Brush with Haiti (14 page)

The morning I left Chicago, temperatures had plummeted into the single digits, and icing on the plane had caused some malfunction. When American Airlines opted to take the aircraft out of commission and put me on a later flight, I assured myself it was for the best. However, I had already checked my luggage.

Never having lost luggage before, I had become confident, perhaps too much so, and neglected to prepare for such a situation. Rather than pack necessities, an extra change of clothing, etc., in my carry-on, I checked nearly everything. Knowing I would be leaving a frigid climate for a much warmer one and going through the process of changing planes in Miami, I wanted to be free to travel light. I carried only my stylish red briefcase, normally reserved for my laptop, and put in it only a book of crossword puzzles, a legal pad, some pens, a couple of Luna Bars, a book called
Courageous Dreaming,
and a copy of Graham Green's
The Comedians,
given to me by my cousin. He traveled and read a good deal and knew a lot of good books about Americans in foreign countries. Renate and I hoped to have lunch at the Hotel Oloffson one day and I wanted so much to finish it before then. I was sure it would give me a whole new outlook on the setting. Reading it in the airport would help in the mental and cultural transitions between Chicago and Port-au-Prince, at least that is what I had hoped. The last place I remember seeing it was lying on a bench at O'Hare.

I had gotten up repeatedly to check on my flight, and the romanticism of literary accounts evidently took a back seat to my worries about the practical matters of travel. Plus there was something about this trip making me uneasy in the first place. In the days before Christmas, just more than a week before, I had spent much time shopping for a digital camera. With little in my budget, I decided on a Polaroid I saw in Target's weekly ad. I had promised Christine that I would have photos on hand for the presentation. After picking up a few other things for the trip, I found the camera, and stood waiting for what seemed an eternity at the counter. I looked at it several times as the clerk finally appeared and then waited on other customers, answering what seemed to me to be ridiculous questions.

I was not sure why I was losing my patience. I looked at the camera again, touching its red metallic body, wondering why the universe was standing in the way of what should be a simple purchase. Could I really not afford it? Should I borrow a camera from a friend? It seemed more than that. Having developed a passion for photography during college, I came to know the magic of capturing images and preserving them indefinitely into the future, after their subjects had been long gone. I peered into the lens, imagining I could see into the body of the camera, and wondered what it might hold one day.

I backed off. There was something about having that camera that scared me.

"Can I help you?" The sound of the clerk's voice startled me.

"Uh... " I had to make a decision and had to know I was not crazy. "I'm interested in this one."

"Do you have any questions?" He watched me staring at it.

"No. No, I'll take it." When I got it home, I read the short-cut instructions, charged the battery, and placed it away in my suitcase.

The night before the trip, I stayed up very late, packing everything possible in that suitcase, including my laptop, vitamins, recently prescribed thyroid medication, dried fruit and nuts, mosquito repellant, battery-operated alarm clock, flashlight, and lots of professional, conservative, yet lightweight clothing. Nerves kept me from becoming tired and I ultimately had to force myself to get a few hours' sleep. When my departure was delayed, American Airlines employees assured me I could retrieve my luggage in Port-au-Prince. The airport seemed unusually quiet, and I became lost in my thoughts about Haiti. I looked back on the holiday time with my family and wished that I had not been so preoccupied with the trip.

Once I arrived in Port-au-Prince, the warm air was refreshing, and I took as many deep breaths as I could, unconvinced that January could be like this all the time. I realized that the comfortable brown slacks, with enough polyester to give me coach seating comfort and warmth, would have to go. I could not wait to change. I took off my trench coat and tied it around my waist, and searched for my luggage. I waited and waited, but it was nowhere to be found. I took off one more layer, a cotton cardigan sweater, as my long-sleeved t-shirt was more than enough. People rushed around, to the side, in front, and behind me, all seeming to know what they were doing. That is usually the way it is in a strange airport, especially when I don't know the language. Hearing Creole all around somehow makes one feel inadequate in the most simple of functions in an airport.

