Okay, I know I haven’t blogged in awhile, but it’s not
because nothing has happened. It’s
because SO much has happened that I have needed the time to recover and
process.
So, “sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a
fateful trip. It started from
Port-au-Prince, in this tiny little `truck packed to the hilt with people and
stuff that had to drive forever on what was supposed to be a four hour trip but
really was eight hours.’”
The
beginning wasn't bad, except that we left two hours late. Of course, that’s pretty much on time in
Haiti. We made it through Carrefour just
fine. Then we hit road construction
traffic delays. You think road
construction is bad in the U.S.? Try it
in Haiti. Horrible. That slowed us down by about 90 minutes. Even with that delay, I still thought we’d be
to Gertrude’s home village at a decent hour.
We left at 3:45 . . . four hour trip . . . 90 minute delay . . . we
should arrive by 9:30. Yea, right.
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| Before reality sets in |
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| The views are gorgeous |
During the
traffic jam my legs started bothering me: the restless leg twitching started
in, and I finally told Gertrude I had to sit in the back to stretch my legs and
take some of the my medicine. Rhonda
happily joined me. Now, the back of the
truck was filled with an empty cooler; a large, empty trashcan; various food
items; and a handful of suitcases.
Rhonda and I sat on TOP of all this.
We were sitting up so high that we could look out over the cap of the
truck. I could stretch my legs out,
which was good, but I had to ride sitting somewhat backwards which wasn't the
greatest for my stomach. We rode up
there for about two hours and then decided to head back in because it was
getting dark. Now mind you, by this time
we’d been on the road for just over four hours.
We’re thinking maybe two hours to go.
Wrong.
We settle
back into our seats in the backseat with Roberto, and I ask, “Where abouts are
we?”
“About
halfway to Les Cayes,” Gertrude answered.
Both Rhonda and I stared at each other.
Half way to Les Cayes??? That
meant about 2 ½ hours to Les Cayes and another
1 ½ hours from there to Damassin.
I thought I was going to go stark raving mad. It’s now 8:00 p.m., and we haven’t had
anything to eat since 11:30. The
twisting, winding roads coupled with Sony’s erratic driving around the curves
had my stomach all out of whack. Finally
I couldn't take it any more. I leaned
forward, “Gertrude, I feel sick. I think
I’m going to throw up.”
“What was
that?” Gertrude asked.
“Please
have Sony pull over. I think I’m going
to vom—.” I clenched my jaw together.
Rhonda
shouted, “Sony! Stop now.” She had the
door open and was out before the truck stopped.
I leapt out just in time to puke over the railing of the bridge. Three times.
Pulled over to the side of the road, on a bridge, in the dark, on a Haitian
road in the mountains is not my idea of safe or fun. Of course, Roberto thinks this is all funny
and laughs. While I’m hanging over the
railing, Gertrude tosses water into my face, hitting me square in my open
eyes. She said, “This is how we do it in
Haiti,” and proceeded to toss more water in my face. I didn't think it could get any worse until
Rhonda announced that she had to pee.
That was my bladder’s cue to wake up.
Now I had to pee. On the side of
a dark Haitian road with Gertrude, Sony, and Roberto sort of watching. Talk about embarrassing! And we still weren't to Les Cayes!
I can
honestly say that the rest of the trip TO Damassin wasn’t too bad. Until we pulled into the driveway of the
house. We pulled up to what can be best
described as a cement hut topped with rusty tin. No lights.
Rhonda and I looked at each other like “No. Please no.
Don’t make us sleep here.”
We didn't. I turned around in my seat and
saw a real house with lights. Thank
God. It was now 11:30. Our four-hour trip had turned into an
eight-hour trip.
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| Across the road from Gertrude's house |
The morning
dawned bright and beautiful—sun, blue skies, ocean view. Okay.
This was looking up. Rhonda and I
walked on the beach, took some pictures, and then went back to the house to
meet up with Gertrude before heading over to the priest’s house for
breakfast.
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| Men at work |
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| Ocean-front property |
We were in
the village to take pictures of some of the kids to send to the Foundation for
Peace which is starting a sponsorship program to send Haitian kids to
school. Gertrude’s home village is very
poor, so we thought we’d profile some of the kids there. Now, the Foundation of Peace wants to start
small with this sponsorship program, so I’m thinking we’ll profile maybe 30
kids. No. The priest explains that there are about 150
kids that he wants us to take pictures of.
And it’s flag day, so we can’t start until after mass and after the
parade, which means we don’t start until about 10:30-10:45. While we’re waiting, I develop a pain. A bad pain.
