I’m sitting in the Port-au-Prince airport, waiting to board a flight to Miami, with dust in my hair from the motorbike ride here. We darted through the chaos of the traffic, the tent city near the airport, the roads covered in rubble and pools of unidentifiable brown water, with my big rucksack on my back, trying to keep my balance as we swerved around tap-taps and erratic drivers. I got my last view at the Port-au-Prince horizon, with its spectacular hills covered in people’s humble dwellings, the sun setting behind the southern mount, projecting that unique beautiful dusty light, warming the tones of the colorful streets after another day of harsh, bright sunlight. As we drove, I imagined what the streets would look like in a few hours, still buzzing with people, lit only by the vendors’ candle light lining the roads, as they sit with their wares, fruit, veg, gum, shoes, pills, rice, books, clothes, charcoal.. I imagined the strong, thick darkness that exists here, and the silhouettes of people against car headlights, or mounds of burning trash, creating a smokey hue and adding an element of disaster, of urgency to what Haitians will view as just another evening, just another day in this difficult, hostile place. I imagined that a little later, after I’ve gone, the streets will be deserted, around 9 o’clock, as people will be tucked deep inside the winding, tight streets of the cluttered housing, with their doors well locked, going outside only if absolutely necessary, fearing and knowing that at night, the bandits and the wild dogs, rule the streets.
The waiting room is small and full of people, with different airlines operating from one small gate. The airport was completely destroyed nearly 2 years ago in the earthquake and the system they’ve had here is makeshift, with a wooden wall skirting the cluttered seating, behind which is loud banging, as they are rebuilding their airport, rebuilding the country, slowly, rebuilding their lives. I am sitting here knowing that the next few hours will be my last this year as a white minority among the people around me. My constant attempted creole inner-dialogue will fade, and the comfort of the warm air will leave me, as I will pile on layers of warm clothing to soften the blow, the shock of being back in Europe in the mid winter.
I’ll be safe again. Safe on the roads, safe in my home (well, my father’s home), safe from people trying to rip me off, safe from always fearing what I eat will make me sick, safe from the mosquitos, the most persistently annoying creatures in the world, safe from the treacherous pavements in the dark and the frequent giant open sewers which are so easy to step in and fall ten feet down, safe from the discomfort of having to refuse or ignore beggars, to turn away from obviously needy people reaching out their hands for me to help them.. I won’t feel like the stupid looking rediculous blanc everywhere I go, doing things backwards, a walking joke. I’ll wear make-up again and blow-dry my hair.
But this promise of organized society, of safety, doesn’t bring me comfort. It just makes me feel sad to leave Haiti, a place where doing the simplest thing is a huge challenge.. But it’s a challenge that I love. And I can’t wait to come back, not just for the thrill of living in such an exciting, shocking environment, but also, well mostly because, when I am here, what little effect I am having around me, I know that I am doing everything I can to help some of the poorest people in the world. I haven’t found a fluid channel through which to help the children of Haiti trapped in slavery yet, and as frustrating as that is, I know I am doing everything I possibly can to make a positive impact in Haiti, giving all that I have within me to do this, to find a way to help, and that is both frustrating and deeply satisfying. The work that needs to be done here is so huge it makes you want to give up, but the work that needs to be done here is so huge I can not give up.
So it is with a heavy heart that I leave this island. Heavy with the burden of need here, and the love I have for the place. Heavy enough that I know I will be back here in the new year, I still have a lot to give before I give up.
A pi ta Ayiti Cheri x
The waiting room is small and full of people, with different airlines operating from one small gate. The airport was completely destroyed nearly 2 years ago in the earthquake and the system they’ve had here is makeshift, with a wooden wall skirting the cluttered seating, behind which is loud banging, as they are rebuilding their airport, rebuilding the country, slowly, rebuilding their lives. I am sitting here knowing that the next few hours will be my last this year as a white minority among the people around me. My constant attempted creole inner-dialogue will fade, and the comfort of the warm air will leave me, as I will pile on layers of warm clothing to soften the blow, the shock of being back in Europe in the mid winter.
I’ll be safe again. Safe on the roads, safe in my home (well, my father’s home), safe from people trying to rip me off, safe from always fearing what I eat will make me sick, safe from the mosquitos, the most persistently annoying creatures in the world, safe from the treacherous pavements in the dark and the frequent giant open sewers which are so easy to step in and fall ten feet down, safe from the discomfort of having to refuse or ignore beggars, to turn away from obviously needy people reaching out their hands for me to help them.. I won’t feel like the stupid looking rediculous blanc everywhere I go, doing things backwards, a walking joke. I’ll wear make-up again and blow-dry my hair.
But this promise of organized society, of safety, doesn’t bring me comfort. It just makes me feel sad to leave Haiti, a place where doing the simplest thing is a huge challenge.. But it’s a challenge that I love. And I can’t wait to come back, not just for the thrill of living in such an exciting, shocking environment, but also, well mostly because, when I am here, what little effect I am having around me, I know that I am doing everything I can to help some of the poorest people in the world. I haven’t found a fluid channel through which to help the children of Haiti trapped in slavery yet, and as frustrating as that is, I know I am doing everything I possibly can to make a positive impact in Haiti, giving all that I have within me to do this, to find a way to help, and that is both frustrating and deeply satisfying. The work that needs to be done here is so huge it makes you want to give up, but the work that needs to be done here is so huge I can not give up.
So it is with a heavy heart that I leave this island. Heavy with the burden of need here, and the love I have for the place. Heavy enough that I know I will be back here in the new year, I still have a lot to give before I give up.
A pi ta Ayiti Cheri x
