Hurts My Heart

From the 20 - feet container I moved into a sweet little bungalow house on a UN compound. Although it lacks character and much sign of life it has all the basic luxuries of water, electricity, safety and most uncommon in Port-au-Prince, peace and quiet. At first it took time to adjust to being alone again, after night upon night enjoying the communal company of my darling UN Police friends at the container lodge.   Last night a man knocked on the door, his thick physique and stern stare shouted " I am security". I welcomed him into the house, where he might state his business, instead he stood outside and began to reprimand me in a most serious tone for having parked my car in front of the house (oh this is not allowed, all vehicles must be in the parking lot at the edge of the compound, quite a walk from my little abode). Familiar with such circumstances, I calmly began to explain to the big security man that I indeed had permission from the management to park on the premises of my house because I have a physical disability. Well he was confused. Very confused. He looked me up and down, looking for I am not exactly sure what. Standing at the door, without my canes or leg braces, I guess I looked ...what? normal? Just a woman in a pretty short dress? So again, in a soft tone I began to explain that I have permission from the management to park my vehicle in front of my house because I have a disability. And then it sunk it, the regret and pain and pity in his face as he realized I was indeed telling the truth. And indicating the "disabled" laminated sign featured in my kitchen window, for all the outside world to see, that stick figure in a wheelchair....not exactly a good character or me but you get the point. What happened next is what got to me and might (or might not) rub you the wrong way too. The big security man began to apologize; he apologized for my situation, he apologized profusely for not having been informed and therefore for bothering me and then again said he was sorry that I was sick. And on his little pad the big security man took note of the house number and as he wrote he dictated out loud, "sick lady". This is when I realized it was happening again. "I am not sick", I interrupted, " I have a disability, it is ok you can write that". "Oh no" the big security man said, "you are sick". "Please", I explained, "there is nothing wrong with saying I that I have a disability, Please tell your security team 'j'ai un handicap'...".And the big security man insisted, now more uncomfortable and uneasy, just like I had seen in he face of one of my colleagues, one of the drivers, a few months before.

So"sick lady" is what was noted on the paper and I was reminded that in Haiti that to have a disability is shameful, a curse on you or your family for some wrongdoing. And I caught myself for a speed of light-second feeling upset about this interlude. To think that a person with a disability faces such stigma and discrimination. Sadly this is not uncommon or different in so many other countries in the world.

Going back to my first incident in Haiti where I was labeled "sick" rather than "living with a disability...arriving at a school inauguration event, my colleague Ricardo, a driver, was discussing with the security guard at the entrance of the school why he had to park the car so close..."the lady is sick" he stated, '"she needs help getting out of the car". "She is sick" he insisted, as the security guard looked puzzled staring at me, unsure what to do. I reached out to touch Ricardo, touching his arm to softly explain, "just tell him I have a disability, there is nothing wrong with having a disability Ricardo"...and his eyes swelled up with tears as he explained, "Cara, please don't make me say that, it hurts my heart". And I crumbled. How could I be upset with this heartfelt plea, this heartfelt sorrow that he felt for my limited mobility. Little did he know that such an attitude, although not having any spite or cruelty in it, is what creates barriers in society for people living with disabilities. 

And so my journey continues in Haiti and in my life, to try to set an example that breaks barriers and breaks stereotypes. Just because I now live with a disability does not mean that I cannot be just as much of a contributing member of society, or a successful UN professional, or a dignified, independent, graceful woman.  I have the same dreams, the same passions, the same desires and the same goals as I did just a few years ago when I danced so freely, with the ease of a floating feather.  I am the same woman, even if now I do walk slowly...my heart and soul are still the same. 

