The extras

This, my friends, is the chicken coop. 

This, the chickens.

We call them "dinner". 



They can be happily scratching around in the dirt at one o'clock and be deliciously served to hungry workers at the evening meal. 

Martin is the resident dispatcher of chickens. 

He is multi-talented. 

He observed, a couple of days before we left, that the chickens seemed happier since being in our coop. As opposed to wherever they lived before coming to live at MBH. 

Yes, I thought, that would be a good motto for us.  

Even the chickens are happier at MamaBabyHaiti.

Until, you know....they're not!

Here's a gratuitous photo of the gang eating breakfast. I know it's breakfast because we have fruit on the plate and it's daylight. Dinner is eaten in the dark, by the light of a flashlight.

Our cook is Lucien, a man of the world. Legend has it that he was cook to a Mafia don. He was deported back to Haiti when the don was arrested. 

Hope I got that right!

Here is Lucien, standing outside his house with Sean.

Lucien can work magic in the dark on a propane stove. Mange apwa (I'm spelling phonetically here) means good things to eat when Lucien is on chef duty. He's also the go-to guy when you have to deal with the locals. Need your car fixing, food buying, taxi hiring? Lucien's the man. He takes nonsense from no one.

He has a young wife and this little darling girl, Carjioly. 

Say "casually" with a French accent and you have it.

I made some finger Jello (a nifty trick without refrigeration) and Carjioly, after turning up her nose at the first taste, decided it was delicious. She licked it out of Sarah's palm!

This is Jason, who helps with the garden and other outside projects. He is faithfully weeding the garden that Lisa and I planted. He has two sons who also work in the garden and house. 

There you have it, the rest of our cast of characters.

Tomorrow, the plot thickens.

Sa bon.

The characters

I want you to meet the cast of the show at MamaBabyHaiti. They are a truly awesome group of people, generous with their talents and time and lives.

First, the two young naturopathic doctors whose responsibility is the day-to-day running of the clinic and all of the logistics thus entailed. 

Lovely readers, I give you Sean and Sarah Hesler. 

The Heslers just graduated from medical school and are already out in the world, living their humanitarian philosophy. I am constantly awed by their commitment to provide compassionate medical care for the villagers of Moun Rouge. Sean has magic chiropractic fingers and is generous with his gift. Sarah just had her 27th birthday and bears her complicated responsibilities with grace. They have a vision for this job that goes way beyond childbirth and health clinics.

Next in the cast of alliterative couples is Misty and Martin. Misty is a student midwife and Martin is the chief handyman. I wish I had gotten a photo of Martin wielding his drill with the masonry bit, it was an impressive sight! Their stay in Haiti is more short-term but they have a long-term plan to return. I love these two and would adopt them as my own, except for the fact that they already have several parental types in their lives! Theirs is a calm presence and their firm Christian beliefs are a joy to behold. Two more people who are following God's plan for their lives.

Charles-Marie (pronounced Sharl-Marie) is a Haitian midwife who recently graduated from a school in Haiti. She has been hired on a trial basis by MBH and all of us hope it will be an amicable and long-term relationship. Charles-Marie speaks little English but she is affable and hard-working. She works at MBH in order to support her children, whom she is only able to visit once a month. She will be a boon to the work.

Zeenia is a schoolfriend of the Heslers and also recently graduated from medical school. She is in Haiti for three months, working on the medical end of things. Zeenia is unwaveringly upbeat and has an enthusiasm for life and work that is contagious. 

Santo is our translator. He was at school in Port-au-Prince when the earthquake disrupted his life. Santo took over the role of provider for his family when his Dad died and he supports his Mom and siblings with his earnings at MBH. School in Haiti is not free, so many people are illiterate. Santo longs to get back to school so that he can better his position in life. He speaks Creole, French, Spanish, and English. 

This is Edie, a midwife from North Carolina, formerly from Wis-cahn-son, who is at MBH for three months. I really like Edie. She is fearless and committed to providing good maternity care for the mamas of Haiti, yet humble enough to let the other midwives make decisions and get the experience that they need. She is also a wife, mom, and grandma, who has left that all behind for a season to do this work. 

Add to these people the three of us who traveled over together, a handful of Haitian employees who do the cooking and cleaning and other tasks necessary to keeping a small community working smoothly, and you have a complete cast of characters. 

I miss them already.

The location

I thought you would better understand my experience here if I first showed you my surroundings.
This is the house in which MamaBabyHaiti resides. It's a rather grand afffair, by Haitian standards, and is surrounded by similar houses, only most of them stand uninhabited and in various states of construction. One gets the feeling that they have been that way for some time and will remain so for some time to come. This house is not owned by MBH, but was renovated by them to its present state.
Remember, you can always click on the photos to enlarge.

This is the post-partum recovery room on the ground floor.  

Our drinking water. We have been without a car all week (one of those long, frustrating yet hilarious Haitian stories) so collecting new bottles involves a motorbike and good balance.

The swimming pool.
Don't ask.
But remember this for later.

