I'll be the first to admit that it's sometimes easy to forget that I am living in Haiti. Behind the walls of Be Like Brit, where we enjoy the luxuries of safe clean water, electricity, a backup generator, even air conditioning and hot water in some places, my general everyday existence doesn't feel "developing country" - in fact, it feels quite the opposite. One of my concerns when we have Britsionary groups and visitors stay with us is that they won't get a true sense of Haiti - that they will exist within this "bubble of privilege" which we so easily forget is just that - atypical for Haiti, and as far from the norm and standard of Haitian society as one can get. I worry about the effects of this bubble on the children who live here, too. Given that their environments are so controlled and that they themselves are so safeguarded, it's something I often think about: How will life in this environment affect these children once they are outside of it? My job is to be sure they are prepared for life in Haiti - the real deal. A Haiti I hadn't seen much of until this past week.
It's certainly easy for someone reading this from the comforts of their home in a place in the States or elsewhere, or even in the more affluent parts of Haiti to take the work we do for granted. I feel like at times as the story of Be Like Brit and the lives of the children play out on Facebook, we do a disservice to ourselves and our readers when we omit some of the stark realities of Haiti. While we all know that poverty exists and people die senselessly all over the world, I didn't have a true sense of how hard things are in Haiti until I set out with a child for Port-au-Prince this past week in an attempt to obtain services and treatment for the child's HIV infection.
After weeks of emails and calls, invoking privilege and name-dropping, the powers that be at Be Like Brit arranged for an appointment at St. Damian's Hospital in PAP. I was to take the child along with our driver Francky to be sure that everything we needed to get done was done, and that any attempts to pass the child off to another facility or refusal to administer a given test or diagnostic would be met with my vehement objections and insistence on their following through.
We left Grand Goâve at 5:00am on the morning of our appointment to drive the some 50km to PAP and to the hospital. Depending on traffic, the drive along National Route #2 can take anywhere from 1.5 hours to 4 hours. Accidents, flooding, traffic jams, people marching in the streets, etc., are all possibilities that can delay a person by hours. Our early departure hoped to mitigate the effects of any of these possibilities.
No more than 30 minutes into our drive, as I was nodding off to sleep sitting in the front seat of the F150 pickup, a loud bang and violent sway of the vehicle shook me and caught my undivided attention. As the truck bounced along the smooth stretch of Route 2, I realized we had lost a tire - likely at around 50mph. Keeping in mind that Route 2 is about as wide as any 2-way city street in the States, littered with livestock, motorcycles, buses, tap taps, people walking, people on bicycles, losing control of a vehicle can be, and often is, a deadly incident. Thanks to the skills of my driver and friend Francky, I breathed a sigh of relief as the truck came to a wobbly stop on the muddy shoulders of Route 2.
Francky had the tire changed in no time, and I took advantage of the delay to catch a glimpse at a magnificent sunrise. Francky was beaming with pride at his great recovery from the blowout and his even more impressive speed at which he changed the tire and had us back on track. We moved on towards Port, talking excitedly about and laughing at what could have been a not so funny experience.
Port-au-Prince is unique. I have traveled to something like 7 or 8 countries and always to the capital cities. PAP is like no other place I have ever been. I would have expected that by now, the sights, sounds, smells, and reality of the city should no longer affect me. I figured that I'd be conditioned to this by now, and that as we pass by the tent cities and the squalor, the women laying out their meager goods on dusty sidewalk ,the street vendors jockeying for a place within traffic in the hopes of selling a bag of water or a can of Coke, the children picking through smoldering heaps of garbage and filth, the piles of rubble that sit as if the earthquake happened just yesterday, I'd simply look forward and be unaffected. Yet for some reason, it continues to emit from me a very sad and bereaved sense of frustration and helplessness. Indeed, with each trip to PAP, I question all that is supposedly good in this world and wonder, why don't we do better?
