Pocket Change

Last Thursday Miss Fanor and I headed out on or first Mobile Clinic as a team of two. We drove outside the city to a tiny and very poor town along a busy stretch of road. As has become custom, we walked into a church that had transformed into a makeshift clinic. The pastor had arranged for a bed to be brought in, sheets hung for privacy, desks set up for consultation and for a pharmacy as well as chairs lined up for waiting. As we unpacked our supplies, members of the community slowly filtered in.

During the day we saw patients young and hold, relatively healthy and those near death. One such sickly man was our second patient of the day. He came shuffling up to my desk, skin stretched taught over bones, a hollow look in his eyes. He had all the signs of immunodeficiency without an official diagnosis: extreme weight loss, oral thrush, many fungal and bacterial skin rashes, shingles, a chronic cough and persistent nagging fever. He had spent most of his life in the Dominican Republic working, but had come home to live with his sister when he got sick. After examining him, I told him of my fears about his health. He pretended not to know, but there was no surprise that danced across his face. Instead, a quiet resolve was all I could read in his eyes leading me to believe he suspected more about what was causing his decline than he admitted. Often I’ve found that people usually know when they are dying.

We made a plan for him to go for diagnostics at GHESKIO, the local research center that does a lot of work with HIV and TB. I sent him home with some medicines to help treat his symptoms, but our little pharmacy is nowhere nearly capable of bringing him back to full health at this point.

After he staggered away, Miss Fanor came up to me and asked if I had another thermometer. I did, and handed it to her, confused. She wanted a replacement since the (presumed) HIV patient had used it.

Inside I fumed. I made a mental note to have a little educational talk with her after clinic.

On the ride home, Miss Fanor beat me to the punch. "That man has AIDS. You knew it, I knew it, and everyone in the room knew it. There was whispering, gossiping already going on. The people were watching our every move. I needed to change thermometers so they wouldn't be scared to get care because they all don’t yet understand how the disease is transferred. There is still a lot of ignorance." Once again, Miss Fanor proved to me her infinite wisdom and insider-knowledge that helps me stay afloat in a community where I’m still in many ways just getting my feet wet. My annoyance dissolved into gratitude for having such an observant and capable teammate.

The last patient of our mobile clinic day was similarly dramatic. After strings of children with runny noses, coughs and symptoms of poor nutrition, old men with "acid" and "gas" and women with headaches and back pain, a pregnant woman sat down before me. She was 43 years old and on her 11th pregnancy. She came to see me because of a headache, back pain and stomach upset. I looked at this woman who was 9 months pregnant with 10 kids at home, and was not surprised to see immense fatigue in her eyes. Her husband accompanied her looking equally as tired. I started with my history and evaluation, noting that her blood pressure was sky high--a very ominous sign in the end of pregnancy, worrisome for preeclampsia. My exam showed a kicking and active baby, but her stomach was sore in all the wrong places, and given her headache, red flags started waving in my mind. I discussed that I wanted them to immediately travel the short distance into town to the free maternity hospital to get evaluated. I discussed my concern honestly and frankly in hopes that I could convey this was a matter to be taken seriously. We could even find a ride if needed.

The husband--clearly concerned about his wife-- let his eyes fall to the floor in apparent embarrassment as he said, "tomorrow we'll go, if God wants." When I pressed him that tomorrow might be waiting too long, he informed me that his brother had recently been in a motorcycle accident and was in the city’s general hospital. The family was pooling all their resources to get him the care he needed, and there was nothing left, no money. Pockets were empty, and those who weren’t helping at the hospital were trying to work to make up for the funds lost; no one was available to help get them in to town, much less watch over their house full of children. He needed his wife to help at home. While trying to come up with strong, calm, diplomatic words in Creole to persuade him otherwise, I thought of the looming disaster in this man’s life if his wife’s symptoms turned into a worse-case-scenario in their home in the middle of the night. What would this man do if suddenly left without his partner to raise 10 kids by himself?

We slipped the couple a little tap-tap money hoping they'd use it for a ride into town. I instructed the mother that under no circumstances was she to work or to walk; if she insisted on returning home, she needed to be lying down. She looked at me like I was an alien, but mouthed agreement.

They left our clinic hand in hand. I could only hope they took to heart what I was trying to convey, were convinced that maybe this blan doctor venturing out to the countryside was there to help and knew a thing or two. I now can only pray she has had the baby by this time and both are well.

Today in the CONASPEH clinic, a couple of patients from our mobile clinic came in with their pastor for follow up visits. The walking skeleton-of-a-man was one of the faces waiting on my bench. He had come in to see if there was anything that we could do to help him, for he had nothing, nothing to buy food, nothing to buy a tap-tap ride to the hospital, absolutely nothing.

In general we don't give money to people. It is not our role, nor the best way to empower people, and there are those that argue hand-outs encourage dependency. But some days it is impossible to look death and suffering in the eye without offering at very least the change you have in your pocket if it can offer a little hope. And for an unprecedented second time in a week, Miss Fanor and I reached into our pockets. After consultation with Francois, we three females decided that we'd offer this gentle man enough money to send him to a special hospital for patients with HIV and AIDS where he'd receive not only HIV medicines, but food, potentially a job when he was strong enough, and a heaping plate full of hope. When we slipped him the envelop with hushed whispers, his eyes gleamed. He started to cry. He wrapped his bony arms around our necks and whispered a choked thank you.

Tonight I have new patients to pray for. I pray for the woman who was anticipating birthing a new life amid a clinically dangerous, life-threatening circumstance. I pray that her husband isn't now left alone with no one to help raise his huge family. I pray that the man with hollow eyes finds his way, pray that at the very least he finds comfort in his final days of life. For all I pray that its not too late, that just this once or twice, pocket change can make a difference.

Church in Lebou

*View of church*

This morning we were guests at a church in a very poor neighborhood outside of town. The building was designed by a network of wooden poles and billowing, patchwork walls of plastic and cloth creating a tent-like atmosphere. Unlike in more sturdy, concrete churches, light illuminated the walls and a breeze danced through the space. The poorest of churches seem to have the warmest of hospitality. I sat in the women-with-children section and soon had several rows full of new acquaintances who were more than happy to help me take care of my overly energetic 10-month-old as he walked from pew to pew, balancing on strangers knees, holding all sorts of hands, and being scolded by many a concerned face as he tried to put rocks in his mouth. The church was as ragged as we've seen, but full of spirit and fresh air.
*Childcare help from the community*

I have to admit, I love my new "mom" status that allows me a realistic excuse not to sit up front and center, but in the pews with the people (usually toward the back in case a quick escape for an emergency diaper change is needed). In this new vantage point, I'm allowed quick bonds of friendship with the people of the church, and I relish that. I can't tell you how quickly the status of "mom" takes me into relationships with women here. I have somehow passed a test and am admitted into a warm community of women who take care of each other's children, have incredible patience with baby-antics, and delight in the silly thinks our kids do.