"Mad about Tana"...my first time in Madagascar (2009)

8th August 2009

I woke up at 10: 45 pm having missed Amal to go out for dinner with her friends at 8:00 pm. This is really unfortunate but I am sure my body will be better for it tomorrow.  From the suitcase and clothes on her bed, ready to pack for  her trip tomorrow, I can tell that she must have been home for a while and I had slept through it.  I wandered to the kitchen fully dressed, with a silk scarf, care of my dear ex-boss Ying, choking my neck in hopes that it might block some of the freezing cold drafts piercing my body.  I  don’t think anywhere in Africa should ever get this cold and if it does houses as big and modern as this one, should have heating!  But so be it that part of my adventure is to freeze my tush off and find small joys to warm it up.  Inside the kitchen cupboards I find a mess, a mix of open spice packets, stained and spoiled bottles of soya sauce and herbs that look like they have been there since the last century.  Some boxes are ripped, others smashed, and it all looks so old that the dry goods must be stale.  Ah but low and behold what do I find: instant noodle, hooray! And my heart is filled with nostalgia for my beloved Miss Choi.   So I make my soup and a peppermint tea (because I have not seen any bottled water in the house and I am sure to become dehydrated if I do not drink something) and make my way back to my bedroom where I think it will be so sad and pathetic to eat on my bed, in my freezing cold room huddled, beside the gas burning heater which can only be on for about 10 minutes for fear of gassing oneself.  Ah but I find another curious surprise in the living room: two burnt logs in the fireplace with red underbellies and a dry piece of wood on the floor ready to put my campfire skills (thanks dad!) to the test.  And to my most pleasant surprise and giddy excitement, all it took was a soft huff and puff to set it aflame - ta da! “Take that Meryll Streep” survival queen in Out of Africa.  So I wrote to you this evening at 11:00pm listening to Brazilian beauty, Vanessa de Mata, sitting right in front of my fire, bundled up in 3 shirts, 2 pairs of socks (including the pink fuzzy ones from Marks and Sparks) and Ying's silk scarf, enjoying every sip of my steaming instant noodle soup and hot peppermint tea.
   

Before I share my first observations of this strange and intriguing place, which takes some time to pronounce with it’s 6 syllable tongue twisting name, let me tell you about my first knight-in-shining-amour-from-the-Asian-African-island encounter.  The step was very high and steep; there is no handrail and the cold had cramped my body into such a state that I threw my bags up the 4 stairs to the patio and took a deep breathe, praying that Charlie would be able to hold my weight.  But before I could take the risk of falling over, a voice called to me in French “Arrete! Arrete!”. (Aside: Yes the official language here is French which yours truly has not spoken in more than 10 years so you can imagine some of the mutilated crap that comes out of my mouth as I make desperate attempts to converse with the overly smiling friendly locals. And too often I realize, oops that was Mandarin or I must have made it up) Back to my story...The man calling behind me was my newly acquainted (and Amal trusted) taxi driver who could see I was having much difficulty.  Typical me yelped (yes in retrospect I yelped like a pathetic dog wanting to be let into the house out of the rain), “Non non, c’est bom, pas de problem monsieur” but before I knew it this big bulky man, who had just driven me home in a dilapidating, rusting clunker of a car, which is to be my only mode of transport -a.k.a. my ‘chariot’ - for the next 6 weeks and he the driver of course, had jumped out of his car and leaped over to offer his chocolate leather skinned hand to help me up the stairs, across the entrance patio and to the second staircase (which I only put up with because of it has a handrail).  Safely inside the house, relieved to have made it in one piece with no unfortunate tale of a broken wrist or twisted ankle to have to write home about, I sighed heavily.  Do you think that this kind, friendly man has any idea how much I appreciate his act of compassion and kindness?  To him, and maybe even to you, this small deed is not worth thinking about twice, but to my wobbly-self it has given me an enormous sense of security and gratitude for the gesture of a not-so stranger in this very foreign place.

The fire is going down.  Another soft huff and puff and victory prevails as a small flame sneaks out from behind my masterpiece red-bellied log. Oh boy, it just popped loudly. “whoa, easy there”! Oh shit, the flame just died. So much for my Out of Africa moment. 

