The medical team hiked up the mountain, then cautiously across the narrow ridge. Donkeys carried our supplies, stepping tentatively in the worn path that extended as far as I could see. The sea sparkled in the distance without any hint of the pollution and trash that cluttered it.

The drab brown grey of the barren slopes gradually gave way to scraggly vegetation and tiny houses with drapes for front doors. The scrawny dogs and goats watched us trek by, and an occasional brave Haitian peeked out from the open-air windows.

Eventually a small village came into view in the distance at the crest of the trail. The vegetation increased: lush greens, tropical flowers, bananas, sugar cane, even a few small grapefruit trees. The people increased, too: a few working in their tiny gardens or washing clothes on rocks in puddles. It felt like we had traveled back in time. No running water, no bathrooms, no electricity. When we finally hiked into the center of the village, the sun was sinking in the sky. This was the village of Bon Se Jou.

We were welcomed with a special feast (goat and vegetables), a few hours of generator time to read as we settled into sleeping bags, and breakfast in the morning of toast and Haitian coffee. Before I finished the first cup a line of at least fifty patients had gathered outside the small church that was to be our makeshift clinic.

By lunchtime we had seen over a hundred patients and were exhausted. We decided to take a break and moved from the cool darkness of the church out into the bright sunshine. The village school was on lunch break, and curious children peered at the white strangers. I had a bag of trail mix and an energy bar in my pocket but felt uncomfortable eating in front of what I suspected were hungry kids. Instead of sitting, I walked around the dirt town square humming as I discretely slipped morsels of food into my mouth.

The children followed me in a little crowd as I walked, and the braver ones came close enough to hear my humming. Two girls smiled and mimicked the tune. I stopped my walking to look at them more closely. They were not intimidated and continued smiling, humming the same few bars of the tune over and over.

Intrigued, I hummed “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” They knew it right away and hummed along, as a small crowd of others joined in. On a whim I sang the words in English and as soon as I finished, they sang the words back to me in Haitian. We continued for several verses, back and forth in a chorus, English then Haitian. The rest of the medical team heard the song and gradually joined in.

As interest in our first song waned, I switched to “Frère Jacques.” The children knew that tune too, and sang in Haitian, back and forth again as we took turns. I couldn’t think of too many other children’s songs, so next I sang the ABC’s. Once again, the Haitian children sang their version. This fascinating game of musical comradery continued for a few more minutes, until the children’s lunch break was done, and the old-fashioned bell rang. They raced back into their rickety school, still laughing and singing. I couldn’t help but laugh myself as I watched them go.

That afternoon has replayed often in my mind over the years. It is a remarkable reminder of how much we humans have in common despite our different words. Music is a universal language, but so is laughter, and love, and joy. It makes me happy to envision a world where we overcome our fear of differences and embrace our connections instead.

So, if you hear me humming Old McDonald – even if you don’t know me – please join in!