Peanut Butter, Spam, and an Ounce of Humanity

It has been customary on my trips to Haiti to fill a checked bag with supplies. This trip was no different, and Jeanne and I spent a good deal of my packing time alternately shifting items between the suitcase and my small backpack trying to get the checked bag under 54 pounds. After many trips back and forth to our bathroom scale, we nailed it at 53 even. My backpack was bursting at the seams.

I was feeling confident when I set my bag on American Airlines scale at 4:45am the next morning.

“Mr. Mayo, you’re overweight by over three pounds,” the ticket agent said, “If you can try moving some things to you pack, it will save you a hundred dollar charge.”

Don’t even ask me where I got the notion the limit was 54 pounds, and not 50. It was a late night.

“I’ve already stuffed my pack, and there’s not a free square inch,” I replied.

“Well, it’s worth a try. That’s a lot of money,” he countered.

With his prodding, I dragged my bag and pack across the atrium to the wooden benches where I could re-engage in suitcase Jenga. The strategy of course was to find the smallest, densest item I could somehow fit in my pack, or just carry in my hand. I pulled out one of a pair of two pound peanut butter jars and walked it over to the counter to show the agent.

“Nope, that won’t make it through TSA,” he said.

I return dejected, force the peanut butter back in the bag, and pulled out a can of Spam. When walked back to the counter I held it over the heads of the customers already in line and got his attention. He squinted at it, waved me over, and pulled another customer’s suitcase off the scale and replaced it with the Spam.

“That will make it through TSA, but it’s only 0.7 pounds, do you have more?”

I had three, in fact.

“You’re into the basics, Mr. Mayo,” he said.

I replied, “I’m headed to Haiti. It’s all about the basics.”

The agent tilted his head down and slightly to the side. With an expression of earnestness, yet warmth, he said, “I understand completely.”

Back at the benches, I squeezed three Spams into my backpack side pockets, and the agent motioned me to the front of the long line. The scale displayed 50.9 pounds. I was defeated.

The agent smiled, “Mr. Mayo, that does NOT say 51 pounds, so in my book that makes it 50. You have a wonderful trip.”

Swing

The meadow pond. Late afternoon. I slid the old, weathered canoe off the bank into the water. It was cool, but the sun was strong and it warmed my bare back. As I trolled the shoreline, bass and bluegill eyed me curiously. The water was flat and every tree reflected its perfect twin. 

Impulsively I dug deep. The bow rose and the canoe accelerated. Another deep stroke with a perfect “J” to hold the bow. I dug again, strong measured strokes, my ash wood paddle an extension of my arms. 

I held form careful not to graze the gunnel. Muscle memory took over, along with another long-forgotten memory. At fourteen I had won all my summer camp mid-season canoe races. Those competing canoes were only ghosts now, but the exhilaration was the same. 

In rowing there is a term the swing - "an elusive sensation of near-perfection; a state in which all rowers in the boat are seemingly in a symphony of harmonic motion, with no wasted energy." I don't know if there is an equivalent term in canoeing, but now almost forty years later, if only for a brief time, my “swing” was back.

Olisiane

Sunday Evening. Matthew 25 House. Haiti. The World Racers* arrived for dinner, and Mariah turned in her bench to ask me how I spent my afternoon.

“Painting with the ladies,” I said.

“Oh wow. Do you paint at home?”

I smiled, “Not a lick. I just do as I’m told.”

I hoped my smile conveyed what no words could describe, about how much more my afternoon had become, by listening more carefully to “what I was told” …

 
Res had sat me down in a porch chair with Olisiane, a beautiful resident. He squeezed globs of acrylic paint onto a pallet and remarked, “I hope you feel inspired, Man.” The truth is I didn’t. I didn’t know how to paint, and I didn’t think this would turn out. I set a blank canvas on Olisiane’s lap hoping she would take the brush. Nope.

My mind was elsewhere… maybe I could help in the kitchen. Maybe I could do a menial task in the courtyard. I am not very good at sitting. I needed something else to do. I turned, and Olisiane’s eyes looked into mine. I was filled with quietude, and the fog cleared from my head.

All Olisiane had at Matthew 25 was time, and could I not give her that? She asked through our interpreter that I paint her a tree. My hesitation was gone. I would paint her the most magnificent tree I could imagine, the most magnificent tree she could imagine. I envisioned the brush strokes sweeping the canvas through her hands. I painted a tree. Behind its lush, green canopy I set mountains. Mountains beyond mountains, shadows cast in violet dusk. Under the tree I brushed a royal blue bench. I told her we could sit together under the tree and while away the days.