An-ta-na-na-rivo, is the six-syllable tongue twisting name of the city, the capital of Madagascar, where I will spend the next six weeks, mostly in the office desperately trying to fulfill the ridiculously ambitious to-do list assigned today by Mr. Bruno Maes, the badly dressed (today he donned a gino-style cream suit, black shirt and halloween coloured tie), gelled haired, rico-suave, strong French accented UNICEF Representative, a.k.a. dude who is going to review my outputs and decide whether or not to sign my paycheck - mental check to self ‘be nice, nod in agreement, (don’t roll your eyes, laugh or sigh), take notes, shut up and smile!  

Tana, as this place is also know is like no other I have ever seen before, not even in the moves. At first sight the poor and under-developed setting made my stroll in Paris the morning before seem quite self-indulgent. Main roads are paved and most are without any potholes but side streets are uneven broken stones. Streets are narrow and as you enter the city form the airport it becomes hilly. Sidewalks are narrow and broken. Stalls and bombed-out looking stops selling everything from raw meat to fried foods, soda and smokes to metal gadgets line both sides of the road. People here are small with dark leathered skin with varied features, some which resemble the Indigenous people of Ecuador and the Andean region, other Indonesian and some dark like from the African continent but not from one country in particular. In general people look sad and worried, which does not surprise me considering how damn cold it is but this exterior only stays on their face until you greet them "bonjour" and all of a sudden like a sunrise, they share a big bright smile. What incredibly friendly people the Malagasy are, soft-spoken, polite, sometimes timid and inquisitive. Not sure where to place my ethnic origins, dark hair and light eyes, they stare at me inquisitively. I have yet to see a local with light eyes so maybe I am just a novelty. Their clothes look worn and wolly but no heavy enough to block out the biting cold. Wool hates and colorful sweaters or spring jackets are work by most. It is poor here, very poor. Like in parts of Johannesburg, people huddle in groups on street corners maybe waiting for a small mini-van, which in Angola are called Kandunhueros but without the blaring tropical music, usually Kizomba or Kandungo. Groups of young men everywhere seem to be busy either fixing something, smoking, playing a game or just hanging out. It is strange how clean it is. There is no garbage on the streets, rather piles of swept up dust. Ah and what I love most is that the earth, the soil, is red. Ah yes, I am back in beloved Africa!  