I found the American Airlines counter to ease my mind. I knew there was a driver waiting for me and I did not want to delay. The woman stationed there wore a uniform similar -if not identical - to those worn at O'Hare, but her demeanor was very different. Kind, yes, but far more laid back than in the States. I have found this to be true of nearly all airline representatives in the Caribbean. It is not as if they aren't doing their jobs, it is just that they do them in such a non-U.S. sort of way. It is a difference in attitude - toward life, work, and world. She told me my luggage should be there. I was not convinced, most likely because I did not see it.

I explained that I was in Port-au-Prince for only one night, and then would be off to Jeremie on Tortug'Air. She said that my luggage would be forwarded there, but again, I was not convinced. She did not seem to have a way of tracking anything by computer. I was very pleased that American was employing Haitians in their own country, but wished very much that the company had provided them with the means to do their jobs well.

I took another deep breath, this one not to immerse myself in the Caribbean air, but to relax and feed a sense of trust that my suitcase would find its way to Jeremie. I walked carefully and with purpose past numerous men who eagerly tried to get me a taxi.

"Non, merci"
I said repeatedly, happy that some French danced from my lips, but having little idea whether there was much true communication taking place. After a bit of searching I found my driver. He held a sign with my name, and we smiled at one another. He spoke next to no English, and I spoke zero Creole. But he took me to where I needed to be.

When we arrived at Hospice St. Joseph, it was not exactly how I pictured from Renate's description, but then again I was not sure what to expect. It housed a clinic on the first floor with rooms for sleeping above. It was gated, as most hotels and such are in Port-au-Prince. Much of it was painted a deep green blue and it seemed inviting. When I enter a new place and there is no reference point, no comparable past experience, no way of communicating verbally, I have learned to trust my gut to get a sense of things. My body was telling me this was a good place. I tried to explain the suitcase situation to my driver, but it was no use. I would figure that out later, I thought. We smiled at each other and I gave him a couple of dollars, knowing that the true expenses were being calculated elsewhere, and found my way through the clinic. Mothers sat with their children in chairs along the wall. It seemed both indoors and out, similar to many accommodations in warmer parts of the world. Again I smiled and again and again, and I was taken to my room. It was perfect.

It is funny how when one travels that bedding can so much define a stay. For me, whatever bedding is there makes my stay a good one, if only because it is unique and there for me when I end a long day of being out and about. I once stayed at a bed and breakfast in Lismore, Ireland, near where my grandfather was born. The room was lush and pristine, the bed graced in white cotton bedding trimmed with lace and sheets dotted with small blue flowers. The owner, almost a caricature of Irish lilt and warm, humorous story-telling, said she made annual trips to Boston to visit family and purchase the best bedding the city had to offer. It showed. I once stayed at a Victorian inn in Grand Haven, Michigan with a room so warm and inviting (it was during a brisk spring break weekend in March) that it inspired me to purchase all new bedding for my own room upon returning home. I liked the feeling of lying high on a pile of down, and wondered why I might not live like that every day. This room at Hospice St. Joseph was nothing like those. It was so simple in comparison, but perhaps the most inviting room I had ever had.

After climbing the stairs past the patients, gift shop, and dining room, I was taken through the common area of the third floor onto a small balcony, and to my room. With my back to the door, I had an amazing view of the city - hills to the left and to the right, and cement block houses taking up every square foot. Palm trees here and there reminded me just how far I had traveled from Indiana.

The room was furnished with two twin beds and a small table with a pitcher of water and two glasses. Directly across from the window was a small bathroom with a sink, shower and toilet. The tile and fixtures were far from new, but they served their purposes. The bedspreads were thin, but the weather was warm. And it was apparent special care was given to make sure they looked their best. A towel, wash cloth, and small bar of soap sat on the end of each bed. The colors of everything were bright and reminded me of my childhood.

