Primativo 1 2 3…

 The Camino Primativo is a much less traveled path but what it lacks in perigrinos it makes up for with scenery. With fewer pilgrims and options for lodging, our family is developing quickly. We have stayed in 3 wonderful places, 2 of them donativos (donation only). The donativos include family style dinner and breakfast. Our traveling band includes:

Thomas from Switzerland, who is a watchmaker and grew up on a dairy farm. If his grandfather was a chocolatier, the stereotype would be complete. He has stayed all 3 nights with us despite being much faster than us. Much faster when he is walking but a significant amount of his day is consumed drinking coffee so we often finish ahead of him. 

Laura who is from Florida but now lives in Malaga. She is there for a few years with her Italian boyfriend. They met in Orlando when he was in flight school. Now he has taken a job in Malaga and she was fed up with the practice of law, so she’s taking a sabbatical in Spain and exploring. She is hilarious and I’ve told her that if she never wants to practice law again she has a definite career path in stand up comedy. Last night she serenaded our donativo after dinner playing Fleetwood Mac on the yukulele. 

Naty is a yoga instructor from Siberia. She is the first yogi that I have ever met from Siberia. In fact, she is the first person I have met from Siberia. She is very fast and covered our first 2 stages in 1 d. Fortunately for us she developed a large raw spot on her heel and has had to slow down to our pace. Yesterday midday she threw out her hiking boots of 10 yrs and purchased Keens sandals. Once her heel heals we’ll say our goodbyes. After the Fleetwood Mac concert Naty led the group in a floor stretching session. 

Joining in for the first time last night was Alphonso. He is a local who is riding the Primativo on a mountain bike. He covered our first 3 days in 1. He is also hilarious and had us rolling with his wit. He’s also passed on a lot of local insider intel. Our plan is to sabotage his bicycle so he’s forced to join us by foot. We were discussing cidre which is a huge part of the culture here in Asturias. As the conversation built and arms were extended overhead mimicking the way that it is poured, our host Diego produced a bottle of local cidre. We all stepped out into the street and Alphonso and Diego put on a display pouring cidre from a height. This was made even more difficult due to the wind but only a few drops were lost and we all enjoyed a taste. 

We also met a pilgrim last night who has been walking for a year having started in Jerusalem. He is closing in on Santiago but my sense is that he doesn’t want this to be finished. 

Despite a full day of rain on day 2, the weather has been perfect. The forecast is looking good which is important as we are heading into an optional high route that is impassable in bad weather. There are limited services but we have places to stay and the scenery is spectacular. I’m really looking forward to this part. 

You’re doing it wrong and we love you 🥰

 Tomorrow we start the Camino Primativo, 15 days of walking roughly 300 kilometers across the northwest corner of Spain, much of it through the lush mountains of Asturias. 

We arrived early this morning, well before the sun in Madrid. After killing a few hours at Chamartin train station we spent another 3 on a train to Oviedo, head bobbing in and out of sleep. Our agenda in Oviedo was simple, find the Air B&B, grab a bite to eat and pick up our credentials. 

Amy suggested Alterna Sidreria, which was close to our lodging and very popular with the locals. The clock was ticking on the late afternoon kitchen closing of 4:30pm and we didn’t think we had it in us to wait until the reopening at 8pm. We got seated in the family area downstairs. I tried to look around for clues on what to order. One clue was obvious, everyone was drinking cidre and we would too. Attempting to sort through the cellar cidres on the menu was a mistake according to Pablo our server. Those would be too funky for us although I’m not sure how he knew that since we had just met. Pablo recommended cidre normal just like everyone else in the place. Normal it was! Except, there was nothing normal about it. The cidre comes in 70cl corked bottles and only Pablo is allowed to handle them. When not being poured from an extended arm high over Pablo’s head, the bottle rests on the table with a cork halfheartedly reinserted. The glasses are what I call big gulp highball but they only receive 2 fingers of highly aerated cidre. 

Accompanying the cidre was a bountiful tray of local cheeses, meats and fish. The pairing was excellent if not somewhat erratic since we often just had empty glasses awaiting Pablos return and another round of his vertigo inducing refills. 

After the cheese and cured meat course we took the traditional Asturian fabada bean soup. Thankfully it was a soup as the only spaces left in our stomachs were the few nooks and crannies not filled with bread, cheese, jamon, chorizo or cod. To complete the gluttony we share a piece of Asturian Cheesecake washed down with two of the smallest espressos ever dared to be served. As Pablo was taking a smoke break or perhaps doing his taxes we enquired to the table of young families behind us as to the current state of bill paying and the vagaries of spanish wait staff tipping. But of course tips are expected they ensured us. Expected tip percentages ranged between 5 and 10%. Ok, cool. We won’t make fools of ourselves when it comes to the tip, or so we thought. 