Today is my birthday, and Patrick leaked the news to the preacher. As my cheeks blazed red (heat or embarrassment? hmmm probably a combo), the entire church sang me the "happy birthday" song, first in French, and then in staggering English that sounded a lot like, "hoppy berf-day to yoooouuu." It was great and loving and energetic. I was newly amazed at how quickly a church we've never been to before can feel like our own community church in a single visit, such is the hospitality and welcome here.
*Paying attention to the sermon, Soloman?*

Patrick preached on the palpable spirit of worship found as the people in Haiti lift up their voices in song. He celebrated all that we have come to love about the people and the spirit of this country. His message evolved into what the Haitian people have taught us about our call to be the mind of Jesus, to walk as Jesus walked.

I greeted the congregation giving them a little ditty about Sol and about our work in Haiti. Curiosity and whispers are easier dispelled when we can explain to a group at large how Solomon came into our lives. We've heard (usually amongst children) whispers debating whether Solomon is really our biological child and he just looks like a Haitian because he was born in Haiti. I like this rumor.
*Post-church consultation*

After church I had a mobile consultation time. Sundays I offer a session after church if requested by the pastor to simply be available to answer medical questions, do quick exams and write prescriptions if indicated. No meds are passed out, no money exchanged. It is instead a time where I can offer a little education, push some to seek a further medical evaluation and reassure others. The time has proven to help introduce communities to the CONASPEH clinic, and some of my "regulars" there came after we met in church. These sessions, however, are always potential minefields if the pastor doesn't do a good job of educating the congregation about the nature of the consultation and what was being offered. But this pastor was well informed and did a beautiful job.
*Patiently waiting a clinical exam*

I saw what felt like the entire congregation, but in a quick and efficient way... mostly giving advice, reassurance, writing a few prescriptions and recommending several follow-ups in the CONASPEH clinic. It was a happy morning. Hot, but happy. The pastor was pleased, and scheduled a mobile weekday clinic for later in October.

While I was seeing patients, Patrick started up some games with the neighborhood kids to pass a breezy Sunday afternoon. *Patrick starts ball game with neighborhood children*

*jump ball!*

The kids in the zone we visited don't have much for toys, so the beautiful orange basketball in our car caused quite a ruckus. Always up for a little pick-up game, Patrick had fun letting the children toss and kick and bounce the ball around a field next to the church. He's a favorite with the kids here with his relaxed style, expressive face and easy laugh. And true to form, by the end of the day, mothers were bringing their babies for him to play and hold.

*Patrick loving on the kids*

Now I'm settling into a lazy Sunday (birthday) afternoon. Patrick is off running errands. Sol is sleeping soundly--an early afternoon nap after entertaining the entire church sans lunch or milk all morning long. He was exhausted, hungry and grumpy when we got home, but after water and food he sleeps soundly giving mommy some down time to. Thanks baby boy.

I wasn't sure what to anticipate on my first birthday in Haiti. Wanted to treat it like any other day, fearing that homesickness might sink its teeth into my celebration. However, I was pleasantly surprised how "at home" I felt today in a church of sticks and cloth panels, in a congregation of folks with worn shoes and warm faces.

My brother, sister-in-law and nephews Skyped this morning and sang me happy birthday over a plate of candle-adorned cupcakes they had made for my special day (if only skype could share tastes too, it would be a near-perfect world!). After leaving church, my voicemail was filled with "happy birthday" songs sung by family and friends. Thanks to modern communication, the world shrinks a little when you need it, bringing loved voices to your ear, precious faces to see and talk to. Tonight Patrick is making a special dinner, Solomon will provide our nightly entertainment, and I will sink into that special feeling of being happy exactly where I am.

A happy birthday indeed.

Creative Engineering

I could have sworn “put metal things in light sockets” was on the NOT To Do list, but maybe I am confused.

We’ve had some electricity challenges as of late. Per report from our twitchy landlord, we fell victim to some “bad electricity” which apparently fried a couple of vital parts on our new inverter. So the inverter is in the shop, and this little gizmo is connecting our apartment to our landlord’s power source. Voila.

I just hope Solomon is too young to learn this trick. And Patrick.

Quote for the Day

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."
~Mark Twain

Eulogy to a Dog

"Duke Dunback, Neutered Male" (said your medical records at the vet)

Dear Duke,

This afternoon, on my drive home from Carrefour, Patrick called to tell me you were gone. There'd been an accident and you were to be buried next to our most beloved of farm dogs with the gentle hands of my father giving you a final farewell.

You were our first "child" as Patrick and I were committing to a life together. You walked with us through some of the most life-defining times in our years thus far: through our education, courtship, engagement, marriage, moves and exploring. You were our family, and I'm going to miss you.

You were born, a cute, long-eared beagle-basset, around the summer of '99 in some neighborhood or puppy farm in Chicago. I imagine your first year of life was spent somewhere that wasn't happy nor loving and that time there would influence you. Eventually you landed in a humane shelter in Hinsdale, IL. You were the "favorite" of the staff, and were quickly adopted with your handsome looks, but apparently you and your new owner didn't see eye to eye as you were returned within the week. I like to think it was because you were holding out for us. (we have thicker skin)

We met you for the first time while Patrick searched for his Christmas present from me within the halls of the Hildale Humane Shelter in December of 2000. Although there was Charlie, the golden retriever and another rag-tag, waggely-tailed mut, Patrick fell in love with the brown eyed hound with long ears when you wandered to the door, sniffed his hand and gave him a subtle wag of the tail. You chose him. The deal was signed when you promptly started to bay at me when I bent down to introduce myself. Patrick couldn't stop laughing and the adoption papers were signed that day.

Your first home with us was a one-bedroom apartment, Patrick’s college pad in Elmurst, IL. Although your first night was spent in a doggie bed, that would be your last for several years. You really preferred beds. We, being soft on rules, liked to cuddle you. You helped Patrick through college by reminding him to go for walks, play in snow drifts, chase balls and squirrels and bark at rabbits.

Your first camping trip was spring break 2001 in Kentucky--a roadtrip away from Elmhurst. On your first leash-free hike through the hills of Kentucky, you caught a whiff of rabbit and sweet freedom, then bayed you way through the woods until you ear-piercing call was only a distant cry. We thought you were gone for good, but eventually you sniffed us out and caught up to us, panting as if you were struggling for your last breath. You could hardly hike another step and instead did a wobble-wobble-sit pace for the rest of the hike back to the tent.

