Hot Sauce in Haiti

Everyone expects that if you're a missionary you will have some really gross food stories.  And with 25 years of mission experience under my belt, yeah, my stomach could tell you some stories you'd rather not hear.  But this blog entry by Barbi Boots, a physician assistant in Haiti, far surpasses my story-telling abilities, so I will let her do the speaking. 

By the way, this was all triggered by a recent meal in which David couldn't make out the taste of the meat chunks, and it being Haiti, I volunteered that it was likely goat. 

And to think I used to believe monkey brains were the worst thing I ever ate for the sake of the Gospel.  Silly me!

As always, praying before my meals,
               Menudo-eating Melinda (but only when I have to) and David

I am so immature.

I stare down into the bowl of brown meaty chunks floating in a greenish brown watery chum, littered with specks of this and that, surrounded by a slick of swirling oil. I have a sudden flashback to the Louisiana gulf coast, and the BP oil spill catastrophe. The meat bobs like so many slimy, contaminated pelicans in a sea of sticky black crude.

Stew. Oh, no. Please...not stew. No no no. Not stew.

I stand in the dinner line and tap one of the brown floating blobs with the ladle and watch it momentarily sink, then bob resiliently back up to the surface. A strange, stringy, brownish floating leathery substance.

Dinner.

This appears to be Estelle.  The goat.  Last seen tied by a short rope to an overturned toilet out in a distant corner of our compound.  Looking a little different now...her brown fur coat, elongated pupils, little goat smile...all stripped away.  Literally.  Oh, Estelle.  Mwen regret sa.  You have become a stew.

It's not that I'm a picky eater with stringent criteria for meals such as flavor and nutrition.  I eat my own cooking for heaven's sake. And it is a rare day when my culinary efforts contain both items simultaneously.  I learned long ago to be grateful for any food that is put in front of me.  So, though I have never been a fan of most meat, and turn pink and wheeze at the thought of certain shellfish, I will rarely push away a meal that has been prepared for me. At least outwardly. Inwardly, however, there is sometimes a whole lot of resistance going on.

There was that great dish "slaninia" when I lived in the former Soviet Union. That's raw pig fat with skin and, yes, coarse spiky hair still attached. A favorite of the locals, especially fresh from the slaughter. (Sometime, let me tell you the story of a disease called neurocystercercosis... from a 10-plus foot tape worm acquired from eating raw pork. But that's another story for another day.)

Ah, yes...nothing like the sound of a screaming pig as it is slaughtered deftly in a neighbor's yard, hanging from its hind legs from a tree. As it exsanguinates into a bucket from its recent machete slice to the carotids, there is also -- unfortunately -- nothing quite like the sound of a thoughtful, neighbor, generously hacking off a slab of warm fatty flesh and skin, and calling out to you over the fence, "Friend...friend....would you like some slanina?"

I can't say that I ever "liked some slanina."

Thanks, "friend."

But, would I blankly turn my lips upward into a pseudosmile of pseudothanks, force my hand into extension, take the proffered still-warm, hairy, rubbery pig fat between my index finger and thumb, slowly lift it towards my reticently parting lips and shove it deftly at my clenched teeth until they reluctantly parted, then chewed wide eyed with an "mmmmmm..." sound that, depending on one's interpretation, could equal either pleasure or a suppressed whimper?
Yes. Yes I would.


The dance of cultural culinary acceptance.

When I lived in an Alaskan native village, did I similarly extend my hand to the generously proffered dish of raw seaweed, raw sea snails, and some sort of pea-sized raw fish eggs collected in honor of the coming of spring?  Did I pseudosmile as I chewed, each fish egg popping like a small eyeball in my mouth, squirting out a gelatinous sharp fishy ooze that simultaneously caused sweat to pop similarly from the pores of my brow, a reflexive gag in my posterior pharynx and sharp tears to sting the corners of my widely held, unblinking eyes as I whimpered internally?

Yes. Yes, I did.

And, when my friend -- a native Alaskan -- grinned knowingly as she watched me slowly chew and pop with a watery-wide-eyed "mmmmm," pseudosavoring the fishy slime, then quietly reached over and wordlessly scraped the remainder of the mix into her own bowl...did she become one of my heroes for life?

Yes. Yes she did.

Like the Native Alaskans and Native Americans that I have known, I am an omnivore sometimes out of necessity.  But, as a not-avid meat- and living- creature eater, I acknowledge the sacrifice of the creature that gave its life for mine.