By this time Pablo had returned from his sabbatical and it was going on 5pm. Tables were being cleared and reset for the late crowd. The only two tables left were us and the three Spanish women next to us. Pablo brought the check and the portable card reader to the table. Only there was still a problem. There was no place to add a tip to the credit card reader. Abbey picked up on this and asked Pablo directly about the tip. He said, only in cash. The tip cannot be know by the authorities and bean counters! Ok, fine but we don’t have any cash yet except good ole greenbacks carried freshly across the Atlantic. No problemo! Pablo was overjoyed receiving his crisp Andrew Jackson although I don’t think it will ever be spent. He said it was going on his wall with his other collected currency, which according to his account consisted of a bill from Canada. He proudly showed off his tip which struck up a conversation with the ladies next to us. After finding out where we were from and what we were doing here, we received some etiquette recommendations. Cidre is not sipped. It is thrown back like a shot. Cidre is not swirled in the glass. Just one tilt and down the hatch. Don’t order the fabada after the cheese tray. Fabada always come first. Even with all our mistakes and I’m sure all weren’t listed such as the sandwiches to go that we made from our selected meats and table bread which had been wrapped in napkins and smuggled into coat pockets for later, they loved us. They enjoyed dining next to us and they told us how special it was that we were here as a family walking a Camino together. They were so right. A lot had already happened and we haven’t even started. Now for some sleep. 

Randocuisine

 

Randolicious 

Haute cuisine is not typically associated with long distance riding. None of the stars in the All-Star Special at Waffle House or on the Hardee’s sign refer to Michelin. Randonneurs seek fast, inexpensive and voluminous calories. Some long-distance riders can fuel themselves on powdered drinks and gels but I am not one of those. Early on I learned that my engine runs cleanest on real food. During PBP 2003 I had attempted to fuel myself with powdered maltodextrin, and gels but by the end of the day one my gastrointestinal tract had revolted. A rookie experimentation that nearly ended my ride but fortunately I was in France. The food offered at the controls had not been chosen at random. The menu had been cultivated from over 100 years of trial and error. I was grazing at the buffet of Audax savoring the terroir of long miles in the saddle. Slowly I recovered, fueling with mashed potatoes bolognese, riz au lait, pasta and pockets of endless jambon baguettes. I certainly have spent my share of time wandering the aisles of minimarts searching for that perfect flavor of the moment food item that would carry me to the next control. Like many others I have also used fast food restaurants as an efficient source of rando fuel but I’m not here to discuss value menus or happy meals. Let’s take a moment to savor the high gastronomy of Grand Randonnées. I hope you’re hungry. 

 Bonifay Challenge 2006 

 Breakfast was long gone on day one of the Bonifay Challenge. We were 150 miles into the ride crossing from the Florida Panhandle into southern Georgia. Our fuel gauges were reading near empty when an oasis appeared. Michelle’s Restaurant in Georgetown Georgia announced itself with the aroma of fried chicken. Like bloodhounds we followed the scent to a sign that read “daily buffet.” We didn’t need any more information. We just needed plates. Walking the aisles of Michelle’s buffet we were the proverbial kids in a candy store. During my wife Amy’s pregnancies she had unusual cravings. While I could don the pregnancy belt at our Lamaze courses to empathize with the burden of carrying the added weight of a pregnancy, I couldn’t truly understand the cravings until randonneuring. Long miles drain calories and nutrients and those need to be replaced. Michelle was here to help. With heaping plates, we grabbed a table in the outdoor section well away from the other patrons. This feeding frenzy would best be without witness. If there was a theme to my meal, it was yellow. Baked macaroni and cheese, cheesy grits, chicken and dumplings, creamed corn, sweet potato casserole and a corn muffin. As they say in the South, my meal was easy on the gums. No teeth required! Of course, this was washed down with 32 ounces of the sweetest tea this side at the Mason-Dixon line. Some readers will revolt at this plate of good ole Southern cooking but to my stomach this was rocket fuel. 

 LEL 2009 

We would pass through Traquair Scotland twice in relative quick succession at kilometer 680 and then again at 750 after the turnaround. Our initial passing was at the early breakfast hours and I found myself bleary eyed with a bowl of porridge searching for condiments. I was directed to the “condiment” table where I found only Scotch. A kilted man assured me that I was at the correct table but I passed on the suggested wee dram for now. I had my porridge straight up despite hearing about the wonders of the peat filtered Islay on offer. When we returned 4 hours later things were much more festive, and we were awake. The main course for lunch was sheet cake with a side of Scotch. As the saying goes, when in Rome…. I consented to sample the Isaly 10yr and the Glenmorangie. To refuse would have been insulting. The control worker/bartender beamed with pride as he described the notes of flavors that I would be encountering, that is after I finished my second generous serving of birthday cake. It was all washed down with a mini biere d”Or and we headed into the hills and high winds of the borderlands. 

