The Crack Cocaine of the Caribbean

At the small airport in Port-au-Prince from which one catches an in-country flight on the Caribintair, Tortug’air, or Samaritan airlines, my friend Rob and I ran into Dr. Cool Dad (here to fore, Dr. CD). To be fair, this guy has been coming to Haiti since his father built a clinic here in the ‘70s, which is how, he says, he discovered his impetus to minister to the ailments of the poor, but he’s truly the quintessential “cool dad.” We met him when he inquired, as many are wont, about the nature of our visit to this lovely (but admittedly dangerous) isle.

Dr. CD, Rob and I stood in the bright sunshine outside the airport, sucking down a tall Pepsi Cola and cold bottles of water, respectively. He explained to us how he had been coming here since the 1970s with his dad and now, in turn, brings his own children along with him. On this trip, he explained, a vacation to Cap-Haitien, his son had brought his all-American, Colorado girlfriend who, before this, had never been out of the country. A vacation in Cap-Haitien, eh… My family thinks I’m slightly daft for wanting to volunteer here; what would they say to this tall, blond American fellow in his faded pink Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, heading off to the north for a little R&R?

If visitors in Haiti have two things in common, it’s an (slight to extreme) eccentric personality and an inability to forget the first time they ever came to the west side of Hispaniola. Dr. CD helps diagnose this phenomenon by calling Haiti the “crack cocaine of the Caribbean islands. After you see Haiti, everything else seems too sterile; Haiti’s so pure and real.” Once you experience the intense smells, clear, bright colors, vivid sunshine, warmth of the people and everything else that is Haiti Cheri, there really is no going back.

So here I am, back getting my fix of Haiti. And as a nod to Dr. CD, who is by now enjoying Cap-Haitien with his two lackadaisical children and young Haitian girlfriend (who explains away their vacation to the dry north-country), I was up at 3:45am, buzzing with thoughts and ideas. My room desperately needs organizing, another chapter of D. H. Lawrence beckons me, thoughts in my head scream to escape onto paper; so I acquiesce to the self-nagging and get out of bed. Why not? We all retired by 9:00pm.

While I have to pinch myself on this sunny, breezy, 88º F, December day, the dream is somewhat funk-i-fied (for lack of a better term) by certain realities. For one, my little room in the visitor’s quad where I will reside for the duration of my time with Pwoje Espwa desperately for attention (something it’ll get a lot of this week). The lack of hangars, shelves, and table space would drive any anal-retentive personality into a fit of madness. Fortunately, for me, in addition to being quite anal, I can be quite innovative. My suitcase, coupled with a sarong, may prove to be the ideal bedside table.

From my outpost on day one, the work ahead looms a bit daunting; there is so much that I would like to accomplish here. Still, nothing will quell a feeling that began to grow from the moment I stepped foot onto Haitian soil. Perhaps it is the feeling of my soul expanding or my spirit celebrating or my body relaxing, perhaps a combination of all these things. Whatever the cause, the sensation is at once wonderful, exciting, spiritual and addictive. Neither will it be ignored nor forgotten.