Haiti: The Jewel of the Antilles (Exit from Haiti, Day 29)

Last night a young man, Ronald, brought me a "ti kado" (a little present). Although Mendel and I were able to see each other briefly a couple of weeks ago, he was unable to make it over the mountains again from the Pelaigre Dam in the Artibonite Valley where he works. With the Internet out I was unable to communicate with him, but he sent this present, his friend as a liason.

The plane was delayed by two hours, so we passed the time watching the Germany-Argentina World Cup match with a bunch of Haitians in the lounge. Those Haitians. Crazy about football. "Fanatik." Jason’s group was late for their flight to Atlanta, only to have their replacement plane leave two hours "en rita." They were not happy, but it only goes to show that Haiti is not just a place—it is a state of mind, garnering patience and flexibility, joy in the face of adversity, courage in rough places.

Most of trip was quiet. I taped up the latch on my bag so I wouldn’t have any problems reopening it. My trunk was very underweight this time. I made my plane to Richmond uneventfully, though we almost did not take off because of a weight restriction. The stewardess and pilot were under the plane, bringing bags up to the cabin and storing them in all these hideaways in order to balance out the load so that we could take off. I think they even poured extra water into the toilet tank so that it would be a few pounds heavier in the back of the aircraft.

Chris and Erin very kindly picked me up around midnight. When I arrived at Chris’ house, I discovered myself unconsciously worrying about mosquitoes, scanning around their house for them. I also wondered if the toilet was really going to flush or if I was going to have to fill up a bucket of water in the sink to pour into it—it actually didn’t the first time I tried! I am not even sure I will recognize the sensation of a hot shower or being able to drink out of the sink without worry. Much less electricity all the time. You get so used to these dysfunctional things about Haiti that you miss having to deal with them. You miss them a lot. You miss them immediately. I did not bother going through my stuff to find a toothbrush, nor did I take a shower. It helped me remember.

Last night Ronald was carrying a bright yellow shirt, hand-stitched and decorated with blue thread, with a little design stitched in the back. The bag covering it said, "Zanmi soley." This morning the gift took on new poignancy. Asking Theremise about what this meant, she cooed and said, "Rad soley se pou moun ki proche de legliz-la." I was shocked and humbled. "The ‘soley’ (sun) clothes are for men who are close to the church." I remembered all the times I had seen Father Brissault and Monpe Malherbe wearing similar apparel. A man close to the church. Confused, I asked her if it was okay for me to wear it. "Ou met"—you may—but she indicated that it was for me to decide. She meant, of course, that when I wanted to I should, but it took on another layer of decision for me. It seemed like an honor, receiving such a garment, that I would have to grow into, even live up to. To wear it was a bigger choice than "on what days"—it was more like "with what disposition". It can help remind me of Haiti and of who I am called to be in the spiritual life, in the world of suffering, in the world of action and contemplation. To be seen as "a man of the church" by another is a humbling but life-affirming task. As I was finishing Richard Rohr yesterday, the book I started on the day of my departure, I could not help but reflect on this shirt and the masculine archetype of "the king," he who makes decisions and controls his own authority. Could I be this type of man, becoming empowered, truly and deeply, not controlling and shallowly? The shirt calls to me because the design stitched into the back, it appears to me anyway, is a crown. As Jason kept reminding me on the trip around the city the day prior, "You are a man. You are like a machete—sharp and powerful, but only when it is necessary to wield such strength. You need to remember this every day." A man of the church. This trip: a "wild man’s journey." Can I become the "wild man" that Rohr writes about so clearly? Will I be worthy of this crown, a crown topped with a sparkling jewel, the remembrance of this trip to Haiti; Haiti, this precious gift that I miss so dreadfully already? This shirt gave me the affirmation to overcome myself and be "a mighty man of valour." Though the road to such empowerment is as twisted and bumpy as a Haitian mountain road, as confused and entangled as Port-au-Prince traffic, unpredictable like a tap-tap, as dank and dirty as La Saline, full of suffering and sickness and death like Cite Soliel, I have already come through or close to these and survived. Beyond mountains there are more mountains, but you pass over them; you swerve through and around cars, dangerously, but also with humor and courage at breaking the rules of the road; you come to dark places but always return to the light. The journey is as obscure as the meeting of sea and sky, but the horizon line is so clearly defined. Both bask as friends of the sun, of the light, empty and reflective.