You were the third and most welcome wheel on our summer of 2001 road trip through the south and along the gulf coast. You were there when Patrick proposed and helped us celebrate that night. You hung you head out the car window, tongue lolling in the breeze, and seemed to be the happiest road-tripping, camping dog I’ve ever seen. But you didn't love the ocean, and barked wildly at us from the surf when Patrick and I dared to go swimming. You weren't having any of it, and scolded us endlessly until we got back to dry land.

You lived with us in Atlanta, shacking up with Jen Haase's dog Rip. You weren't so much "play mates" but you bonded in other ways, like cleaning up Rips "accidents" and leaving barely a crumb. But evidence of your team play reeked on your breath. As Uncle Preston would say, "That dog is a POOP eater???!!??"

You were there for me the semester in med school when Patrick was away in India. You were my roommate, my bedmate, my running mate and my psychotherapist. You got me through my first real bout of depression. You let me wrap myself around you and cry into the thick fur of your neck. Your expressive brown eyes seemed to take it all in. You were always a patient and faithful listener. Thank you.

You let me practice physical exams on you, listening to your heart and lungs, looking at the fundus of your eye. Such a good teacher.

One of your favorite parks in KC was Loose, and you'd go there with your big, lumbering St. Bernard friend Gus. Despite us trying to socialize you at the puppy park, you were never completely game, and when dogs came around sniffing in greeting, you'd tuck your tail down over your bungus and sniff in another direction hoping to disappear yourself from the crowd. But with Gus it was different. You could hang. He shared your interest in smells, peeing, naps, creating shoe-string drool and taking things easy.

You moved in to Patrick and my first co-habitation house in Kansas City. In that house you tolerated us bringing in baby kitten Shanti, and with even less excitement a new puppy, Sadie. Despite you playing it cool and aloof, Sadie would become your best friend and the only dog in the world who could get you to run, bark and play like a puppy. You protected the house on Booth Street from solicitors and potential creeps as well as innocent passers by with big-dog woof and menacing growl. With the big windows to the street, you spent many an hour standing at attention. We rounded the blocks of Booth many times a day, come rain or snow or dirty diaper in the cooking sun. Taking walks with you was an exercise in patience as you stopped to sniff every blade of grass, to taste-test each piece of trash (including said dirty diaper) and now and then attempted to blaze your own trail. Golden were the days you found a half eaten cheeseburger or a part of a bagel, and tucked the massive bite under your jowls, carrying it home to be devoured in peace.

We thought you were a little crazy. There are bite marks to prove it. We even toyed with the idea of getting you a puppy psychiatrist, but had better ways to spend hundreds of dollars. Instead we read some books and got tuff. You played along. Mostly you needed structure, love and routine. Life's not always like that, but we managed.

In Kansas City you had a good friend Copper Thompson who would come over when Kim and Malaika studied. Copper would take you for walks around the block, your leash in her mouth, and you obeyed her better than you ever did us.

Another favorite KC park was in Rosedale where you'd find ample fields, green grass, forest-like glades, poop, dead animals and lots of places to sniff and roll. It was in these wide-open spaces that Sadie could hardly control herself. She'd bite you on your neck, goading you to get you to bark, bark, snap, and then race full-speed ahead across the field in pure, unleashed joy, ears trailing in the wind.

You were at our wedding and "helped" with the set up and the celebrations. The night after our wedding on the farm when the record-breaking storms struck, you camped with my dad in the flooding basement and barked until Aunt Patsy had to duck out in the raging rain and hail to solicit help from Patrick sleeping in the "honeymoon car" where we were wedged for the night (since every square inch of floor space was taken up by sleeping family members). Patrick took you to the washhouse where you bayed to no avail thanks to the tornadoes and hail battering the farm. You hated being separated from the nest.

You helped celebrate at my graduation from medical school. Of course you were always game for a party because it meant potential treats to steal, especially with new guests unaccustomed to your stealth ways. “Lightening beagle,” we'd say, as you'd somehow McGuiver a way to grab a roll or a ham sandwich straight out of unsuspecting hands.

We moved yet again, this time to the Rocky Mountains. You adapted quickly to Denver and its delightful lack of humidity that was a relief to your tired joints. You loved the mountains and nimbly scurried over rocks, despite your short legs. You were always the happiest on a walk or a hike.

Such mountaineering ultimately lead to an ACL tear and a your new nick-name as the "million dollar dog." But you recovered and braved PT walks despite a limp because you loved the great outdoors and the myriad of smells to be had.

Hiking and camping weekends were our best weekends together. You loved fire-cooked hotdogs and drinking from the mountain stream. You helped keep us warm when the temperatures dipped into the freezing on cold summer nights. Although always the protector and one to alert us if something came wandering by, we didn't hear a peep out of you on the night we heard the Elks bugling. Weenie.

In Denver, you best loved City Park with ample amounts of goose poop. You loved sniffing the neighbor’s flowers. The year of the blizzard, we had the best fun in our back yard, barreling through snowdrifts that were three times as tall as you were... but you rolled and tumbled and bit at the snow in delight. You were always game for a car ride or a road trip, and you preferred shotgun, whether or not a human had called it first or not. You could share.

You were the most maddeningly frustrating and wildly endearing dog I've ever known.

What I loved most about you the way you let me wrap myself around you, spooning on the futon post-call for a long afternoon nap. On nights when Patrick was out of town and I let you up on the bed, you'd tuck yourself into me, groaning with content as you wiggled yourself right into the curve of my back.

You once went for 22 hours without peeing. We tried to let you out, take you on a walk many times that day, but you weren't interested. It was a lazy day. The vet told me later she'd never seen such a big bladder on a dog. Bravo.

You had some sweet skills. You could sit, shake (with both paws), do the penguin (our favorite), lie down, “Leave It” (Mom's favorite as you stared-down the dog biscuit), stay and come. Of course you never showed off for anything other than a tasty treat. That was your way. You’d only work for pay, not for entertainment.

You had a very passionate addiction to large plastic balls, and like a crack fiend needing a hit, you'd run after that ball barking, licking, biting, rolling on top of it, underneath it, running, running, running until either 1. you got diarrhea, 2. the ball popped or 3. we took it away. Usually we had to end the fun right about the time it appeared you'd go into canine cardiac arrest. Your tongue never lolled out so far as it did after a big plastic ball chase.

You were an emotional dog. If we left you for a long weekend in the care of friends, you'd get a nervous stomach and would proceed to vomit or get diarrhea from the stress of it all. I guess that was one way you told us you loved us, needed us.

