are still made up of stages, improving in time one's sense of caring more for others than for ourselves.
However, two weeks ago I left my little, honest market town of Otley embarking on the final stages of this complicated and protracted endeavour. The idea was born on my last visit but has been achieved by the cooperation of hundreds of people who shared the responsibility of these aims: to assist the people of Haiti with a few material goods to help them in their time of serious need.
Beds, play equipment, shoes and clothes, food, tools, computers and phones. Some items inspired more giving than others. Laptops are interesting, for example. I have seen with certainty that the youngsters need them - like phones - but our perceptions of poverty make clothes and shoes and food more important than computers - but I know the kids need them like MP3s and smart phones - but we question this need. One lovely old sister here endorsed shoes as her particular plea. These do capture peoples sense of a very legitimate need - how can they lack something we all take so much for granted! . . . and I immediately wanted to bring these from home more than anything, though we didn't raise nearly as many as I was desperate for.
Giving at this end is quite hazardous as I have mentioned. Adults are sometimes insulted or undermined by too much free help. They can feel stubbornly embarrassed by handouts preferring the independence of self-determination by their own merit . . . It's quite reasonable, the ego is made up of a complex package of self-worth, knowledge of weaknesses and strengths. Also, measures of justice and merit, righteousness and altruism. The ego drives personal ambition and sacrifice. And possibly in an inconsistent way but hopefully evolving for the better of others in time and with wisdom.
And so the endeavour has been made possible on so many levels by so many willing to share the goals without personal gain or self-interest. My own involvement was exposed and apparent, whereas many gave and sacrificed for the success of the project quietly and discretely. A few resolved issues of great importance. And many made small sacrifices that were vital too for the overall success. Resulting in a 'whole' that is greater than the sum of its parts. Team work has many fruits and many constraints but again the outcome is far better as a consequence of a joint effort with each offering unique strengths. Interestingly, there always seemed to be some gravitational pull preventing us from succeeding. Was this the enemy? The final hurdle might be getting the container through customs - I've heard it can take up to a year in the worst cases. I felt a huge release when we arrived in the grounds of this convent - it felt like suddenly the great resistance that had been pulling on us for two years was broken. The long journey of team work requires so many compromises, concessions and flexibility to hold it together for the overall mission. Knowing when to yield and when to intervene is a fragile occupation too. The tireless efforts of others can be overlooked or taken for granted. Some have just a little to offer - some carry the success of the project in one finite act that only they can give. Building on these successes, learning from the set-backs and triumphs graciously - selflessly, and all importantly, keeping in mind the help we want to give others less fortunate than ourselves. Each stage of life's journey contributes to the next. Disparate concerns running through your life - whether they are many or few - are still made up of stages, improving in time one's sense of caring more for others than for ourselves.
Sunday, 19 January 2014
highway to Les Cayes
With each day I seem to understand a little more about this place and the people who roam the main street. The nuns continue to amaze us with their absolute generosity and hospitality. And as we relax more and more into this culture of the strange and beautiful; the eye-watering colours of day and the piercing house lights on the hill calling us from the ink black night; all we see and hear are holding us, changing us and keeping us captive.
The sun is burning but we are settling into a very different climate to home and my heart swells when I count the days we still have to enjoy all of this. Thirty-six days, but I know I shouldn't be counting. There are still echoes of concern and worry fading from my mind; vestiges of my impending visit which promised all the discomforts I experienced three times before. And the risks that rarely bear out. But one never can tell. We try to anticipate, as part of the human condition - but I couldn't have anticipated this unique ambiance. I could never have predicted such beautiful surroundings. Haiti has improved too, certainty; still shocking and feral - all that we see seems inadequate. And the corruption, that is worth trying to change - but most of the complexion, the interaction, the messy street life and the gritty character seen everywhere seems acceptable and indigenous. It belongs and there is no reason to want this to end.
Yesterday I noticed the national palace had been completely removed. The pictures of a collapsed white dome featuring repeatedly on the BBC and in the press days and months after the earthquake. Now, its absence speaks of recovery - albeit slow and frustrated.
