Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse... but that's because we have 3 cats.
Everyone's in bed, except Jenna, who's out on the porch talking with "the boys" -- Judenel, Ronald, and Jonald, our trusty security guys and driver. Our one volunteer, the wonderful Carrie Vogelsang, is finishing her three-week stay with us and will be making me laugh as I say a very emotional goodbye to Hinche. Caroline, the incoming In-Country Coordinator, is sick with Chikungunya (lafyev or Chikun) -- what a welcome!
It's my last night, and I'm sitting in my mostly empty room ("mostly," because I'm leaving behind quite a bit of stuff, actually, for the other staff to enjoy) at a loss for, well, anything. It's so hot that I can't wait to shower for the second time today, it's so late that I will fall into bed when I get there, but I somehow can't get myself to move. I feel a lot that I can't articulate. What should I be feeling?
This past Sunday, we planned a staff party, just like Carrie did last year. It was a chance to celebrate all of our staff for the hard work they do, plus it was the perfect occasion to say goodbye and to introduce my replacement, Caroline. I surprised everyone (especially myself) by sobbing like a child during my goodbye speech. It meant a lot to me, because I wrote it out in Creole on my own and the theme was "family." I thanked each family member (Eliette, my grandma; Davide, my dad; Solimène, my sister, etc.) and inserted a few jokes. I don't know how much of it was heard through my tears, deep breaths, and American accent (not to mention Emmanuel's respire, 1,2, resounding throughout -- his attempt at calming me down by using the neonatal resuscitation pattern), but the act itself went appreciated. Then, a representative of each"group" -- e.g. the mobile clinic midwives, the preceptors, the house staff, etc. -- stood up and said a little something. Amusingly, the recurrent theme was that everyone thought I was a timoun, a child, when I first came, but how they were surprised at how much I knew and was able to do.
I think it's like that for everyone. There's such a huge learning curve -- and Caroline is doing fabulously well at shrinking it! -- that everyone comes in as a timoun. After a few weeks, you're speaking Creole sentences, then you're remembering when to pay taxis or when not to, what a Haitian dollar is, which market lady sells the biggest cabbage -- and you're bargaining with her for the Haitian price. It all comes with time.
Tomorrow, I leave. Most of the staff has said goodbye. There have been a few tears, and some staff just avoided goodbyes altogether (it's a Haitian thing). Bon vwayaj, they all say. Kilè w'ap toune ankò? they ask. I can't wait to come back. I'm already hoping that for spring break next year, I'll be able to hop on a plane to Port-Au-Prince. I guess we'll see. I don't think my work is entirely done here.
I suppose I'll go the cliché route and say that all I can feel is bittersweetness -- and that it really hasn't hit me yet. Honestly, I'm sort of afraid I'll get back to America and hate it. Everyone in America wakes up and grumbles that they haven't had their coffee yet, whereas Haitians jump up at 6 am, and kiss you on the cheek with a kijan ou ye? and a pa pli mal, no? In some ways, I'm ready to indulge, but in other ways, I'm going to miss the familiarity of the culture I'm getting to know more and more over time, I'm going to miss the simplicity of the language and the topics everyone talks about that never get old, and the moto rides and the dust in my eyes, and the sunsets from that hill behind the house. I don't think this will be my last post because I'm not completely ready to say goodbye yet.
