Gilberte had sent me an email in the fall, asking whether I could help her find other donors. The government’s money had not come through, and she didn’t know how she would continue. I had been polite but firm: No. I didn’t think I could find the right people from Senegal, and I was tired.
My donations to Muspan might have ended, but I still felt attached to the school. I phoned Gilberte a number of times, trying to schedule a visit, but she never responded, so I just dropped in one morning. A surprise visit would produce more honest results anyway, I figured.
I braced myself to be confronted by a brochure for aid failure: dirty, half-empty, teachers missing. Instead, what greeted me was full classes, teachers instructing, the floors more or less clean.
The building sounded the same, too. The singing voices of the grade-three class rang through the halls. They weren’t performing for me, though; it was part of their lesson.
On the door of the administration office was a list of twenty-two students who had written the national grade-six exam; only one had failed. Clearly the new teachers were working out.
Gilberte wasn’t there, so I headed downtown to Institut Louis Pasteur in search of her. Where there was once a large pile of rubble, I now sized up a three-story building made of concrete and turquoise metal siding. Students in beige nursing uniforms lined the thin halls, waiting for their next class. Gilberte had done it: she’d rebuilt her college.
I found her in a small office made entirely of wood, working at a desk cluttered with papers, a computer, and a television. Photos of her grandkids were tacked to the wall behind her, along with the school’s certificates. She was wearing a long white dress, and a big red cross hung from a cord around her neck.
She saw me in the doorway and gasped. “You’re here! It is great to see you,” she said.
She gave no sign of resentment from our argument the previous year, nor a guilt trip about money, as I had feared. Instead, Gilberte directed one of her staff to go out and buy me lunch, and as we ate, she laid down one piece of good news after another, like a blackjack dealer. The gap between her front two teeth beamed from her smiling lips.
She had rebuilt both schools using her old system: her profits from the nursing college were funding most of Muspan. She was still hoping the government would fund all six classes at Muspan, and if that happened, she’d use her money to build another school for poor children.
“We have a Haitian proverb,” she said. “ ‘De lajan pa goumen. Two monies don’t fight.’ ”
She had recently turned seventy but wasn’t slowing down.
It had all worked out. My instincts four years before had proven right. I’d found a committed local activist and my money and efforts had greased her wheels long enough to get her cart moving again. Instead of being crestfallen, as I had expected, I felt like I could fly.
When I asked Gilberte how she had done it, she said she would be happy to go through the accounting books with me—but only if I committed to be her partner again. I shook my head and she laughed.
“I know, Catreen,” she said as we hugged good-bye. “We will never forget what you’ve done.”
• • •
So the project I thought had crashed and burned—Gilberte’s school—was a full-on success, and the project I’d thought was proceeding well—Enel’s business—had crashed and burned. The more I learned about Haiti, the less I knew.
I decided to spend the earthquake’s fourth anniversary with Lovely and her family. They were going to church, so Richard and I met them there, dressed in appropriate church-going attire at 7:00 in the morning. We were an hour late.
The family’s church was so simple that it felt only half-built. Wide-brim straw hats and leis made from plastic flowers nailed to the rough concrete pillars were the only adornments. Two clocks at the front were broken, stopped at different times.
Women sat on the simple wooden pews, listening to a Bible lesson about moneylenders. The men and children were downstairs, in the school—the same one where Elistin had once considered enrolling Lypse.
I sat halfway back with Rosemene and her family. Partway through the talk, Lovely climbed onto my lap. If the locals wondered about me, no one showed it. But soon after the pastor began to deliver his sermon, he asked about Richard’s and my presence.
Rosemene stood up and announced: “These people helped save my daughter on January 12.”
Sitting on that hard bench, in the middle of a church that would surely fall if there was another earthquake, I wondered: Did I really help? What are the fruits of all my love and concern and efforts? Are Lovely and her extended family any better off than they were four years ago, when I met her for the second time and first offered to pay for her schooling?