Saturday - yesterday - was earmarked by Sister Evelyn and me as an acceptable day to start the mural at the school. She thought it would be better to start on a day when there wouldn't be the 700 children in noisy attendance . . I didn't mind this, and actually think it would be a novelty for them. I was reluctant about this day for her sake, much more because it was her day off as the head of the school. She's a wonderful person and perfect for her job. Her explosive effervescence, sing-song voice and broad smile are all in evidence in the character of the school. The children are all a bit wild and free-spirited - and the potential of an over-bearing discipline is replaced by freedom and self-expression, much better for a school, I think. Though there's a place for the other kind too.
The day was earmarked too by Sister Marie-Carmel for a trip to Cavaillon and one of the orphanages there. Something had to give, and there is plenty of time for both so we opted for the road trip.
They have a new 4X4 that speeds along the Caribbean highway - a straight, tree-lined freeway skirting the coast westwards, moderately busy with trucks, buses and bikes. We passed through many small towns and settlements, where vehicles are slowed to a crawl making way for the crowds of shoppers and sellers. Containers double as stores and shop fronts. Painted in dark colours or left to rust. And signed with bright letters of yellow and orange. When the car slows hoards of sellers swarm to the open window: cakes, mangos, bananas, bread, up-turned live chickens, phone charges and windscreen wipers. We buy something then we're off again. Through tropical trees, bends in the roads, rough and smooth, skirting the rocky beach and white surf then under trees again and mottled shards of light and stark shadows. We moved with great speed with nothing in our way. The views of the sea mirroring those we watched passively from the first bus in DR as we entered Santo Domingo.
The children in the orphanage were excited and welcoming. They live in basic surroundings but one can see that they are well cared for and safe. To see see their joy and unconditional love was quite unique. We'll visit again after the container arrives.
The sun is burning but we are settling into a very different climate to home and my heart swells when I count the days we still have to enjoy all of this. Thirty-six days, but I know I shouldn't be counting. There are still echoes of concern and worry fading from my mind; vestiges of my impending visit which promised all the discomforts I experienced three times before. And the risks that rarely bear out. But one never can tell. We try to anticipate, as part of the human condition - but I couldn't have anticipated this unique ambiance. I could never have predicted such beautiful surroundings. Haiti has improved too, certainty; still shocking and feral - all that we see seems inadequate. And the corruption, that is worth trying to change - but most of the complexion, the interaction, the messy street life and the gritty character seen everywhere seems acceptable and indigenous. It belongs and there is no reason to want this to end.
Yesterday I noticed the national palace had been completely removed. The pictures of a collapsed white dome featuring repeatedly on the BBC and in the press days and months after the earthquake. Now, its absence speaks of recovery - albeit slow and frustrated.
Saturday - yesterday - was earmarked by Sister Evelyn and me as an acceptable day to start the mural at the school. She thought it would be better to start on a day when there wouldn't be the 700 children in noisy attendance . . I didn't mind this, and actually think it would be a novelty for them. I was reluctant about this day for her sake, much more because it was her day off as the head of the school. She's a wonderful person and perfect for her job. Her explosive effervescence, sing-song voice and broad smile are all in evidence in the character of the school. The children are all a bit wild and free-spirited - and the potential of an over-bearing discipline is replaced by freedom and self-expression, much better for a school, I think. Though there's a place for the other kind too.
The day was earmarked too by Sister Marie-Carmel for a trip to Cavaillon and one of the orphanages there. Something had to give, and there is plenty of time for both so we opted for the road trip.
They have a new 4X4 that speeds along the Caribbean highway - a straight, tree-lined freeway skirting the coast westwards, moderately busy with trucks, buses and bikes. We passed through many small towns and settlements, where vehicles are slowed to a crawl making way for the crowds of shoppers and sellers. Containers double as stores and shop fronts. Painted in dark colours or left to rust. And signed with bright letters of yellow and orange. When the car slows hoards of sellers swarm to the open window: cakes, mangos, bananas, bread, up-turned live chickens, phone charges and windscreen wipers. We buy something then we're off again. Through tropical trees, bends in the roads, rough and smooth, skirting the rocky beach and white surf then under trees again and mottled shards of light and stark shadows. We moved with great speed with nothing in our way. The views of the sea mirroring those we watched passively from the first bus in DR as we entered Santo Domingo.