10th August 2009

One would think that coming to one of the poorest countries in the world would be a dire experience but, on the contrary, this place is rich is more things than we would ever imagine. I am told that in the south there the mountains end in rising sand dunes and mark a desert as beautiful as Namibia, one of my first African adventures. Apparently the northeast coast is tickled with the Indian Ocean’s aqua blue sparkle and cloud white sand. Here in cold Tana, I am among rolling hills, high above sea level, hence the almost frost-bite, just-want-to curl-up-in-a-blanket, cold. The big cold house, aka “home” for the next 6 weeks, is cared for by a young Malagasy couple who live in their own little house across the garden, also within the high walls that keep us out of sight from the unpaved, rubble road. A green gate guarded by the husband at night along with a UN guard has such an unwelcoming feel to it. Outside the gate across the rubble road sit a group of men, huddled close, chatting and waiting, but for what I am not quite sure. They stare at me but I do not stare back. And it is not because I would not love to chit chat away in my pathetic Francais but I do not yet know what the local custom may deem appropriate. Anyways who says they would want to talk to me, some funny looking girl dressed like an Eskimo in weather, that although they also choose to bring out winter coats, too many bear in flip flops or even worse barefoot. It breaks my heart to see people here without shoes on, especially in this cold. In China, unlike India, I have never seen anyone go barefoot, no matter how poor they may be. I wish here we could cover all the bare feet with shoes. Tonight’s pray must give thanks for shoes, woolly socks, toasty warm toes in slippers...just a little perspective to make you grateful. When I am closed inside the house, far from the hustle and bustle of rusting clunker car traffic, choking fumes and chocolate and caramel, sharp to round featured, Asian-African faces, I could be anywhere. Inside my fortress ceilings seem to reach 12 feet high, the fireplace is quickly filled with dry wood and the kitchen full of fresh fruits and vegetables from the market awaits me to be prepared for dinner. For 8,000 of the local currency called Ariya (or $4 USD) a local market sold me a monstrous papaya, 10 ripe tomatoes, 4 avocados, 8 tangerine oranges and a pineapple that would kick Del Monte’s butt. While I try to get the francais into decent shape I am trying to pick up some of the first, of the three, official languages: Malagasy. “Salama” means hello. And yup that’s about it folks. Not bad for day 3 here, eh? Oh boy, now I really sound like a Canadian. Note to self, “never, ever let the 2-letter grunt out again!” (no offense meant to my maple leaf people). Oh on Saturday I went out to buy groceries in JUMBO, the big grocery store that sells quite an impressive variety of goods, even if I had never heard 99% of the brands. Lots of French stuff I could not recognize, much cleaner that the JUMBO in Angola (where I once stood in line for more than 2 hours to pay) and super bonus of all, takes credit cards. After Angola I have little expectations of what might available here but low and behold in this poor village like city, where houses are made of tin, brick and shack wood planks, fried foods are sold through clouds of black car fumes and most of the cars look like they have been pulled from the junker for one last round (including the tin, no power steering piece-of-junk taxi, aka my chariot, that somehow gets me without stalling around in which I should mention the driver was burning sandalwood incense this morning. It scares me to think how smelly the car must have been for him to have to do that...or maybe it is a religious thing...oh I hope not and better find out so I do not have such catty thoughts. Oh my taxi driver is monsieur Amidi but I prefer to call him (in my ludicrous mind only of course) my friendly giant. Yes this is the same knight-in-shining-amour who held his tanned leather hand out for me the other day. You see, he is HUGE! Big up and around, head, fingers, legs, arms and voice too...best of all he has the biggest smile I have ever seen. You can sell ALL of his teeth and then some. This guy could win a Book of World Records contest or in a toothpaste commercial and so it is that my friendly giant squeezes into his tin, crap junker which tilts to one side, almost touching the ground when he gets in and bounces up a little when he gets out. I am starting to like the junker, friendly giant et al!

"Are you dying?"

Hereditary Inclusion Body Myopathy (HIBM) is a progressive and debilitating muscle wasting disorder caused by a gene defect, affecting all of the body’s skeletal muscles, those we use for movement.   Since the disorder is recessive (both copies of the gene are damaged), anyone may become affected, even with healthy parents and parental families. HIBM touches those between the ages of 20 to 40 and although progression is slow, it typically leads to total disability within 10 to 15 years. The weakness and severity can vary from person to person. In some, weakness in the legs is noticed first. In few others, the hands are weakened more rapidly than the legs. Weakness is progressive, which means the muscle become weaker over time. Patients with HIBM come from all different backgrounds; the disease has no ethnic or gender boundaries. Currently, there are no effective treatments for HIBM and there is no cure.

Whenever someone asks me questions about my situation, I appreciate their curiosity as much as the opportunity to raise awareness about HIBM. What is sometimes not expected is the way they interpret what is happening to me. The most profound inquisition was in the middle of a casual conversation and the person said, “…so when a muscle has totally wasted away, that part of your body is dead, I guess, because you cannot move it anymore. So does that mean your body is dying? Are you dying?” You can imagine my reaction, first shocked by the question, and then perplexed by the thought that my body might be dying. Never before had my condition be posed to me in such a way, nor, had I ever embarked on such a morbid way of looking at my weakening state. As I do in many confusing HIBM moments, I shot the thought out of my mind. I am not dying! The muscles are wearing away.  