  

So, I will quietly eat what is lain before me...and be grateful for its generosity.

Or, so I try to tell my so-called-noble self.

This intellectual challenge to the palate is far more acute when one spends the day staring at malnourished children. Ten pound 2-year-olds. Young teenagers no taller than a first grader.  Mothers who grab at my arm and say, "Dokte...I cannot feed my children. They are starving.  Can you please help me?  Can you give me food?"  Orange-haired Haitian children...with scaling skin, bulging bellies, protruding ribs...evidence of protein malnutrition.  Marasmus Kwashiorkor. Starvation.

I am lucky to be eating.  Even luckier to have protein.  I am so overtly well fed. Overly fed.  More than fortunate.  What a hypocrite I am, I think, as I balk at the proteinacous floating bits before me.  Hungry sunken child eyes and flaccid skin and bony ribs flash behind my eyelids.  Selfish hypocrite.

And so, I take a deep breath and face the bobbing oil-slickaceous goat stew.

Thank you, Estelle the goat, for the days tied without dignity to the toilet, fattening yourself up for this day.  That can't have been an inspiring life for you.  Thank you cooks, who raised, slaughtered, skinned and slaved to prepare this stew for me today.  Because you are honoring me as a volunteer in your clinic and a guest in your land with this gift of meat. Because you take the time to caringly cook for me.  In a land where so many go hungry every night.

Thank you for this food today. And for the contrast of my lot in life...with those that I meet every day...to make me realize how fortunate and comfortable I truly am.

Don't let me forget that.

And, well, in a flash of extreme immaturity, here's a shout out to Louisiana Hot Sauce.

You are the ambassador of the international food ingestion challenge. The peacekeeper.  The great leveler of the experimental palate.  Creating peace, understanding and culinary tolerance wherever you set your beautiful red-orange glass-bottled self.

Glad to have made your acquaintance here in Haiti.
You single-handedly retrieved the shards of my wavering idealism while effectively suppressing my overly zealous goat-induced gag reflex.

Today, you -- in your uniquely fiery, spicy, distractingly vivacious nature -- are my hero.  Perhaps, starting today, I will endeavor to be more like you.

I will be telling the 'miracle' story of Wendy soon, but since I haven't had time to write it in it's entirety yet, wanted to pass on this recent blog entry from John McHoul of Heartline because it is a clear reminder why your prayers do indeed matter to us:

"...ministering in Haiti can, at times, be rather difficult. We daily can encounter situations, heartache, sadness and unjustness that can seem overwhelming and which, at times, can seep into our beings.

Just this week among other situations we had the bio mom of a child that went through our adoption program come to our house to see me. I had seen her about two months ago when I gave her money sent by the family that adopted her child. She told me that on the day that I had given her the money, she left our house and got on a public transportation vehicle to go home. A man who got on the vehicle with her, confronted her, and demanded the money that she had received. It seemed that he had seen her when she counted the money while standing on the street in front of our house. He grabbed her purse, and when she wouldn’t let go, he pulled out a gun and shot her three times. All the other people in the vehicle fled and the driver took this women to a hospital where she spent three weeks. She by God’s grace survived and now she stood before me, showing me the three bullet wounds and wanting to know how I can help her.

This week, as well, the sister-in law of one of our dear, long-term staff members was kidnapped by men that broke into her home at two in the morning as she, her husband, and six month old child slept. The men cut the electricity to the house, broke in, made her and her husband lie face down on the floor, and forcibly removed her, leaving her husband and child. This is not a rich family, but rather a young couple who are trying to make it in a country that often seems inhospitable to those that are trying to build a better life for themselves and for their children. The initial ransom price is two hundred thousand dollars American. A ridiculously absurd amount from a family that perhaps takes in five hundred dollars a month. The family has yet to speak to her to verify her condition.

Today I received a call from a woman, that I had last seen at the funeral service of her daughter who had died of AIDS. She’s coming to see me this week.

Today I had a Haitian policeman come to the office to see me. I have known him and his family for a number of years and consider him a friend. Three weeks ago he was on a moto taxi when the driver lost control of the motorcycle. The moto hit a vehicle parked on the side of the road and my friend in the collision sustained broken ribs, and a broken arm. He came for help with his hospital bill and to know if we could help his family with food.

As I believer I firmly believe that God’s word is not just good advice to help us through trying times, but rather, it has the power to strengthen us in times of weakness. It can empower us to hold on when holding on seems the most difficult thing to do." 


