Powerlessness

Miriablais, Haiti

This morning we loaded up a Toyota land cruiser to traverse the treacherous rut that is otherwise known as the national highway and go to another city to check on 24” valves being manufactured for the dam project. After some time on the road I felt like the meals of the last few days wanted to make a violent emergence once again into the light of day. I have not often been car sick but this is not your normal road. An hour and a half down mountain we found the bridge across the river had been washed out by recent hurricanes. A thrombosis of trucks and masses of humanity clogged up the amputated highway on both sides of a river. The fallen piers of the bridge marked the place where the swollen river washed out access to numerous cities. A decision was ultimately made after standing in the tropical sun for an hour or more that the other six in the group would go on across the river in dug-out canoes and then ride in the back of a pickup truck for four hours to check on the valves. I decided to abandon this further journey and return to Cange. I knew I would never be back to the compound in time to do my scheduled sound recording sessions with the choirs. I felt I needed to be about the business I came down here to do. I can do drives at another time when rivers, times, and priorities allow.

I found myself doing that which I had been strongly warned to not do - traveling alone away from the group. I had a local driver take me back up the mountains. I never have felt as powerless as I did being in one of the most notoriously dangerous places on earth, unable to speak a word of the language, being without any money, and without the ability or technology to communicate with anyone at all. I could only hope that the driver would take me where I wanted to go and not to some unscheduled stop on an unmarked part of the world. I have never felt such a full force of powerlessness in my life. I thought of how Mortenson must have felt when in Afghanistan and unable to get free of his captors for eight days. He was powerless. He eventually made it to his destination. I made it to mine. I had the bonus of being able to stop many times and get some really fine photos for documentary work.

Fifty people were waiting for me at the appointed time of our first recording session. The newly calibrated recording studio I brought down on the plane worked perfectly and I was able to create about 45 minutes of good material from working with the Grand Chorale - an adult choir of fifty mixed voices with accompaniment by six musicians. It is quite a challenge to record choral groups when one does not know a syllable of the language and is new to recording anything. The spirit of the group is splendid and these recordings will greatly assist in sharing the miracles that are taking place here in the mountains. I am quite relieved to have my own project successfully launched and underway. Many others here are quite relieved that I am now having success with this. It is apparently a very big deal to many people here that these choral groups be successfully recorded.

Meal time is amazing. About ten of us share opulent dinners late in the evening and a hearty breakfast after devotions. It feels a little bit like a United Nations gathering, with discussions of everything about how to engineer a water system to how to train hospital personnel to maintain diagnostic technologies. It is certainly different than conversations about “who done someone wrong” that seems to capture so much conversation. There is no taking of people’s inventory here. People are spoken of in very positive ways. We are having conversation on federal policy, information engineering, theology, even telling off-color jokes. Meals are grand adventures when shared. Good food is a bonus.