You were never a crotch sniffer or a leg humper, but you did have a special romantic affection for pillows. Our cheeks would flash red when you started balling up your doggie bed or a couch pillow between your back legs and romance away. Such moods would often strike when company was around, or testosterone was running high. Neutered but not dead, right my friend?

No matter where we were, you would always be near. If we sat, you'd sit practically on our toes, facing outward, staring out into space at not much of anything but appearing "ON GUARD." We called it your "Blair Witch" position. But I loved how you always had to be touching.

You'd act tuff when big strange dogs dared to enter your territory, barking and sounding ferocious right up until the very moment they called your bluff, then you'd find something urgently interesting to sniff in the grass and avoid confrontation.

When you settled down in a comfortable position, you'd humf and groan a content sound, like an old man settling into an Easy Boy.

You cleaned yourself like a cat. In fact the night-time licking routine could saturate a blanket.

At the dog park, if too many dogs were barking and wrestling and having a good time, you'd run, ears flapping in the wind, nose in the air at full bay to break up the fight and chaos. Here comes the "Fun Police" we'd say.

You were always a people dog, wanting to be in the same space, room, yard, area that people were in. In fact if you disappeared, it was a hint you were dead tired or sick. You were always the party dog, looking for a foot to sit on, a hand to rub your tummy or pet your soft, velvety ears.

When we wrestled you, you got all excited, swinging your head back and forth as you lay on your back, ears spread out like bat wings, tongue lolled to the side, jaws wide open in "catch the arm" mode, but all in play. Once free... you'd run through the apartment and pole-vault on the futon ready to battle again now from a better vantage point.

Your fur was ever soft, with a glossy sheen. If you were near, it was impossible not to have our hands on you.

You didn’t revel in bath-time, but you tolerated it, during which you looked to be the most pathetic being on earth. In fairness, you did have more than your share of bathes… but then again, you LOVED rolling in poo.

I always admired how handsome you were… your tri-colored coat that seemed to tie carmel Sadie and black Shanti together with you in a color-coordinated threesome. Even when we were mad at you, your dashing and precious looks usually saved you.

Coming home to you was a treasure. Especially when you’d been dead asleep. You would come stumbling out of a bedroom (usually stealing a nap on the human bed), eyes droopy with sleep, ears too heavy to hold up, tail displaying the only sign of energy in your happiness to see us. After nine years living together, coming home to you each day was always better than the last.

You weren't so tuff, really. Although you loved the winter, your first walk into the snow was always hesitant. You'd lift up a snow-packed paw in stoic complaint of the cold on your delicate pads. But curiosity and the urge to pee usually won out, and you'd toughen up enough to go barreling through the drifts, nose buried in the white powder so that when you finally emerged, you wore a snowy milk mustache around your snout, frozen drool hanging from the corners of your droopy mouth, and wild happiness in your eyes.

And oh how you loved the farm. Despite a 6-hour road trip from Denver, the minute our tires hit gravel, you were up, sleep shaken from eyes with a slap-slap of your ears, the howling non-stop for the remaining miles home. You reveled in the green fields, the scents, the things to chase, the four-wheeler, the rides in the truck with Grandpa farmer Steve. It was your love of the farm and my parents that ultimately helped Patrick and I to make the decision to leave you there. Leaving you was the hardest part of going to Haiti. We didn't want you to suffer the heat, the disease, and the grassless landscapes Haiti would offer you. It would have been one move too many. And so your last months of life were living a dog's dream life: sleeping in sun-bathed grass or under a star-filled sky, sniffing to your heart's content with easy-going Sam dog, chasing squirrels, cats, bunnies, four-wheelers, Dad's truck and tractor, barking at cows, coyotes and the occasional truck to pass by. You greeted visitors by bounding up to the car, ears flying, mouth smiling, sniffing them the minute they stepped out onto the gravel of the driveway. You ran yourself into exhaustion following behind tractors and four-wheelers—ever wanting to be apart of the action-- exploring the prairie patch and scaring up pheasants.

I've always been a fierce dog lover, but you were different. I've joked that you were my first dysfunctional relationship. You weren't a dog that was perfect, that obeyed every command, or that loved blindly. You had conditions; you needed rules established and trust built. You needed space as well as lots of love. You were temperamental. You had emotional diarrhea. You got nervous when we were gone to long, or even out of sight... if only just around the corner. But even after our worst fights, you'd forgive in a heartbeat and expect us to do the same. I suppose that's why we did. I think for all your imperfections, we loved you more for them. You were interesting, a challenge, and were fiercely loyal when it came down to it. Vulnerable. Funny. Quirky. Ornery. Feisty. Cuddly. Ours.

Bravery in small packages

By the time I arrived at CONASPEH this morning, the clinic bench was full. I'm starting to recognize faces as they come back promptly for follow-ups. The woman with unrelenting hypertension was back with eyes hopeful I wouldn't stock her purse with new fists full of pills. The young man with alcoholic hepatitis voiced concern over a new bout of stomach pain. A little girl who had suffered a nasty scalp infection showed me her new hair growing in with a toothy smile. Fresh faces introduced themselves to me through the course of a busy morning including a newly pregnant woman who hopes to get part of her prenatal care through our simple clinic.

The atmosphere of the clinic is now charged with the sounds of the CONASPEH school in full swing. Class songs, lessons chanted and the shrieks and laugher of students serve as happy background music to a clinic day. Folks from the community saunter in with their urgent and chronic issues while kids from the school wander down with headaches, tummy pains, bumps and bruises. Pastors coming in for a CONASPEH meeting greet me through the open window. My 88 year-old "VIP" patient who sees me every 2 weeks came by today just for a kiss on the cheek and a hug, calling me "petit mwen" (my child) and reminding me that she prays for me every day. Even the teenagers, who gave us a run for our money last year as they tested us for cool points, seem to be a bit more respectful and friendly (although the year is still fresh and new).

The bravery award of the day goes to my 9 year-old friend Jean. While running an errand up to one of the classrooms, I was distracted by Jean calling to me from his desk. He declared matter of factly, "I have a cut." Jean is well known to me, frequenting the clinic for a little conversation, a drive-by English lesson or a hug. I breezed in thinking it was just another call for attention, but when he uncovered a filleted palm, I gasped and dragged his scrawny legs down to the clinic for a proper inspection.

He'd cut open his palm on a broken bottle no less than a week and a half ago. After bravely sitting and allowing me clean and inspect the wound without so much as a peep, I discovered that the slowly healing laceration went all the way down to the muscle. Yet not so much as a Band-Aid had covered it all this time. The real miracle was that it didn't appear to be infected, despite lack of stitches and the exposure entailed in a little boy's life.