I refuse to dive into such destructive states of mind. I refuse to let my head be clouded with ideas that can only leave me distraught. I refuse to be distracted from focusing the greater part of my energy on the wonderful life I lead… because YES OF COURSE there are instances of sadness, frustration, anger, fear or embarrassment; without them I would not be human. These intense feelings and emotions can easily take over and make you crazy. But thankfully I remember my father’s words, “Just relax and take it easy!”

So what I guess what I want to share with this entry is that I sincerely do not worry about what the future holds, nor do I harp on the scientifically proven fact that my body is becoming weaker every day. With all honesty this is the best time in my life and I have never been so happy.  I use the limited energy that I have to live it up and make noise about HIBM so we can fund the cure! Slowly but surely, (AJ baby), I can do anything!

To learn more about HIBM, please visit: www.hibm.org

In the Domnican Republic: my first media interview about life with HIBM

On the first day of 2012 I gave my first media interview about living with HIBM. Listin Diario, the leading newspaper in the Dominican Republic asked to write an article as part of their campaign on positive living. The journalist came to the beautiful hotel where I was staying, Nicolas de Ovando, in the colonial part of Santo Domingo, actually situated on the oldest street in the New World. As we began to chat, sitting by the pool, a photographer clicked away, and other guests stared curiously. What was supposed to be a short chat last more than an hour with the journalist's eyes filling up with tears more than once. Why was the simple way I live my life and things I think about seem so miraculous to this woman? And then I have to remind myself that I do have an extra-ordinary situation with this disease and an extra-ordinary lifestyle with my fabulous career and world travels. She told me she complains every day and is never satisfied. To be honest I could not feel sorry for her. Rather my thought was, goodness if I had your good health what is there to complain about?

Being back in Haiti is good, really good. Work is exciting. Everyday I feel inspired. and this goes to show that when you have people around you who believe in you, the sky really is the limit! In UNICEF language we call that 'inclusion', something not to be underestimated. 

As I meet new friends I find myself having to explain constantly 'what's wrong' with my legs. A colleague asked mejust today if HIBM is a condition or a disease. And then he wanted to clarify that I am indeed sick.  At first I think I was concerned with such a clarification. But it passed quickly. Another new learning step in this life-altering adventure.

Keeping true to my 2012 New Year's resolution I am traveling to NEW countries. 2012 began with the Dominican Republic and in two weeks, for the first time ever, I will travel to Qatar to attend the 5th Shafallah Forum on Disabilities and Emergencies and give a presentation on the situation of children with disabilities in Haiti. Who would have thought that with something so awful (meaning HIBM) so many sensational opportunities would come to my life?!!!!!

My first reflection about living with HIBM

A dear friend once told me that, in allowing ourselves to be vulnerable and ask for help, is in fact a strength rather than a weakness; it allows us to love more honestly and be loved in return. These words of wisdom describe my life since realizing that something was happening to me, that something was wrong.

My story is similar to that of other patients, a tale of confusion, uncertainty and disbelief. My diagnosis came three and a half years ago, over the phone. Doctors could not tell me what was going to happen. And I never imagined it would be like this.

How do I, living with HIBM, put into just a few words, what I feel and think about this condition when it affects everything, everyone in and every day of my life? The struggle is exhausting; the challenge is never ending and the pain is frustrating.

Since I was young I always loved babies and dreamed of growing up to be a mother of five children; five mouths to feed (I love cooking); five adorable faces to cherish. Without a cure for HIBM, I am not sure that I will ever have even one child.

When I was in grade school I started dancing. By the time I was in university Latin dance was my most special passion, a way to express myself, share, teach, exercise, and feel totally alive! Because of HIBM, I cannot dance anymore, at least not the way I used to. My heart aches when I hear salsa music and see dancers twirl around but cannot join them. The movements and steps and turns are all inside me. I feel them still and I want to move. But I cannot. I remain to one side, at the edge of the dance floor, balancing on my cane, wishing I did not need the hidden leg braces, which without, I cannot walk straight anymore.
I would be lying if I said I have never moments when I weep with frustration, because the most simple movement has become so difficult. When you grow up with a full and active life, running, playing sports, hiking, skiing, skating, climbing and dancing, what are you left with when these joys are no longer possible?