The group around me prayed loudly, waving their arms in the air, shouting their thanks to God and shaking their bodies. I stayed seated and bowed my head in my own humble way. Haiti’s earthquake had sent me to church, and four years later I was still going. I still wasn’t sure what kind of a God I believed in, but I did believe in a connected universe. Inside my head, I asked whoever had set me on this path to show me how to proceed.
Chances were good that Lovely’s life would never be easy. She might step out of misery, but she’d likely remain poor. So what were my reasons for giving more? And when would I stop being a benefactor and return to being a pure journalist again? What would I lose if I did that?
I’d been wandering around the forest of development for the past four years, with only my guts and heart to guide me. I had broken the journalistic rules of detachment and objectivity. Now it was time to set some new ones—for my own benefit.
In my head, I decided I would form a small security net for the family by continuing to send their children to school and maintaining the hospital account indefinitely. But that was it. I could not fix all their problems or buy their way out of poverty. That trap was too great for one person to overcome.
After church, we returned to Lovely’s house, where I sat alone with Rosemene in the shade of two banana trees, just the two of us. The kids were playing, and Rosemene washed their white uniform T-shirts in a big plastic tub.
In my rudimentary Kreyòl, I told her how sad I was that my help had not changed things for them. I wondered, in fact, if the jealousy my presence had created had done them more harm than good.
Rosemene dropped the wet shirt in her hand, shook off the soap, and reached over to touch my shoulder.
“Oh, Katrin. We love you,” she said. “You’ve done so much for us. Our life is so much easier than it would have been.”
Sure there was maji and jealousy. But the good was more powerful. Every time she made food, Rosemene sent a plate to her neighbors, and they did the same.
“God is greater,” she said.
Rosemene was right: she would always remain poor, but perhaps Lovely would not. Success stories did happen. I had to pace myself and take a longer view.
I asked Rosemene an echo of the question I’d asked four years before, the one that got me into this mess: If she had the money, how would she celebrate today? Her answer was much simpler than enrolling her daughter in school.
“I’d buy some pop and lettuce and tomatoes and black mushroom rice and French peas and chicken, and we’d have a big feast,” she said.
That seemed like a pretty easy thing to do. I gave Richard some money and asked him if he could go buy us lunch at the Fermathe market. He returned carrying Styrofoam containers heavy with all the things we’d asked for.
Just as we were about to dig in, Elistin arrived.
“My head is so full, I forgot it was January 12,” he said. He poured a glass of pop and raised it to the table. “Here’s to Lovely’s party.”
After we’d finished eating, I grabbed my phone and played a moody song by Adele. Then I grabbed Lovely’s small hands and we danced.
She flashed a wide smile at me, revealing three new adult teeth—each one white and huge.
Chapter 14<
br />
Coming Home
No one was expecting me back in Haiti other than Richard. It was January 2015, and I had returned for the fifth anniversary of the earthquake. I had phoned both Rosemene and Elistin repeatedly since Christmas, when my plans had crystallized, but I hadn’t gotten through to either of them. It seemed they had lost their phones or their batteries had died, because they never even rang.
So, my first morning back, Richard and I drove up to Fermathe to drop in on Lovely unannounced. We were barreling down the gloriously paved main road from the Fermathe market, when I spotted Jenanine, Lovely’s neighbor, walking with a jug of water balanced on her head. We slowed down to say hello and an adult-sized frown spread across her face until she recognized who we were. Then she smiled like a kid again. She told us Lovely had moved, then climbed into the back seat to direct us.
It had been a year since my last visit. A lot had happened in my life. Graeme, the kids, and I had moved home from Senegal, and I’d returned to the newsroom. I’d called Rosemene every month or so—until her phone was disconnected—and she had never mentioned the move. Mind you, the family seemed to move every year, so maybe she didn’t think it was news worth mentioning. Her stock response to almost every question I asked was “It’s good, thanks to God.”
