I hope this old train breaks down, then I could take a walk around. See what there is to see, if time wass just a melody, with all the people in the street walkin’ fast as their feet can take ‘em I just roll through town….I need this, old train to breakdown, oh please just let me please breakdown…I’ve got no time that I got to get to where I don’t need to be.
-Jack Johnson from ‘Breakdown’

It was about 5 in the evening as we packed up the white Toyota Venture. I had a caregiver with me from the orphanage along with a new child, a baby, and a mother who’s baby had just passed away that day. We piled boxes of shoes and food into the back with our spare tire that I couldn’t get connected underneath for some reason. Oh, and we threw a little girl’s bike on top of all that stuff.

We wanted to get the women and kids out to the orphanage fairly quickly so they could settle into their beds and the kids could get some food. So I left with them while Carl stayed back in Mutare to wait for his friend Joe. Then he was going to leave later with Joe.

We drove the small white pickup truck down the dark winding roads through Marange the other night.  I drove, Carl was in the middle and an older rural Shona woman sat on the passenger side.  The trip we were taking was from Mutare to Marange to transport a dead body in a coffin along with a few of the family members.  The man we were transporting had been dead for a month in a town north of Mutare about 60 Kilometers.  The family had been trying to come up with a way to get to the body during this time and finally ended up asking MCH to do the transport.  They managed to come up with $100 USD to help pay for gas.  The part of the trip Carl and I were on was the last leg.  

A red and white scarf was tied to the driver’s side mirror indicating a funeral procession.  Our windows were rolled down all the way to try and circulate the crisp air since, even though the body was in the bed of the truck, we could still smell it up front.  We tried to roll up the windows and crank the ventilation inside, but it didn’t work.  Finally Carl realized that the back window was slightly cracked.  He shut it and from then on we only got the occasional gust of wind carrying the scent of a man that had passed away a month ago.  

I feel connected here in Africa.  Connected to the people around me in a way that I haven’t quite allowed myself to feel back home.  The Zimbabweans will go out of their way to greet you.  And it isn’t just me.  They don’t just greet the stranger or visitor they greet everyone as if they were old friends seeing each other again after a long absence.  They connect with you.  Whether it’s a casual ‘mangwanani (good morning)’ or actually asking ‘makadinii (how are you?)’ while shaking your hand and looking you in the eye.  It’s normal to greet everyone with pleasure and genuine concern.  I feel like we have lost that connection back home.  In fact, often times, I go out of my way NOT to greet people.  I have yet to completely understand the importance of relationships, but am seeing more and more as I spend time with the Shona how truly wonderful that connection can be.

It was a crisp, sunny morning as we strolled through the bush nestled between the hills of Marange.  We drove our Toyota Venture up a dirt road, trying to swerve between the potholes and washboard bumps that riddled it, often just driving in the ditch for a smoother ride.  I pulled over as we approached a large African tree with it’s branches reaching out to the side as far as they could, providing me with just enough shade to park under.  Mrs. Adams, Sheila, and I got out of the truck and ventured up a rocky hill to find the home of an elderly woman who was in need of help.  The three of us made our way up the hill and looked over the other side to see a few huts scattered between tall brown grass, baobab trees, and some cattle and goats all with the backdrop of the Marange mountains.  It was a peaceful and gorgeous view as we made our way down the other side of that hill.  

We managed to find the home of this older woman as we stepped over some dead logs and tromped the red dirt pathway up to her hut.  We found her sitting on a bark mat on the ground right next to a small cooking fire.  Her skin was dark and leathery with deep wrinkles showing her hard, long life.  Her eyes were slightly glazed over and cloudy indicating her weak vision.  Her name was Gogo Tauramai (Gogo being a Ndebele word for Grandmother).  She sat with extraordinarily swollen legs that gave her great pain.  When she stood she used old, nearly petrified, walking sticks to balance her as she took one slow step after another.

I’ve been to the children’s ward of the Mutare hospital several times now.  I can easily remember the dark hallway we walk down while giving awkward hellos to the nurses on duty.  I can almost find my way to the stairs with my eyes closed and walk up, turn to the left and continue with the big sliding door in front of me that says ‘D-ward’.  This is where a small baby was laying in bed with her grandmother sitting next to her.  Ellen was her name, a baby of maybe 6 months with horribly sunken eyes and fingers as skinny as toothpicks.  I am sure that I have not seen a case of malnutrition this severe before.  I put my finger in her tiny hand to see if she would grasp it, but she didn’t have the energy.  She just lay there staring at whatever happened to be in front of her at that moment with an occasional blink.  I remember my heart just sinking.  I knew she probably wasn’t going to last long.

A large majority of the patients in this hospital cannot afford to pay for their prescribed medicines.  Therefore, Paula tries to pay for as many as she can.  We gather their medical books (basically small school books with doctor’s writings in them) that tell us what was prescribed and go on a journey to all the local pharmacies to see who has the cheapest medicines.  So we took Ellen’s book along with a few from other sick children in that ward and headed out.

When we took off from Port Au Prince we had been deeply immersed in the Haitian culture and the appalling poverty, crying, starving orphans, and near complete hopelessness. The day before leaving to come back to the States I spent a portion of the day at Mother Theresa's Orphanage with Beth and Chris just holding babies, changing diapers and playing with the toddlers. One baby ripped my heart out and kept a piece for herself. A piece I was glad to leave behind. She was maybe 1 year old and so frail and so beautiful with one small earing in her left ear.

Sister Marcella is in charge of the clinic at Warf Jeremy. It’s a pediatric clinic where she sees all types of patients ranging from malnutrition to scabies. This is where we spent a majority of our time. Sister Marcella normally sees all these patients by herself often staying until after dark when the streets become unsafe to get to all the patients that day. We were very happy to help her out while we were there.

We landed in Port Au Prince in the evening as it was getting dark. The dependable rain began sprinkling on us as we stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac. It was a bit of a maze as we found our way through the airport to our bags. We successfully made our way through customs without getting searched and found our ride. This was our first experience in Haiti. Maryanne (our trip leader) met us in the back of a pickup truck while her translator and driver helped load our bags.

"We must be the change we wish to see in the world" - Gandhi

I have not been able to truly call myself a runner until recently. Even now, I'm hesitant in doing so. Last summer my friend Steve and I decided that we were going to train for Grandma's Marathon in Duluth while in Iraq. It was to be 26.2 miles of foot pounding, knee jarring painful exhilaration as we maneuvered the course from Two Harbors to Canal Park. We began our training in August and fairly faithfully completed the miles that we were supposed to finish based on a training schedule we found online.