Haiti, pt. 2: Chita!

I stood with a bowl of cookies on my head surrounded by hungry Haitian children pulling at my shorts, tugging on my shirt and slapping my stomach. The torn paper plates had been abandoned for withered hands, palms up. They begged and shoved, all vying for one more cookie. They promised to be my best friend. Zanmi mwen they said, while grunting and huffing out other words in Creole.

The thing is, I had the cookies. After giving them all the allotted two, we had nearly half a bowl left. And this was a big bowl. A quick guesstimate ensured that I had enough for at least one more per child. But in the mele there was no way to know who had gotten the extra one and who had not. Flashes of white eyes, crooked teeth and clawing hands dissolved into a sea of ebony. Some smiled and asked sweetly, some pounded my body with tiny fists to get their story told. Sometimes they all seemed to form one huge organism with one hundred hands reaching out for a Tempo coconut flavored cookie.

In the madness, Kyle came up to me with a handful of cookies, followed by a mob trying to pry them from his hands. "This is crazy, we gotta get out," he said.* Partly brokenhearted and partly relived that he too thought it had gotten out of control, I nodded. He dropped the loot in the bowl upon my head and we made our way out of the church, children following behind. The older boys called out to me as I left. Either laughing at my failure to deliver a simple snack or possibly pleading for another cookie themselves.

It had started innocently enough, after snack time the 5 or 6 kids nearest to me asked for more. Their little paper plates were creased and crumpled and I knew they probably hadn't eaten since VBS the day before. I could not look at them and then look at all the cookies and say no. Asking another inexperienced friend, we agreed that this was a good plan to quietly, systematically give out some more.

I erred on many accounts:

1) That I could explain they get one more each, and that would be it (but I dont speak Creole)

2) That I could reason with them if they still wanted more (but they were ages 4-10 mostly)

3) That they would assemble and politely take one more each (but...yea. nope.)

So after handing out a few precious cakes of flour and sugar, eyes began to dart to the corner of the room where I was standing. Things grew exponentially more chaotic, like when the critical Jenga piece is pulled from the tower. It was soon clear there would be no rules, no instructions and no rationale. It killed me that I could not continue to give. It was hard to know how much to endure before withdrawing mercy.

My heart longed to give them what they needed, to give out all the cookies in the world to them. The children made it impossible to love them fully. I wanted to make sure everyone got more, but I had no way to do so without multiple people stepping on others and squeezing out the less capable. At some point, we had to shut down the operation.

I wonder if God views us in this way sometimes...wanting to give out mercy and grace in abundance but in some spiritual fashion, similar or not, we make it so difficult for that to happen.

*In order to not taint Kyle's good name, I wanted to clarify that he is a broguy with much more toughness and steadfastness than I. He would be the last one in the world to retreat in a situaion like that. Those that know Kyle can appreciate just how out-of-control it must have been for him to think it was crazy. This is why I was somewhat relieved when he admitted the level of insanity...just so I knew I wasnt overreacting to the chaos. Kyle, love you bud.

Haiti, pt. 1: Dont blink...

Haiti hits you like a wave, baptizing you in a world far removed from what is normal. The sliding glass doors of the airport open to unleash hundreds of locals bustling about like fireants once thier hill is disrupted. They are calling, pointing, running, grabbing, motioning, and desperate for your attention.

Haiti smells like burning. Port Au Prince is saturated in smoke and dust. It is hard to distinguish garbage from belongings. Honestly, it just looks like a war zone. Everything is dirt and rocks and yelling. There is a fire somewhere, I cant see it but it must be all around me. Trucks not fit for American junkyards motor by, often with Haitians standing in the bed pointing and yelling in Creole.

My 97 pounds of luggage is not moving easily over the Haitian terrain, it is used to paved walkways and bellhops with a gentle touch. As a man in white maneuvers us around vehicles and honking horns, I notice one of my comrades is lagging behind. We trade bags since at least mine has wheels, and then its back to the comotion. Everything is frantic, every moment crucial.

Seeing Jeremy and Kyle's faces amongst the crowd was a most welcome sight, but there was no time for reunions. A quick fist bump with Jeremy, hand one bag over to Kyle and keep moving. Thirty-something people had to be herded to safety so their eyes remained locked past me to the group members in tow.

Finally we were congregated at an old school bus, hugs were accepted and arms rested on shoulders. Money was doled out to the man in white who valiantly stopped traffic for us. His chivalry gone, he now demanded more money. Jeremy stood his ground though, and he got no more than the predetermined amount. This would be a characteristic very important in Haiti: firmness.

As the bus pulled off into the haze, Haitians were running alongside asking for something, anything. We drove by makeshift street vendors, abandoned buildings, and one giant sculpture of the world with Haiti at its center. Jeremy stood up and welcomed us to Haiti, his voice tired and shaky from sickness and 3 months of living in this madness.

In the peace after we left Port Au Prince, mountains rose up against a quickly darkening sky as the old bus motor droned along. Fires sprinked the countryside, glowing with warning and Jeremy's words echoed in my head: Haiti is crazy. Haiti is unpredictable. Haiti is crunpredictable.