Haiti Day 1
I didn't really know what to expect when we first touched down in Haiti, but the blue sky, blooming red flowers, and mountains in the distance had me immediately thinking, "Haiti is beautiful."
Haiti is beautiful, but it's a beauty that goes beyond the surface. Beyond the palm trees, the puffy cumulous clouds, the intense sunshine.
The beauty is in the culture, in the people. It's found in the reality that they are here, amidst the rubble, the poverty, the intense, unforgiving heat. They are here, bustling, in their bright colors, with their buckets of water carried confidently upon their heads. They are here despite it all, and that, perhaps, is what is most beautiful.
On our way out of the airport, we were "greeted" by "workers" who nearly took the bags right from our hands. They were so desperate to carry them for us to make a few dollars. We were instructed to politely decline their services, "No, non, merci." The few who managed to fight their way in and help us waited patiently for their tips as we sought the comfortable air-conditioned interior of our van. Save for the chilly aisles of the local grocery mart, this would be the only air conditioning we'd find for the rest of our trip. I looked around as we made our way out of the airport. The parking lot, which was really very small, was filled with ancient trucks with dented sides and scraped up exteriors. There are no cars. Only mopeds, motorcycles, and trucks. There's a layer of dust over everything, because the climate is so arid. Abandoned vehicles on the side of the road are covered and appear to be made out of clay. As traffic jams around a circle out of the airport, I notice a Haitian woman lying in the middle of the landscaped circle, her head propped up on a small gourd. She's bare-foot, and she wears dark flowy pants and a head wrap. In the middle of the bustling traffic, this is her naptime. I think again. This is her home.
We drive through town, and it's immediately apparent that there are no traffic rules. There are no traffic signs. In the 25 minute ride we take to our guesthouse, we see only one traffic light. Any traffic signs that do happen to appear, like what appear to be one-way signs, are ignored by drivers. It is "get where you need to, however you can," and most people seem to just embrace it and go with it. There is no yelling when people are cut off. There is no honking out of anger. It's more like a polite warning, "I'm coming, so move out of the way." Even when people slam into each other with their grocery carts as they move through the tiny aisles there's no anger. There isn't even a reaction. This is how it goes here. It is accepted quietly and forgotten quickly. In a way, I envy this attitude, this brazen confidence, this abandonment of worry and caution. Despite the intense traffic that seems to make us prisoners of the road and heat and the apparent chaos, there is a sense of liberation here.
We pass a man with one leg, a woman carrying a case of water on her head, perfectly balanced, perfectly steady. She swaggers, even, and I can't understand how she does it. We see shelters showcased on the side of the road, like manufacutured model homes back in the States. They are seafoam green and khaki, and they are no larger than a tool shed. To many, these resemble home and hope for a better life.
We pass vendors lined up on the side of the road, packed into their shacks like sardines. They have strung up lines showcasing their work: a mile or more of local artwork, boots, bags, and cartons of cigarettes, woodwork, large vats of rice, fried chicken and fried plaintains, shucked sugar cane, bags of water, pre-paid cellular phones. On the concrete walls that line the roads, there are campaign messages written in graffiti, along with "Viv Wyclef Jean," and "Rastayo." Reggae blares from local clubs and trucks as they pass by. Piles of rocks wait to be turned into bricks. A woman leads a pack of mules toward home. An overturned dumpster is ignored. The block itself has become the dumping ground. Everyone bustles around, some in chic skinny jeans carrying oversized handbags. Others clearly desperate to find their next meal. Traffic stops and police push through leading a caravan of what appears to be important people. Our translator tells us it's the new President. The President is pushing through this stopped traffic. On the middle of what appears to be this unnamed road. Although he travels in a Land Rover, a vehicle far superior to any of the others on the road, he still travels on the same road as everyone else, amidst the dust, while everyone else drives right beside him. It blows my mind.
We get to the guesthouse, which is much nicer than I expected it to be. There are tile floors, a quaint gift shop, a lovely staircase that leads us to our room, spacious balconies. It reminds me of a luxurious dormitory. I've chosen a top bunk. I'll enjoy the industrial fan's cool breeze and the mosquito net that protects me and makes me feel like I'm in a princess bed. We are welcomed and instructed to be careful of our use of electricty, since sometimes the place runs solely on battery power. We purchased water at a local grocery store, so we're good on water. We can purchase a tall coke in a glass bottle for a dollar. Our laundry will be done for us for $5, if we need it. Bathrooms will be cleaned and beds made for us everyday. Breakfast at 6:30, dinner at 6. We are blessed to have this cozy place that also happens to be guarded by two beastly Mastiffs.