As we arrived at the hospital in the pediatric HIV/AIDS unit, being sent from office to office, building to building, getting the run around on why we can't do this and why we can't do that, we met the objectives of our trip in to PAP - we got the necessary diagnostics and tests run that we needed so we can best help this child. It did not go without invoking some level of privilege - even invoking what I would call "white privilege" - for surely if anyone else had complained about having to wait too long, they likely would have been met with a different response other than essentially being ushered into the laboratory for preferred service.
As we prepared to leave the hospital after hours of sitting and waiting, seeing children who have almost no chance of survival, I was emotionally and physically exhausted. As we sat stuck in the traffic which is so typical of Port, waiting for a convoy of United Nations vehicles to pass through before allowing the locals to move freely, I noticed a large group of people start to move - and fast! Their shrieks and their exclamation meant something was clearly wrong. As the crowd ran away from where we sat in traffic, we saw a man with a gun pointed at a man working a money exchange counter in front of a gas station. The man took the money and ran - while the crowd, the UN and the police were preoccupied, directing traffic in an ineffective manner.
After this long day, we made our way back to the safety and the security of Be Like Brit - unscathed, and thankful that the day's challenges and misfortunes were not directed at us, nor did they result in any serious consequence.
This morning, I drove back to PAP with Francky to bring our friend Debbie to the airport after spending a week with us working on staff development and education curriculum for the summer. The drive in was without incident - no tires popping, no robberies - but the usual sights, of course.
On our way back out of PAP, we were stopped at a police roadblock. These roadblocks typically check to be sure the driver is properly licensed and the vehicle is properly registered. This time, however, I was asked directly by the police office, "where is your Passport?" As I wasn't traveling out of the country, of course I didn't have it with me. "Where is your residence permit?" he then asked. I replied that I was not required to carry a passport or a residence permit with me when traveling within the country. I offered my U.S. driver's license for identification purposes instead. This was met by a demand: Money. Give me money.
I felt the blood rush to my face in anger and in frustration. The very people employed to protect Haitians and people in Haiti are so often the ones fostering the corruption. While this officer asked me for a mere 300HTG (about 7 USD), he very well could have asked me for $500, or $1000, or whatever he felt like. What could I do? I could argue my legal point but to what point? I handed over the money, angrily and annoyed.
About a mile down the road, we came upon a body, laying in the street, blood running from the man's head. A moto had been hit by a truck and the two passengers lay dead in the street while a crowd of people, including the police, gathered around to stare and take photos. No ambulance, no sheet to cover the body, nothing but traffic backed up and people standing in the streets.
As if that wasn't enough, again, we were stopped by the police at yet another roadblock. Again, the officer asked me, "Blan, where is your passport?" My frustration was released in a very stern and very annoyed response, proudly all in Creole. I argued that the officer had no right to ask me for my passport or for a residence permit, as I was not traveling outside of the country, nor do I live here as a full-time resident - whether or not the basis of my argument is accurate, I continued to argue that I was here visiting and volunteering for 3 months, well within the rules Haiti spells out for foreigners in the country. While it's likely that he wanted the passport to verify I was not here longer than those 90 days, we simply don't travel in-country with our passports. I refused to pay him anything, hoping I wouldn't find myself in handcuffs and in the back of a police car in PAP.
All of this speaks to the nature of things in Haiti - there is little, if any consolation in authority, or security with police or those who are supposed to be protecting you. The simple act of driving 3 hours for medical services which should be readily available is a risk in and of itself. As a foreigner, you are at the mercy of your host country - Indeed, this week, and especially today, as minor as "the shakedown" was and as insignificant as the $7.00 USD is in the bigger picture, I realized just how vulnerable not just foreigners, but all Haitians can be in the absence of an effective rule of law.