Patrick and I arrived home this afternoon to a jovial Silvia and her daughter. I imagine its fun for them to spend the day together after a long time of living apart. They described to us the silly things Solomon did today, gave me feedback on what they thought of my leftovers (I'm not so sure they are recommending me as chef of the year), and insisted on fixing Patrick and I a late lunch treat (maybe to show me what food is SUPPOSED to taste like?). While Silvia proudly stood by, her daughter whipped up plantains and eggs with a side salad, and topped it off with grenadine and lime juice. She laid out a place for us at the table, and served the juice in wine glasses. I felt like a guest in my own house! We shared a Haitian treat together, chatting over the yummy food at our tiny wooden table reminding me of family meals around the round table on my parent's farm.

Now the thunder clouds are rolling in this evening, showering the neighborhood with a gentle mist of rain. Patrick is off to the gym and Solomon sits with me munching a cracker and spackling his face and hair and arms and shirt and MY shirt with the shrapnel of soggy brown goo. "AHHH!" he squawks, grinning and flashing me his new exaggerated BLINK. We just finished Skyping Nana where Solomon clapped in time to her "patty cake" song. I can't help but laugh at our silly boy as I wait for the cool air that follows the rain to breeze in the window and get us settled for evening.

A good day-in-the-life. And now I wish you a good night.

Looking Again

Despite just shy of a year living in Haiti, Patrick and I are constant observers to all we are immersed in. But once in a while we have to remind ourselves to look again, to see anew the vibrant activity of the life around us.

A friend of mine recently moved to the UK with her family for several months. Although the daily routine of life with two small children in essence was similar to days at home (waking, snuggling, playing, naps, snacks, meals, bath time) she was able to look at her life, at her family with new eyes, with renewed wonder as they explored a strange and wonderful neighborhood and foreign surroundings. I think that spells the magic of travel, that same magic that inspires Patrick and I to risk living in a place like Port-au-Prince. Stepping out of your comfort zone allows you view everything creating your environment intently and with wonder. Focus settles on self as well--dissecting, celebrating, challenging, questioning, discovering that which makes you (or your loved ones) tick. Even home can be appreciated in a different light, with a new bird's eye view. The art of living becomes fresh, vibrant, intense and intentional.

Yet as time passes and the routes we take to work look more familiar, the faces recognizable, the routine, well ROUTINE, I have to kick myself now and again to take note, to continue the active observation, to not let where we live, what we see become commonplace in a place that is anything BUT common.

Today's quiet clinic allowed me a few hours to run downtown to buy some materials for the CONASPEH lab on my own. We have found a technician willing to essentially volunteer her time as we get a stationary and mobile lab underway. I had a shopping list of stains and solutions to buy, so when a free moment presented itself, I had to jump! I didn't know exactly where I was going to find the lab supplier, but at this point in the game, I felt pretty sure that if I asked enough people, I'd find my way.

Since I'm not often in the car by myself, I had some time to reflect. Port-au-Prince is a place that inspires frustration and awe, revulsion and respect, shock and amazement, sorrow, hilarity and joy--sometimes all in one vista. Yet after all this time it is a place where I find comfort and pleasure in the chaos and teeming life all around me. Although it in no way feels yet like "my town," it is a city that finally feels familiar. In fact, I started to smile thinking of all the things I see a version of every day that, if I'm not careful, I get too accustomed to seeing.

Barnyard animals mingle with foot traffic in neighborhoods, sans gate, corral or coop. Graffiti paints walls with political slogans or tributes to Aristide or (most recently) Michael Jackson. Children in dirty t-shirts and bare feet huddle along a median in the road, playing cards or wiping down cars for change. A passerby lifts his shirt, shows me a cut on his stomach and asks for $1 to help fix it. Buildings line every neighborhood in various stages of crumbling construction or deconstruction. Palm trees bend around giant Digicel billboards. Roads wind up and around steep mountain inclines and through neighborhoods stacked like blocks, one building shouldering the other. Sidewalks bustle with faces of every age, wearing all colors of the rainbow, and sporting T-shirts with bizarre American slogans or catch phases that read ridiculous in context. Vendors crowd every corner and alley selling every thing from livestock, garden produce to canned and packaged non-perishables. If I pull up to a curb and ask for directions, someone always stops what they are doing to show me the way. Fruits and vegetables of all shapes and sizes fill baskets in markets, and the selection changes as the season dictates. A kaleidoscope of colors swirl on tap-taps that wave me by, flashing their catch phrase philosophy such as "Love Eternal" or "Meci Jezi" as they pull over to a curb to pick up another passenger.

I eventually found my destination after stopping and asking, turning around, choosing a street, getting out to walk, discovering that suddenly the driver's side door of the Galloper refused to close, finding rope and tying it closed, recommencing walk along a crowded sidewalk, asking another woman who directed me to a man for directions, following a young boy who after introducing himself showed me his ID (?), squeezing between vendor and parked car, hopping over streams of sewage, weaving around cans piled with charcoal and saluting the saleswoman with her sooty merchandise, kicking a pop bottle, inhaling some fumes, and FINALLY doing a wee dance of joy when "PROPHOLAB" emerged from the milieu. As I approached the store hidden behind a metal barred wall, doors were opened by a gun-toting security guard who nodded a welcome as I entered.

I made my order, paid the bill and waited for the supplies to be collected. I sat and chatted a bit with one of the two security guards wielding very large shot guns, and thought--again with a smile--that even the site of men with guns in public no longer inspire a second look or a shiver down the spine. With the UN toting threatening artillery on the backs of their trucks and security guards of banks, guest houses, labs, and anywhere else packing heat to ward off potential threats, the shock value of such sights has ebbed. One of many such desensitizations following acclimation to life here.

Back to the Galloper, I didn't even curse the door hanging open-and-tied ajar. I was just grateful that no passing opportunist attempted to break in and clean out its contents. I'm guessing that the Galloper had heard through the grape vine that Global Ministries has finally raised the money to buy CONASPEH a new vehicle for outreach and projects, so she will be sold for glue soon. I could hardly blame her for throwing another trick at us in her final days as we dream of brighter, shinier, less clickity-clackety wheels. So with one arm holding the door closed, and the other taking care of wheel, then shift, then wheel again, I navigated the creaky, clunky beast back into traffic with a smile on my face. Of course a million and two people pointed out that "Miss, your door isn't shut," (in case I or my fatiguing biceps hadn't noticed). One man offered to help me fix it as we drove in parallel down the street. Maybe later, I told him and waved with my pinky goodbye.

