Brush with Haiti (25 page)

Attendance was down a bit due to the rain that day. I had come to understand how common this is, especially in rural Haiti. Where students often travel an hour or two by foot to school rain-washed unpaved roads make the trip impossible. I had only been told this in the past. Now I could see the effects with my own eyes. Motor scooters can help, but not for elementary school children. So classes are often cancelled. This is the case during the rainy season of winter. Compounded with numerous holidays, holy days, feast days, and scheduled breaks, winter sessions are problematic. However, the sheer idea of students making hour or two treks to school on all days possible is tremendously hearting for a teacher. I knew those who missed would be there if they could.

I carried on class only until early afternoon so as not to risk students getting caught in a downpour on the way home. But just as class let out it began to rain again. I first ran to the administration building for a quick break and then across the grass to the building which housed the computers. I wanted to check my email and could hear the generator running. The students knew this had become my routine and had fueled the generator and fired it up. The "computer building" looked as if it had housed some classes in the past. Remnants of instructional tools hung on the walls, but the rooms were empty and the concrete floors were covered with dust. The light was good, however, and I pictured occupied desks one day, maybe 30 or so to each of the rooms. Perhaps there were desks there at one time that had been relocated to the assembly hall area as our enrollment grew.

Heavy, wooden stair steps - resembling a ladder with rungs - led to the second floor. It was not an easy climb, but I knew my e-mail waited at the top. There were offices there, and I was so grateful to anyone who would let me use their computer. The office space was tight and the few computers at hand were several years old, but they were precious. They were safer upstairs, should a hurricane sweep the area with flooding in its wake. Or perhaps they were located there when the first floor had been used for classes.

Checking e-mail took a little time, and I was never sure what to expect once I opened the door to my world back home. Day to day communication took on another dimension as it was sometimes difficult to relate to the U.S. culture I had left behind. Magalie worked busily at a desk across the room, calculating payments and writing out receipts for students who had just joined the class. Attempting to verify lists against my attendance sheets, her demeanor became more animated and her Creole more fascinating. I loved watching her work and imagined being able to understand what she was saying.

Keeping track of student enrollment can be challenging under any circumstances, but this situation seemed to bring on a new level of frustration. I recalled meeting her on my previous visit and she seemed so calm, collected, and charming. Her leadership and grace were remarkable. But now I got to see her at work. Hard at work. The administration had only recently decided on a small tuition requirement of every student and put in place a process where they could not receive their grades until it was paid. With rapid continuing growth, they were making quick decisions about when to stop taking students in. These were difficult calls to make, and I did not envy the position Magalie was in. I did admire her ability to end each day laughing. She clearly loved what she was doing, frustrations and all.

By this time in the week, the changes in climate and lifestyle were taking their toll on me. The Caribbean always does. Maybe it is the Irish in me, but I do look out of place there. Within days, my nose and forehead were sunburned and my hair was a mess of frizz. Makeup and contact lenses fell by the wayside and my attempts to dress with a sense of professionalism failed. Advertisements for Caribbean travel that depict women perfectly coiffed and clad in the latest sexy beachwear, looking lovely and graceful, their hair flowing in the gentle breezes, are so very different from my own real experiences. Even when my husband and I took the kids to Cancun for a week - where we had the luxury of hot showers and hair dryers - I felt endlessly caked with salt and sand. Don't get me wrong; the glories of allowing my body to become one with nature, to be changed by nature, are priceless. It's just that what emerges - at least in my case - is not something one would see highlighted in any marketing campaign.