I'm not sure if the lesson learned is to carry my passport with me at all times or if it is to expedite the permit process (which, of course is long and drawn-out - bureaucracy exists and the characteristics of them do not necessarily change across borders). I can say that my experience this week outside of the bubble gave me a new perspective on what it can be like here. I realize that it's not necessarily unique to Haiti - but I think it speaks volumes about the character of those people who choose to sacrifice their time, their security, and even their lives to come to a new place in the service of others.
The 31 smiling faces which welcomed me home after today certainly helped. Maybe that's the takeaway?
Have a good and safe week, everyone!
Best,
Jonathan
It's certainly easy for someone reading this from the comforts of their home in a place in the States or elsewhere, or even in the more affluent parts of Haiti to take the work we do for granted. I feel like at times as the story of Be Like Brit and the lives of the children play out on Facebook, we do a disservice to ourselves and our readers when we omit some of the stark realities of Haiti. While we all know that poverty exists and people die senselessly all over the world, I didn't have a true sense of how hard things are in Haiti until I set out with a child for Port-au-Prince this past week in an attempt to obtain services and treatment for the child's HIV infection.
After weeks of emails and calls, invoking privilege and name-dropping, the powers that be at Be Like Brit arranged for an appointment at St. Damian's Hospital in PAP. I was to take the child along with our driver Francky to be sure that everything we needed to get done was done, and that any attempts to pass the child off to another facility or refusal to administer a given test or diagnostic would be met with my vehement objections and insistence on their following through.
We left Grand Goâve at 5:00am on the morning of our appointment to drive the some 50km to PAP and to the hospital. Depending on traffic, the drive along National Route #2 can take anywhere from 1.5 hours to 4 hours. Accidents, flooding, traffic jams, people marching in the streets, etc., are all possibilities that can delay a person by hours. Our early departure hoped to mitigate the effects of any of these possibilities.
No more than 30 minutes into our drive, as I was nodding off to sleep sitting in the front seat of the F150 pickup, a loud bang and violent sway of the vehicle shook me and caught my undivided attention. As the truck bounced along the smooth stretch of Route 2, I realized we had lost a tire - likely at around 50mph. Keeping in mind that Route 2 is about as wide as any 2-way city street in the States, littered with livestock, motorcycles, buses, tap taps, people walking, people on bicycles, losing control of a vehicle can be, and often is, a deadly incident. Thanks to the skills of my driver and friend Francky, I breathed a sigh of relief as the truck came to a wobbly stop on the muddy shoulders of Route 2.
Francky had the tire changed in no time, and I took advantage of the delay to catch a glimpse at a magnificent sunrise. Francky was beaming with pride at his great recovery from the blowout and his even more impressive speed at which he changed the tire and had us back on track. We moved on towards Port, talking excitedly about and laughing at what could have been a not so funny experience.
Port-au-Prince is unique. I have traveled to something like 7 or 8 countries and always to the capital cities. PAP is like no other place I have ever been. I would have expected that by now, the sights, sounds, smells, and reality of the city should no longer affect me. I figured that I'd be conditioned to this by now, and that as we pass by the tent cities and the squalor, the women laying out their meager goods on dusty sidewalk ,the street vendors jockeying for a place within traffic in the hopes of selling a bag of water or a can of Coke, the children picking through smoldering heaps of garbage and filth, the piles of rubble that sit as if the earthquake happened just yesterday, I'd simply look forward and be unaffected. Yet for some reason, it continues to emit from me a very sad and bereaved sense of frustration and helplessness. Indeed, with each trip to PAP, I question all that is supposedly good in this world and wonder, why don't we do better?
As we arrived at the hospital in the pediatric HIV/AIDS unit, being sent from office to office, building to building, getting the run around on why we can't do this and why we can't do that, we met the objectives of our trip in to PAP - we got the necessary diagnostics and tests run that we needed so we can best help this child. It did not go without invoking some level of privilege - even invoking what I would call "white privilege" - for surely if anyone else had complained about having to wait too long, they likely would have been met with a different response other than essentially being ushered into the laboratory for preferred service.