Jenanine directed us up the dirt road that led to Elistin’s old home. We continued past the place where the mysterious white man had rescued the car between sips of red wine, and she told us to park at a fence made entirely of corrugated metal. This was it.
I pushed through the fence to find a large freshly swept dirt yard bordered on two sides by banana trees whose heavy seeds hung around their necks like pendants. The house was modest, but graceful: a sturdy brown box adorned simply by some finished concrete stairs leading up to a black metal door.
Standing there and taking it all in, I sensed some movement from the corner of the yard. Lovely was crouching on the ground beside Venessaint, staring at us. Her eyes were dark and hard, taking me in suspiciously as an intruder. But when she recognized us, her mouth untwisted and stretched into a grin, and she rushed into my embrace.
We laughed and spun around. I was amazed at how much her body had grown and her face had lengthened. Her hair was carefully braided into little cornrows and she was wearing one of Lyla’s cast-off pink dresses that finally fit, a year after I had given it to her. She smiled widely, revealing even more new teeth.
What had she and Venessaint been doing?
“We were pretending to make a big lunch,” she said.
What were they cooking?
“Rice and beans,” she responded.
Suddenly, Jonathan was there, smiling shyly and revealing two empty spaces where his front teeth had been. He took my hand. He had been in a nearby yard playing soccer and heard the commotion.
“Where are your mom and dad?” I asked them.
“Dad is at work. And Mom is at the hospital,” Lovely said.
“Why is she at the hospital? Is she sick?” I asked.
“No. It’s for the bebe,” she responded.
By “baby,” I assumed she meant Ananstania, who was now nearing two.
Lovely and Jonathan took both of my hands and gave me a tour of their new place. Inside the door was a small parlor, its walls painted a cheerful pink and its floor smoothly polished. There was a kitchen table and the four chairs I had bought, and their kitchenware was neatly laid out across a shelf. A door led into the bedroom, with their single bed pushed to one side.
On it lay Ananstania, sprawled facedown and fast asleep.
So, the bebe at the hospital with Rosemene clearly wasn’t her. Richard hauled my duffel bag containing rad kenedi from the car, and I pulled out a soccer ball I had brought for Jonathan and a puzzle for Lovely. It was quickly apparent that Lovely had never seen a puzzle before, so I spread out all the pieces on the kitchen table and showed her how to look for ones that fit together. She was pounding at mismatching pieces when Rosemene arrived.
One look at her, and I understood what Lovely had meant by “the bebe.” Rosemene was pregnant. She was wearing a dark dress, which clung to her swelling belly.
I felt deflated. How was Rosemene going to care for another child? My dread quickly morphed to anger. How could she let this happen again? She had promised that Ananstania would be her last child! She knew she couldn’t afford another baby. How foolish of her!
I tried to swallow my emotions and greet her warmly with kisses on each cheek. She smiled weakly and sank her cheek into her hand.
She was seven months pregnant. Seven months! Why hadn’t she told me?
“I was embarrassed,” she responded. She knew I would be disappointed, and, in truth, so was she.
“Enel cried when he found out I was pregnant,” she said. “So did I. I didn’t want any more kids. We don’t have the means to take care of them.”
Her wrists looked swollen to me. And now that I took a closer look, so did her ankles and feet. Was she feeling okay?
“My head hurts,” she said. “And my neck.”
My anger turned to concern. What had the doctor told her at her checkup?
“They said I had preeclampsia,” she said.
No one I knew in Canada had suffered from preeclampsia during their pregnancy. But it was common in Haiti and extremely dangerous. The high blood pressure could cut off circulation to the growing baby, causing developmental delays or brain damage. That was if the mother didn’t have a stroke, killing both of them.