 PBP 2015 Fougeres 

Mention your favorite control at PBP amongst a group of anciens/anciennes and you are well on your way to a spirited debate. I have always favored Villaines La Juhel, particularly for the festive atmosphere on the return but especially for the volunteer children which carry the rider’s trays. In 2015 though Ian Hands made a strong case for Fougeres having the best cuisine. The cafeteria is in a separate building from the control so I had often skipped it. Trust me, a visit to the cafeteria in the lower building is well worth your time. The menu is extensive. Decisions can be difficult for the weary randonneur, particularly with a language barrier. I decided to stick with my tried and true color scheme, this time light yellow. Pasta Carbonara, riz au lait, cold pasta salad, beer and a banana. I felt these nutrients directly entering into my bloodstream somehow bypassing my stomach. Note to self and friends, don’t forget to feed in Fougeres. 

 PBP 2011 Saint Martin des Prés 

Between Loudeac and Saint Nicholas du Pelem there is a small village that goes all out in the celebration of Paris Brest Paris. Saint Martin des Prés should not be missed. Often the route passes through twice although in 2019 it was only visited on the outbound leg. Everyone in town seems to be there. Roadside tents are filled with riders and villagers all seeking their famous Moules Frites. The mussels and fries are both cooked in massive tubs over open flames. Mussels might not seem the safest of in ride foods but they sure are délicieux! They pair well with accordion music and content smiles. Excuse the blurry screen shot of a video of mine from 2011. In 2015 there was a mussel shortage so only frites and sausage were on offer and in 2019 I didn’t study the route closely enough to realize my plan of stopping on the return was flawed. I will be back in 2023 and look forward to the tidal bounty of Saint Martin des Prés, hopefully outbound and inbound. Vive les moules frites! 

 Míle Fáilte 2018 

1200k is a long way to ride so you might as well start with a full Irish. The full Irish breakfast is guaranteed to get you to the first control, unless you are a vegetarian. Vegans and vegetarians may need to supplement. Being omnivorous I absolutely love the full Irish. Rashers (thick Irish bacon) sausage links, fried eggs, beans, black and white pudding, and mushrooms. This will come with coffee/tea, toast and brown bread and probably cereal and it will have you sailing down the road. I try not to experiment with food during an event. If possible I stick with items that have no known conflicts with my digestive tract. US riders may not be familiar with the puddings, particularly the black pudding which is illegal in the US! The puddings are not puddings at all, they are sausages. They have many of the same ingredients as typical sausages with the black pudding containing blood. If you feel a little low on iron, black pudding has you covered. Perhaps we should not further discuss “how the sausage gets made.” 

 Nebraska Sandhills 1000k 2018 

When it comes to hearty breakfasts, the Irish don’t have a monopoly. Day two of the 2018 Nebraska Sandhills 1000k would have riders slogging into a headwind for 90 miles with the only respite at a breakfast stop at the Antelope Creek Café in Gordon Nebraska. I felt like a 777 fueling up for a cross oceanic flight. With sausage patties the size of hamburgers you’d better have two. No, make it three because one comes on your side breakfast sandwich! Eggs, toast, hash browns, two jelly packets, coffee and a coke. Stops can be few and far in between in Nebraska but don’t worry because they really know how to fill up your tank. 

 PBP 2015 Sizun 

Photo - Jenny Oh

Honorable Mention goes to a bakery in Sizun, since it was just one item rather than a meal. It is just off the main court in everyone’s favorite non-control town of PBP. You’ve gotten over the Roc’h Trevezel and it’s always a good time to stop in Sizun. It’s a lively place. Nearly everyone stops. In the Boulangerie/Patisserie just behind the ruins I scored the tastiest item that I have ever encountered on a ride. I was seeking the Breton delicacy the Kouign Amann but they were all out, all out of the individual ones that is. They had a 10” family size version. Oui oui indeed. The name derives from the Breton words for cake (kouign) and butter (amann). It literally is 50% yeasted dough and 50% butter… and 50% caramelized sugar. Don’t ask how they get 150% into this thing, just enjoy. Mademoiselle boxed it up and I took it outside drooling like one of Pavlov’s dogs. My riding buddies asked what plans I had for such a large pastry but I was only speaking in tongues at this point. Tongues dripping with butter and caramelized sugar that is. Once my eyes had rolled back into my head the vultures saw the open door, or box, and swept in for a bite. Oh my was all we could muster until we rolled across the Albert-Louppe Bridge in Brest. Randonneurs love riding their bikes a long way, and many of us also love food. Coincidence, or cause and effect? Whatever your motivation for long distance riding you will require fuel. Figure out what works for you, particularly over 3-4 days. Keep your eyes open and your nose in the air for that lurking rando cuisine. Perhaps your family sized Kouign Amann is out there just around the next corner. Bon Appetit!

PBP 2019

PBP 2019

Rick Blacker, Seattle Randonneurs and Mike Dayton, NC Randonneurs head into
 the setting sun of the first night about to follow the endless ribbon of taillights.