I turned to the manager who had shown me to my room, and explained that I was missing my luggage. She graciously offered to provide a toothbrush and toothpaste. I felt terrible having to ask for anything more than was normally expected in this country of so little. But she smiled and quickly returned with them.

I poured myself a glass of water and went into the bathroom to wash my hands. I looked forward to a rest on the bed as the afternoon sun began to set. My sleep that night was more restful than I had experienced in a very long time. I liked being there. However, I was there for just one night on this part of the trip. In the morning, I would be off to Jeremie.

I was becoming accustomed
to riding in small aircraft and looked forward to my flight from Port-au-Prince's regional airport to Jeremie. The airport itself seemed a bit chaotic and again I attributed that to my lack of understanding of Creole. I tried to get some assurance that my suitcase was somehow making it from one city to another, and was told that it was most likely already there. I was beginning to feel as if some newly emerging obsessive compulsive disorder was here to plague me and tried to relax. They were only things, I thought, and reminded myself that I was in a country of so few things.

I took a seat and waited for someone to announce my flight, knowing it could well leave anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours after its scheduled departure. I looked around, watching people, as I am apt to do in any airport. And I reminisced about my sitting there with the church ladies, Tom, John, and the bishop several years before, anticipating our trip to Cap-Haitien and then Fort Liberte.

It was different traveling alone and I had to have faith that I would make it through the process and that Renate would be at the airport in Jeremie to greet me. I did make it through the process, and yes, Renate was there to greet me. When traveling by myself in strange places for uncommon reasons, belief in a higher power seems to kick into high gear. The down time allows me to be alone in my thoughts, comparing whatever journey I am on to that of life. The progression of being taken from one place to another, from one experience to another, is just as it should be. We go where we are meant to go and are where we are meant to be. Yes, decisions and free will play significant roles, but once the trip is underway, it is best to go along, trust all will work out, and not anticipate what lies ahead with too much hope or fear. Neutral anticipation while looking around in the present is all that needs to be.

Perhaps it is my trust in a greater force - a higher energy - that allows me to travel alone under such circumstances in the first place, for I never feel alone. Call it a crutch. Call it imaginary fantasy. Call it what you will. But for me it is what it is, even if my understanding of what it is shifts continually. I looked around at the people in the airport, and wondered what they were up to and where they were headed.

Flying into the Department of the Grand'Anse, I noticed abundant vegetation that strikingly distinguished it from the barren and eroding north. We landed softly on a field of grass and I looked around to see innumerable United Nations vehicles. The area was indeed remote, and noticeably quiet, and the airport structure itself no larger than a small house. I wondered what made the U.N. presence necessary.

"Hello, hello, Kathy!" Renate greeted me with a smile and hug like no other can.

"Renate! I can't believe I'm here!"

"It is so good to see you!" I knew at that moment my decision to come was the right one. She bought some oranges and avocados from some women standing in the sunshine at a fruit stand. I loved January in the Caribbean. "Don't you have a suitcase?"

"It's lost," I told her. "My flight from Chicago to Miami was changed and I'm not sure where my bag is.

"Well, let's look here." It took all of a minute or two to scour the Jeremie airport. "No worries. We'll find it." She promised to take me to the Tortug'Air office in town the following day. A friend of hers worked there.

"Thanks I'm sure it will turn up." I was already warm and looked forward to putting on a linen shirt. "Just a quick question... "

"Sure, what is it?" she asked.

"What is the U.N. doing here?"

"They're everywhere in Haiti." She laughed. "You'll see." It was true. All along the road to the house where we were staying there were cars, SUVs, motorbikes, and trucks, all white with a large, black "U.N." emblazoned on each.

"I don't sense any tension here," I told her.

"Of course, not. There is no tension here. Haiti is a perfect place for them to be. They're from all over; mostly from Indonesia, I think."

"It is beautiful here."