Run Along With Me

I run with a remote control for Mack in one hand and a rock in the other. I run with a rock. Not the only bizarre thing about my runs.

I stepped out of the gate as dawn was breaking. Mack runs up ahead and with the sound of the closing gate I smell and feel freedom. Outside the walls. I start slow down the hill and wait for my legs to remember the bumpy path. I pass the playground where the swings are so still. I cut across the dirt soccer field and hear the whispers of Kreole. I look to see two naked women soaping up in between trees getting a sponge bath. Mack sniffs at the small plants and looks for his own marks.

We catch one of the trails and run along. Tiptoeing around the manure. Three large ox come barreling out from behind a bush. Mack stands on three paws while one points at attention. The old man has his ox on a string as ironic as that is. The ox continue on and just like that we've crossed paths and exchanged a "bonjour." I smell breakfast - not the bacon and egg type breakfast we smell outside the cafes in the States but the smell of dough and oil cooking over the fire. It smells rustic and campfire like. Then I smell the burning and see big sticks piled up and smoke coming out. They burn sticks to make charcoal to sell. It's a long process with little profit but it's a difference for some whether they eat that day or not.

We pass three women gossiping at the well while they wash their clothes. There are so many images that seem to jump off the pages of the Bible here and women at the well is one of them. It's a gathering place where the women laugh and cry together over lost babies and the cruelties of life. Their donkeys are tied up and are loaded like pack mules.

We keep running. I feel the uneven rocks under my feet. Even trail shoes don't keep the occasional sharp rock from jutting into the bottom of my foot giving me a quick pain under my shoe. I've become stronger with every step. My ankles more flexible. I trip often but fall less. I've been able to avoid the thorns more often with each run. Everything seems to grow a thorn here and much less often a flower.

We see three children dressed in uniform on the way to school. No books, no pencil, no backpack. But their school clothes are their best clothes. Sometimes the boys are just wearing the shorts from their uniform. Haiti has a "no shirt, no shoes, come on in" policy. The children laugh at the sight of a big dog trekking along a "blanc" (white person). The people here are so thin and malnourished that one would only think it's funny to run for exercise. I run along remembering how much I love the giggles from the little kids because it's almost a circus act for them to be entertained by.

The adults however often step aside out of hesitation of what Mack may be capable of. I smile knowing he'll keep running by them without a glitch. But it's not the same when we pass Haitian dogs. Mack and I soon come up on several dogs ... fangs hanging out. The dogs are all emaciated and aggressive. Not aggressive like a loose pit bull. Aggressive like a hungry dog that gets pelted by rocks for barking but too scared to do anything about it. Mad dogs. I get a little nervous about one that steps closer than the others. I intimidate him with my rock in hand. Mack stands back with a sheepish growl. Before I know it a lady is yelling in Kreole and is actively trying to swat at the dog with a switch. She misses a time or two and picks up a rock and with one accurate throw the dog is yelping and has given up on its pursuit of us. Haitians don't have pets with which they are affectionate. Dogs are more of a source of security than anything. We go along our way, glad to have survived another dog fight.

Several people yell out Mack's name. They've heard me yelling for him to come on. He stops to sniff and potty and look around and I have to yell for him to come. He comes to me at a full sprint most of the time. I hear the occasional "hey you" from the Haitian kids who are learning English. They merely want a "hey you" back. One little girl yells "y Lilly? Ava?" because they know the white girls belong to me. I merely trip over several chickens that came out of nowhere. Wild chickens = dinner.

As we make the turn we see the river bed which looks like the Nile River minus the water. I am baffled how it looks every time. A man on his donkey looks at me square as if to say "move out of my way." We turn around and start the trek around the second part of our loop. On our way headed back we see a man so covered by straw that all we see of him are his two legs and he looks straight out of a Dr. Seuss book with a name not included in the dictionary. Another man has his three pigs on a leash and is calling out to them as they scurry along. We see a number of goats varied in color and size. Mack likes to provoke them by running a little too close to them and making them nervous. They bleat loudly when they are nervous. We get to the open road and I see the sunrise over the mountains. The sun comes up a florescent pink and orange. The sight makes me speechless.

I get to the main road and dodge all the motorcycles. The drivers are making a living by carting people to work, kids to school, etc. The passengers are sometimes 6 or 7 people deep. We run along watching a motorcycle with a nursing mom and her baby on the back. Efficiency may be their strong suit. Well, hers. Not most Haitians. A man walks by with a huge basket on his head full to the brim with pieces of bread he may sell in the community or at the market for 6 Geudes a piece. It's manna to the Haitians. Coffee and "pen" (bread) make up their breakfast meal and often holds them until dinner. It always makes me smile when people hesitate with their baskets of bread on their head and Mack headed right for them. The even funnier part is that they don't grab the basket, they just stop. Hands free here is not for multi-tasking. However, last week we did have a patient from a motorcycle accident come in and he was driving down the street with a bucket of water on his head (only imagine) and he hit a rock and grabbed the bucket. Needless to say a fall off the motorcycle was secondary. Definitely a third world problem - gain control of the motorcycle or grab the bucket of water.

Mack and I make our way down the road where I speak to Jaque, the construction manager at the Hope Center who is walking on the opposite side. And then the path winds and I see the 40 brightly painted houses on the hill that orient me back to the Hope Center. Mack knows his own way back. The houses on the hill represent new beginnings for forty families who started with nothing after the earthquake and have grown to become a community. I turn right and make it up the hill. I sprint for the finish and find myself again at the top of the hill ready to go in. All that behind me slowly turning normal. Mack pants and begs to quit. I drop my rock and wait for the security guard to open the gate. I say "mesi" and get ready to start the new day.