The Women

10/28/92           6:30 a.m.   Verrettes. Now, after breakfast—I am not feeling so great. I am tired and have a bit of stomach dis-ease and dizziness. I've dug out the "Gummi Dolphins" I bought in the Miami airport. Perhaps I need a sugar-fix. In any event, Frantz Grandoit, the priest who drove us here to Verrettes, yesterday, and whose rectory we are staying at and whose room I was given, came in and chased down the little bird and released it through the window. Then, we affixed the shutters—no more birds that night.

Earlier in the evening, when I first entered Frantz’s room, I got this tremendous feeling of the presence of Teilhard de Chardin. Really strange. Trying to rationalize—maybe because three of the priests here are Frenchmen and Frantz teaches philosophy at the university and the room is lined with books and the room is rather Spartan. (Donkey braying now in the background).

Anyway, back to the Mass at the Hospice, yesterday, the first hymn was one based on Isaiah 61—one of my all-time favorites. The day was the Feast of Sts. Simon and Jude. Fr. Ron indicated Gail and I were being sent forth and he prayed for our safety. We made it here over unbelievable roads and through army check-points, so it must have worked.

After Mass, we went to Sans Fils Hospital located in Port-au-Prince. When we entered one of the large wards, the women sang songs of welcome for us—what a contrast, those sweet songs given to us from those dear ailing women. Then, Gail and I gave body rubs to the women in this jammed full ward of sick and dying. One appeared to be dead already—eyes rolled-up, no sign of breathing.

I got to use all sixteen words of my French—“C’est bon?” “Bon.” “Oui.” And, in a patchwork of sign-language and fractured French, I explained that I used to play games with the toes of my “petit bebe” when I bathed her. Then, I proceeded to play “This Little Piggy Went to Market” complete with “WEE WEE WEE all the way home” with their toes as I massaged their feet. Many smiled or chuckled. Some of the women we rubbed were horribly wasted (in every sense of the word). Hip bones protruding, breasts withered, skin broken out, subcutaneous lumps—all manner of illness—all bunched together. A strange consequence of those massages—the rubber gloves we wore and the lotion we used and the bodies we massaged combined to burn our fingers and temporarily erase our fingerprints. Symbolic meanings traced their ways through my thoughts.

All of this confused memory fragments striving to make whole cloth.

Port-au-Prince to Verrettes: Place and day blur

That evening, after dinner, Gail and I packed to leave for Verrettes the next day. Then, we moved out onto the balcony to socialize with the other people in residence. The individuals who ran Hospice St. Joseph, Sister Ann Weller, CSJ, and Fr. Ron Voss, are both from Indiana. There was a whole contingency of people from Indiana visiting here, too. They were with the Parish-Twinning Program. Also, there was retired priest, Fr. Joe Beckman, from Cincinnati here (he lives at the seminary in Cincy). Amazing to come all this way and meet up with home—or, at least, the area where I grew up and whose values I still share.

But, tomorrow, we would go to Verrettes (located in the Artibonite Valley) with a priest named Frantz Grandoit, O.P. We were told we would be put on a bus Thursday to wend our way back to Port-au-Prince on our own. My thought at that time, recorded in my journal: Tomorrow, we go to Verrettes—someone else’s home, someone else’s security—located in the most fertile valley in Haiti, the Artibonite, sequestered on the east and west by mountains, only approachable from the north or south ends of the island. So tomorrow we head north, then west, then south into the heart of the country. This is some adventure.

The next few days became a collage—even recalling them in my journal they came back to me as associated memories rather than chronically arranged happenings.

10/28/92          5:30 a.m.   Yesterday began and ended in a dream. Gail and I got up about five—after waking, as usual, with the chickens and dogs at four-fifteen. There was a heavy mist lying over Port-au-Prince, between the mountains, left over from the terrific rain the night before.

After breakfast with the staff and the gang from Indiana, Ron (Father Ron Voss, the priest from Muncie, Indiana, who runs the Hospice) had Mass—Creole and English. Gail read the First Reading and I did the Responsorial and the Gospel—first time I’ve ever read the Gospel at Mass. George came in during Mass. Afterwards, we had a short conference—found out we would be in Verrettes until Friday instead of Thursday. After George left, we went to Sans Fils with Sister Agatha.

Sans Fils is Mother Teresa of Calcutta’s home for the destitute and dying. As we drove through the entrance, we encountered a dead body lying at the gate. The man had been dropped there by the police. According to Sr. Agatha, this is not an uncommon occurrence. The police know the nuns will take care of burying the body and, consequently, dump bodies here. Now the body was lying there on the concrete and being bothered by flies while a couple of feet away the market was being set up.

Everywhere and always there is the smell of burning—charcoal, the garbage heaps—city and countryside alike, always the burning—and dogs that all look descended from the same dog. But very few birds—because the forests are gone. Last night in Verrettes, as I was getting ready to go to bed, something flew into the room. At first I thought it was a bat; but, when it fluttered to a resting spot, I saw it was a small bird. As I said, all of it connected—not by the clock but by an ancient instinct that understands the significance of patterns.