Loudéac, outbound. On the table was a plastic yellow tray with a bowl of potage and a few scattered baguette slices. Teardrops were falling onto baguette crust flakes. In other words, it was a typical moment in Loudéac. I was in tears and my riding buddy of fifteen years was smiling from ear to ear. In our time sharing so many roads this was my first time seeing Superman Mike Dayton abandon. I was devastated. He was relieved. Even if this was his first abandonment he sure handled it with grace and aplomb. He could teach a master course in abandoneé. He made the right decision and now basked in contentment. This is the quiet lesson that I learned from this brief moment in the chaotic Loudéac cafeteria, make the correct decision and be happy about it. This PBP was Mike’s first attempt at a Grand Randonnée since a serious crash involving a car taking out four randonneurs in 2016.  He considers his participation at PBP a huge success and so does everyone that knows him.  We should all learn by Mike’s example.  Everyone that participated in PBP 2019 should consider themselves to be a huge success. We sorted some details regarding Mike’s Loudéac extraction. Barbara Blacker who was staying in a nearby hotel would meet Mike at McDonalds. Little did she know that she would be hauling away two riders and two bikes in a Citroen Aircross C3! Barb’s husband Rick would join team abandonné as his stomach had gone on strike and decided to reject any added content. Just like that our team of 5 had been reduced to 3 and the remaining riders were no longer together. 

Lois Springsteen and Bill Bryant take a moment from volunteer duties
 at the Fougeres control to pause with Mike Dayton

I had made a commitment to Spencer Klaassen to show him how I ride PBP slowly but first I would have to catch him somewhere along the road to Nicholas St. du Pelem. He had left Loudéac before me in hopes of a quick ditch nap. If RUSA ever decides to require CRE hours (continuing randonneuring education) Spencer could offer a seminar in the art of the ditch nap. A few tips that I picked up: set the timer on your phone for 10-15 min. (no chance to make the am/pm error), take the vivarin as you lay down so it starts to take effect as you awake and if it’s cold nap at the bottom of a hill so that you warm up quickly on the restart. There are so many more subtleties to be learned on the way to ditch nap mastery. Pay attention to the experienced randos and improve your skills. Also, ask Spencer to tell you the story of a ditch nap interrupted by the police who thought they had discovered a body rolled in a tarp under the bushes. More precisely they thought they had discovered a dead body but this one was very much alive and when Spencer yelled out a primal scream upon being hoisted, all present nearly died of shock!

Ben Goldenberg, Irving Pham and Ian Kizu-Blair of San Francisco Randonneurs make up 3/4ths of the Boyz on the Hoods riding PBP 2019.  Carlin Eng was slightly ahead and not pictured.  We look forward to seeing Brian Oei in 2023!

At midnight, we would regroup in Nicholas St du Pelem. Mark Thomas, Spencer and I would start the cold predawn trip towards Brest in deep anticipation of the sun on our backs. If there is any doubt as to why life exists on our planet we are reminded each PBP as we await the rotation of earth into the life giving rays from our closest star. Like flowers opening to the sun, Randonneurs come back to life with the return of light.  Still in the dark, Mark was sleepy but easily woke himself up by riding into a hedge. Three hours of sleep in Nicholas du Pelem combined with the previous night of no sleep due to the 90hr start from Rambouillet and you have a recipe for rando sleep riding. Spencer and I decided to forego the dream riding and stopped for a ditch nap on our way up the Roc’h Trezevel. I’m always amazed what 10 minutes of sleep can do for the weary randonneur.

My apprentice, Spencer Klaassen, Audax Kansas City aces the boulangerie lesson in Sizun.

I love Sizun. Sizun is worthy of stops outbound and return. There is a bakery tucked off the square near the ruins that is amazing. In 2015, I had the Kouign Amann but this time they were all out. I had the Breton Cake instead with salted caramel in the middle layer. Oh my! It might cost me 15 minutes of sleep later but it was so worth it.  On the return, we hit the crêperie just across the street from the ruins.  There are worse things than eating a thin pancake covered with melted cheese and ham while sipping cider as a continuous stream of joyous riders pass by.

Of course, we stopped for photos on the Albert Louppe Bridge over the Elorn River. 

Albert Louppe bridge over the Elorn River buzzing with paparazzi per usual.  

 We posed amongst the hordes of excited Randonneurs with the iconic Pont de L’Iroise in the background.  Although Brest is only halfway, it somehow feels more than that. At the controle outside the restaurant I noticed a bicycle that required inspection. The name plate read Alain Collongues!! I spoke with Alain briefly and wished him well. He was so kind and engaging. I later learned that he successfully completed his 12th PBP. Let that sink in for a bit, 12 successful Paris Brest Paris finishes and he even missed one due to his honeymoon. Jean-Claude Chabirand and Dominique Lamouller also recorded their 12^th PBPs which stands as the current record for number of finishes.

It was my honor to share a moment and a laugh with
Alain Collongues, Audax Club Parisien in Brest.
 Alain successfully completed his 12^th PBP!

There were four RUSA members in France with the highest totals of finishes by Americans. Lois Springsteen of Santa Cruz did not add to her total of 7 since she was volunteering at the Fougeres control with husband Bill Bryant. Doug Kirby, Paul Bacho and Thomas Gee all rolled over the starting line with 8 PBPs to their credit but none of the three would attain their 9^th.  Ken Billingsley was able to finish and now stands tied with the above three with 8 PBP finishes.