After returning home today, Patrick and I greeted Silvia who has returned to "light duty" around our house. I'm so thrilled she is back, although scold her to take it easy and let Solomon crawl to HER. She insists on bringing along her daughter to do the laundry while she tends to Solomon. Despite us reassuring her that sick days were ok to take for as long as she needs them, she wasn't having it. I have to say I'm impressed with her daughter. She dropped whatever routine that normally comprised her days we to take over and help her mom. I smiled thinking if OUR sick days functioned similarly in the States. I'm not sure the Nebraska school system would be overjoyed for substitute KIM in for an English lecture. I know for sure my dad would raise straight out of his sick bed to protect his way of life from me "helping" by such methods as cruising the farm in his large Case tractor and potentially taking down another electric fence OR tending to the livestock just long enough to form an emotional attachment to little Bessie who happened to be next in line for the slaughter, thereby making his life as a practical farmer and businessman more difficult 'cause his daughter found a new "pet." Silvia's daughter has a warm face like her mother, an easy smile, and she moves fast. She just finished school but doesn't yet have enough money to go to university, so is sitting the year out. We've chatted about her dreams. I tried to talk her into nursing school, but she assured me that medical anything wasn't for her.

I took Silvia and her daughter home today, and stopped for a home visit with one of their elderly neighbors. She lives in the top story of a creaky, crumbly cement home, and access to her living space lead me up a treacherously steep, thin-stepped and uneven staircase. The wiry, grey-haired 76 year-old-woman woman welcomed me into her home and commenced with describing for me the aches and pains that keep her awake at night. Her husband sat listening on the balcony. He reported they'd been married for 48 years, a "long time" he said grinning. They were a delight, and I thoroughly enjoyed doing a little clinical exam for my new cheerful and feisty patient. She proudly related that she'd had 10 children, and lived with one man all her life. I thought (and commented) how remarkable I found their marriage. Elderly people are a minority in Haiti, but elderly COUPLES, well, I just don't see them! For both to survive illness, poverty, a tumultuous political climate, and to have stayed married through it all... well that's worth celebrating! After creating a little therapeutic plan for my new patient, they both thanked me generously, and the woman escorted me down the mountain-hike of a staircase (sans hand rail!). Despite low back pains and creaky knees, she navigated the cement grade like a nimble mountain goat, flashing me smiles all the way down. "I'm scared" I said (partially joking), so she held my hand as we descended together. The community, now gathered in interest of a blan in their midst, waved me goodbye as I not so gracefully "trotted" into the distance yaw-yawing the galloper to lurch on as I steadied the door from flying open and navigated back along rutted, cratered, twisty-turny neighborhood roads.

Today was one of those days that I was entertained by it all. The work, the roads, the situational comedy, the bravery, the community, the hodge-podge and calamity, the chaos and the joy. Nice to see it, once again, with eyes wide-open in wonder at the adventure of it all.

Grippe

The flu season is officially upon us.

I laugh now remembering how I naïvely let a silly thought traverse my head earlier this summer, "I bet I'll miss the cough and cold season this year since there is no COLD in Haiti!" Oh no. Haiti may not usher in spring, summer, winter and fall, but it boasts its hot-and-dry and hot-and-rainy seasons which hosts a wealth of allergens, mosquito vectors and weather pattern shifts, thus serving to efficiently weaken folks' defenses to the change in the season all the same.

Yesterday's clinic in Carrefour was staggering. Earlier this summer I actually complained that I was making the hour drive all for naught when only a few patients showed up to clinic. Now, I'm begging for reinforcements. Today I saw over 35 patients in the span of 5 hours. I don't mind being busy and actually like the steady stream of faces, but when mid-day comes and the sun pounds down from directly overhead transforming all tin and concrete buildings into large, highly efficient microwave ovens, I get a little antsy. Claustrophobic. Down right cooked-in-my-skin hot and dehydrated. So it was a long day.

Yesterday's patients ran the family practice gamut from young men blushing over their inguinal hernias to newly pregnant women anxious to hear a fetal heart beat. Children by the dozen marched in with runny noses and congested coughs following old women sporting aching joints and upset stomachs. Always among the bunch is the mother hoping that the "foreign doctor" will be able to slip her a wad of cash to buy food and medicines for her kids. And the man who lives neighboring the clinic once again offered me his infant granddaughter to take home so his family of 15 can be decreased by one hungry mouth. Counteracting such sorry-I-failed-you interactions are ones that I convince myself I'm forming a true doctor/informed-patient relationship. Mom's look hopeful when I suggest a treatment strategy and a plan for follow up, glad that they won't be left option-less if the medicines fail to cure the first go-around.

By and large, it was the "grippe" that kept us hopping today. "Grippe" is a term that describes medical diagnoses ranging from cold symptoms to flu, asthma to pneumonia. Patrick and I have had our personal dance with the Grippe as of late, and I'm telling ya, colds are no less fun in the suffocating heat. Or maybe its just the lack of a Wall-greens around the corner. Then again, we might just be feeling sorry for ourselves. In clinic, I simply attempt to not let the "grippe" hide more ominous diagnoses like Malaria, Typhoid or TB. Largely, it was a little refreshing to be able to reassure, to prescribe antihistamines and cough syrups, and catch a lung consolidation here and there. When symptoms are described as occurring in the last 2 weeks instead of 12 years, I have to smile. So often I am met with folks who sit down and give me their entire health litany as I'm the one and only doctor they've seen in the last 40 years. "Oh yes, I have had a fever before, no, not recently, but I know how it feels."

So tonight after tucking in my sneezy, achy, grippe-ridden husband and popping a few extra Vitamin C tabs, I head for bed knowing that tomorrow will be full of seasonal sneezes, snot and shortness of breath, just like any clinic in the fall-welcoming States.

But I do miss that crisp chill in the air that transforms a cup-of-soup into a steamy home remedy. We prefer more icy versions these days. :)

Too Sexy

I have no fewer than, count 'em, one... two.. THIRTEEN mosquito bites under my right arm pit. There must have been a wedding party for Mr. and Mrs Bloodsucker last night, and my pit was the most happenin' place in town (ew). Of course their cousins made stops at knee-pit, ankle, thigh and waist band as well, so Tour-de-Kim was complete to every curve and crevasse. But the pit? Really? Is Secret Ultra Dry really that delectable? It certainly didn't make the table at OUR wedding buffet (between the little smokeys and potato salad).

All this despite the fact that every night Patrick battles the flying vampires with our mosquito tennis racket (think bug zapper designed in the form of a bad-mitten racket). He can ZAP enough mosquitos in one swipe to create an orchestra of pop and crackles worthy of a 4th of July hurrah!

I'm bring sexy back. There is nothing hotter than a sweaty 30-something clawing her pits to death fighting the histamine flair of 13 inflamed bites. I think its time to dust off the Chloraquin.