I will tell you.

You are left with a new found appreciation for the smallest pleasures in life; the courage to ask a total stranger to lend a hand; unimaginable compassion and loving kindness that comes with sharing this journey with others.

We figure it out, day by day. And by we I mean my devoted parents, extended family, friends and supporters.

We talk, and plan.
We research, and inquire.
We reach out, and learn.

And most important we remain hopeful. Hopeful because we know that thanks to the enduring decidication and hard work of Dr. Daniel Darvish and Dr. Babak Darvish, other patient's involvement and ARM’s generous volunteers and donors, that a cure IS within reach. They discovered it. Now we, together, are trying to realize its development.

One way to measure the progress of HIBM is to gauge what the body can and cannot do anymore. My first noticeable change was not being able to push up onto the tips of my toes. That was five years ago. So, I ask you today, from the bottom of my heart, to stand up on your tippy toes for me, reach for the stars and make a wish; A wish that the cure for HIBM will be here for all of us very soon.

Thank you!

An oldie from Angola 2007: "I have a room in Africa"

Angola, March 2007

"I have a room in Africa..."

I have  a room in  Africa at the  Marinha  hotel in Luanda, the capital of Angola.  It is  large with brown wood floors, a bouncy spring bed and a big closet.  I decided to roll up the three little carpets near the bed because all the dirts and hair stuck on them seemed to be crawling on my feet.  The bathroom had running water yesterday and today, with hot water too.  This seems like such a treat having been told that the water and electricity often goes without notice.  And the water was hot which i am also taking as a treat.  But yesterday was hot, very hot, hot like Shanghai - Panama - India summers  where the sun belts down on your head like it is digging for treasure.

So much to tell you from this tiny little computer room in the hotel that has no windows but is cool as the AC machine buzzes away in the background.

Angola is poor and the city of Luanda is like one big urban slum.  You can tell the Chinese are here...there are two glass office towers under construction in the main downtown area.  I could only tell that it is a downtown because the old bank buildings are there and you can see three beautiful colonial Portuguese style Ministry buildings that seem to have been painted just recently.  But the streets are dusty, full of potholes and the people all look tired...looking for a break.  this place looks like the poorest areas of Panama and Guayaquil only much more vast.

When I flew into Joburg two days ago I thought I was landing in Canada...it was suburbs all around.  The trees and fields were lovely green as far as my eyes could see from the large modern highway we zipped along.  My cousin's house is in the ´rich white suburbs´ as she describes it and her house is a mini-resort with a pool and incredible garden, compliments of the Canadian Government...the house comes with her husband's job

Here in Luanda, in my room in Africa, I am in a state of mind that will encourage my work.  The view from my first floor balcony is of a large urban slum but definitely not the worst here.  From what I can see people live in concrete or shack-like homes. There are a few cars on the outskirts and some small white satellites on the roofs.  Like Panama, lively music,salsa and reggae, is blaring, children are running in the streets and women are carrying heavy loads, doing chores and dumping dirty water in a common space in the middle of the road.  Some men hang around on small stools speaking loudly, some playing a game and some just hanging out.

Today is Sunday and I went to Church without leaving my room.  On the other side of the dirt, potholed street, that i can see from my balcony, is a beautiful pale blue Church, colonial stlye that also looks like it was painted recently.  From the shower I could hear the priest givng the Catholic sermon in Portguese but what most filled me with peace was the singing...oh the music is like that from the movie The Mission....ironically a film about the Portuguese and Spanish colonizers and Jesuit priests in Brazil.  I guess the Church was full because the in front of the entrance and side doors ladies in bright colored Sunday bests and men in shirts and pants sat in white plastic chairs, only rising as sing along or as the priest asked them to say the Our Father.

