I.
Port au Prince
The Vocational School
II. La Gonave
The Mountain Village
The Seaside Well
III. Cape Haitian
Time Travel
Hope and Fear
Tomb of the Unknown Haitian
IV. Home
Arriving
at the local airport, we check in with our private chartered six-seat plane, owned by
Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF). We pass our carry-on luggage through what appears to be
an X-ray machine, but the inspectors appear to be watching other things and one wonders
whether anything would be stopped. Fortunately,
each of us knows the entire passenger list so we rest easy regarding any threat of hijack!
As we
take off and rise above the coast, I am moved by sharp contrast between the stark blue
beauty of the crystal
Soon, we soar over clear deep blue sea that encourages us to forget the mainland, but I cannot forget. For now, however, I must focus forward because the coast of La Gonave quickly approaches with a very different world of green trees and white sand. At least this is
the view from the air. We descend over a small village of tin roofs, cement blocks, and huts of mud and sticks. Soon thereafter, the plane drops down onto the dirt runway and rumbles to a halt. As we exit the plane and walk toward the only tiny cement building, small children scurry out of the trees to form our welcoming committee. There are one or two adults present as well, but mostly small children. Once again, I am accosted by contrasts, this time of colors. My eyes are awed by the beauty of the children's deep brown skin framed by a backdrop of clear blue sky and white sand. My heart, however, is cut by the overabundance of visible brown skin, for the children wear either rags or nothing but dirt. Still, their bright white smiles, dancing eyes, and laughter are pure music as they shout "Blanc! Blanc! Blanc!" (their greeting for white people) and run behind our dusty pick-up truck that shuttles us to some of the finest accommodations on the island. As we bounce along the rocky potholed roads, I find myself agreeing with the vocational school director back on the mainland. La Gonave is indeed "very poor."
"I was naked, and you clothed me"
(Matthew 25:36a): Not just a metaphor.
Our
luxury hotel greets us with real mattresses on metal frames, several light bulbs that cast
a dull glow when the gasoline-powered generator drones in the evening, and occasionally
running water. Fortunately, the oppressive heat results in the warmest showers I have
experienced in
As we
walk through the dusty streets after dinner, the fear that hung in the air of Port au
Prince is not to be found. The warm ocean breeze has blown its remnants from my hair and
clothes and the local villagers have replaced it with a sense of warmth with their
friendly greetings. The people here are poorer but they have more room to breathe, and
their smaller numbers and greater poverty results in less sewage and garbage. When one who
has almost nothing, there is even less to throw away.
We
stroll past one of the several churches along the main street, and joyful singing wafts
out its open doors and over our heads, beckoning us to enter. The pastor sees us standing
respectfully in the back and comes out to greet us as the music continues. "I made a
promise to God that I would welcome anyone I see at the door of my church," he tells
us as he urges us to join them. We thank them
him but decline as our day is done and fatigue beckons us to bed. The parishioners are just starting, however, and
their singing and worship continues until 4 in the morning.
This
major city in La Gonave never completely sleeps and the new day is announced by trucks and
motorcycles with Swiss cheese mufflers, together with shouts of villagers in the street an
hour before sunrise. We arise and prepare for our first day with the local drilling team,
starting with a hearty breakfast of bread, butter, cheese, and eggs in the restaurant
adjoining the house where last night's dinner was served. This restaurant is one
tin-roofed room without light, containing 3 or four small tables with plastic table cloths
and plastic place mats. Our hostess runs this dining establishment as her primary
business. I wonder how such a business can survive in a town where no one has money to
speak of and fewer have work.
Fueled
by the morning meal, we all climb into the large WWII army surplus truck provided by Lifewater International that will serve as our
transport. (This truck is now owned by LAGEHO--La Gonave Econimic Help Organization. Mr. Johnny Armand, LAGEHO founder
and Lifewater friend, is a man with a great vision and heart for this island and
its people. Johnny, who also graciously provided transport for us in Port au Prince, now
serves as our generous host.) We stand
in the back bed of the truck, holding fast to the railing. I stand at the front, looking
over the roof of the cab at the wide open sky that rises from the vivid green horizon in
all directions. Our road is little more than volcanic rock and dust where trees once
stood. Our top cruising speed is only one to two miles per hour given the stony road, the
steep angle of ascent, and the jagged ledges that serve as guard rails. As we climb up
from the "city" where we spent the night, the view of the ocean spreads out into
forever with stunning majesty.
Our
vehicle lurches forward and upward past occasional pilgrims and our largely empty truck
bed invites some to assume we are a tap-tap. A young Haitian lady climbs up and becomes my
traveling companion, helping me to watch for the tree limbs that continually snap past and
threaten to decapitate those who do not remain alert.
The delicate fern-like leaves make effective camouflage for the long thorns that
slip easily through flesh. I quickly learn to
duck quickly!