This year the start/finish was moved to Rambouillet at the National Bergerie. While the logistics of the start/finish area were a bit challenging and close by accommodations far fewer than St. Quentin, the setting was idyllic and the front and tail ends of the course were significantly improved since the urban riding was no longer necessary.

Mimo Demarco, DC Randonneurs, Lesli Larson, Willamette Randonneurs and Ryan Thompson, Santa Rosa Randonneurs 

head for a rising hot air balloon and Mortagne Au Perche, day 3.

Have you ridden with Mark Thomas at PBP? At PBP 2019 someone coined a new title for Mark, the “pope of randonneuring” although US ambassador to the United Nations seems functionally more appropriate. Mark knows every 5th rider and their place of origin on the globe matters not as he has ridden everywhere. After going fast in 2015 Mark decided to slow down and savor the crêpes complêt with some friends. He also managed an entry into la Société Adrian Hands. Until this current edition of PBP there were no dual citizens in la Société Adrian Hands (>88:55) and Charly Miller (<56:40). Now there are four, Mark Thomas, Ian Hands, Tim Bol and Thai Nguyen.

Mark Thomas, Seattle Randonneurs heading for Dreux on the final morning.

The official 32.1% dnf rate of PBP 2019 surpassed the 30.1% of the very wet 2007 edition and gives one insight as to how difficult the headwinds were, particularly on the way toward Brest. The predawn chill also surprised some riders although Anciens are well aware of and well prepared for cool mornings in Bretagne. Many riders saw temperatures in the upper 30s!

Plans are nice but simply function as a point of reference. We had a hotel booked just past Mortagne-au-Perche inbound but couldn’t make it due to fatigue. Spencer and I laid down in the vacuous Mortagne sleeping area with a 3:30 wakeup planned. At 3:00 my next mat neighbor’s iPhone alarm sounded and I awoke. He hit snooze or off and went back to sleep. Now I was facing an ethical dilemma. Should I wake up a soundly sleeping Spencer or just slide out into the night solo?  I recalled my promise to show Spencer how I PBPed and I couldn’t really do that if he remained sleeping.  I woke him and we rolled out.  We made it down off from Mortagne in the dark cool air and were gathering a gruppetto by the time we rolled into Dreux.  This is where we added Ian Hands to our group.  Talk about next level insanity.  Ian had successfully Charly Miller’d on a fixed gear without support then slept, took a train to Bretoncelles, ridden back up to Mortagne with Shermer’s neck and a golf ball sized blister on his left hand just so he could ride in with us!  We rode in together recounting stories of our hero, Mike Dayton and shedding a few more tears.  It was a joyous finish as we crossed the line and proceeded to the ceremony of collecting our final stamps.

Gary Delnero and Spencer Klaassen sport matching Audax KC mudflaps as we slow roll into Paris on the final morning.  Mark Thomas scouts the route 50 meters ahead.

The final stamp as captured by Jeff Newberry.

In my five PBPs this is the first time that I’ve heard negative chatter on the interwebs about the event.  I will never feel that it is my place to criticize PBP.   The fact that the organizers can actually pull it off is beyond mind boggling.  It could not be accomplished anywhere else on the planet.  There is only one PBP and despite some questionable actions by participants it remains the pinnacle of our sport.  Paris Brest Paris is not defined by the riders or their actions, it is the people along the course and behind the scenes that make Paris Brest Paris.  Paris Brest Paris is the 8-year-old girl that carries your tray in Villaines La Juehl after telling you, “je suis forte” (she is strong).  Paris Brest Paris is the control worker who patiently helps the weary rider with an infinite number of problems relating to man/woman or machine.  Paris Brest Paris is the roadside stand at 2am with coffee and cakes manned by a family with a small fire to warm shivering riders.  Paris Brest Paris is Paul Rogue’s crepe stand in Tanniere open throughout the event and providing crepes avec sucre and coffee in exchange for a post card from home. Paris Brest Paris is the now retired Ancien who stamps cards at the final control. He peers deeply into your eyes as he shakes your hand offering the most sincere of congratulations.  His eyes and handshake speak the unspoken, he knows what you have accomplished and that you should be proud of that achievement.  I am, and so should all the participants.  Bravo PBP, you did it again.  You beat us up, you knocked us down, you picked us up and dusted us off, fed our bellies and souls and you stole our hearts.  See you in 2023.

The children that help carry the trays at the Villaines cafeteria seek out the riders who seem to be most in need of assistance. 
I’m always identified as needing assistance.

Below is an excerpt from Mark Thomas describing one act of kindness that helps define PBP.