On this trip I chose some rayon pants and short-sleeved linen shirts, thinking I could not go wrong. They held up fairly well, but were as plain as could be. And by this point in the week I had totally lost control of my hair. Totally. The bathing accommodations had made it impossible to wash my hair thoroughly. A five-gallon bucket of nippy rainwater was waiting for me each morning in the bathtub. Using a small pan to pour enough on my head to wet my hair and then more to prepare my body for a good soaping proved a startling beginning to each day, no matter how much I prepared mentally for it. I longed for a seemingly endless supply of hot water pouring from a modern, adjustable, massaging shower head. Perhaps I should have lived more fully in the moment, mindful that rainwater could indeed cleanse my hair sufficiently if I would just give it a chance, and grateful for the periodic precipitation that made the collection of water possible. Gratitude and acceptance miraculously allow nature to do its work. Resistance and grumbling do the opposite.

What I was left with was an air-dried thick, curly mop top - not short enough to be stylish, not long enough to be smoothly tied back. I had decided to go without washing it altogether for 2 days out of 3. Thursday's rain gave it an added dimension, allowing it to reach near afro stages. As I caught up on e-mails that day, I could see that life back on campus was going on as usual. My inbox was filled with meeting announcements, information on new administrative processes and procedures, and calls for conference paper proposals. An occasional inquiry from a friend wondering about life in Haiti required some kind of response, but it was difficult to find the words. Listening to the hum of the generator, I knew just how much effort it had taken to gain access to the internet at all, so I chose my words carefully.

"Things are going well. The students are great." That was about all I could say at that point.

A quick tap into Facebook allowed for a bit more levity.

"Lost control of my hair and am considering dreadlocks," I posted as my status. The "likes" and comments were immediate.

I wondered what my friends knew about this mysterious place. They wanted to know more, but time would not allow. Computer access was very limited and the internet slow. Still I was fascinated by the speed with which we could connect to the world beyond the Department of the Grand'Anse. As fascinating as it was watching pages download at a pace much slower than I was accustomed to back home, life moved almost in real time. The real time of the modern world.

UNOGA students had embraced everything that computers had to offer and used them whenever and wherever possible. But they were few. Students surfed the web whenever they had an opportunity - for school research and for pleasure - and typed their assignments and printed them for me. The majority had e-mail addresses, and many were on Facebook. Thanks to the support of donors abroad, internet cafes emerged using PCs and laptops that were no longer wanted. The infrastructure remained poor and downloading complex documents and photos seemed to take an eternity. There was no question that they could improve their situation with computer technology when given the opportunity. They were ready.

Still, the rhythm of life remained slow. After I finished my internet communication with friends and colleagues, I descended the stairs and walked through the classroom to see a girl sitting on a metal folding chair, looking out the doorway. It was pouring rain. I stepped onto the porch and stuck my hand out, reaching beyond the roof line, to see just how heavy it was coming down. Then I zipped up my briefcase, held it close to my chest, and started down the steps.

"Where are you going?" the girl asked.

"I was just going to run over to see if there were any students in the library. They might have some questions about their papers."

"But it's raining."

"Yes." I looked at her and then out across the field. It could not have been more than fifty or sixty yards, but it became clear that my running to the library in the rain would be somehow unusual, or even inappropriate. I was not sure if that was because I was a woman or a teacher, or that I did not have an umbrella.

"Wait until it stops," she told me.

Another student came down from the offices upstairs, peered through the doorway, turned back to find another folding chair and sat nearby, looking out at the rain. They did not speak to one another. They just waited. I suddenly became conscious of some latent exasperation I apparently held. No wonder they can't get anything done in this country, I thought to myself. It's only rain, for God's sake. But I stopped short. I had come here to learn as well as teach, and this lay on a slippery slope from being an observer to being a condescending judge. So I found another chair and sat with them. Our language limitations added to the silence as the three of us sat.