Every
so often, the truck's transmission races to a high whine as the huge beast slows to a halt
on particularly steep slopes. Each time, I first quickly pray for good breaks and a
transmission that does not snap. Immediately thereafter, I ask that God help us make the
next ridge while I contemplate the very real possibility of a grueling walk for miles back
to town in the scorching sun. Then again, we would be walking downhill the whole way,
while others daily walk both ways in bare feet.
Some
sojourners climb the mountain road with burros bearing burdens, and the burdens are
sometimes sojourners. I am struck by the supremacy of a burro over a wheelchair in this
world when we pass more than one elderly traveler whose crutches are strapped to his
steed. The absence of shoes on this jagged trail is no more prevalent than in the city
below, but here I am even more aware of it. Watching a woman carrying what looks like
fifty pounds of vegetables in a bowl on her head as she walks over the sharp edged stones
fills me both with pathos for her life and respect for her amazing strength. All at once, I become keenly aware of the wonderful
sensation of shoe leather surrounding my fragile feet.
As we
crest a final ridge and rest atop La Gonave, The truck heaves a sigh of relief and so do
I. We pass through Palma, the third largest "City"" in La Gonave and stop
briefly at a broken well across from the local shopping mall. This mall consists of one
open masonry structure and countless thatch covered booths, fashioned with sticks and
rope. The booths are all empty at present, because the "mall" has moved on to
another village today. As we inspect this
broken well, masses of children again stream from the surrounding trees into the village
square. They pursue us with shouts of "Blanc! Blanc!" followed quickly by
another greeting I am coming to hear all too often: "Give me one dollar!" Tragically, this is the most commonly known English
phrase in all of our
The Lifewater truck, in front of Palma's
"mall"
A brief
inspection of this remnant of a well, consisting only of a tube emerging from concrete
with no pump, reveals that it is full of stones and garbage. Ignorance has resulted in
destruction that will take much to repair, if it is possible at all. I am struck that the
only predator of water wells is the same one that endangers so many other priceless
species: humans can indeed be dangerous, even to themselves.
We
drive another mile and stop at the pump which the team hopes to repair. As we help unload
equipment, a crowd quickly gathers, including many of the children from the preceding
village who have run behind the truck all the way. The local men soon shout "Ti
’mone Back!" ("Back, children!") and one man undoes his belt which
effectively disperses the children amidst squeals and laughter.
While
the team begins dissembling the well to inspect the damage, my comrades and our Haitian
guide sit at the truck and speak with the village leaders and other onlookers,
interviewing them about this well and its importance.
The women carry the most wisdom, for it is they who carry much of the water and/or
supervise the children’s efforts. Our translator helps us learn that one woman says,
"Water is life. We use it to drink, to cook, to bathe, and to wash our clothes."
The villagers explain that while both these local wells have been broken, women and
children have endured daily three-hour round trip walks to obtain their "life
water."
Meanwhile,
after an hour of hard labor in the
While
the team works tirelessly, my comrades brainstorm with the village leaders regarding ways
to raise the fees for future pump repairs. The leaders note that their community will
resist paying for water which has until now been "free." They view it as free
because whoever drilled this well simply came to the site, installed it, and left. This
“give a man a fish” method typically results in wells that are broken quickly
and seldom repaired. In contrast, Lifewater
“teaches to teach to teach.” It not
only trains local persons in drilling and pump repair but also encourages the formation of
a local village water committee. The committee takes responsibility for the pump from the
start, even deciding on the well’s location. This strategy increases the sense of
community ownership and responsibility for pump operation and maintenance.
To help
this village transition to fee-based water rights, our team suggests that the leaders
“make a new day" by building a fence around the pump and adding a new coat of
paint. The leaders agree that this might just convince their villagers to start paying for
water. Fascinatingly, this community clearly understands the necessary cost of water and
that paying for repairs is a valid and worthwhile expense. However, these people—who
only live from day to day in hopeless conditions—have greater difficulty with the
idea of paying for such repairs in advance, particularly when the water has been
"free" until now and especially when trust is such a rare commodity in this
domain of abject poverty. Still, the village
leaders thank us and say it is good that we have come. We have made them think in new
ways. They will consider raising money for a fence and paint to help the community
transition to a new day, where water is not free but it is freely available. The director
of Lifewater says that he will match any funds
the committee raises for the fence. It strikes me that this represents an extremely wise
investment for both parties.
Meanwhile, the crew has removed every piece of casing and the canister at the well's bottom. Inspection reveals parts in relatively good order, but a great deal of metal grit that would greatly decrease the life of this well. They clean all parts and begin the laborious task of reassembly. My comrades and I offer the workers cups of cool water, drawn from a jug we brought with us, and I recall Jesus’ words about a cup of cold water in his name. How much better it would be if the water could be drawn right from this well.
Reinserting the repaired pump, attached to 100
feet of pipe (10 feet visible).
