Friday, September 5, 2008

Mr. Gustav



I know very little about hurricanes. I weathered a few in New England and I saw the remnants of Katrina’s devastation in Biloxi. I was wholly unaccustomed, however, to the hurricane fever that sweeps through the Caribbean from August to November.

Hurricane Gustav, or Mr. Gustav, as the Jamaicans liked to call him, blazed through the Caribbean and then continued on his path of destruction into the Gulf Coast from August 26th until August 31st.

Mr. Gustav took 11 lives in Jamaica, and displaced 4,000, but I barely noticed him at the time. My roommates and I evacuated to the home of our friend Rosie’s. Rosie is a hurricane guru who has taken pity on the volunteers and our window-filled home for as long as PVI has been in existence. We were well-fed, safe, and dry, and only ventured out of Rosie’s home during the calm moments to bring in extra water from her pool.

On my first post-Gustav run, I noticed a few landslides and downed branches. The tall grasses that line my favorite path had been only temporarily beaten down by wind and rain. Immaculate Conception Church in Stony Hill had stayed dry and snug. The biggest problem our own home faced was the half-inch of water that covered our kitchen floor

It was not until Sunday when Father Gaston and I headed out for mass in my mission, Mount Friendship, that I realized exactly what Mr. Gustav had been up to. Father’s standard-shift, four-wheel-drive truck struggled over the piles of dirt and rocks on Junction Road, but it was the sight of one of the mountains that took my breath away. Completely stripped of its usual vegetation, the mountainside was now a tangle of mud and rocks.

As we drove deeper into rural Jamaica, the landslides were more frequent, the downed branches more numerous. We had just reached Mount Friendship when the already treacherous road became impassable. Reluctantly realizing that the truck was not going to get us—or the food bags in the truck bed—any further, we climbed out and walked the rest of the way, Fr. Gaston lifting the hem of his Passionist habit high above the rubble.

Mass was smaller than usual and the floor was covered by a layer of muddy water, but a small crowd still assembled to praise God for His greatness. People were rapturous; they spoke of Gilbert and Ivan and Dean, of losing much more with previous hurricanes. In 2004, Ivan killed 23 in Jamaica. Last year, Jamaicans saw wind speeds of 145 miles per hour with Hurricane Dean. Gustav wasn’t getting them down this year. Mr. Brooks, an 85-year-old renegade bush farmer, arrived wearier than usual and without his standard Sunday tie, but bearing the grapefruits and mangoes that he had managed to salvage. He handed them out to the parishioners, eager to feed his friends in the wake of the storm.

On our way back to the abandoned truck, Fr. Gaston and I saw that the men of Mount Friendship had appeared, machetes in hand, to chop away the fallen trees, garbage, and bushes that had obscured the road. They too were in high spirits, directing me to the sturdiest stones and joking with Fr. Gaston.


The people in the missions are still without water in their communal taps, and much of the island is still without electricity. Some have lost roofs. Others, living in gullies, have homes that have been completely flooded. Others have had their homes battered, their crops of coffee or bananas "mashed up." But what we have to realize is that this is a blip on the radar for Jamaicans. Mr. Gustav wasn’t a hurricane when he hit; he was a tropical storm, and they’ve weathered much worse. They’ve spent the past week picking up the pieces, putting their homes back together, and clearing away the countless landslides.

My next fear was for my own countrymen—we receive little bits and pieces of American news here. I was able to eek out some information, and from what I was able to glean, the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast needed prayers as much as the people of the Caymen Islands, Jamaica, Haiti, and the Dominican Republic.

I still know very little about hurricanes; Rosie is quick to tell people how the volunteers slept through the worst of Gustav. However, I am beginning to learn of the resiliency and courage of the human nature, particularly in the developing world. We humans pick up the hem of our clothing and tramp through the rubble, for it’s all that we can do. We have nothing else to do but be grateful for what we have, even if it is only a few tired mangos and a bruised grapefruit.

Sorry, Gustav. As my friends in the missions say, “Mr. Gustav? He not trouble me too much, mon. We okay.”

1 comment:

Elbow said...

Thank the Lord you all were unharmed. It was also such a blessing that New Orleans was nearly untouched by Mr. Gustav. Your blogs are awesome to read and may God continue to bless your trip.

God Bless,
Elliot Sawyer
esawyer.blogspot.com