After we settled in a bit, we took off toward the orphanage. It took us over an hour to get there because of the traffic. Normally it might be a 15-20 minute trip. Sitting inside the "tap-tap," the makeshift Haitian taxi, is literally like frying inside of a small metal box. It is essentially a pick-up truck with two padded benches encased by a metal roof. We are left shifting to and fro with every turn and pothole, our heads nearly smacking the intensely hot metal roof above us. Fumes from the truck fill our nostrils, and dust powders us down.
We finally turn into the estate where the children live. There is a field to the left with goats and steers. Chickens, doves, and dogs roam freely. An emaciated cat appears and whines for food, no doubt. There's a mango tree, banana trees. A few children see our truck pull in, and they immediately jump up and run into the back to alert the others. As soon we come out and begin to walk toward them, they run over to us and immediately reach for us. A girl latches onto my arm, another wraps herself around my waist. Two boys hug me and give me kisses on my cheek. Their smiles are beaming. I don't know these children, but they love me. I don't know them, but somehow I love them, too. Immediately. Inexplicably. I am in love.
They pull out a chair for me. It is an old metal chair with no back. I accept their gracious offer humbly. I share pictures and videos that are on my phone. They marvel at the likeness of my orange cat and theirs. They laugh at my goofy faces. They clap and dance along to one of Don's songs. We take pictures together. They pet my hair and play connect-the-dots with the freckles on my arms. They bring me a book of songs and flip through and ask me to sing with them. They know "If you're happy and you know it." We sing together and take more pictures and make a video. I love how accepting and loving they are. They are fascinated and joyous, and their presence is invigorating. I see them smile, and my life is full!
Coincidentally (miraculously?), the principal of the children's school stops by to see the children when we're visiting with them. This is our opportunity to get the children's tuition paid and school uniforms ordered. Everything seems to be falling into place so easily.
We only stay about an hour because of a potential impending storm, so we say our goodbyes, only we make sure to say, "na wè demen." "See you tomorrow." I can't wait!
Haiti is beautiful, but it's a beauty that goes beyond the surface. Beyond the palm trees, the puffy cumulous clouds, the intense sunshine.
The beauty is in the culture, in the people. It's found in the reality that they are here, amidst the rubble, the poverty, the intense, unforgiving heat. They are here, bustling, in their bright colors, with their buckets of water carried confidently upon their heads. They are here despite it all, and that, perhaps, is what is most beautiful.
On our way out of the airport, we were "greeted" by "workers" who nearly took the bags right from our hands. They were so desperate to carry them for us to make a few dollars. We were instructed to politely decline their services, "No, non, merci." The few who managed to fight their way in and help us waited patiently for their tips as we sought the comfortable air-conditioned interior of our van. Save for the chilly aisles of the local grocery mart, this would be the only air conditioning we'd find for the rest of our trip. I looked around as we made our way out of the airport. The parking lot, which was really very small, was filled with ancient trucks with dented sides and scraped up exteriors. There are no cars. Only mopeds, motorcycles, and trucks. There's a layer of dust over everything, because the climate is so arid. Abandoned vehicles on the side of the road are covered and appear to be made out of clay. As traffic jams around a circle out of the airport, I notice a Haitian woman lying in the middle of the landscaped circle, her head propped up on a small gourd. She's bare-foot, and she wears dark flowy pants and a head wrap. In the middle of the bustling traffic, this is her naptime. I think again. This is her home.
We drive through town, and it's immediately apparent that there are no traffic rules. There are no traffic signs. In the 25 minute ride we take to our guesthouse, we see only one traffic light. Any traffic signs that do happen to appear, like what appear to be one-way signs, are ignored by drivers. It is "get where you need to, however you can," and most people seem to just embrace it and go with it. There is no yelling when people are cut off. There is no honking out of anger. It's more like a polite warning, "I'm coming, so move out of the way." Even when people slam into each other with their grocery carts as they move through the tiny aisles there's no anger. There isn't even a reaction. This is how it goes here. It is accepted quietly and forgotten quickly. In a way, I envy this attitude, this brazen confidence, this abandonment of worry and caution. Despite the intense traffic that seems to make us prisoners of the road and heat and the apparent chaos, there is a sense of liberation here.