See, I can get these muscle spasms in a part of my body that doesn't allow the spasm to be rubbed out.
Really, nothing helps except for me to ride out the pain. Sometimes the pain is so bad I pass out. I shout stage whisper to Rhonda that I
need a bathroom. A look of slight panic
crosses her face when she sees the pain I’m in.
Gertrude comes out, and I explain to her that I need a bathroom. As she leads me up stairs (two flights) I
explain that sometimes I pass out from this.
Shoulda mentioned that earlier.
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| Handmade canoe |
I don’t
pass out. I live. We start the photo taking, and about 60 kids
in my camera runs out of batteries (I hadn't planned on taking hours of photos!). Rhonda steps in with her iPad, and we are
able to finish pretty efficiently. Turns
out it only took about two hours to do.
We head back to Gertrude’s place, eat lunch, and give some dresses to
the priest to distribute to needy members of the parish. Instead of the priest doing this at a later
time, one-on-one with a parent, he invites the town over to the front
porch. Suddenly, Rhonda and I are in the
midst of a throng of Haitians grabbing at us and the dresses. It was horrible chaos. And, the priest didn't step in to help. Nor did Gertrude. Two “blancs,” only one of whom spoke a smidge
of Creole tried to organize this mob of greedy, needy, pushy, people. I finally had enough. The dresses were almost gone, and I was tired
of being pushed, poked, and prodded.
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| One of our new friends . . . she got a dress! |
I
announced, “We’re done. No more.”
I packed up
the suitcase, and Rhonda and I went inside.
And the crowd followed! The folks
who lived in the house didn't seem phased by all this. I wanted someone who spoke Creole to step up and
say it’s over. Gertrude did just that,
but the crowd still didn't leave!
Seriously, it took a good 20 minutes to get them out of the house, but
then they just waited on the porch.
By this
time (2:00) it looked as if we might actually be able to pack up and get on the
road so that we could get home at a decent hour.
Silly me.
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| Pig . . . need I say more?? |
Gertrude
had had her uncle slaughter a pig that morning for her to take back with us to
PAP. That job was pretty much done, but
pig parts had to be distributed to folks in the village along with most of the
rice she had brought along. I watched as
chunks of freshly slaughtered pig were dumped into the garbage can we had brought
while others were handed out to other people.
Like, a hunk of pig fat went to one woman, who promptly gave it to her
daughter to take home. No wrapping. No nothing.
Just hunks of pig changing hands.
I just about lost it when someone brought in a pan of pig innards and
the kids started eating them. I watched
wide-eyed as kids and then adults popped morsels into their mouths. Thank God Rhonda shared with me a couple minutes
later that it was COOKED pig innards.
Once the rest
of the pig was safely packed into the garbage can, the loading of the truck
began:
**one
garbage can full of pig on ice
**four big
bags of charcoal
**one large
stem of plantains
**one
cooler filled with . . . I don’t know what
**various
amounts of bananas, mangos, and pineapples
**three
suitcases
**random
other things that I can’t remember
And then they brought out the grill. They seriously thought they could fit the
grill somewhere in the back. And, we
were coming back with SEVEN people instead of the original five. I started to panic, as did Rhonda. Thankfully they decided that the grill wouldn't fit, and they took out one bag of charcoal.
They then took a dirty tarp and threw it over the stuff to keep it all
in. Rhonda and I then declared that we
were riding in the back of the truck on top of everything. The Haitians looked at us as if we were
crazy, but we wanted fresh air for as long as we could get it.
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| Manioc stop |
We took off
about 3:15, neither one of us looking forward to the EIGHT hour trip home. We spent four hours in the back roasting in
the sun; having our hair tied in knots by the wind; dirt and coal covering our
hands, legs, face, inner ears; holding on for dear life as Sony raced up and
down the mountain roads. We did stop a
couple of times to buy more fruit and some maniac branches that Gertrude wanted
to plant. Yes, all that stuff joined us
in the back! We also stopped once to buy
water and once to buy Prestige. Thank
God.
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| Dirty and windblown |
Of course,
every time we stopped we could smell the pig on ice.
About two
hours from home the rain came along with a “blokis.” The rain did us in . . . for a bit. We crawled into the truck . . . me in the front
seat so that my legs wouldn’t be bothered, Rhonda in the back seat with three
men and Gertrude. Not comfortable! Two of the men only lasted 30 minutes before
insisting on riding in the back . . . they couldn’t take five in the backseat
any more. Not that I blame them.
What a
trip . . . . it was rough.
I’ve just given you the facts, but I can’t find the words to convey the
discomfort, the disbelief, and my dumbfoundedness about the whole thing.
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