Arrival in Haiti

Before I begin the series of posts for the January 2010 SOIL class in Haiti, I want to note that while I was hoping to complete them while in Cap-Haitien, the course was disrupted by the tragic earthquake that struck Port-au-Prince. Therefore I am writing from the few notes I took and from memory.

Tick tock.

This story, like most Craig travel stories, starts with an absence of time and absence of sleep. Though I’d been thinking critically about the trip for many weeks prior to going, in the final hours of preparation I was unable to think too much as there was only time for packing. Driving to the airport I had to remind myself I was in Florida as it was downright chilly, even for this hardy Midwestern boy.

Unloading our bags at the airport, I met and began chatting with the fellow students taking the course. Our group was comprised of Jack from Notre Dame, Andrew, Camille and Diana from UM and of course Ann-Marie and your humble blogger—representing FIU.

After some chilly time on the tarmac, we boarded the small charter plane, strapped in and were quickly high above Florida headed south. The flight was a bit bumpy and as we got closer to the northern coast of Hispaniola, the mountains suddenly appeared. They were so much more green and lush than those in the Central Plateau, which I recall as being dusty and almost wholly absent of trees. Here there were entire mountainsides covered in clumps of trees or some kind of vegetative growth—I was quite frankly stunned, but delightfully so. A rainy fog covered the tops of the mountains, which were like a protective wall around the city of Cap-Haitien. I flashed back to the books I’d read and recalled the descriptions of the historic port city. My thoughts descended quickly, taking their usual path toward Haiti’s beleaguered history. I saw the harbor stacked with haggard, cracking vessels full of survivors of the Middle Passage. I tried are to imagine their struggle and wondered how their view of the mountains was different from my own. There wasn’t too much time for that as soon we were on the ground, dodging rain and collecting our belongings. Sasha and Sarah were waiting for us with open arms—literally. They gave us a cordial welcome and we returned to the SOIL apartment. After being shown around and meeting the SOL staff, everyone went their separate ways for a while. Finally coming down off the overwork of my adrenals, which I’m certain were pumping for several hours straight, I promptly passed out inside my little mosquito net fortress.

In the afternoon, I slept hard for several hours but was jolted awake by some yelling down on the street. I rolled over in a daze, got up and went to find Jack and Andre, my roommates and soon to be partners in crime. Jack was downstairs trying to talk to a young Haitian boy who had a cut above his eye. Apparently there had been some kind of fight among a few of the “street kids.” Sasha was scrambling around—“we’re off to the hospital” she said with that perky attitude and smile that never goes on break. I don’t remember how many people went to the hospital but we took two kids in, the boy with the cut above his eye and another boy, his friend, who had a severe lip infection.

The hospital left a lot to be desired, and that’s putting it nicely. This was the state hospital and while it seemed to be staffed, it was clear that “sterile” was a relative term. After sitting with the boys, we eventually wandered around the corner to try to find the doctor. It would seem he was rather busy as there was a young man who had deep head contusions and was tied to wooden bench receiving stitches. We clearly weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Darkness quickly approaching, we headed back to the apartment after a long day. I laid down in bed after a long talk with the boys. I thought about the day’s events recalling Graham Greene’s adage about Haiti as a “surreal comedy.” Those thoughts didn’t last long as I quickly faded into sleep.