Fall, 1984

The alarm went off and shattered the pre-dawn silence that enveloped the sleeping stucco house. My room was away from the others, down in the lower level, tucked into the back part of the lush, tropical lot. I swung my legs out of the loose covers and as my feet touched the sea-grass rug that covered the tile floor, the bed squeaked loudly. I quickly showered, dressed, and tried to quietly open the iron gate that protected the big house where the five American women lived. I was unsuccessful, and again the squeaky gate broke the early morning stillness of 4 am. The roosters and dogs weren’t even awake yet. I was the only thing making noise.

My feet stepped out onto the dusty road that led up, up, up to the little house where the Morency family lived. The walk was a pleasant one, and as I began to wake from my slumbering, I picked up the pace. The air was wet with dew, and cool, a pleasure I didn’t want to miss, for I knew with the rising of the sun, the temperature would soar, and the humidity would be a curse. Carrying only a small lunch satchel and no camera this time, I crossed over the dirty puddles, sidestepped the large rocks I could see, and tripped over the ones hidden in the shadows. I knew my feet were already getting dirty in my loose sandals, walking the half-mile or so on the back street that I had become so familiar with walking to school every morning. I trekked this path on my way a little farther up the road to Quisqueya Christian School, where I taught an eclectic mix of international kindergarteners the basics of reading, writing and ‘rithmetic.

The Morency’s home was a little before the school and off a side road. Handel Morency was one of my favorite students, and certainly the biggest five-year-old I’d ever met, with hands as big as mine, dark black skin and a few missing teeth when he smiled his shy smile. He once brought a “zaboca,” an avocado, to school for Show and Tell, and shyly revealed, “I don’t know how to say in English.” His parents were full of giving and totally emptied of themselves. Well-educated, a nurse and a doctor of sorts, they served their beloved Haiti in a remote village clinic. My thirst for experiences and learning had led me to ask if they would take me to see their work sometime, and they had asked me to join them this particular Saturday. It was only about 50 miles from Port-au-Prince, but a long morning’s journey that had to begin by 4:30.

Their home was modest, but not the poor, dirty shacks most people lived in around here. The walls and floor were concrete, the roof was tile. Inside there was little furniture or decoration, but lots of light, lots of sleepy children and lots of love. Rhoda and the young woman who lived with them and helped around the house were busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast and lunch. In my preparations, I had forgotten to eat any breakfast. Actually, it was too early for anything to plummet into my stomach. Rhoda welcomed me into her home and offered me coffee, some bread, “anything?” Their simple surroundings humbled me. Handel came out of the bedroom rubbing his sleepy, big round eyes. He was taken aback at my presence and shyly went running to his mamma. The Creole chatter from the kitchen and the sounds of roosters, dogs, frying bacon, crying children all mingled into a warm lullaby that threatened to send me back to sleep. Now Rhoda and Gerard were ready to go and we said our goodbyes to the children. We were back on the dusty road, just as the sky was starting to turn pink and the colors along the road were coming to life. Red hibiscus, pink and purple bougainvillea, the greens of banana trees and palms, the deep greens of ivy covered with layers of dust from the dry season. I don’t think it had rained now for over a month. We passed a dead cat, no, a rat!, and crossed to the other side. Quisqueya came into view and dirt quickly changed to broken asphalt and soon we were on the Delmas, the main road. We caught a tap-tap with a sleepy driver and bounded down, down the Delmas on our way to the market to catch a bus.

The ocean in the distance was gray in the early morning light, surrounded by craggy, barren mountains on three sides. The Delmas looked from the top like it just ended in the sea. We arrived in a congested area full of the sights and smells of a Saturday morning market. People and animals mixed into a press of life all moving in different directions. Two chickens dangled by their feet in a maid’s hand, oblivious to their fate. We found our van, technically another version of the tap-tap, but not painted in the typical way of most public transportation. A hundred colors were normally splashed on every imaginable surface of tap-taps, decorated in scenes from the Bible, “Bon Dieu” “Jesus is Love” “Love Baby” splashed on the front, sides, back. Virtual mobile art galleries!

Rhoda and I slid into the bench seat of a 15-passenger van. The odor of stale sweat hung inside. I was still getting used to the constant presence of body odors. As I slid in next to the maid with the live chickens, more and more people (many more than the 15 it was designed for) entered the crowded van. Just when I thought no more could use this vehicle for transportation, five or six men climbed on top and a few more hung from the sides. Surely the tires were flattening from the weight.

It was a quiet ride – everyone took the opportunity to nap – except for the occasional “cluck.” We traveled this way for an hour, dropping off and picking up passengers along the way. By the time we arrived at our stop, the capacity had decreased to about 15. It was now about six o’clock. It felt like a full day already.