Banana trees in the garden. Haitian bananas are quite delicious, even when they are in a state of what I would normally consider over-ripeness.

Bins of supplies, some of which were donated by you, my lovely readers.

Shelves filled with natural and pharmaceutical remedies.

A corner of the garden and the big old wall that separates us from the rest of the world. We have been outside a couple of times this week, but our experience has been mostly inside this compound.

We are surrounded by concrete. This wall around one of the upstairs patios cracks me up, because it looks like nicely turned wood. It is, in fact, concrete. We see the vertical supports for sale along the roads. They are sold in two sections and then cemented together on site.

Ah yes.

This is the room where we lie awake at night, listening to cows mooing, dogs barking, roosters crowing, and the frog in the pool bellowing.

Yes.

I said bellowing.

I have named him "Satan" for good reason.

The sitting room, where we talk at night by the light of a flashlight or hit the computers every time the power comes on.

Like now.

It's 2:30 a.m. and I'm going to bed.

Lisa and I are heading to the Dominican Republic (henceforth refered to as "the DR") in the morning. Hopefully we can find wi-fi when we get to Santa Domingo and the story will continue.

The beginning

Can I just say that the internet in Haiti is an interesting experience?

First, you have to catch it when the electricity is on, which is only at random times each day.

If you're lucky.

It is also very slow.

So here we go!

The trip to Haiti is convoluted and full of opportunities for error. I spent Friday on planes and in airports. My life that day seemed to run in three-hour increments. It started with an early rising, 4am, and meeting my fellow traveler, Ashlin, at PDX. The first leg, to Chicago, I was squished between an elderly couple. His wife spent some time running through the litany of dear husband's ailments and surgeries. I can't recall all of them, but there were four hip replacements, five hernias, cancer, Coumadin and Crestor and so many others that I was surprised he was still kicking. I almost forgave him for the coffee breath he wafted in my face every time he turned to look out the window.

The flight from Chicago to Long Island was delayed. When we finally boarded, I sank into the front window seat with relief. Handsome young thing in the aisle seat and I exchanged triumphant sidelong glances as the last passenger boarded without usurping our middle seat. Too soon, it turned out. A chic young lady dashed on at the last minute and asked, Is it okay if I sit there? Our sidelong glance was disappointed. CYT proceeded to fall asleep on my shoulder. When she awoke, very embarrassed, she confessed that she had imbibed a couple of beers while waiting for the flight. She then plugged in her iPod and sang out loud for the rest of the flight.

Which was kind of like sitting next to myself.

Only more annoying.

The rest of the trip to Fort Lauderdale was fairly uneventful. We found a nice Haitian porter to load up our six humongous bags and bins and caught the shuttle to our hotel. Our driver was also Haitian. Apparently, there is no lack of Haitians in Florida. We did our fair share in supporting Haiti's economy right there in FL. Tips rule! Lisa was waiting for us at the hotel. By the time we arrived it was 11pm and we had to be up again at 3am.

Good times.

After about one hour of sleep (note to Lisa: I do not snore. You heard yourself, ina dream!) and a nice hot shower, we went back to the airport with our (now) seven humongous bags and bins and various carry-ons and accoutrements. Check-in was very unique. No security on this one. Baggage overages cost around $500. MamaBabyHaiti sent lots of supplies with us, as it is the most efficient way of getting them there.

So, here we are.

Me, looking decidedly worse for wear.

And feeling it, let me tell you.

Lisa, my intrepid world traveler friend. 

Ashlin, a young thing with a big vision. 

And the mighty propeller, of which there were two. And I'm happy to report that they kept spinning all the way to Haiti! 

The airport at Cap Haitien is not a place that I would recommend arriving alone, or without people to meet you. The porters are crazily aggressive and demand their five pounds of flesh. Our people shepherded us to the waiting car and we got out of there without too much damage. Driving through the city was an adventure in itself. Roads are full of potholes, often just mud and rocks. People just hang out on the sides of the roads, watching as you drive past. Motorbikes, spewing fumes, and taptaps, the ubiquitous pickups crammed full of people, are the main sources of transportation.

I cannot say that Haiti is a joyful place. The glances that followed us were not friendly or even curious. I sense a lack of purpose, of any kind of thought for what happens beyond this moment in time. Cap Haitien itself is dirty and smelly and I can't imagine living in such a place. It is the second largest city in Haiti, but does not look very big from the air. There are no street signs and every road looks the same, differing only in the degradation of the surface.

We are in the village of Morne Rouge, which is green and tropical and has a certain beauty, if you can get past the cement and trash and the knowledge of the poverty and lack of enlightenment that hides behind every wall. The problems on this island are so immense and so ingrained into the psyche of its people that it boggles the mind. I've been reading everything I can get my hands on about Haiti. Knowing the history does lend some measure of understanding of the Haitians' plight, but it does not offer an easy solution.