Olisiane starred for a long time. She gently lifted the painting and set it on a ledge. Her eyes remained transfixed on the canvas. In time, she put her hand in mine, and we sat. Eventually she motioned to a staff person, and asked they set the painting by her bed.

I thought my afternoon complete, but as we rose to throw away the pallet, still laden with puddles of acrylic, a young girl emerged from the shadows and asked if she could paint. Of course. She took a brush and set to work with such focus and intensity I was startled. She filled the canvas with a kaleidoscope of color. Along the border she took a sharp edge of a paint stick and scratched outlines of flowers and faces, and she filled them with color. At the bottom she etched her name, Benjina Noel.

Our companion Alex described hand painting was a rare thing in Montrouis, and I had to believe this was the first time Benjina ever held a brush. How many years did she have this image in her head waiting to emerge?

Seeing our laughter and smiles, another young woman emerged from the kitchen. Her name was Mirlande, and she did not want to paint. Instead, she had a burning question but was reluctant to ask. We encouraged her, and she described she and her husband had a small savings in U.S. currency which she hid in her house, but rats had eaten the edges. She feared the money was now worthless. Her fears were not without merit – Haiti honors U.S. dollars, but only if they are crisp and clean. We asked her how much of the paper was left. She said most, just the edges were gone. We assured her the ministry could exchange her bills for fresh ones. A smile spread across her face, and relief washed over her like a spring rain. She waltzed through her work the remainder of the evening, her feet 12 inches off the ground…

 
Mariah smiled at me and turned back to rejoin the Racers in conversation. I drifted in my thoughts. When I had first sat with Olisiane, what if I had succumbed to my selfish notions to look for other tasks? Why did I doubt the worth of just sitting wordlessly, sharing time? Greater forces were at work here, opening my mind and opening my heart. Look what unfolded.

I return to that bench beneath the tree often now, and Olisiane and I gaze upon the mountains.

* More about the World Racers here. An incredible group.

Haiti Delivers

There is a saying, “In Haiti, anything is possible.” Only those who visit will grasp the full nuance. Haiti can overwhelm you emotionally and spiritually, but if you are looking for a pure adrenaline rush, you can find that too.

You never know what to expect when you hop on the back of a moto. The most cynical will say you have a death wish, but for the open-minded it’s yet another way to get “intimate” with the culture.

Brother Res introduced me to moto-riding during my first visit with a ten-second narration, “Okay Man, always straddle it from the left, and for the ride you can either hold on to your driver’s shoulders, or grab the rack behind you.” In that brief moment I felt a sliver of confidence, he followed with a twinkle in his eye, “…but neither one is going to save you.”

Moto outings often beat any amusements such as the Alpengeist at Busch Gardens. On a recent ride we needed to cross town from our resident fishing village to the Matthew 25 senior care house. At the midpoint we ascended from an alley to the coast road which was inextricably snarled in gridlock. My driver’s strategy involved plunging into the small gap between a roaring 18-wheeler and a decrepit Datsun pickup who faced one another seemingly in a duel, and any aftermath now involved me.

We stopped there blocked by the vendor cart diagonally in front of us. The Mack truck’s air horn blared and it surged forward. Its bumper touched my left knee, the opposing Datsun’s bumper touched my right. The truck’s bulldog hood ornament glared inches above my left temple. I closed my eyes and lamented my now broken promise to my wife to “stay safe.” A few moments later the vendor pulled back her cart and we emerged through the other side.

I shot this video later on the same ride only when (by relative measure) all seemed better. 

Know you can visit Montrouis and never have to ride a moto, but if you want a story to tell your grandchildren, don’t pass it up.

 

Broken

There was a definitive moment in college when my walls went up, when I resolved to never allow the feeling of hurt again. It was not a reaction to singular heartbreak, but the culmination of losses and pain throughout my adolescence that built like a silent wave. There is a name for these – ACES, adverse childhood experiences, a psychological battery that attempts to quantify the damage. I don’t know where I fall on the scale, but whatever the measure I had hit my magic number, and through force of will I built my hard shell. For three decades my barrier held with only chips and scratches. Then I went to Haiti.

