is that your diesel engine?

The "Haiti experience" begins on the plane ride from Miami. Most of the passengers are visiting or returning Haitians and light-skinned folk are in the minority. All the announcements, except those from the cockpit, are in Creole and English but even still most choose to ignore instructions like, "remain seated, the plane is landing" and "please remain seated until the plane has come to a complete stop."

The view of the Caribbean from the plane window is breathtaking. Small treeless islands and sandbars zigzag the turquoise water like fading scars. The plane passes over several populated and lush islands where, even from thousands of feet high, the white beaches sparkle and hint at a tourist paradise. Once the plane enters Haitian airspace, mountains appear and the land is revealed red and starving. The smudge created by a fading horizon cannot hide the darker green boarder of the Dominican Republic.


The Port-au-Prince airport is always an adventure but this time my bags came out first and I slipped out relatively unmolested. The driver we always use was waiting for me with a smile eliminating yet another potentially stressful element of the travel-day. Since I had 4 hours before my connecting flight back to Les Cayes, Jean Gary (the driver) and I went to eat lunch at a gas station restaurant: delicious beans and rice, fried pork and plantains with a little coleslaw.

After lunch, I still had 2 and a half hours to sit in the small airport awaiting transportation south. Fortunately I was not bereft of entertainment. Without a second thought, I squeezed past an apparently new diesel engine that sat abandoned on the ground. The woman at the counter spoke to me briefly and then began checking my bags; I stood patiently waiting for my baggage claim tags. Suddenly, from behind, I heard a voice ask me in strongly accented English, "excuse me miss, is that your diesel engine?" "What? Why, of course!" I thought. "I was bringing it down to Haiti with the intention of building myself a stout diesel tractor. Don't mind me, I'll get it out of your way lickety-split." Instead, I looked perplexed and sputtered, "non..." Then I sat for hours amongst the smattering of elderly French ladies and Haitian travelers, awaiting my flight on Tortug'Air.

The south really does differ from the north; the flight to Les Cayes again revealed the incredible beauty of this country. Farms create patch work patterns on the green, hilly land, trees speckle the mountain sides. An overwhelming feeling of gratitude to be able to call this place my (temporary) home returned, as it does every time I view Les Cayes from the air.

At the farm, not much has changed. A handful of kids spotted our approaching truck and came to say hello. Fr. Charlie greeted me warmly but when asked if he missed me replied shortly, "No!" But his eyes twinkled. Raymond, my French Canadian house-mate, embraced me and grinned. Later in the evening, Dan and I had a chance to catch up.

All in all - it's good to be back.