We pass a man with one leg, a woman carrying a case of water on her head, perfectly balanced, perfectly steady. She swaggers, even, and I can't understand how she does it. We see shelters showcased on the side of the road, like manufacutured model homes back in the States. They are seafoam green and khaki, and they are no larger than a tool shed. To many, these resemble home and hope for a better life.
We pass vendors lined up on the side of the road, packed into their shacks like sardines. They have strung up lines showcasing their work: a mile or more of local artwork, boots, bags, and cartons of cigarettes, woodwork, large vats of rice, fried chicken and fried plaintains, shucked sugar cane, bags of water, pre-paid cellular phones. On the concrete walls that line the roads, there are campaign messages written in graffiti, along with "Viv Wyclef Jean," and "Rastayo." Reggae blares from local clubs and trucks as they pass by. Piles of rocks wait to be turned into bricks. A woman leads a pack of mules toward home. An overturned dumpster is ignored. The block itself has become the dumping ground. Everyone bustles around, some in chic skinny jeans carrying oversized handbags. Others clearly desperate to find their next meal. Traffic stops and police push through leading a caravan of what appears to be important people. Our translator tells us it's the new President. The President is pushing through this stopped traffic. On the middle of what appears to be this unnamed road. Although he travels in a Land Rover, a vehicle far superior to any of the others on the road, he still travels on the same road as everyone else, amidst the dust, while everyone else drives right beside him. It blows my mind.
We get to the guesthouse, which is much nicer than I expected it to be. There are tile floors, a quaint gift shop, a lovely staircase that leads us to our room, spacious balconies. It reminds me of a luxurious dormitory. I've chosen a top bunk. I'll enjoy the industrial fan's cool breeze and the mosquito net that protects me and makes me feel like I'm in a princess bed. We are welcomed and instructed to be careful of our use of electricty, since sometimes the place runs solely on battery power. We purchased water at a local grocery store, so we're good on water. We can purchase a tall coke in a glass bottle for a dollar. Our laundry will be done for us for $5, if we need it. Bathrooms will be cleaned and beds made for us everyday. Breakfast at 6:30, dinner at 6. We are blessed to have this cozy place that also happens to be guarded by two beastly Mastiffs.
After we settled in a bit, we took off toward the orphanage. It took us over an hour to get there because of the traffic. Normally it might be a 15-20 minute trip. Sitting inside the "tap-tap," the makeshift Haitian taxi, is literally like frying inside of a small metal box. It is essentially a pick-up truck with two padded benches encased by a metal roof. We are left shifting to and fro with every turn and pothole, our heads nearly smacking the intensely hot metal roof above us. Fumes from the truck fill our nostrils, and dust powders us down.
We finally turn into the estate where the children live. There is a field to the left with goats and steers. Chickens, doves, and dogs roam freely. An emaciated cat appears and whines for food, no doubt. There's a mango tree, banana trees. A few children see our truck pull in, and they immediately jump up and run into the back to alert the others. As soon we come out and begin to walk toward them, they run over to us and immediately reach for us. A girl latches onto my arm, another wraps herself around my waist. Two boys hug me and give me kisses on my cheek. Their smiles are beaming. I don't know these children, but they love me. I don't know them, but somehow I love them, too. Immediately. Inexplicably. I am in love.
They pull out a chair for me. It is an old metal chair with no back. I accept their gracious offer humbly. I share pictures and videos that are on my phone. They marvel at the likeness of my orange cat and theirs. They laugh at my goofy faces. They clap and dance along to one of Don's songs. We take pictures together. They pet my hair and play connect-the-dots with the freckles on my arms. They bring me a book of songs and flip through and ask me to sing with them. They know "If you're happy and you know it." We sing together and take more pictures and make a video. I love how accepting and loving they are. They are fascinated and joyous, and their presence is invigorating. I see them smile, and my life is full!
Coincidentally (miraculously?), the principal of the children's school stops by to see the children when we're visiting with them. This is our opportunity to get the children's tuition paid and school uniforms ordered. Everything seems to be falling into place so easily.
We only stay about an hour because of a potential impending storm, so we say our goodbyes, only we make sure to say, "na wè demen." "See you tomorrow." I can't wait!