Sequel to first Haiti post

by Mike Chesson

On our fourth day we were in a medium sized, nice house on a side street off a secondary road, across from a soccer field, with a Habitat project behind us. We drew probably the biggest crowd of the trip. I worked in the pharmacy all day, but filling orders rather than counting pills up front, our operations expertly supervised by Reid, Carol, and Barbara, with Kate, Jill, and Nick working the back of the shop. It was hot and humid, but with some breeze and out of the sun. Haitians filled the courtyard in front of the building and seeped down the alley beside the pharmacy. They kept encroaching on the entrance and by afternoon were blocking the steps, but Super Mario and his assistant kept them from entering. The entire scene was a mixture of misery and hope, desperation and energy.

Friday was our last day, spent on the ocean in a small fishing village. With a new translator, Sammy, I tested glucose levels on more than 40 Haitians. The work was not as demanding as the pharmacy or triage, and not as heartbreaking as doing interviews. I had time to observe the Haitians waiting for treatment, and they were certainly watching me. Toward the end of the day there was a little precious of perhaps five with pigtails and a white pinafore. Her frame was fragile, her features delicate, but her eyes would melt a stone.
 

As we began the slow process of shutting down the clinic and packing to leave our last clinic of the trip there were several fishing vessels on the horizon, their hulls rough silhouettes.  Their sails were rigged like nothing one would see off the U.S. coast, and were almost Biblical in appearance, reminding me of dhows, more like the profiles one would see in the Persian Gulf. 

We rode back to the guest house on the usual bad roads past huge compounds, big homes surrounded by walls topped with razor wire on the edge of cane fields.  One middle-aged man was hacking away at standing cane with a machete.  Contented cattle were tethered nearby, grazing quietly.  Goats, pigs, and chickens completed the scene as we entered the outskirts of Leogane.  A new Hummer driven by a white man [or mulatto – Ed.] passed us, perhaps headed out to his country estate. 
 
We climbed out of our vehicles near sunset in the hospital courtyard, and trailed up the steps to the guest house, following now mostly empty duffle bags, our medical supplies nearly depleted.  The scene turned chaotic as we said goodbye to our drivers and translators with small gifts of Celtics hats, toothpaste, and scarves for their wives and girlfriends.

The return trip to the airport in Port Au Prince Saturday morning was less heart- pounding, and the ride was filled with laughter about kudzu, Nickers, and Reid’s rendition of “Take Me Home, Country Road” the evening before.  Despite heavy traffic as we neared the city, and stops for gas and to let off translators, our convoy of all three vehicles arrived together at the airport.  We had an easy time checking in, and got through customs and security quickly.

At the baggage terminal in Miami we had an interminable wait for our luggage, which arrived in dribs and drabs.  All 15 of the team were there, but the group seemed smaller, somehow diminished now that our work was done.  We were quiet, tired, and anxious to check on connecting flights back to Boston amidst news of a blizzard, fifth largest in the city’s history.  Something indescribably wonderful was ending.  Fifteen people, some of them strangers until Haiti, had worked, ate, and lived together for eight days in a strange land.  By the time we returned home none of us were strangers; all were friends.  Perhaps our country seemed less normal than when we had left it.  Haiti had become the new normal and now filled a big place in our hearts.

One of our number was meeting her sister to drive to Fort Lauderdale to see other family members.  Three were staying overnight in South Beach for a gala meal with friends on Lincoln Road.  Most had booked rooms at the airport hotel, their connecting flight cancelled because of the storm, having been told they would not get back until Tuesday. 

The bag counts began to be completed.  It was time to say goodbye.  There were firm handshakes as we looked into each other’s eyes, hugs, and tears.  And then it was over.  The fire had been scattered, its embers flying in all directions, perhaps to spark other flames for Haiti.  As Father Kerwin said to us about his country, Dare to Come!  And thank you Jesus!