Paris-Brest-Paris is, in many ways, defined by the many kindnesses, large and small, shown to riders by volunteers, by other riders, and above all, by the people of the regions through which it passes. Over my 6 PBPs, the stories of generosity are among my favorite memories.  Before the event this year, I friended a man on Facebook who lives in Tinténiac (about halfway from Paris to Brest), whom I knew only as a guy who had taken nice pictures of PBP riders past. I sent him a note suggesting that it would be fun if we could meet in person and say hello at the contrôle. He countered that we should instead stop by his place for a coffee or whatever else we might need. That sounded lovely and we agreed.  After tracking us inbound, he met our little group of riders at the control, where he was readily identifiable by the professional-looking camera hanging from his neck. After giving us directions to ride to his place, he walked there himself to meet us.  At home, we met his wife. The most tired among us took them up on the offer of a place to sleep. The rest of us were ushered to a lovely quiet back yard.  A giant picnic began to materialize. Baguettes, a half dozen elegant local cheeses, and salamis and other meats. Soft drinks and local beer accompanied stories of the couple’s life in Tinténiac and their time as aid workers in Africa.  Unbeknownst to us, this spectacular spread was only the appetizer course and steak and pasta were next out of the kitchen. After some lovely coffee and a proffer of granola bars for our jersey pockets, we somewhat reluctantly re-mounted our bikes in search of Loudéac down the road, but with full bellies and warmed hearts.  Thank you Annick and Jean-michel Bergougniou for making our PBP extra special.  Mark Thomas

Haiti 2019

Typical street scene on our commute to work

Haiti is a confusing place. Yin and yang not only balance each other but they battle each other. It is a place filled with life (avg age 23, US 38) and a place filled with death, often of the very young (under 5 mortality in Haiti is 47/1000, US 6/1000). under 5 mortality  We have met some of the kindest, most gentle souls despite the petri dish of deep seated corruption that is brutal and pervasive. The conflict infects visitors. At one moment you think of selling it all and moving there to help those in need and a minute later you’re moving up your return flight to escape back to the comforts of home. These are not random thoughts. They grow from realty. Twice I phoned Dr. Mark, a dentist who had literally sold everything, including his practice to move to Haiti and build a hospital. You might think it may not last but that was 27 years ago. The team before ours had flown home a day early due to more planned riots protesting the price of gasoline. The price of gas had increased by order of the President to $4.75/gal, more than twice as much as most Haitian's daily income.  US issues warning about Haiti  I want to come more often and then I want never to return. The conflict is within me. Like many of the rampant tropical diseases, there is no vaccine for this infection.

St. Dominics Orphanage, goats near chicken house

Amplifying the dizziness was our movement between different worlds this visit. Our planned accommodations at the ALOM Clinic were not quite ready for its first visitors so we fell back on plan B, staying at a beachside resort.  Each night we returned to cold beers and a spectacular Caribbean sunset.  We enjoyed a full buffet dinner bathed in onshore sea breezes after a day of sweating at a dusty clinic site and a lunch of peanut butter sandwich washed down with room temperature water.  I did not want to stay at the resort because I thought it wouldn't seem right.  Wouldn't it feel indulgent, especially when so many have so little?  Then when we actually did spend the last night at the clinic, I longed for my cold beer and beautiful setting sun over the Caribbean Sea.   I don't think I'm strong enough to survive in Haiti.  It is a place only for the strongest.

Sunset at Kaliko Bay 

Returning from a mobile clinic site to the fixed clinic we entered into chaos.  A patient had just been brought in bleeding profusely from a knife wound.  He had allegedly been stabbed by his wife.  She was already in police custody and unfortunately for both of them, the good people at ALOM were unable to save him.  I was on the phone with Dr. Mark discussing options when I saw chest compressions begin.  He was too unstable for transport and an ambulance was nowhere in sight.  He had lost too much blood and units of available blood in Haiti are as likely as a snow storm.  Her assault charge was upgraded to murder.  A paper sheet was pulled up over the 25yo victim and the bloody floor was mopped.  The sterile smell of chlorox quickly masked the scent of death.  His parents came to collect his body.  The very next day Dr. Vlad was called to the women's prison to examine the wife.  She had apparently had entered a catatonic state upon learning of her husband's passing.  She refused to respond to Dr. Vlad.  The prison officials felt that she would be better cared for outside of prison so she was transported to the ALOM fixed site.  This is how we came to spend the night with her and her around the clock detail of guards as we inaugurated the conference room on our cots behind locked doors.  She and the guards were in a different room.  The morning of our departure she was once again speaking.  It is a very sad situation where everyone lost.  He lost his life.  She lost her freedom and their two month old baby lost both parents.  This event will not be reported in the paper or on the evening news.  If the AP picks it up it will be from my blog.

Kaliko Bay Resort -purple star  ALOM Clinic - yellow star

Amy saw a baby on Monday that had recently been found in a latrine.  The baby was now with an adoptive family providing care but was failing to gain weight. She prescribed higher caloric formula and recommended another weight on Friday but she didn't see the baby again.  What would the options be if there was no weight gain though? The odds are against that baby but at least it has found a supportive family.  The baby had been found by a 12yo boy.  The hero was rewarded with a year of school and a uniform by Dr. Vlad.  School is never free in Haiti.  The approximate cost for a year of school and the mandatory uniform is $70.  Hopefully the found baby will make it into one of those uniforms one day.

