Last night was nerve-wracking. A patient in morning clinic had said that her kid was sick back at home, in the mountains, and that she couldn't bring him here. He had "swelling" and a rash. I'd heard about enough kids during my surveys that had "swelling" and then died shortly thereafter to take this seriously - seriously enough to tell her to stay the night around here and then lead me to her home the next [today] morning. I wanted neuf heure, but she countered with cinq heure. We agreed upon six heure. These Haitians know how to haggle.
I couldn't sleep. Even tried low-dose EtOH to help me relax, but I was nervous. Of course, we had just taken a pre-eclamptic woman to the hospital, so can ya blame me? I mentally went through how I was going to pack my hiking bag. What antibiotics I should bring. What procedure tools I could need. And a few other nick-knacks. I wasn't sure how quickly I'd be coming back, so I had to prepare for the worst, right? An overnight stay in the mountains with nothing to drink but the aforementioned cholera water.
I woke up at 4, but tried to pretend like I wasn't awake until my alarm sounded at 5. Crap, I don't even know the kid's age, let alone size. I get ready and begin stuffing antibiotics into my bag. I inhale my bowl of oatmeal, complete with my US touches of peanut butter and craisins. I had time. My translator didn't show up till 0630 and the mom didn't show up with her daughter until after 7. #Haiti.
The boy is three years old. Grab some chewables and an albendazole tab.
We're off. Finally. We search for a moto to take us up the mountain road and secure a $20 Haitian ride per moto. Whatever, I'm not in the mood to fight over a buck American (8.3 Haitian Dollars to U.S. Dollars). En alle. Ask anyone who has been to Haiti to describe the moto experience. I couldn't do it justice in type. You really just need to sit your ass on one and pray like the rest of us. One little tidbit. Don't wear a 50 pound pack and then sit on the back. Every bump you fly in the air and feel like you're going to fall backwards.
Twenty minutes and 3 miles later, the motos stop on the side of the road. I give them a $5 spot and grab one driver's digits. It's beyond complicated to get cell phone numbers down here. But we start our journey. The little girl kicks off her sandals, grabs them in her hand, and begins to lead us down the steep, stair-less, slope into the valley below. We travel a mile. I don't keep my eyes off of the ground immediately in front of me the whole time. It's quite the trick when you're trying to find firm footing as well as dodge animal pooh with every step. The little girl and her two little feet were pros. She danced right around and through everything.At the end of the descent is the river, complete with bathers, launders, and kids swimming. Cholera's gone, right? At least all the treatment centers are gone, so that means the bacteria is no longer around. #WaitTillTheRainySeason. The mother and child have no problems stepping right into it. It may be 6-10 inches at the deepest parts. Not exactly the drowning risk you'd find in the Oregon Trail. John and I try to find a place to cross and stay dry. We move upstream nimbly on the sides of rocks hanging over the water. We find what looks to be a makeshift dam out of rocks. Problem is, most of the rocks are submerged and the ones with stepping space do not look sturdy. He goes first, jumping from one to the other. He slips! His right foot kicks a rock into the river and he lunges forward to the next one. He catches enough of the side to propel his left foot onto the next rock and then bounds onto the opposite bank.
Hell no. I just walk in the water. Dumb idea, but not near as dumb as it would have been for me trying to accomplish what he just lucked in to with a 50 pound pack on my back. My shoes, luckily are water"proof" (thanks Rachel for being completely obsessive with the concept of "waterproof"). They dry quick. My socks aren't as well designed, but I take them off at the next big rock I can sit on #RecipeForBlisters.
We pass through the local town with the usual fanfare. Everyone, young and old, crowds behind trees and fence lines to get a glimpse of the 'blan'. Did I mention we were walking uphill at this point? There are no "roads" to work with. All of our trip, from here on out, was on paths worn into the ground by frequent foot traffic. Most of the slopes and turns are too precarious for even the most nimble livestock. That didn't stop those two little, bare feet from skipping next to the edge. An edge that as I was looking over I would guarantee that my dad had a queasy feeling in his stomach #CantTakeHeights.We were high, and we continued to climb. Sometimes it required a stair step approach up a collection of stones. Other times I had to carefully plant my foot on a slanted path barely wide enough for my shoes. It was almost awesome to watch the dirt slide down over the edge, out from under my feet. Almost. But those two little feet didn't care. They danced right along.
Eventually those little feet tired and stopped prancing for a water break. They'd walked a couple miles through rough terrain without any coverings. Over rocks, along mountain edges, and through animal pooh. Her bounce was back. The short break did her good. Can't say that I felt the same. It's hard to enjoy where you are when you have no idea where you're going. I was fully lost. Somewhere over the first mountain, maybe around a second and in the midst of a climb to the top of a third. Am I in the DR yet?
As a testament to the character of my translator, I must share the fact that we stopped twice so that he could buy some figs (bananas). Each time he gave them to our companions. I gave him one of my water bottles. He proceeded to pour it into his and then give it to our companions to share. He just took the leftovers. He's very compassionate and if her weren't as skilled as a translator I'd encourage him to be a part of our community health worker class. But he's going to make better money knowing English.
We've gone over 4 miles. The mom told me we were almost there a mile ago. The sun is rising. My shirt is soaked. Blisters have formed on my feet because of my poor decision earlier in the trip. But I know that the cause is just to push on. Though questions and judgements filled my head. "Why on Earth do 'these people' live all the way out here?" "Why do they have such dumb paths to get to town?" We literally walked for at least half an hour in each of the four cardinal directions #Confused #StraightLinesAreQuicker.
We begin another major descent. This has got to be the final stretch, right? It's steep. The footing is very loose as it has been the entire trip. Slips are common. Falls, fortunately, haven't occurred. At the bottom of the descent a stream drips along slowly, making its way to the river. Again, people can be found washing in and collecting the water. We hop down the rocks. Many of them are taller than the little girl, but she still navigates them like a pro. We cross and I see the path in front of me. It's steep. It's peppered with more poop. And it's the last thing I want to see right now after getting my hopes up. We climb. Picking our steps carefully. It's clear that we are all tiring at this point. We climb into another town, people flock, and we finally turn from the path. We have arrived at her home.
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