Haitian bourgeoise and fast food cravings

I lived one night like a Haitian bourgeoisie. It was an interesting opportunity to experience Haiti’s frightening rift between the rich and poor.

It’s the difference between mud and mansions.

We drove into Port-au-Prince Saturday night with Sister Glady to her deceased mother’s home, up in the mountains overlooking a portion of the earthquake-desecrated residential areas.

As we passed through Port, every wall and building is splashed with ugly political graffiti from the recent election, bearing candidates’ names and ballot numbers. The rich residential area was also violated by spray paint, but all the ugly melted away as we pulled the truck behind barbed yellow gates.

The house was gargantuan and stately, two-stories surrounded by curling flowers and bushes. It had elegant windows covered in ornate metalwork, scrolling hearts and crosses painted a lovely shade of yellow.

The stairs and floor was covered in colorful glazed stone with the same smooth texture as bathroom tiles. Every room (the rooms seemed endless, with multiple bedrooms and bathrooms and parlors) was decorated in Haitian paintings, hammered metal artwork, and tight woven baskets and vases. The furniture was inviting and cozy under the towering ceiling.

Two of Sister Gladys’ brothers were fixing up the house and were there to greet us. They have been adding bunk beds and accommodations for large missionary groups that come to Port-au-Prince to do relief work and construction.

Like most Haitian households, the windows were carefully positioned around the house to maximize ventilation and airflow. There was a constant breeze that chilled the house in the absence of AC. I love how careful construction can eliminate the need for AC and conserve a ton of energy, especially in a place with notoriously hot weather.

Sunday transformed the city. Port-au-Prince was tamed to easy traffic, well-dressed churchgoers, and crows strolling lazily to the market. There was less honking, less chaos, and a colorful city at ease. Besides a man jumping in the bed of our truck and attempting to steal Katie’s suitcase (VERY unsuccessfully… we had that sucker bound right under a tarp!), the drive was much more peaceful than my past ventures.

We dropped Katie and decided to take advantage of the vacant streets and tour Port-au-Prince by truck. We passed the rubble of downtown, and Sister Gladys pointed out a collapsed third story of a school, where more than 300 children perished to falling cement and earthquake tremors. We drove by the presidential palace, still in ruins and surrounded by matchbox-shaped tents and shacks where the most beautiful park in Port used to flourish.

I remembered a conversation I had with Sister Gladys’ brother, Jean, who was born and met his wife in Port. His wife came back to Haiti after spending 40 years in the U.S., and cried as she walked the streets of her childhood. Cherished memories were replaced by pain and ugliness.

I visualized her tears mingling with the trash and filth of tent city and wished they were enough to make it go away, to heal this broken community.

The English church, Port-au-Prince Fellowship, was a solid reminder that faith can bridge cultural differences. For every foreign missionary, there was a Haitian dancing, clapping and joining in the worship. The band was led by an American man playing guitar, but backed up by an all-Haitian band: 4 women on vocals, a man on keyboard, a man on drums, a woman on saxophone.

I felt at home. The sound of English swelling out the open windows to mingle with the Creole voices at the Haitian churches in service next door made me feel united. I was reminded that Christians bridge the gap between Haiti and home, in this culture different in so many ways from my own.

We ate Haitian fast food after church and met up with Shirley and Alex, a young couple and friends of Sister Gladys who opened a young boys’ orphanage in Port-au-Prince last year. The sandwich, French fries and vanilla cupcake was delicious, but loaded with Mayonnaise and other condiments. Epi d’Or is an extremely popular fast food joint in Port, and offers everything from bacon cheeseburgers and ice cream to traditional Haitian food and cakes. Like the grocery store we visited in Port, the building was huge, packed with people of all nationalities and walks of life, and guarded heavily by security officials carrying impressive guns.

But I’m back to reality now, listening to someone’s donkey braying and the soft whack of a machete in the garden.

I’ll be up late tonight typing a clinic report for the organization overhaul I hope to finish soon. It’s looking fantastic, and we have a huge donation of surplus supplies, including Lactated Ringer’s for cholera, for the hospital in Petit Gôave. Montrouis is not well equipped by any means, but it’s great to see medical supplies pooled where they’re most needed.

Tonight, I have had education on my mind. For a Haitian family to put their child in kindergarten, the cost is around 1500 Haitian dollars a month – a sum out of reach for most families. Education is not free here like it is in the U.S. Many of the schools are pumping money directly into the pockets of corrupt government leaders. Without education, these kids will not be equipped to move Haiti forward. Please pray with me for available primary education and an end to government corruption.