Matthew 11:28
Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.

Galatians 6:9
And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.

Heaven in Haiti

Today I had another slice of heaven in Haiti. Some people who have been here find that hard to imagine, yet others who see beyond the rubble, grime, and poverty understand completely, because those who have eyes to see know that the treasure of Haiti is it's people. 

Today's 'slice' came in the form of children.  Not so surprising for those of you who know me well. Actually, those who don't know me deeply still discern that pretty quick.  So yeah, though I and almost 200 other kids were crammed into a space about the size of two American  master bedrooms,  I was happy as a looney lark. These children all live in what the world would call a slum, but every Saturday afternoon, they forget their environment and focus on Jesus.  They come running, smiling, dressed in their finest, just so they can be embraced by Jesus' love that we carry to them.

I had to walk 2 or 3 miles over uneven garbage-covered dirt roads, to get there, but it was worth every step.  I kind of relish walking such roads where I see chickens, pigs, cattle, goat and lots of people. On one small rickety bridge we had to make room for both motorcycles and cattle to cross before us.

Though I don't speak much Creole and was mainly there just to help my two  Haitian friends with their 200+ participant kid's club, I marveled at the fact that the children hung on me afterwards like I was their best friend.  These children are so eager, so hungry (physically and spiritually), and so open, I wonder why there aren't armies of Christians here seeking them out.  They certainly aren't hard to find.  

Nonetheless, I thank God for the opportunity to participate in what He is doing here.  It truly is amazing and the fact that the local voodoo priest, Jonas Joseph, came to the meeting underscores that fact.  We met him on the way in, shook his hand and prayed for him.  He was curious and spiritually hungry and admitted that the only reason he was a voodoo priest was because he couldn't find work in any other business.  

If you want to help this work continue, please contact me.  The two Haitians who run it do so at their own expense, and neither of them can 'afford' to do so.  Their hearts of compassion though tell them they can't afford not to, so they move in faith for the sake of the children, Jonas Joseph, and Jesus.  I personally know that the 35 year old man who started this has no money in a bank or in his pockets.  In fact, we are staying with his family and we'd have no food tonight if we hadn't brought some packaged food from America.   Haiti is recognized as the third hungriest nation in the world and that reality was highlighted once again  as I walked the roads and strangers greeted me time and time again with, "I'm hungry."

Thank you to each one of you who has prayed or contributed.  It is humbling to be here amongst His servants and I couldn't do it without your support.





Compassion

"It might well be that the greatest threat to human survival now confronting us is not the loss of energy or the increase of pollution, but the loss of compassion. We are confronted daily with the pain of human tragedy- the breakup of family or the sunken face of a starving child- to such an extent that we soon learn to turn off what we see, In order to cope with our feelings of helplessness, we teach ourselves how not to feel. The tragedy in this response, which is probably more widespread than we dare believe, is that we also deaden our capacity for love, For Christians, the cross stands as an ever-present reminder that love and suffering are two sides of the same coin." James C. Fenhagen

I cannot sleep when the rain falls without thinking of the ones I know who get soaked because they have no roof, or at least no adequate roof. As I lie warm and dry in my bed, I think of the slum community I lived in where soggy mattresses were dragged out into the mud when the rain stopped.

I have many many memories that God has given me in 25 years of ministering amongst the poor, and some of those recollections cause me pain. But I choose not to run from those impressions or the suffering they evoke, because the greatest tragedy of all, would be to distance myself from the hurting. C. S. Lewis reminds me why:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

Perhaps now you understand my daily prayer in this loud distracting grieving brilliant beautiful world I live in: "Lord, let not my heart grow numb."

As David and I prepare to return to Haiti next month, will you pray with us that God continues to enlarge our hearts, so that we truly have His love to give.

Am I my brother's keeper?

Yup, I'm alive. After tag-teaming with a friend to care for the former Son of God orphans, I journeyed back to America in time for Christmas. Though I'm still on US soil, I expect to find out today when I get to return to Haiti and love up on my kiddos in person.

One reason that return might be delayed is because there is still an ongoing investigation by a government agency (IBESR) about what happened to these children - and IBESR doesn't take too kindly to missionaries, especially since there's corruption in their midst.

I don't want to put the pastor caring for these 37 children (and the 40 other children he already had) in any danger, so though I want to wrap my arms around these precious gifts of God and clean their wounds and wipe their tears and laugh at their jokes and feed their bellies and soothe their souls and break up their fights and check their homework and remind them by my presence that they are not forgotten and are worthy of His love, care and attention, instead, I find myself in consultation with various people who have been on the ground there about when to make my comeback.