The rain was beautiful, actually. It fell with a force, though not enough to pose a flooding risk. Rather, it pelted the ground, softening the carpet of grass. The larger vegetation seemed not just to withstand it but welcome it. The larger the leaf, the larger the reach, and the larger the surface with which to catch moisture. Droplets cascaded from each leaf to the one below, and flowers seemed to cup more attentively toward the sky. Though they were not within my view, I envisioned the fields planted to the side of the building grasping and storing whatever wetness came their way. I remembered my parents' garden and helping to water seedlings with a milk jug to see them on their way, taking a moment to sit between rows to watch drooping leaves rise and strengthen. Some of the most special times of my life took place with my father in that garden. He worked an accounting job at an oil refinery but seemed so at home alone, digging in the dirt. The infrequent rainstorms of Indiana's Julys were welcomed, for without them I wondered how it could be possible for the juice of each tomato or cucumber to form. I, too, had watched it rain on fields of green, but not in many years, before life got in the way. And I came to see this cultural difference not so much as one between the U.S. and Haiti, but between urban and rural life.

As the rain stopped, the others came down from upstairs and we walked together to the dining room for a very late lunch. The rhythm of eating differs in Haiti, for access to food is not as instantaneous. I was very hungry. My huge breakfast of fruit had held me until the end of class, but I had come to look forward to lunch on campus. It always consisted of a rice and beans dish, an array of fresh vegetables - usually including tomatoes and onions - and fish or some type of seasoned meat. Today it was chicken. Chicken was becoming more common in Haiti and they were raised as part of the agronomy program at UNOGA. A few generally wandered outside the area where the coop was located and near the assembly hall and dining room. As usual, the lunch was delicious, and topped off with sugary fruit-ade or glass-bottled Coca Cola with a straw made it an especially welcomed part of the day.

From there the return home was gloomy. Low-hanging heavy clouds continued threats of rain while moisture rose from the soaked ground. The students and Magalie had wiped dry the benches in the back of the truck but rode with less enthusiasm than usual. I leaned my head over my arm that rested on the window to capture the scent of the wet earth. The fragrance differed from that of days before and I smelled a hint of smoke. It reminded me of campfires on humid summer nights. The smoke did not pass as we neared Jeremie; rather, it seemed to grow stronger. Once at the teachers' house, I jumped down and said good-bye to the driver.

"Mesil
And see you tomorrow!" I said as I waved.

"Yes! See you tomorrow!" he replied.

The house seemed empty. Micheline must have delayed dinner preparations knowing the rain had extended our day. Too tired to make an immediate trip upstairs, I put down my books and papers and sat in the rocker on the porch. By that time the amount of smoke wafting through the neighborhood concerned me. The best way of knowing whether it should cause alarm was to judge by the reactions ofthe locals. Through the entrance to the driveway I could see women walking back up the hill with half-filled baskets of fruit, and men going about their usual activities. Children played games in the same ways they generally did. The smoke did not appear to worry them. Then I saw Antoine, the English teacher who had interpreted for me earlier in the week. He smiled, seemingly in less pain.

"Hello!" he said.

"Hi! How is your tooth?" I asked, getting up. "Terrible but better," he said with a laugh. "Please, don't get up." He sat down across from me.

"I suppose that is good news. I missed you in class. The interpreter who followed you could not compare." It was true. The man was nice enough and very helpful, but he seemed nervous and limited much of what he said to the students, making me wonder whether they were getting all of the information they needed.

"Thank you," he said, a little embarrassed. He sat back in his chair and proceeded to fill me in about his tooth.

"Wait," I interrupted. "I do want to hear about it, but first can you tell me why it is so smoky?" He did not seem concerned in the least.

"They are smoking out the mosquitoes," he said. "They do it after each heavy rain to prevent them from breeding."

"Ahh..." I nodded. "That makes sense. I guess. Does it work?"

"I am not sure. It is the custom." The air grew progressively worse as he showed me his tooth, or the space where his tooth had been.

"It's gone!"

"Yes, pulled."

"It must feel better."

"Yes. Now I must see a dentist." I did not hear much of what he said after that, though our conversation carried on for some time and covered a variety of topics. I could not help but wonder if he or a friend had pulled out his tooth, hoping to avoid a trip to the dentist altogether, or if it was customary to pull one's own teeth. I wish I would have asked.