I need to go to bed. Hopefully, tomorrow we will have electricity again and I can introduce you to the amazingly wonderful people who are manning this birth centre. Till then, nighty night, and say a "thank you" tonight for your clean water and your 24-hour-a-day electricity and all of the other trappings of civilization.



Things that made me happy yesterday

Vacuum-sealed apricots, milk chocolate and cinnamon chips.

I got great deals on them and figured they would hold their quality better this way.

Did I mention how much I love my vacuum sealer, even though I paid more than I could have if I'd waited another six months for the Screaming Penny deal?

Sigh.

Must.Stop.Thinking.About.It.

Oh, and the eggs off in the northeast corner?

Fifty cents a dozen at Grocery Outlet.

The checker was very surprised when I told her that many foods were just fine after the expiration date, eggs included.

Little Jeff stayed and played with me for a while last night.
The furnace is broken. Lucky for us we have a wood stove.

My second bag is almost packed for Haiti.

It's a monster. I'm going to have to abandon my principles and rent a cart at the airport.

Unless I can find one that someone else has abandoned.

A cart, that is.

Not a principle.

Today is our 31st anniversary.

I'm going to hustle around as soon as I post this and make Jeff one of his favourite dinners.

And work on my apology list.

It's quite long.

Culinary mysteries

All things in life have a learning curve.

I can pinpoint the very day that my culinary education began. Well, maybe not the day, but the occasion and the year. It was 1967 and our family had moved to New Zealand a few months earlier. I was eleven years old and I think I had nursed a hankering to cook for some time, but my only experience prior to this had been making butterfly cakes for a Brownie badge. Butterfly cakes are a staple at any English child's party and I loved to eat them. If I recall correctly, I mostly watched while Mum made them. I don't think she really knew how to teach her skills to someone else. I always felt a bit guilty about that badge.

I digress.

For some reason, Mum relented and let me make dinner.
Actually, it was probably Dad's idea. I can hear him now: Else, just let her try!
Mashed potatoes, good New Zealand sausage, peas, and gravy was on the menu.
My favourite foods.
I remember well the feeling of satisfaction when dinner was finally cooked and ready to serve. To coordinate the preparation of all of the dishes so that they were ready to eat at the same time seemed a task of monumental proportions.
Do you recall that feeling?
Do you still ever get that feeling?

Over the years, there have been a few mysteries in my kitchen.
The first one was beans.
My only exposure to beans for the first twenty five years of my life was what we English call baked beans. Pork and beans to you Americans.
Beans on toast.
I ate it for lunch almost every day during high school.
Some innovative Kiwis, back when pizza parlours were new to the country in the 70's, put them on pizza.
I thought it was delicious.
Canned spaghetti was another favourite topping.

Fast forward to the second year of our marriage.
I received a Betty Crocker Cookbook  as a wedding present and I used it frequently. I discovered that a) Jeff loved refried beans and b) you could make your own.
In my defense, it was before the word  Rosarita entered my vocabulary.
In our early days of extreme poverty, my darling husband would eat a plateful of my homemade refried beans and call it delicious.
Then, my best friend gave me some white beans. I boiled and boiled and boiled them and they would not soften. I mashed them anyway and Jeff ate crunchy refries for a while.
Never complaining.
I discovered later that old beans just never do soften, no matter how long you cook them.
They make good filler for bean bags, but seriously, how many bean bags can one person use?
Lesson #1.
Don't accept gifts of old beans, no matter how good a friend offers them or how broke you are.


The second problem with beans happened to me a couple of times before I figured out it out. For some reason, the beans again would not soften. This time, though, it was because I had added tomatoes while cooking them. The acid had caused the seed coating to toughen and the beans never got tender.
Lesson #2.
Never add salt, acid, or molasses (calcium) to beans before they are fully cooked.


My latest little quandary occurred last night. I started some potatoes cooking before I started piano lessons in the afternoon so that Jeff wouldn't have to wait very long for his dinner. I brought them to the boil and then covered the pot and turned off the element, thinking that by the time I was ready to finish the corn chowder the potatoes would be mostly cooked. To my dismay, when I came back to finish the soup I could not get those little diced potatoes to soften. We finally ate the soup with slightly crunchy potatoes. I dimly recalled having the same problem at least once before, so I decided to do a little research.
Google to the rescue!
"Potatoes won't cook" yielded the answer.
Slight heat pulls the starch from the potato and sets it on the surface of the vegetable, preventing any further cooking. One way to get around this is using red potatoes, which have less starch than other varieties.
Lesson #3.
Don't parboil potatoes.


Now, if you want to read a rippingly good culinary mystery, try Diane Mott Davidson's Goldy the Caterer series. Nice clean stories with delightful characters, lots of murder and mayhem, and terrific recipes to boot.

And if you want more information on cooking beans, because there is more to it than meets the eye, go here.

You can thank me later.

Pink becomes her

This was taken by a fourteen-year-old young lady of our acquaintance.
She has an unusual eye for perspective and editing.
To say the least.
Her photos are art more than portrait.

I wonder what she will be doing in five or ten years?