The hot
hours wane on and I marvel that the crowd size does not shrink. Rather, it grows and
shouts of "T’imone, BACK" become more frequent. As the last steps of reassembly are completed, I
sense electricity in the air, static electricity generated by the friction of dry tongues
scraping parched lips. I begin to pray more
and more that the repair would be successful. It is of course completely possible that the
entire day's work will result in nothing. Finally,
a crew member begins to raise and lower the pump handle, and another puts his ear to the
pump, straining to hear whether the precious fluid is beginning the climb it has not made
in months. At last, deep red brown soup spews forth from the spicket amidst shouts and
laughter, and this quickly changes to clear, clean water that spills onto the ground.
Happily, it smells of chlorine, proving that the disinfectant powder made its way to the
well’s bottom before the pump was reassembled. Without this disinfection, the entire
day would have been an exercise in futility. Whereas a contaminated well runs as cool and
refreshing as a clean one, the former is no safer than sewage. I reflect that those seeking to earn God's favor
through their own efforts are much like clear, cool, contaminated water with a good
appearance but no worth. In contrast, those cleansed by Jesus’ Living Water are like
the disinfected well, ready for service in the
Success! Fresh water flows for the first time in
months..
As the
water continues flowing and children laugh and squeal, the local pastor comes to the pump
at our request. He calls for prayer, and at once, all hats are off, all eyes are closed,
and all heads are bowed. He give thanks to the giver of Living Water and (I later learn
from our interpreter) he asks for blessings for the well and for all present, including
the Blancs who have come across the sea. This prayer is followed by all present bursting
into a Haitian song of praise in Creole that doubtless reaches God's ears as a symphonic
masterpiece. After quickly disinfecting my
hands to prevent diseases that are so prevalent in
As we
pack up to make the return trek, the afternoon sun shines on the deep greens of the trees
and high grasses, their varied hues dancing with the cobalt sky that rises from their
roots and reaches up to God. I say a prayer of thanks for the local drilling team, who
will continue their work here long after we are gone. The children shout and laugh and
call to us as they run after the truck, all the way back to the first village from whence
they came. I wince every time their toes strike the sharp rocks and I secretly wish that I
might touch the leather calluses of their feet to learn what it feels like to have feet
hardened by hard life. At the same time, I pray that that their souls would be softened by
the water they now can receive, that they might also receive the words of their pastor and
drink deeply of the Living Waters that wash away evil and death and bring new life to this
mountain top.
On our second day in La Gonave, we rumble out past the airport on a dirt road that tracks the shoreline, leaving a trail of dust rising behind us into the indigo heat. We drive past one or two wells that seem to be working and finally arrive at the site of one which has not worked for some time. As usual, children and adults seep out of the wooded terrain and congregate around us as we assess the situation. The local drill team hopes to repair this well too, and they begin the work of disassembly and inspection. This well is full of problems, however, caused by previous would-be good Samaritans who removed parts of the well and then accidentally dropped other parts back down the 100 foot shaft. The team tries again and again to fish out these parts as the sun rises high and stares down unforgivingly.
After
two scorching hours, my comrades and I seek refuge in the shadow of the truck, sitting in
the dry dirt and watching the team’s persistence. I notice a young woman of perhaps
19 or 20, dressed in dirty remnants of a blouse and skirt. She carries a naked 2 or 3-year
old boy on her hip and walks toward us, smiling. I
return the smile and also greet the toddler, who smiles back in return. His mother sees
our connection and immediately hands her son to me. I rest him on my knee and speak gently
to him as my mind begins to race. First, I begin wondering when this little boy relieved
himself last, since his bare exterior currently rests on my lap. With this in mind, I
continue speaking gently to him, based on the assumption that a calm child presents less
potential for disaster than a nervous one. Second, however, I am shocked to see the
boy’s mother casually walk away and leave her child with me. My comrades and I look at each other in disbelief
as we realize that she has just apparently attempted to address an inconvenience in her
life. It becomes clear that she believes I have chosen to adopt her son. I quickly rise
(gently) and bring her son back to her, smiling and saying “No, merci.” I return
to my comrades fighting back a sense of despair in my heart as I reflect on how readily
this woman would abandon her child. She is
undaunted, however, and returns to us several times, repeatedly asking if I want her baby. Each time, I gently but firmly reassert my position
on the matter.
Sadly, the drill team fails to retrieve the broken
well parts today. Repairing this well is still possible but will require additional tools,
much time, and great patience, due to the carelessness of those who preceded us. My sorrow
regarding the well, however, pales in
comparison to my heartache over the young mother who epitomizes hopelessness. I recall the
Scripture (Isaiah 49:15) that asks, “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and
have no compassion on the child she has borne?” Of
course, whenever reading this passage, I want to shout in protest, “No! Of course
not!” Tragically, in my heart I know
better, and today this young mother has driven the point home even more deeply. This makes me ponder with even greater gratitude
the Scripture’s response: “Though she may forget, I will not forget you!”
Later that night, as I am lulled to sleep by singing from a nearby church, the words of
another Scripture become my evening prayer: “Thanks be to God for His unspeakable
gift.” (II Corinthians 9:15).
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