The children in the orphanage were excited and welcoming. They live in basic surroundings but one can see that they are well cared for and safe. To see see their joy and unconditional love was quite unique. We'll visit again after the container arrives.
Friday, 17 January 2014
over the wall
I prepared for months for this trip.
Many more gave time, money, vocal support, a listening ear, advice and prayers (prayers most important of all as it happens) to get us here now. And to arrange that twenty foot box full of random stuff that will hopefully make a difference somewhere. I was almost spent before I got here. With packed bags the money was absurdly inadequate given the cost of this sleepless city. How can a shoddy hotel room with very basic facilities cost a minimum of $70 or $80 a night? Many American aid workers come here on full expenses might be part of the answer, as well as an over exuberant business mentality that is everywhere from the sugar cane seller to the hotelier. But that's just part of it - the discomfort, the pain comes to mind first. But there's also the joy, the joy which exceeds many of the experiences I have ever had. I prepared myself for a difficult trip - for two years. And now I am here I am shocked by the good fortune that has washed in around us - yes, the suffering and poverty and filth is still in abundance - but we are living in exclusive comfort in the convent. And I feel guilty most of the time that this is not what I prepared myself for - I am secure and comfortable, yes - but it's still unfair given what exists out there, over the wall!
This is where many fell. But without doubt the people seem stronger than before. My last visit was two years ago. There was residual rubble and occasional scars from the earthquake were still visible in places. Most of the blue plastic sheets for roofs had been cleared and sheltering frightened people coerced to move elsewhere out of sight. Or told to return to their precariously built houses and repair them. Perhaps help was available to them in various forms and the road to recovery - at least to a level pre-quake - was slow and frustrating. Life certainly has its struggles - life here certainly has a dark side. But they all shine too with a boundless brilliance. Every moment I spend here it changes who I am. Get close enough to experience the Haitian temperament, their soul, the love and laughter they give freely . . their smile shining freely and generously.
The president is doing a good job - he is a good man - one of the sisters tells me with a calm conviction . . " . I pray for him!" Sister Gisele disclosed, as we chatted, mixing colours together on the convent rooftop, painting the mountain. The summit, way up high in the bleaching renewing sun! A summit way too far to reach.
Many more gave time, money, vocal support, a listening ear, advice and prayers (prayers most important of all as it happens) to get us here now. And to arrange that twenty foot box full of random stuff that will hopefully make a difference somewhere. I was almost spent before I got here. With packed bags the money was absurdly inadequate given the cost of this sleepless city. How can a shoddy hotel room with very basic facilities cost a minimum of $70 or $80 a night? Many American aid workers come here on full expenses might be part of the answer, as well as an over exuberant business mentality that is everywhere from the sugar cane seller to the hotelier. But that's just part of it - the discomfort, the pain comes to mind first. But there's also the joy, the joy which exceeds many of the experiences I have ever had. I prepared myself for a difficult trip - for two years. And now I am here I am shocked by the good fortune that has washed in around us - yes, the suffering and poverty and filth is still in abundance - but we are living in exclusive comfort in the convent. And I feel guilty most of the time that this is not what I prepared myself for - I am secure and comfortable, yes - but it's still unfair given what exists out there, over the wall!
This is where many fell. But without doubt the people seem stronger than before. My last visit was two years ago. There was residual rubble and occasional scars from the earthquake were still visible in places. Most of the blue plastic sheets for roofs had been cleared and sheltering frightened people coerced to move elsewhere out of sight. Or told to return to their precariously built houses and repair them. Perhaps help was available to them in various forms and the road to recovery - at least to a level pre-quake - was slow and frustrating. Life certainly has its struggles - life here certainly has a dark side. But they all shine too with a boundless brilliance. Every moment I spend here it changes who I am. Get close enough to experience the Haitian temperament, their soul, the love and laughter they give freely . . their smile shining freely and generously.
The president is doing a good job - he is a good man - one of the sisters tells me with a calm conviction . . " . I pray for him!" Sister Gisele disclosed, as we chatted, mixing colours together on the convent rooftop, painting the mountain. The summit, way up high in the bleaching renewing sun! A summit way too far to reach.
Thursday, 16 January 2014
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