Doctors weren’t sure why the rates in Haiti were so high, but they guessed it was genetic, and the Haitian diet of salt and grease didn’t help. While poverty wasn’t the cause, it did mean the disease often went untreated, as women couldn’t afford the prenatal checkup fees. It was the main culprit for the country’s devastating maternal mortality rates.
The only cure was delivering the baby. Usually, doctors tried to reduce the pregnant woman’s hypertension until her fetus was developed enough to be delivered by C-section. Sure enough, the nurse had told Rosemene she needed an operation. What concerned me, though, was that the local hospital couldn’t treat her.
“Did they refer you somewhere?” I asked.
“Non.”
This made absolutely no sense to me. I knew the hospital had planned surgeries; I had seen the operating rooms. And the account I had set up there would cover the cost. So why wouldn’t they admit her?
I grabbed my cell phone and emailed the hospital administration for an explanation. Then I sent Rosemene to bed and told her I would look after the kids until Enel got home from work. She needed to rest and keep her blood pressure down until we could figure out which hospital to admit her to.
The kids and I dug through my bag of treats and clothing, pulling out clothes and books and pens. Lovely put on a fashion show for me, trying on each new dress and sashaying back and forth across the floor. We chewed through my supply of granola bars.
Enel returned dusty and tired from a construction site. He’d had another motorcycle accident last summer and decided to park the bike indefinitely. He wanted to sell it and buy another one that had no curse on it. Rosemene chirped from the bedroom that she wanted him to sell it and buy a cow.
“You can do what you like with it, Enel,” I said. I wasn’t happy it hadn’t worked out, but I accepted that I wasn’t in control. “It’s your motorcycle, your business, and your responsibility.”
When I crept into the dark bedroom to say good-bye to Rosemene, she was lying on her side on the room’s single bed, a scarf wrapped tightly around her head. The hospital hadn’t even given her Tylenol for her headaches. What use was an account at a hospital if they didn’t treat you? I was going to get to the bottom of this.
The next morning the hospital administrator called. There had been a mistake, he said. Rosemene should come back to the hospital immediately. I couldn’t uncover why she’d been turned away initially, but at least I could rest easy knowing she would now be safe.
�
� • •
The same couldn’t be said of the reconstruction of Haiti in general. The center of Port-au-Prince was dotted with fences like the one penning in Lovely’s yard, each of them painted red and stamped with the government’s slogan: “Haiti Ap Vanse”—“Haiti is advancing.” But only a couple had any signs of construction on the other side. Tòl wouj—red barricade—had become a Kreyòl saying for a bluff.
Richard and I drove north through Cité Soleil’s shacks to visit Haiti’s housing dreams: a 2-hectare (4.9-acre) housing expo that had opened in the summer of 2011 with the name “Building Back Better Communities.”
That year some sixty-five international and national firms had been selected to erect their model homes, each of which would be given to a carefully selected family of earthquake victims. I wanted to check if that had happened. It didn’t take long to discover it hadn’t. The site seemed like an abandoned theme park, with each house more bizarre than the last. There was a wooden log cottage that seemed straight out of the Swiss Alps; a Florida-style beach cabin up on stilts so the tides presumably could pass underneath; a house with two concrete roofs that stuck up in the air like upside-down ice cream cones. Each one had a family living in it, but none of the ones I interviewed were earthquake victims. They had simply come and taken the house, and no one had stopped them.
It made no sense. Of the 160,000 new homes the government had hoped to build after the earthquake, fewer than 10,000 had gone up around the country, and those precious commodities had not been safeguarded. And it wasn’t just housing that had been a complete bust. I asked Richard to drive to a sewage treatment plant I had toured a couple of years before. Sewage plants were not the kind of thing that excited me, but cholera had shown me how crucial they were for human health.
The plant consisted of six vinyl-lined pits that used nothing but sunlight, wind, and natural bacteria to transform human waste into compost and clean water. It had seemed the perfect design for a poor country: low-tech, eco-friendly, relatively cheap to operate.
A Girl Named Lovely Page 24
