Going Home

It's ten o'clock at night on my last night in Haiti. I am staying at a guesthouse in Port au Prince and I can't sleep. I can hear the soft breathing of a lady in a bed next to mine. From somewhere nearby I hear Josh Groban belting out You Raise Me Up. A baby goat is crying and a moto is passing in the street. A gentle breeze passes through the room. Two hours ago I "had sleep in my eyes," as the saying goes in Creole. Now sleep seems as far away as the States.

There are no words to describe the past three months, not even in Creole, the language even my dreams are speaking. There were so many moments when I was ready to be home. I was ready to be in my own space, to study without mosquitoes circling, and to feel a small sense of control over my life. Now all I can think about is how soon I can return. How I'll bring this but not that, more toothpaste, less conditioner. I'll plan my travel better. I'll see more friends before journeying west to Jérémie. I suppose this heartache at leaving is an indication of a time well spent.

Tonight has been a night of inquiry, both internal and external. People in guesthouses are quick with certain questions: what have you been doing here, where do you come from, how long have you been here, etcetera. Most questions are easily answered. It's that first question that continues to confound me. What have I been doing here? Beyond taking vitals, making friends, painting walls and scrubbing floors, I've been doing lots of listening. With that has come learning, and with that has been days, weeks and months of contemplation.

From this I know that I want to be a doctor. I know that I want to continue to be involved in Haiti. I know that these two things are not incongruous. The question is, how married are they? Do I want to return as Dr. Wolf has, for years and years on end? Do I feel it worthwhile to the country's long term development goals to come back on shorter terms?

I grew interested in medicine because previous time in Haiti exposed me to its practicality. The medical care of a physician is a precious commodity. It has no alternatives and in many areas, is difficult to find. It is my goal to be able to offer physician's services to those without access to them, both here in Haiti, back in the States, and all over the world.

I suppose before I can do that I have to go home.

Until next time Haiti,

Hannah

The 7 Senses

As many of you know, while here in Haiti I have been religiously studying for the MCAT. Part of my studies in biology focused on the senses we use to experience our environment. Most of you are familiar with the 5 senses we are taught in primary school: sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch. But did you know there are two more that are integral to our existence? They are proprioception (the ability to feel within our bodies) and equilibrium (the balance on which we rely to navigate our world).

Here in Haiti we live in a very sensory world.

Everywhere we go we are visually bombarded. We see the countless people walking along the sides of the road, carrying water in 5-gallon buckets on their heads and wearing the brightest of colors. We smile at the children in a dozen different school uniforms riding four to a motorcycle on their way to school. We pass miles of concrete block walls, each hand painted with the name of a business or an advertisement for cell service, beverages of all variety, or condoms. We are surrounded by the endless hills cutting into the horizon, the rich green leaves of the breadfruit trees and the cheery hibiscus flowers that line the fences.

All the while we are smelling the dust of the street, the charcoal fires beneath the banann peze (fried plantains) and the diesel exhaust of the cameon trucks that sustain economy here. Saturday morning we awoke to my favorite smell: fresh rain on warm dirt. My nose was in heaven as I remembered summer storms from my childhood. We breathe the scents of citronella candles and bug spray, fresh laundry, and the ocean breeze.

As I write this, I hear the passing of a rara band in the street outside our gate. Today is Carnival, a day for music and dancing, costumed revelry and drumming. The drumming carries the celebration across the city and the sound of people is nearly drowned out by the pulsing beats. Due to the holiday today, last night was also a time for congregational singing at the nearby church. I went to sleep around 11:00 with the hymns reverberating around my concrete-wall room. The chorus of a dozen songs were belted out by a congregation not afraid to sing off key. The few musical instruments they have are played by people inexperienced in playing them; nevertheless, it is a joyful noise. This morning when I awoke at 6:30 they had either kept singing or already started again. Silence is a rare commodity here!

The sensory overload continues in the taste department with no complaint from me! Haitian coffee with raw brown sugar, fresh mangoes straight from the tree, pikliz on rice and beans that will clear your sinuses in a second, and this morning- hot drinking chocolate made with Haitian cacao and spices destined to remain top secret.

The skin as a sense organ is a mixed blessing. Without it, I would never know the fresh relief of a plunge in the Caribbean, the strength of the wind in a storm or the joy of a kiss on the cheek from Marie-Marthe, my new adopted grandmother. However, I would also be free from the agony of bug bites on knuckles and feet!

The last two senses, proprioception and equilibrium are more difficult to share with you in text. I could try to describe the churn in my gut after I find a worm in my half-eaten mango (better than a half-eaten worm I suppose!) Instead, I would like to describe my experience with proprioception as the feeling inside of me that tells me I'm exactly where I am supposed to be right now and doing exactly what I should be doing. The sense that tells me at the end of the day, everything is going to be alright and the good of humanity will continue to conquer the evil. I could try to impart equilibrium as the way I tumble in the back of the Toyota as we slip and slide up and down the mountain after the recent rains. I would rather describe it in a more personal way. I enjoy my days spent in balance - both immersed in Haitian culture, speaking Creole, as well as spending time in my room or on the balcony, communicating with you and studying the wonders of all our senses.