A typical Haitian market (above).
Pulling up to the destroyed hillside church where we planned to meet, I quickly understood another small part of the plight of these people. Things look quite different standing among them than they do viewed from the car. I was terrified to even stand near the battered and crushed church building. Columns were completely sheared off and the walls of the church had long since fallen. Chickens hunted and pecked the ground in search of anything edible. Old road signs lay on the ground claiming that "siLoE", the neighborhood in which we stood, lie somewhere in the sky, beyond the dark gray rain clouds ominously rolling overhead. Amongst a small group of women with their heads bowed praying, chairs of a dozen shades of rust, bent, some missing backs, others missing legs sat scattered about. Below us, in the valley to the west. lay Port au Prince, shrouded in dust, terrible, suffocating dust. That terrible dust seemed so thick as to block out the noise and commotion surely happening among the crowded streets and back-alley markets. One by one, community leaders and representatives began to file in, each wearing what was presumably the nicest clothes they could muster. In Haiti, what a man wears does as much to define him as his name. Most men entered and took a seat, heads held high, dress slacks covered in dirt and dust, dress shoes missing heels and holes over their toes, and white dress shirts soaked in the sweat it took to get them to the meeting.
I found my mind wandering as the meeting began. Sitting before them, surveying the sea of shiny, black faces, I quickly realized that I was the only foreigner there. A rush of self-awareness slowly made its way up my wet back to my neck and my ears began to burn. I scanned the room to get a feel for the overall attitude; one man smiled pridefully, another's eyes portrayed fear, and yet another's sweaty brow advertised anger and frustration. The heat under this church was stifling. Or was it the tension?
We began the meeting with introductions: our names, where we were from, what we were responsibly for, and one negative thing and one positive thing about ourselves. I was shocked at the relative realness with which Haitians seemed to conduct themselves and their business. After all, to introduce your faults and successes to a strange group of people only happens at cheesy corporate retreats or church camps in the States. So, I stood and introduced myself and why in the world this "blanc" had come to Haiti to help and shared with them that my biggest fault was that I tend to see the bad in people first. To break the ice a bit, I then explained that my most positive trait was that I had a wife that makes me see the best in people. That, thankfully, drew a few laughs from the group. The meeting trudged along as the shiny black faces turned to each other with excited looks, then disappointed looks, then confused looks again. Every major point that was discussed was relayed to me via translator and I slowly began to understood the reason for the looks being exchanged at each crossroads. Long stints of babbling in Creole were broken periodically by violent, forceful, monologues bellowed from the strained throats of impassioned community representatives describing the plight of their respective peoples and beseeching us to meet needs here and there. Finally, one quiet old lady stood with hands clasped, curtsied, and began to speak in a still, small voice. She began to thank us for what we were doing and apologize that the meeting was getting so far off track. Her petite, frail words were buried in an instant by thunderous naysayers trumpeting their causes. Shriveling under the heat of these bursts of anger, she dropped her head to sit again; pausing for a second as our eyes caught. With an understanding and appreciative smile, in an instant she and I connected.
Closing the meeting, we asked one of the pastors present to pray for our efforts. And, as if on cue, the rain began; a weary sigh growing into rapid taps of thunder on the plastic roof overhead. Under the blankets of water falling from the sky, the pastor's words faded away until all that could be heard was an occasional deep guttural Creole syllable. I've always known that the devil was alive and well in Haiti. The way the rain stopped abruptly at the end of this man's prayer only solidified my suspicions. There are forces here that do not want us to succeed. There are things that happen here that are beyond rain.
We stood around for a while afterwards as we all individually discussed the topics that were brought up during the meeting. As it turns out, in Haiti, this is when you really get to know what's on a person's mind, what's on their heart, and how they really feel about certain issues. They'll share things with you during these times they would not dare share within the group. In many ways, I was told, this is why the meeting exists; for these times afterwards when the real "business" gets handled. Over fruit punch and croissants, we came to understand just how complicated helping people in Haiti can be.
The roads through Siloe, by the time we pulled out of the muddy embankment where we docked the car, were raging torrents of rainwater, sludgy sewage, and a thousand plastic bags. The rainwater had risen in some places to the bottom of the doors of the car. In many places you could not see where the road ended and the storm sewers began. I learned something funny this day. Passing countless goats huddled under palm branches, old rusted-out cars, and overturned wheelbarrows, I realized: Goats don't like to get wet. My chuckles were cut short by what I noticed behind the goats. It seemed that every child in the streets was making the most of this opportunity; to take a shower. Under every gutter and every ledge where rain was rolling off, a child stood naked with a bar of soap, white suds rolling off their bare, black bottoms.
We rode back to the office, trudging through mud and water I could not believe. The rain, it seemed, was washing away the filth of Port au Prince. At least for today.
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