Amy seeing patients at Tapyo mobile clinic

I want our kids to go on these trips because I want them to have perspective.  A visit to Haiti provides perspective, especially inside healthcare delivery.  Abbey probably got more than she was expecting.  She saw a baby left for dead in a latrine.  She watched a man bleed to death.  She not only worked in triage at the mobile clinics, she was triage at one site when nurse Lucy got called back to the fixed site for a government inspection.  Abbey took blood pressures, temperatures and even did finger pricks to obtain blood sugar levels.  She recorded those vitals and passed the cards onto the waiting doctors.  This was all done without an interpreter since triage has no interpreter.  I was very proud of her and very pleased with her experience on this trip.

Abbey checks blood pressure at Arcahaie mobile clinic

One case in which all three of us participated I suspect will haunt us for sometime.  It is a 15yo boy that looks like he was just liberated from a concentration camp.  He is the thinnest person I've ever seen.  By ultrasound I detected a massively dilated stomach and no other abnormality.  What could be the cause of such a finding? Chronic gastric ulcer, post inflammatory stenosis, lymphoma, bezoar, parasite? He had actually been seen a week earlier in the clinic and had appropriately received a dose of worm medicine and a course of antibiotics.  In the US this kid would be admitted to the hospital.  A PICC line would be placed for nutrition.  A gastroenterologist would be consulted and an endoscopy with biopsies would be performed.  A pediatric surgeon would also be consulted.  I suspect a gastric bypass would be performed.  It's not that easy in Haiti though.  There is no free healthcare or free hospital.  This case is the second time that I had called Dr. Mark for advice.  He recommended a few hospitals, including Paul Farmer's in Mirebalais but said we would need to travel with the patient and to bring at least US$2000 to get the boy admitted.  We were leaving the next morning so this was impossible.  Admission often takes paying a series of bribes from guards to doctors over a series of days.  Nurses hoard supplies and then sell them to patients.  Families are required to care for their own family members inside of the hospital.  We heard many stories firsthand from people who had experienced the system from the inside.  One particularly revealing example was the US$1,000 that was needed to retrieve the body of someone's father who had passed after a short admittance to the government hospital in Port Au Prince.  I suspect he will be gone soon as he is weak and already very anemic.

Basile putting the finishing touches on another busy day at ALOM

A parallel system "providing" healthcare in Haiti is the Witchdoctor.  Witchdoctors can be found in every town and village.  If the witchdoctor recommends something, the family does it.  No questions.  These are mysterious men with feared powers.  Many times the treatments involve potions or foul smelling poultices.  Some witchdoctors though are more inventive.  We heard of a family that was dealing with a daughter with severe typhoid.  She needed inpatient care but the hospital wanted $10,000 up front.  They couldn't afford it so they sought the witchdoctor.  He said that he needed $20,000 and they needed to leave her with him for 10 days!  They raised the money.  Sometimes families sell a vehicle or a home to raise these funds.  The witchdoctor then took the woman to the hospital and paid the $10,000 but made certain that the staff knew that they only had ten days for the cure.  When the family returned, they were very pleased to find their daughter cured as promised.

Traffic circle might help this intersection

I am thankful for our wonderful hosts in Haiti, Drs.  Vlad and Merline. We bonded with the thoughtful and kind staff at the Alpha Omega Clinic, especially Junior, Sony, Mackenson, Lucy, Dr. Francise and Jude. We are grateful for the Sisters of Mercy that organize these trips.  In particular, none of this would be possible without Dr. Ellen Lawson.  We are fortunate to know her.  Her example is humbling.  She can best be described by one of our long distance cycling mantras, "relentless forward motion."  Her life experiences could fill a book or two but I expect that she'll never have the time to sit down and write one since she is always "doing." 

I suspect it will take a while to recover from this visit.  Haiti is a state of constant heightened awareness.  It pushes on you and pulls on you.  You never know quite what to expect but you're definitely getting something, a new perspective. 

Naway pita Haiti.

Thriller

We had completed the difficult task of the day. Nine people had arrived from 5 separate locations on 4 different flights and were now piling into a rented Dodge Caravan in San Juan, Puerto Rico. We loaded up google maps on multiple phones and battled our way through traffic and unmarked lanes to Vega Baja on the North Shore about an hour west of the capital. We had completed a most comprehensive tour of our rental house, which was conducted in Spanish. A few things were lost in translation which became evident as we found that we did not possess the keys to the upstairs portion of the tour, which was simply advertising for next time. Anyway, we were past all that because we were hungry! We needed food. We reloaded google maps with a target, the closest one of the two restaurants which our hostess had provided as a recommendation. We asked for four recommendations since we would have four dinners at Vega Baja but alas only two places could be suggested as suitable for us.

