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The Reprieve
by R.H. Sutter
I felt the reassuring beat of the diesel engine through the front fender of the pickup I leaned against. Somehow, the noisy diesel reassured me that my world still possessed some predictable elements. Also, it would make an excellent escape pod if things turned ugly.
As I slowly scanned the dust and rugged nakedness of this village, I concluded that it looked very much Haitian. Noisy, basic, stark, and lean seemed to describe what I saw. Women walked by, swaying gracefully, while the loads on their heads appeared to remain remarkably level. They cocked their heads slightly and with curious eyes looked first at me and then at the noisy, growing crowd.
Turning toward the other side of the dusty main street of Simon, I looked into the large round eyes of several small boys. Their eyes stared steadily at me while their mouths worked rapidly, and deftly, on foot-long stalks of raw sugar cane that protruded from their mouths. They expertly spit the coarse outer layer onto the road and sucked greedily on the exposed center.
This “main” street of Simon was lined with vendor stalls on both sides of the road. These huts were manned by women and were important to the survival of their families.
As a large crowd formed the vendors stopped selling their products and raised their heads, and with furrowed brows, and hands shielding their eyes from the bright Haitian sun began searching for clues to this excitement. The crowd was growing in numbers and emotion. I could see the mayor amid the frantic arm gestures and staccato voices of those around him. He was a big man in more ways than his ample girth. He was the pastor of the large local Baptist church, and of course, the mayor.
Dust rose as people shouted and moved excitedly around. I wasn’t sure what they were discussing, but it involved a great deal of passion. In the middle of this confusion and noise, vehicles of questionable lineage weaved their way through the people. Vendor huts, approximately 10 feet square with no sides and thatched or corrugated steel roofs, lined the street.
Helplessly, I waited for Bob Stewart, the missionary in charge and driver of the pickup, to come over and bring me up-to-date. Bob and I were the only white faces in this sea of black. People stared at me, as I awkwardly smiled back at them, hoping the smile would somehow cover my complete ignorance.
“They want to put the water well right here in the center of the town and are trying to decide where “ Bob said as he approached me. “Do you have any ideas where it should go?” I didn’t relish the thought of our American team training the green Haitian crew, in drilling techniques, out in the middle all these people and confusion. As I surveyed the congestion, it seemed to make little difference what spot they picked, but it was obvious that one or more of the huts needed to be removed.
“It doesn’t really matter where it goes as long as we have room,” I said.
Bill, Tom, Eric, Mark and I, had come to Haiti to help the people to develop sources of fresh water. If I could have looked beyond the last row of houses, I would have seen the village women with buckets full of river water on their way home. Water that surely contained parasites and bacteria. No wonder so many children died, and the people had numerous health problems. At this point, the people had little choice as to the water that was available to them and their families. We hoped to change that.
It had been only a week since I was first exposed to this raw and mysterious land. We had threaded our way through the noisy, throbbing, tightly compacted traffic and pedestrians that characterized the main streets of Port Au Prince. Horns had demanded the right to squeeze through spaces that seemed insanely small. Somehow the mass of people, steel and confusion snaked its way through the city streets. What a show for an American accustomed to some resemblance of order. It all seemed a little surreal.
Parked on a side street in Port Au Prince and alone in the front seat of the pickup, I was trying to imagine what it would be like to live in this city when my gaze fell on an old scarred dog. He had taken refuge from the hot sun under an old car. I smiled as the old warrior began to move his legs, as he lay on his side, sound asleep. At times, he would give a great start and then his limbs would race, trying to get traction in the thin air they churned. What a tale this old dog could tell, I wondered if I could bear to hear it all.
I felt tears begin to form as I thought of last evening. So full of expectations, we had failed in our first attempt to drill a well. It was only our faith in God, our connection with one another, and the prayers and expectations of those at home, that kept us going. Now we were ready to try again in this village of 2000. We had come to the end of our confidence and now relied on the resources that only God could provide.
I was yanked back into reality by a loud shout from the mayor. A handful of men approached one of the vendor stands and simply picked it up. The vendor, a middle-aged woman, shouted and pulled on one of the men. Her face was distorted in anger and frustration, and I jumped involuntarily as she screamed at the top of her voice. The men continued walking away with her hut as she collapsed onto the ground in tears.
Of course, this lady’s dilemma drew people from all over. Some of the observers shouted, some laughed, some were amused and others, like myself, stood quiet and sober.
The mayor and those around him surveyed the empty space they had created. They talked in emotional bursts as they eyed the hut adjacent to the now empty spot. Suddenly the mayor spoke loudly and authoritatively, and the crowd became silent as they turned to stare at me.
Following Bob’s signal, I crossed the street and stood before the empty space.
“It is unfortunate that they had to remove the lady’s place of business, but a new water well will mean so much to this village,” Bob said. “She had the misfortune to be in the exact spot that everyone wanted the well. They are asking you if this is enough space.”
Looking in the hut beside the now-empty space I met a pair of large, frightened eyes. The young Haitian mother who owned this stand was squatting in the far corner of her hut, and she knew what I was beginning to learn: I was to decide if she and her family’s way of life was about to change dramatically.
She knew that I was trying to decide what action to take as she crouched like a coiled spring and stared directly into my eyes. Her narrowed gaze probed my face as she seemed to hold her breath. Her eyes flashed, but tears betrayed a certain helplessness. I felt an almost God-like power, knowing that what I decided would, in all likelihood, impact this lady and her family profoundly. I thought of the times that I had been vulnerable when someone else had this power over me. I think I knew what she was feeling, at least to some degree. Her eyes never left my face, as if she was willing me to follow her thoughts.
“Can you live with a real mess?” I asked her as Bob interpreted. The answer came back immediately, “Yes.”
“We will try our best to work with one space,” I said.
Her eyes began to widen, and the prominent muscles of her face began to smooth. With several deep sighs, she turned, and a shy smile of relief began to spread slowly across her face.
This was the first of more than a thousand water wells that the M.E.B.S.H. Church of Haiti and the Apostolic Christian Church in America has drilled and continues to drill for the people of Haiti. These wells have had a significant impact on the lives of tens of thousands of Haitians. But it all started on the busy, dusty streets of Simon next to the vendor stand of a young, but grateful Haitian mother.
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