No really, come to Haiti. Its lovely. But don't forget the DEET.

Emergency Call

Today was interesting, to put it blandly.

I had a nice and busy clinic this morning that was dominated by visits from little children around the community. Just as I was prescribing my last bottle of Amoxicillin, Patrick and I received a call by Molout--the teenager who works in our apartment complex-- with an anxious message to "come home quickly," because of some urgent problem. Patrick couldn't get the hyped-up teenager to clarify what exactly was wrong and thus turned to me and said, "either the pipes have broken, Silvia or maybe Solomon was in an accident or someone else in the apartment building is hurt." Are you kidding me???? (insert worry-inspired explicative here) I closed clinic, Patrick canceled his afternoon classes and we drove like bats out of hell. On the not-so-quick-thanks-to-Port-au-Princ-traffic-jams drive home, my mind was racing through the worst case scenarios, wondering what kind of trauma I'd walk into, scared to death. I admittedly had a moment when a calm came over me as I pondered, "I wonder if I will think back to this drive as the moment before it all changed." Morbid, I know. But what am I supposed to DO with such limited information???

We finally arrived home and rushed into the apartment to find Silvia sitting on the floor of the bathroom, her foot in a pool of blood, holding quiet and stoic Solomon in her arms. My son looked like a little bird concerned about his babysitter. Silvia looked relieved that help had finally arrived.

Solomon was fine. Meci Bon Dye! I would have loved for someone to have said "Solomon is ok" specifically in their "come quick" call, but I just thanked God for happy discoveries and moved on to the injured.

Silvia had been in the bathroom, slipped in some water on the floor, fell, grabbed the sink on her way down which promptly ripped out of the wall and came crashing and shattering down on her foot. The result was a hugely lacerated ankle exposing fat and nearly bone. So of course she bled like crazy which scared her as much as it hurt, I imagine.

Patrick grabbed a tranquil Solomon out of Silvia's shaking arms, and I got busy inspecting and cleaning the wound, dressing it and helping Silvia up. We got her things together, helped her hobble down the ridiculous amount of stairs we have, piled her into the car, and took off to the Doctors Without Borders Hospital around the corner which is open for minor and major traumas. They had her cleaned and stitched up in good time.

While I waited for Silvia in the waiting room, I was entertained by fellow family members-in-waiting. In true Haitian style, everyone commenced in conversation together as if we all were old friends at a bar. Today, people were sharing battle stories. One man said he had to be sewn up once without anesthesia because the hospital had run out. Another man reported he had to have 4 shots all at one time. A woman winced a reaction and stated she didn't like shots. "Oh, then you've never been sick, because when you are sick, you WANT shots." They came just short of showing each other their scars. Silvia emerged all stitched up shortly there after and I bid farewell to the war heros around me. :)

Silvia was obviously shook up. Thanks to medication donations, I was able to give her some good pain medicines since that cut is going to THROB soon. I told her not to come to work, but she insisted on sending her daughter to finish the washing and to watch Solomon for us for the rest of the week until she is back up and on her feet again. She has a beautiful family, and after I helped her hobble into her home, I felt her surrounded with love and concern. She got teary only then, probably relaxing and letting the stress of the afternoon go. After all these months, Silvia is starting to feel like our Haitian family. She takes good care of us, brings us fresh avocados and mangos from time to time, cooks up beans and rice every now and then and loves Solomon like her own family. He adores her in return. In fact, she continued to take care of Solomon this afternoon while bleeding on our floor. Last Saturday I sent her home because she had a fever (flu season is upon us here), and she worked late on Monday to make up for the work lost "because I helped her." Sick days aren't heard of here, and for us not to garnish her wages for a sick day off was sort of a surprise to her. I could see the concern in her eyes after the accident; it took some convincing that I understood it was an accident and we'd patiently wait for her to get better, no matter how long it took. Her job isn't going anywhere. She wouldn't (and couldn't) be replaced. We've come a long way together.

While Silvia and I were at the hospital, sweet Patrick, who has also been struggling with the flu, fought back dry heaves as he cleaned up the blood spill that looked sort of like a crime scene. We are hoping the landlord can replace the sink in good time since our water has been shut off and we are now hauling up water in buckets in which to bathe, and wash dishes and hands. Nothing like a cup and bucket shower. Ahhhh freshness. Like a daisy.

Ever the drama and adventure, even outside the clinic. :) But I'm happy to report tonight that all are well, safe, stitched up and in their beds.

And with a heaving sigh of relief, I bid you good night.

Update for Grandma's brag book

Newborn babies are delicious in their innocence, their helplessness, and the reflex grab they lock around your finger.

After a little while, their head gets stronger. The meet your gaze with expressive eyes.

Then they learn to coo, kick, roll over.

One day they shoot you a smile, and you believe in your heart they are smiling because they see your face (and not just 'cause they have a little gas).

Over a smattering of weeks and months, first giggles are heard and celebrated, holding the head up strong, sitting up, eating with a spoon, bearing weight with their wobbly legs.

Soon you notice them making intentional movements, verbalizing a language that only they can understand, but full of meaning regardless. Disgust communicated at yucky beans, having to hold still, a stranger. Joy expressed at something specific, at the surroundings, at a toy, a bug, a plant leaf, Daddy coming in the gate, milk-glorious milk.

And then they crawl. Before your eyes, no longer is your child helpless and cooing, but is an active, mobile person in the room. And instead of crying about the infant lost, you are clapping and shouting your acclades at the little baby boy crawling toward you.

So it goes with Solomon.

At 9 months, Solomon started crawling, he pulled himself up to a stand, walking steadily with the help of a few hands.

Now that he is 10 months, he can navigate around our living room on two feet as long as there is a table or a chair to steady himself. He scrunches up his eyes in a dramatic blink, waits for us to blink back, and then giggles. He says, "dadadadadad" at no particular face, but it still makes his father burst with happiness. He understands, "Kiss me" and leans in for an open mouth, slobbery kiss willingly, time after time until Mom is dizzy with glee. He social coughs and social laughs to catch our attention or distract us from such awful activities like feeding him green beans. He feeds himself cheerios (and whatever treasure he's found on the floor). He plays drums on the coffee table and shouts out a joyful "ahhhh." He likes to follow ants with his fingers (and will put them in his mouth if the wee ant (or mom) isn't fast enough). He likes to snuggle a specific elephant at night or a felt blanket regardless of how hot it is. He splashes in the bathtub trying to catch his bobbing ball ever elusive in the water. He likes to bow zerberts on dad's legs (and giggles after the funny sound is made). He sits still only to read books, when bottle is in mouth, or when sleep has taken him over and he's waved the white flag. He thinks mom is funny when she dances and dad when he sings. He has many ticklish spots including his chest, under his arms, his back and his thighs; when he laughs with tickling, he bends his head forward and covers his face with his hands.