What matters to me most is not for my Haiti-hurting heart to be coddled or soothed, but for these children who have been through so much to not be further traumatized.

Would you pray with me for His will to be done here on earth as it is in heaven- and that I'd have discernment about this particularly as it relates to these kiddos?



The first pages of Holy Scripture contain a dreadful saying which
people use an excuse for themselves: 'Am I my brother’s keeper?'
This question, with its implication of irresponsibility permeates the whole
history of humankind and the life of each of us.

Each one of us has to take issue with such reasoning : ‘My horizon is limited. So-and-so is no concern of mine. I can take no responsibility for him.’

How cleverly we try to pass this off as logic, but in our heart,
faithfulness says: That is not true. We are obligated to do everything
we can for others, for friends and strangers alike. Jesus impressed
this upon us, in his moving way when He said that everyone who needs us
is our neighbor. Everything we do for anyone is also done for Jesus
and will receive it’s blessing from Him.

Albert Schweitzer

Noises in the Night

(I am behind on getting my blog posts uploaded through the internet, but this and the next few entries will be thoughts I wrote earlier, but are still relevant and supply a taste of Haitian life.)

I live on a 2nd floor with a balcony. Right below me is a small courtyard that separates me by about 20' from the school this pastor runs. This building also has a balcony, so though there is air between us, I can practically "reach out and touch someone" on this neighboring second floor balcony. What this all means, in practical terms, is that I am effectively a zoo animal.

Yup, whether I am in my room or on the balcony, there are usually many sets of eyes staring at me. In the beginning, it was unnerving, but eventually I stopped noticing (unless it is coupled with 20 voices calling my name at the same time!).

Since I live 20' from a school with 600 students, let's just say "quietness is not a virtue here," or at least it's a hidden unexperienced one. And since loud blaring music does seem to be a virtue in developing nations, particularly at late night/early morning hours, I've been wondering how I will adjust to the week I am back at our cabin in the woods home base in Michigan.




After all, it is a place where our neighbors are only occasional weekend warriors and the most prominent sounds are those of woodpeckers, songbirds and cheeky chipmunks.


Will I be able to sleep without the dragging scraping metal noises of 2 a.m. furniture rearranging of our gatekeeper? How will I handle the absence of 3 a.m. U.N. heavy equipment sounds? And what about the 4:15 a.m. blaring U.N. loudspeakers? Will I miss the boomboxes of the night hours (I don't think so!) and how will I wake without the sounds of 80 rambunctious orphans coming to life every morning at 5 a.m.??

Will the sounds of silence deafen me?

Life is definitely lived out loud here!

They're Watching You!

Developing world children have a fascination with trash. Trash is equated with treasure. When you own nothing, there may be something of value in someone else's garbage. Innovation excels here.

In fact, I failed to mention in my recent blog entry about the pedicure the girls gave me (http://haitiheart.blogspot.com/2011/12/i-love-you-sooo-much-jesus-i-love-you.html), that they used a piece of asphalt to wear down my callouses. That was their tool of the trade, for it's what was available to them. It was remarkably effective, considering.

The creativity of the poor always impresses me. I remember being in Mozambique after the devastating floods, and before long the homeless and poor were offering car washes with the excess water that had pooled in the road's potholes. (Mozambique has vehicle-sized potholes and I'm not joking!)

But here in Haiti, the most recent trash innovation took the shape of vitamin bottles. Yup, I had taken a plastic bag full of trash down to the bin, and I did so during the night, hoping to go unnoticed. Well, when you're living with 80 children, little goes unnoticed- there is always a set of eyes watching you, and usually 20 or 30 sets at any one time!

So even though there was no electricity and I 'casually' dropped it in the bin as I kept moving so as to attract less attention, my careful plans were for naught. Within 15 minutes, every single one of the empty vitamin bottles I had placed in that plastic bag were in the hands of one of the children. I have no idea what they plan on doing with them, but no doubt, they have lots of ideas. Perhaps they'll become their own personal water bottle or something to roll down the sloped driveway or a place to put some rocks that they find. I found 2 year old Guerlande sitting on the ground one day with a plastic bag full of pebbles she was collecting. There was nothing else for her to play with, so she was entertaining herself with plastic and pebbles.

I cringe that these children instinctively go through the trash, even when instructed otherwise, but I do understand why they do it.