As we prepared to leave the hospital after hours of sitting and waiting, seeing children who have almost no chance of survival, I was emotionally and physically exhausted. As we sat stuck in the traffic which is so typical of Port, waiting for a convoy of United Nations vehicles to pass through before allowing the locals to move freely, I noticed a large group of people start to move - and fast! Their shrieks and their exclamation meant something was clearly wrong. As the crowd ran away from where we sat in traffic, we saw a man with a gun pointed at a man working a money exchange counter in front of a gas station. The man took the money and ran - while the crowd, the UN and the police were preoccupied, directing traffic in an ineffective manner.
After this long day, we made our way back to the safety and the security of Be Like Brit - unscathed, and thankful that the day's challenges and misfortunes were not directed at us, nor did they result in any serious consequence.
This morning, I drove back to PAP with Francky to bring our friend Debbie to the airport after spending a week with us working on staff development and education curriculum for the summer. The drive in was without incident - no tires popping, no robberies - but the usual sights, of course.
On our way back out of PAP, we were stopped at a police roadblock. These roadblocks typically check to be sure the driver is properly licensed and the vehicle is properly registered. This time, however, I was asked directly by the police office, "where is your Passport?" As I wasn't traveling out of the country, of course I didn't have it with me. "Where is your residence permit?" he then asked. I replied that I was not required to carry a passport or a residence permit with me when traveling within the country. I offered my U.S. driver's license for identification purposes instead. This was met by a demand: Money. Give me money.
I felt the blood rush to my face in anger and in frustration. The very people employed to protect Haitians and people in Haiti are so often the ones fostering the corruption. While this officer asked me for a mere 300HTG (about 7 USD), he very well could have asked me for $500, or $1000, or whatever he felt like. What could I do? I could argue my legal point but to what point? I handed over the money, angrily and annoyed.
About a mile down the road, we came upon a body, laying in the street, blood running from the man's head. A moto had been hit by a truck and the two passengers lay dead in the street while a crowd of people, including the police, gathered around to stare and take photos. No ambulance, no sheet to cover the body, nothing but traffic backed up and people standing in the streets.
As if that wasn't enough, again, we were stopped by the police at yet another roadblock. Again, the officer asked me, "Blan, where is your passport?" My frustration was released in a very stern and very annoyed response, proudly all in Creole. I argued that the officer had no right to ask me for my passport or for a residence permit, as I was not traveling outside of the country, nor do I live here as a full-time resident - whether or not the basis of my argument is accurate, I continued to argue that I was here visiting and volunteering for 3 months, well within the rules Haiti spells out for foreigners in the country. While it's likely that he wanted the passport to verify I was not here longer than those 90 days, we simply don't travel in-country with our passports. I refused to pay him anything, hoping I wouldn't find myself in handcuffs and in the back of a police car in PAP.
All of this speaks to the nature of things in Haiti - there is little, if any consolation in authority, or security with police or those who are supposed to be protecting you. The simple act of driving 3 hours for medical services which should be readily available is a risk in and of itself. As a foreigner, you are at the mercy of your host country - Indeed, this week, and especially today, as minor as "the shakedown" was and as insignificant as the $7.00 USD is in the bigger picture, I realized just how vulnerable not just foreigners, but all Haitians can be in the absence of an effective rule of law.
I'm not sure if the lesson learned is to carry my passport with me at all times or if it is to expedite the permit process (which, of course is long and drawn-out - bureaucracy exists and the characteristics of them do not necessarily change across borders). I can say that my experience this week outside of the bubble gave me a new perspective on what it can be like here. I realize that it's not necessarily unique to Haiti - but I think it speaks volumes about the character of those people who choose to sacrifice their time, their security, and even their lives to come to a new place in the service of others.
The 31 smiling faces which welcomed me home after today certainly helped. Maybe that's the takeaway?
Have a good and safe week, everyone!
Best,
Jonathan