It has been a few years since I woke up to the sound of the rooster...now I remember why I wanted to break its neck in Ecuador...ahhh!  Since 5 am, before the sun came up the rooster made its presence known.  By 6am the sun was sneaking into my room and I decided to start my day with a swim.  The air was fresh and no one was in the open concrete courtyard or the tiny pool that I see from my balcony.  Then all of a sudden three people, just to make me miss home, three Chinese sat at a table...and how did I know they were Chinese and not some other Asian ethnicity..that unforgettable sound they make when they clear their throats and spit shamelessly...ahh yes China was here too.  actually my newest colleague and friend Roshni (we hit it off like sisters waiting in line at the airport for an hour) told me there are more than 40,000 Chinese in Angola, mostly in the smaller cities.

Back to the pool where the water was, um letºs say not clear..I thought my goggles were broken when i started my laps because I could not see thought the water...was I in a swamp? no but it looked murky..no matter I  felt alive in the cool water with the lovely clear blue sky above, green palm trees and  bright pink Boganvilla flowers.  You know, it seems like the only things that are run down, rusting, molding or crumbling are the man made things.

The hotel has a 1970s facade.  Seems like the bed spread is from the same decade..I removed it not to feel queasy.  But after getting over the crawly things in the carpet and the dead cat smell that seems to come once in a while from the pipes I look out at the view and remember why I am here.  As i ate my greasy breakfast I was grateful for the coffee I drank thinking that on the other side of the concrete wall in front of me I was sure no one was drinking such delicious coffee and probably did not have a hot shower after a refreshing swim as I did this morning.  Now the shabby hotel and the room I have in Africa seem like a palace.

Outside the concrete open space along the potholed dirt road beside the shabby slum there is a small local grocery store that I am dying to check out...but not alone.  I am not to leave the hotel compound alone and honestly I do not want to wander around alone.  I want to buy a big jug of water after sipping away at the two tiny bottles in my room that cost $3.00USD each...I cannot imagine how much my machine made coffee cost at breakfast this morning, that the waiter told me had an extra charge.  My room in Africa costs more than $120USD a night...even though it is like a two star  1970s motel in North America.  Everything here is expensive.  In the lobby there is a cabinet with various things that look like they came from a Chinese market...and the prices will blow you away...a USB key for $100USD...I would pay that in Chinese Reminbi at the market but US dollars..no way.

Oh I forgot to tell you that the ocean is right here..and it is beautiful...the sun sparkles on the water and I feel like I am in Panama again, or the northern part of Colombia.  Without knowing one may easily think they are in South America...the beach, the hot sun, the dark people, the latino flare, the blaring Brazilian style music, swaying palm trees, big curvy women scantly clothed, tropical style beach restaurants and children selling bbq squid, hair braiding and sodas.

Tomorrow morning at 7am a UNICEF shuttle will pick me up.  The office is around the bay.  I am excited to meet my new colleagues which I am told are about 60 people in this office with another 50+ around the country.

Now that I have had my email fix, which like a cigarette addiction had me beginning to twitch, I am relaxed and ready to enjoy my time in Angola.  Work will be busy but I want to enjoy all two months.  This is not a place one thinks of settling down in.  I think as I meet people and see both sides of the coin new ideas will come.

For now I am happy in my room in Africa, talking to myself so not to forget all the small details I want to share with you.

Port-au-Prince, Haiti: In the beginning...

 Written: December 2011 Port-auPrince, Haiti 

From my office-container on the MINUSTAH peacekeeping base the helicopters fly over head all day, something to be expected when we are located at the end of the airport run way. The sounds is exhilarating and I imagine I am in a MASH movie. When a plane soars overhead its roar is deafening causing the container to shake and rattle. Peacekeeping soldiers with rifles from around the world, each sporting the flag of their home country on their shoulder, roams the city and the base by the truck load or in training exercises. At first the sight of so many weapons was daunting but the soldiers all smile and nod through their terminator dark glasses. I admit, I love it. ;-) 