A close friend had called a few weeks ago asking me to consider a trip with him a year hence, and only as an aside mentioned he would also make a quick but urgent Haiti visit over the coming Thanksgiving holiday. My friend Res is deeply involved in a ministry attempting to build a social network and support system with committed locals in the town of Montrouis. It is a grassroots effort still in the early stages. I considered his offer then realized I would have a more intimate experience if he would entertain me as a third wheel for his Thanksgiving run. One email later he eagerly obliged and the plan was set. Be careful what you ask for.

So it came that I departed home at 2:00am Friday morning to join up with Res and Adam for the journey southward. After a day filled with tense moments in Port-au-Prince, and a death defying drive up the coast, we settled into an unfinished house in the center of Montrouis. We were hosted there by a resident Haitian, Alex Vixamar, and his fourteen-year-old ward, Christo. Alex is a “big brother” to Christo, and he and the ministry provide a sanctuary for Christo from the dark forces and disconsolate future Mountrouis would otherwise hold.  

Our first morning I found Christo and his friend Jadin reveling in new Legos, and with Alex’s blessing I sat in. Their English was as good as my Creole, but through pantomime and shared Lego love we built a rapport. We moved on to balloon art and pipe-filter creatures, then they found my Connect Four board. They launched in with virtually no instruction. After three games they decided “four” was boring, henceforth it became “Connect Five.” They proceeded to whip me game after game amid laughter and floor rolls.

In due time Res and Adam summoned me for our day’s work. I attempted to ask Christo how to say “I will come back.” He and Jadin looked at me with blank expressions, and Alex chimed in, “M’ap vini.” I clumsily uttered “my beignet” eliciting more rolls of laughter. At laughter’s end Christo faced me with an earnest expression, slowly repeating “m’ap vini” and would not release me until I mirrored the phrase fluently.

In the ensuing days our play continued - courtyard soccer, tennis ball catch, games on his flip-phone, and endless “Connect Five” until my proficiency grew. Our Creole-English barrier left town, and we communicated effortlessly with winks, eye-rolls, nods, and head-tilts. We became one another’s shadow.

On the morning of my departure as I kneeled over my pack, I turned to find Christo standing silently behind me, his arms straight at his side. He whispered in intelligible English, “You go back to America today?” I nodded yes.

He said, “I will pray for you.”

I was caught off guard not grasping the nuance of his sentiment and reflexively replied, “I will pray for you, Christo.” With that he left the room.

Res, Adam, Alex, and I gathered on the porch to discuss the itinerary for our departure to Port-au-Prince. I assumed Christo had left for school, but Alex told me no, school did not start until afternoon and Christo was in his room. I entered the house, pushed aside the bedroom curtain and found Christo lying on his cot. He turned his head slowly toward me revealing a single tear running down his cheek. He would not meet my gaze and locked his stare back on his flip-phone.

Pieces began falling on the floor. My deepest feelings of childhood hurt unleashed their rusted chains and squeezed my chest. More pieces fell away cascading like broken china. How many times past had someone cast a spell on Christo only to disappear? My shell was broken in a hundred pieces, strewn about my feet.

I laid next to Christo, but he refused to acknowledge me. I slid back slightly, attempting to contain the flood welling in my eyes. We would not part like this, so I resolved to simply remain by his side. Be present.

Minutes passed and Christo held tightly to his phone randomly picking through ring tones and game settings. In time a song arose and Christo mouthed the words. I recognized the tune and began singing too. Our voices rose to finish the song. He turned toward me with a reluctant smile, “You sing badly.”

Laughter. Selfies. Alex shouted it was time to go.

Now, thirty years on, I walk defenseless once more. Though my shield is gone, my heart is open. Sorrow is joy’s brother.

Live. Love.

M’ap vini, Christo. M’ap vini.

Gut Check

I woke up this morning with a premonition I would be in an auto accident. I don’t normally have these, but what can you do? I tucked it a way, and promised myself I would drive with utmost care on my weekly three-hour commute to Virginia.

A few hours later the peaceful morning sun warmed my face as I crested a hill on Route 15 just past Point of Rocks – then, almost instantly I could not process the scene on the roadway ahead. A white pickup was rolling away from me in my lane onto the grass. A black Escalade was stopped in opposite lane facing the oncoming traffic, and a small sedan was skidding sideways toward it. I had an audio book blasting and heard no crunching metal, just a silent, sickening, slow-motion movie playing out before me.

I had plenty of room to stop and braked hard. In my rearview a long line of cars braked behind me. I punched on my flashers, and stared for a soul-searching moment. A part of me wanted to sit right there and pretend it was a dream. It was not. I turned off the ignition, took a deep breath, swallowed, opened my door and ran headlong for the white truck.

