Friday, May 11, 2012 (Margaret)

I definitely have pre-arrival jitters. I have what National Office called an irrational "fear of dirt and danger" that is part of culture shock. I always curse myself for feeling this way, but it's the way I feel. The only thing to do to get rid of this fear, I know from past experience traveling out of my comfort zone, is to squarely face it. I think it will be very important for me to experience Haiti--to erase the stereotypes in my mind and to actually meet some of my fellow human beings from this part of the world.
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Haiti is green and brown and more mountainous than I expected. Most of the mountains are more like rolling hills. The Port au Prince airport where we got off the plane is really more like an intermittently air conditioned walkway, which ends in a stuffy shuttle bus crammed with passengers that takes you to a warehouse where you pick up your luggage. Right after we made it through customs, men fought over who was going to help us load our luggage onto carts and push it. About two dozen or so men in red collared shirts crowded around the exit. As soon as we opened the door to go outside, they swarmed. The guy we had already promised could help us shouted at the others in Creole and attempted to shoo them away. There was pushing and shoving and a heat that was stifling. We bought a cell phone ("Digicel") for $20 and were on our way to Wall's Guesthouse.

Port au Prince is chaos. That's the only word I can think of that accurately describes the city (without really saying anything at all). Our driver, Zo, gave us a tour of the city in the van. Although it would have been dangerous, I think I would have preferred a walking tour. Being in the van allowed me to glimpse reality through a fiberglass lens. And somehow, reality seemed unreal. It was like watching a movie unfolding around me. A young man walked up to my window, his face touching it, and kissed my reflection. I froze, not knowing how to react. Was this even real? Was the Haitian heat getting to my head? He lifted his hands to the window, spreading his fingers like a gecko and cocking his head to one side. He lifted up his shirt and rubbed his hand over his stomach. He was just hungry, but I find it interesting that my mind jumped to insanity before rationality in terms of assessing his actions. In P-a-P it is quite hard to tell the difference sometimes.

The roads are uneven and rocky and littered and wet from muddy water. Smoking piles of burning trash mixed with concrete rocks pop up everywhere. Women wearing colorful skirts and headwraps walk slowly and carefully down the road in dusty sandals, balancing baskets of mangoes and bundles of laundry on their heads. I am jealous of this ability. Sometimes, I am reminded of the South African townships, as if there is some universality in absolute poverty. But the townships are flat. This place is steep and there are palm trees. Buildings seem to jut out every which way.

The 4 hour drive to Les Cayes is difficult for me. All I can do is stare out the window and think, and my thoughts attack me. As in South Africa, I am critical once again of my skin color, my country, my home, my way of life. I have the thought that my education is overwhelmingly inadequate and inapplicable. I wish I had grown up here, where life may be difficult but no one goes to hell. Where priorities are straight and common sense is abundant and only the fittest survive. My head buzzes with angry, stinging thoughts. And maybe they don't even dislike their lives, I think. Maybe they are happy. Maybe they should look at the white people in the white van zooming by and feel pity for us.

We stop at a gas station along the side of the highway and order a hot meal of chicken, rice and beans, and fried plantain...a very typical meal here. Rain begins to clatter down, hard, on the metal roof. Just as soon as it has started raining, it stops again. The sun stays shining the whole time. Later I am to think of this and compare Haiti's weather patterns to its people. Like rain, disaster and misfortune strike the citizens of Haiti unexpectedly and often. But Haitians don't stay cloudy for long. They pick up the pieces and move on because they have very few other options. They are raised resilient and bright and beautiful, and their strength inspires me.

We drive on, in and out of rain patches, weaving around colorful buses, vehicles crammed with sitting or standing Haitians, motorcycles, bikes, and walkers. There are very few cars out here...I get the impression that very few could make it on these roads. When we finally make it to Les Cayes, I breathe a sigh of relief. It's not as crowded or as dirty here. Brenda Hospital feels a little like home.