My accommodation is also a container, unfortunately not as nice as my office. The first week the bed mattress felt as if it was deteriorating mattress with sheets too old to want to get under. (since I have new sheets and a new shower curtain. My friendly container police also flipped my mattress so I am comfy again). The bathroom floor is less than desirable to step on barefoot but I am grateful for a safe place to sleep knowing that several Haitian woman living in the IDP camps are raped every night.The container-hotel compound is all gravel and the parking lot full of giant  'UN' marked 4x4 cruisers with the rhino type antennas on top. An outdoor bar is being built and there is a pool for the predominantly armed forces and police personnel living there which makes for a frat like party on the weekends, except when the children from the visiting orphanages come to play in the pool. This morning we have more than 30 babies and toddlers here and my heart gushes as three curl up in my lap, while two hang onto my legs, yearning for a cuddle and cooing voice. In these moments all my motherly instincts blossom and I want to take them home to care for and cherish forever. 

At first I thought I would be moving to the suburbs, the rich area of town called Petion-Ville where most foreigners live, but at present my commute to work is only 10 minutes. Since out new office is not going to move there as planned before next February I have decided to stay here at the container hotel where I have access to a gym and the pool and most importantly a nice group of friends. 

I am happy and feeling good about the decision to come here. My colleagues are wonderful, bless them. The office has designated me a driver for the first month. His name is Ricardo, 26 years old, super kind and concerned about my safety. We try to understand each other (my French is coming back faster than I thought it would, thank goodness) and laugh together when we both start bobbing our heads when the radio blares hip-hop, reggae and R&B music. 

Food is imported from the USA so the MINUSTAH base's restaurant called the DECK is excellent. Usually we order to our containers but I do escape to the deck when I can for the sushi, salads and even Lebanese plates. The Deck is also a place to 'people watch' on base. We have a little shop on base filled with products imported from the USA, cereals, drinks, canned foods, peanut butter and nutella (gotta get a bottle of that!) and small electronics. I bought a case of water and a 'UNITED NATIONS' adorned towel. So although the life is restricted it is more familiar and in this regard much easier than was Angola.

Downtown was seriously destroyed by the 2010 earthquake. and the massive camp where 600,000 people are still living. Seeing the Presidential palace with its roof fallen in was quite the shocking site. Strangely near the camps among the street stalls two peacocks were on display. What in the world are India's birds doing here? and goodness forbid to think they might be eaten! But no, apparently they are purchased by the rich Haitians' and left to roam their gardens.

At the end of the row of UNICEF containers, from where you can see the hills in the distance behind the airstrip is an abandoned cargo plane. Shrubs are growing around it and out of the windows. Its' silhouette in front of the evening sunset is nothing less than captivating, romantic in a way, in my Haitian adventure. Orange, red and gold streak the sky as of 5:30pm and the horizon is clouded by the piles of dust rising from the UN monster vehicles as we go back to our containers and rest for the next day. 

Sending love from Port-au-Prince, on the Caribbean island of Hispanola!

Welcome to Princess HIBM!

Welcome to Princess HIBM!

Finally I have built up the courage and taken the time to launch a blog. In this forum I will share stories of my world travels, past and present, and insights into my experiences living with a disability.

For those of you who don't know me yet, my name is Cara Elizabeth Yar Khan. I was born in Hyderabad, India in 1976 to an Indian father and English mother. We moved to Canada in 1978 but now our family, including my beloved brother and darling step-mum, call Shanghai, China home. 

From a very young age I knew exactly what I wanted to do when I grew up.  Each day I give thanks for my career and the job I love. Today I live in Port-au-Prince, Haiti where I work with UNICEF, the United Nations Children's Fund, as the Private Sector Resource Mobilization Specialist.  

Thanks for reading my blog. If anything I hope you can share a little bit of my adventures and see that with a strong heart and clear mind we can do anything we are truly passionate about!  

Cara

;-)

PS. June 2016 the blog changed to my full maiden name: Cara Elizabeth Yar Khan