We were deposited at a sugarcane field, next to a dirt road, the tops of the canes high above us. Rhoda said we’d have to wait a bit for the next transport…not sure what that meant. The sky was a bright morning blue, and the sun was just rising. We saw the dust cloud long before the truck arrived. As it settled, the large dump truck emerged from the dirty cloud and I wondered how all 10 of us would fit in the cab. Silly me, the cab was for the driver and his friends! We were riding in the back, standing and holding on for dear life as we rode this carnival ride to rival anything at the State Fair. The “road” was little more than a rutted goat path through dense undergrowth. As we bounced along, I wondered what my parents would think if they knew where I was at that moment. Although the distance we covered in that truck couldn’t have been more than 5 miles, I’m sure the odometer recorded at least 6 or 7 with all the driving in and out of the holes. We could only move along as fast as the road would allow so this leg of the journey took close to half an hour.

“We’re almost there,” Rhoda muttered to me as we gingerly stepped down off the tailgate. Only one more wait for the river taxi. Indeed we were at the edge of a river, needing to cross. Soon a little dugout canoe arrived to ferry us across the brown water. This really was becoming the National Geographic safari I always dreamed of.

On the other side, we began to see huts and fences, signs of a village. As we floated along with the river’s gentle current, Rhoda pointed out to me the homes of village leaders or witch doctors, marked by a black and red flag, the colors of voodoo. Although Haiti is a Catholic nation, vestiges of pagan religion remain; out here in remote areas, it was widespread and brought fear to many people. This was the driving factor for the Morencys – bring physical healing with a spiritual message – Jesus is alive and is greater than the devil and voodoo spirits whom they feared so tremendously.

The canoe stopped at a little stairway up to the footpath that took us to our final destination. I felt like such a stranger with my white skin and American clothes. The initial stares were followed by cheesy grins and friendly greetings of “bonjou!” I was struck by the absence of the request I had come to expect from children – “Blanc! Blanc! Give me one dollar mister!” In Port-au-Prince, this was the common greeting we all had come to expect. But out here, no one expected such a thing. “Blancs” didn’t come to their village. I was a guest and the people I met seemed happy to have me visit.

Rhoda led me through rows of benches that held, even at this early hour, an array of patients waiting to see the doctor. We stepped up two wooden stairs and unlocked the door to the pharmacy. A medicine-y smell, maybe alcohol, greeted us in the tiny dark room. We went through another door into an examining room. This was a simple clinic but life-giving to those in surrounding villages.

The men, women, and children outside quietly and patiently waited their turn with the Morencys. I just observed and tried to stay out of the way. Rhoda worked around me, showed me how she dispensed medication, introduced me to the patients, talked me through what she was doing, taught me. She was so gentle, so respectful of each and every person. She examined the weepy eyes of an old man and told him to continue using the salve. She re-bandaged a stubborn wound on a little girl’s leg, cleaning it tenderly.

A young mother beamed at the grandmother-like affection Rhoda lavished on her 2-month-old baby. While checking all the newborn’s vitals, Rhoda asked the mother why the baby had a belt of yarn with a tuft of wool under his diaper. After a kind exchange in Creole, she explained to me that the baby’s father was the village witch doctor and he required this “preventative” measure to discourage evil spirits from bothering the child. The mother listened attentively as Rhoda gently shared the gospel with her and how we need not fear evil when in the care of a loving and powerful God. This was all the preaching these missionaries did and the people lined up at 7:00 am to hear it.

I had my first listen to a fetal heartbeat that day. A very young woman with a swollen belly reclined on the table. Rhoda lifted her gown carefully, and guided my white hands across her brown belly to feel the buttocks, the head, the elbows of that little baby. We listened to the rapid heartbeat with a stethoscope and felt the trust this woman extended. She probably thought I was another nurse coming in to help. Rhoda encouraged her to eat, and rest and maybe by next week or so the baby would come.

The day wore on and the benches emptied patient by patient. Eyeglasses were dispensed, medications refilled and wounds bandaged. By 4:00, it was time to head home. A long and satisfying day. We began our journey back to Port-au-Prince, all of it blending into a dreamy warm memory.

As we arrived at the dump truck stop, Rhoda and I were invited to ride in the cab this time. Weary Rhoda dozed almost immediately. The driver decided to try out his English. “So, you American?” “You from New York?” “Why you in Haiti?” “Do you like Haiti?” When I answered his last question affirmatively, he pulled the truck to an abrupt halt. The driver jumped out, ran to the back and returned. Simultaneously, his friend from the back, opened the passenger side door and climbed in, forcing Rhoda closer to me, and me closer to the driver. I wasn’t quite sure what was going on, until his next question. “So, you like Haiti? Would you like to marry me? I make you good babies!” As I searched for the appropriate response, I glanced at Rhoda for help. She still had her eyes closed but she was smiling and the driver and his friend were laughing. I just said, “No, thank you, I don’t think so.”

This would not be the only proposal I would get that year in Haiti, but the other one, I took seriously and answered affirmatively.

But that’s another story…