It lay on its side in front of a trail of smashed metal and glass. Black smoke poured out of the crumpled hood. I looked around as I approached; the scene was still only seconds old and I was by myself. Another deep swallow and I climbed up to the driver’s side window which faced the sky. Below me a middle-aged man was pinned motionless behind the steering wheel. The collapsed, sagging airbag looked pitifully small.

I shouted, “Can you hear me?” Nothing.

I shouted again. This time he stirred slightly. He began to claw out the open window. I grasped his forearm imploring him to stay still, help was on the way. He moaned. I told him my name and said I would stay there with him until help arrived. He whispered his name, Scott.

I heard a hissing sound behind me, and looked over my shoulder. Bystanders had gathered and someone was dousing the hood with a fire extinguisher. I was glad, as I realized the black acrid smoke had been searing my nostrils. Only then, when I turned back to Scott did I see the small child lying below him against the smashed window pressed to the ground.

I stepped down from truck trying to figure out how to get in. The back window was intact with the pilot window shut tight. The front windshield was shattered and crumpled but still clinging tightly around the edges. I took off my fleece, wrapped it around my hands and pulled at it through some fist sized holes, but it would not budge. I felt so incredibly helpless and wanted to kick it in but realized I would do more harm than good to the small child behind it and resolved to return to Scott and try to keep him still.

He was thrashing again with his free arm, so I held his shoulder, spoke and asked him about his girl. He mouthed her name was Savannah. I saw that she had moved, and my worst fears were allayed.

After minutes that seemed like hours I heard sirens. I reiterated to Scott that help was almost here. I stopped talking - I wanted so much for him to hear the sirens too.

The first fire truck had just four, maybe five men. They ran hoses to each of the two smashed cars. A single fireman came to the white truck and asked me about who was inside. He then shouted to a second fireman to bring a sawzall. He did, and cut out the windshield as easily as he might pull film off a microwave dish. To my astonishment and relief the little girl stepped dazed through the open windshield.

The firemen led her several feet away as I followed and instructed her to lay down. He asked me to hold her head still while he did a thorough assessment. Other than bleeding from her scalp, she said only her back hurt. She told the fireman through her tears that she was eleven and her father was taking her to her softball game. Another fireman brought a backboard. The first fireman, another bystander, and I carefully rolled her on with carefully synchronized counts. Now several more rescue units had arrived, a medi-vac helicopter hovered overhead, and my participation was done.

As I walked back to my car a sheriff stopped me to ask if I had seen the collision – No, only the aftermath. I think I heard other bystanders say the Escalade had crossed the centerline and hit the truck head-on. Both vehicles were likely traveling forty, fifty, maybe faster.

On their way to softball. Jesus. How precious each and every day is. 

Long May You Run

I’m not a car guy. Don’t get me wrong – I love the sleek lines of a sports car or luxury sedan as much as anyone – but when spending frivolously, I throw my money elsewhere. Given this ambivalence I was surprised to feel a pang of sadness at letting go of our 4-Runner this past month. 

She came to us in 1998 only slightly used. Our boys were two and four and I realize now we raised our family in that car. She was our snowmobile and our beach-mobile. Fate set that role from the very start…

I had taken my father-in-law, Denny, and the boys for a drive on the high-tide line in Corolla, the 4-Runner’s first sensation of sand between her toes. We encamped by a perfect tidal pool, I provisioned the boys with shovels and buckets, and Denny and I turned our attention to Coronas and solving the world’s problems.  After some time they appeared excitedly by our side eager to show us their creations.

I was bewildered to find bare sand by the pool. Instead the boys led us to the 4-Runner, its doors wide open. Adorned with seashells, sandcastles rose seat-high filling the rear foot wells. The boys beamed.

Parents will recognize this as one of life’s pivotal moments. A lump rose in my throat. A smile slowly spread across my face and the embodiment of childhood wonder overcame shallow material impulse. I laughed and hugged them tight. After the boys exhausted their narratives, I carefully collected the shells gingerly relocating them to the small pocket console beneath the stereo, and we de-excavated the back seat. Those shells remained in the front console for the next eighteen years. 

For not being a car guy, those wheels sure made some memories. Ol’ girl, “Long May You Run.” *

(click on any photo for full-screen)

* Credit to Neil Young (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQhw02fZkkw&nohtml5=False)