Our intended destination was La Casa del Pescador. Vamanos! Did I mention that we were hungry? As we approached La Casa my crew began to salivate. Pavlov would have been proud. One small problemo though. No casa. Vacant lot with a few stray dogs sí, but casa, no. We were more likely to find a missing person than to score some mofongo. I locked the doors and redirected the caravan. Perhaps it was further down the dead end. It was not. Fortunately for our Donner party, an oasis appeared, Villa Pesquera Cibuco!

We were greeted with smiles and a warm welcome.  The two largest tables were pushed together and surrounded by white plastic chairs. Sure, our table was directly in front of the DJ and the music was deafeningly loud, but that didn’t matter because we had menus. The menus were the single page laminated kind with a few sparse pictures and many words which were new to us. Our waitress only spoke Spanish but it didn’t really matter because with the volume of the music, our only chance at communicating was through sign language. In a break between songs we found out that her favorite fish was grillo (red snapper). I don’t recall everyone’s order but the overwhelming majority of our food would visit the depths of a deep fryer before arriving to satisfy our hunger. Just as poplar trees herald the comeback after a forest fire, deep fryers dominate food preparation after natural disasters. Medalla light, the cerveza of Puerto Rico, arrived along with conch fritters. The fritters were a flop. They were not the deep fried balls with little bits of conch and vegetables. They were more like a puffy empanada with soup inside but the beer was ice cold and just 77 calories per 10 oz can. The bottles of beer came with napkins stuffed into their mouths.

The kitchen was open air and directly in front of us. We saw all the happenings. Five ladies in hair nets bustled about preparing our order. To make up for the unsatisfying “fritters” we broke down and ordered fries and mozzarella sticks. They were disposed of with great efficiency. Although this was hardly embracing the local cuisine, we still had fish orders to come. Turns out there was a whole lot more to come besides our fish!

The DJ had finally recognized that our crowd was less than 75,000 and had turned the volume down to a point where we could nearly hear the person beside us. Perhaps "VJ" is a better term for this evening's maestro since he was not just playing music but was showing the accompanying music videos on a flat screen tv, behind which he was hidden.

Our food trickled in a plate at a time. By the time my whole fish snapper arrived I was hungry enough to eat it whole! The grillo exceeded my wildest expectations. It was beyond fabulous. When our waitress came by to check on my meal I gushed as enthusiastically as our language barrier and the pumping bass would allow. She pulled out her phone to show me pictures of the snapper just hours before hanging from a line held by her husband. Her husband had caught my dinner! This more than made up for the fries and mozzarella sticks.

I surveyed the table over the pile of fish bones in front of me.  I was feeling quite satisfied and by the looks of things so was my crew.  Next would come that tricky task of obtaining the check.  I figured this would take some time but it seemed that our waitress had disappeared.  I called over another waitress who had served us a few beers and she noted my request. She walked into the kitchen and the calculations commenced.  Two women worked together surveying our table and pecking away on a calculator.  It was about this time that the "clown" who had arrived earlier began his performance.  He was not in fact a clown.  He was the king of pop, Michael Jackson! 

We noticed him earlier but had no inkling of his intentions.  We had seen the chubby MJ milling about the VJ setup with pancake makeup, red lipstick and a dark suit.  My guess was that we were in for an animal balloon demonstration.  I was wrong.  We were in for the second coming of the Man in the Mirror. He now sported a fedora and was dancing to "Smooth Criminal" with a microphone.  It was not long before he was sweating more than a sinner in church.  He definitely showed off some unexpected moves for a big guy. 

It looked like he needed an iv as "Smooth Criminal" was finishing but he then launched directly into "Billie Jean"! He knew the steps.  He even showed off the moon walk! He attempted to engage our table but Abbey was having none of it.  She was not dancing with the King of Pop.  Emma, however, stepped into the humid night air and became his dance partner for a few magical moments.  After "Billie Jean" he disappeared around a corner into the dark and I thought that the show was over.  Again, I was wrong, because when he re-emerged in a red leather jacket we all knew what we were in for..."Thriller"! He did the whole zombie intro and everything.  His stamina was impressive.  The 1983 Thriller video was 13 minutes in length and this performance was true to the original. Eventually though it did end and that was the finale...at least of the Michael Jackson performance.  There was still Karaoke to come.  While MJ's fedora was passed for tips, a patron from the back took the microphone and launched into a soaring anthem.  She did not need the words scrolling on the tv screen.  People appeared to be lining up for their turns and our check was nowhere in sight.  Our original waitress then reappeared and with hair net in one hand and a microphone in the other I knew that our check would be a little bit longer in arriving at our table. She also moved about the room, having no need for the scrolling words and bouncing dot.  During a pause in the lyrics she was standing at our table and she asked Anna if we would like to go next.  Anna respectfully declined, telling the waitress that we needed to get to the grocery store before 9pm and it was already 8:30!  The check did eventually arrive and we settled up.  Anna laughed on our way to the grocery store about how lame it must have sounded as we excused ourselves from our turn at stardom.  Let's face it though, no one in their right mind was going to take the mic after those two songs and a night of reincarnated Michael Jackson!