His neck still smells delicious. When I get the rare treat of waking him in the morning if he hasn't yet waken us first, he smiles with eyes closed, stretches with both arms over his head, legs out in a wide V, and then giggles. Once he is up, he is on the move... wanting to be independent but to be ever near...

Each day there seems to be a new step, a new nuance, a new discovery. We watch and wait, loving every moment, every slight evolution, every step forward this amazing little boy makes.

Our son is moving, growing. All we can do to celebrate. What a gift to be on such a journey of discovery with this beautiful child. With fondness I remember the baby he was, yet with anticipation, I look forward to what is next...

Family Day OUT

On our days off, Patrick and I try to muster up enough energy to avoid lounging around the house all day and instead venture out and about to explore a different part of Haiti. Getting out of the city is usually reward enough for pulling off the pajamas and packing for a day trip. Not long ago, we found the most recent Lonely Planet for Haiti and are using it to find some recommendations of hidden away finds we'd otherwise not know to stop.

Usually a day out takes us to the beach because after a long hot week, nothing sounds better than cooling off in the ocean waves. But today, we headed up the mountain for a drive, a hike, and a picnic.

We continued past our usual stopping point at the Baptist Mission, headed over the pass into Kenskoff, then followed the twisty roads to the little village of Furcy. After climbing the first pass, a whole new mountain range opened up before us, a vista of dramatic peaks and valleys for as far as our eye could see. "Mountains beyond mountains" was illustrated in a visual feast as we nudged the galloper (newly serviced) over the mountain roads. As we climbed higher, each vista seemed to be more lush, more green, more beautiful than the last. The air cooled the higher we climbed. Our sweat glands sighed with content at their first vacation in a while, and with windows down and air billowing in the galloper, all riders were happy.



For a small country, Haiti has many diverse landscapes: mountain top to ocean side, plains and valleys, lush tropical vegetation and dry desert like fields. Today's trip took us into a green and fragrant part of the country filled with small pine forests and mountainsides criss-crossed with cultivated fields clinging to steep inclines by terraces and other creative farming techiniques. Instead of land covered with colonies of cement communities, homes were hidden in groves of plantain fronds, behind trees, and in between interlaced fields. As we passed by the heavily farmed mountainsides, we watched farmers, both men and women, working the ground with hoes, a cow or pig being lead by a rope to town, little boys following their fathers down a foot path with machete in hand. As we drove further from the city, trash dissapeared from the roadside, greens deepened, the air cleared and cooled, and we all felt lighter, cleaner, refreshed.



Even the livestock looked fatter, happier, and sported a healthier sheen to their coats.

We drove through the tiny village of Furcy. Today looked like a sleepy day for the villagers. Kenskoff had a huge market day and the streets were congested with vendors and merchants selling their fruits, vegetables, grains, meat and household items. Furcy, in contrast, had empty market stalls and a few people lazing about the bigger buildings in the town. We passed famliar sights of men working on broken down trucks, women walking along the roadside with baskets of vegetables on their heads. We passed a man slaughtering a pig, a woman asleep--head in her folded arms--while tending to her refreshment stand.


After passing through Furcy, the road got more narrow and rutted, and since we'd given the Galloper more of a ride than she was in shape for, we were quick to find a place to pull over and have a picnic. Much to our good fortune, we found a large tree-lined, grassy field on the side of the road which hosted amazing vistas of surrounding peaks and valleys. Perfect.

I was elated. The peace and quiet of our magical find elevated my spirit like a fresh spring breeze after a long winter. Quiet is a luxury no one can find in the city. But here, only the sound of the wind whistling through the feather pines and the occasional crow of a rooster found our ears. We settled down for a little lunch in the grassy field. Solomon wasn't so sure at first what to do with this tickley stuff all around him. I suddenly realized with a start (and a tinge of horror) that this was Solomon's first experience with grass! He is 10 months old and is just now discovering grass for the first time. We're not in Kansas anymore!!! Tile and cement far behind us, Solomon initially sat staring at the earth and grass as if it might bite him. We giggled, reassured him, and eventually he let his curiousity win him over.


In time, he was taking to this "nature thing" as quickly as any child should. Mommy made a mental note to increase frequency of mountain drives so her child doesn't experience extreme culture shock when exploring the fields of Kansas and the hillsides of Colorado for the first time!


After a light lunch, we set out on a walk down a foot path leading from our picnic pearch. By this time, our foreign presence had been recognized, and a few locals had gathered to ask questions and show us the way. Our new friends took on the "job" of protecting our car for us as we wandered off for a little family hike.

We followed women returning from the market, carrying their purchases on their heads. I was amazed at how quickly they navigated the rutted and slick foot path we followed. True to my nature, I nearly took a few headers while skirting over rain soaked rocks and slippery slopes. Patrick, with Solomon riding Tandem in his Snuggly, watched and learned from my discovery of "slick spots."

I loved getting out in the fresh air, exploring the country side, conversing with passers by as they eyed us curiously and with big grins. A young boy wielding a machete helped show us the way to his school, his brother introduced himself in broken English and invited us into his family home. We followed him down a hill, behind a plantain grove and found a neat and tidy little yard where a blue-washed cement house stood. Two beautiful young girls were sitting on the porch and smiled at us in surprise when we came through. Greeting the mother and the father as we came in, we introduced ourselves and indicated their son had invited us. You'd have thought we were long expected guests. We all sat in the yard, talking about the kind of crops the father grew, the good work his children do for him, and the favorite foods of the children. They discussed how difficult it is for children in the area to go to school. Although a Methodist mission houses a primary school not far from their home, the secondary school is in the town of Kenskoff and is much more expensive. The oldest son, who had greeted us in English, had to sit out this year from school due to lack of funds. But they were hopeful that next year he could return and continue his studies.

We were offered a fresh papaya as we left and invited to return if ever on their corner of the mountain again. Given the perfection of the drive, the picnic spot and the beautiful tree-lined walk, I would not be surprised if we wandered their way again.

We had a perfect day with an escape from the heat and the city into a part of the country with extraordinary beauty and tranquility. We (re)discovered grass, quiet, pine-scented air and were embraced with hospitality true to Haitian culture. Now back to the heat and congestion of the city, I'm aching for more moments in that field. If only the commute wasn't so long, I'd pitch a tent and move!!! But now our dreams will carry visions of cool green mountain escapes dancing through our heads to sustain us through another week. That is something worth smiling about.

Home and Happy!