I eagerly and proudly wore the shirt on the plane ride; I even hoped that it would ward off the overly aggressive skycaps at the airport. Between my large crucifix, the rad soley, and the fact that most of these workers, after frequent trips taking groups to and from the airport, coupled with the association with Domonde and Matthew 25 House’s vehicle, think I am a priest and call me "Monpe" already, gave me some authority when I told them that "Nou ka pote chay nou-yo."

We are able to carry our own loads.

"If your trunk is too heavy, take out the wheel rack and carry it on the plane." When things go wrong, be flexible.
Enjoy life. Be incarnated. Pour some water into the toilet. Balance the weight. Remember. Carry your load proudly on your head like a Haitian woman, graceful, poised, but powerful. Wear it like a crown.

What is a burden always reveals itself as a blessing. In carrying, we learn new lessons.

Very soon I won’t need a shirt to remind me: be Haitian.
Be a friend of the sun, of the light, sparkling like a jewel.

It is very precious to me, this "ti kado."

EDH: 10:15PM-6:10AM

Tour de Portoprens (Day 28)

Today I was taken on a 6 hour tour of the city. It was a wonderful way to pass the last day—a sort of reminiscence coupled with a looking-ahead to next time. It provided a complete contrast to yesterday’s funk.

We traveled the familiar Route de Delmas to the National Palace, but from a side street that allowed us to view the Palace and the sea together. We walked around the square and toured the neighboring statues and monuments. After maneuvering around the government center, we drove by the Cathedral, passing the Episcopal St. Trinite Church on the way. We were heading towards the dangerous area of Bel Air, coming within a block before heading down to the port area. We passed through Croix des Bossales, the market area where slaves were first unloaded in Haiti, passing La Saline, a slum area second only to the precarious Cite Soleil, the poorest place in the western hemisphere. The majority of the market road we discussed the smell: rotting and fresh vegetables, the sea and trash. We began arriving within a block of Cite Soleil, perilous shantytown, viewing the water tower on the kidnapping road, Route Nationale #1, before turning around—too dangerous. We returned through downtown past the crowded Marche de Feu, viewing the old St. John Bosco Church where Aristide began as a priest—his fiery rhetoric was met with a firebomb inside the church sometime in the early 90’s. We also heard of the Cow’s Head Market which was burned last fall, with people inside of it, by bandits and gang members in protest of the interim government. Heading up to the affluent Petionville suburbs, we continued into the spectacular mountains and foggy, crisp air of Kenscoff, closer to the views and clime of Scotland than what one thinks of Haiti. From there we could see the whole of Port-au-Prince below us, the sea, airport, and city in miniature, while basking in the sun and crisp breeze. We took a quick stop at the Baptist Mission founded by Wally Turnbull—a complex of beautiful buildings, a church, and a nice museum. Part of the museum was an exhibit on vodoun, which was strange, both that the Baptist museum held these artifacts (though in order to condemn them) and also because we had been having a tutorial in vodoun on the way up the mountainside (we talked about it, not did it). After visiting the house of Riccardo, our chauffeur for the day, we returned home.

I talked about buying some of this mountainside property near his house—I am pretty sure it is relatively cheap. Riccardo seemed to think this is a distinct possibility, even offering to make the deal for me. It would be well worth the effort of saving and taking a loan here or there in order to put a house in this prime spot. As the Haitians say, "Si BonDye vle"—"If God wishes."

A lot of the trip was spent discussing heavy thoughts with Jason, the photojournalist for whom the trip was made. He reminded me that I was already where I needed to be, as well as giving me suggestions on how to reclaim power lost to guilt, church life, and other issues that I have been confronting, very often in these writings. He suggested that I start in some aggressive martial arts or other type of physical discipline—what my spiritual advisers and shrinks have been saying for several years—in order to return more fully to my body, to grounding, to the earth. Our conversation completely locked in with Richard Rohr’s book, which I started on the way here and will finish on the way out. It is time for me to return to my masculinity without fear, with integration, with powerful powerlessness and powerless power.

To be and experience.

Outside people are singing. Church hymns, I think. Clapping in complementary rhythms. Repeating joy. This is Haiti. Port-au-Prince. City by la mer. Mountains cascading. Slum villages. Fetid trash piles. Markets of fresh vegetables. Panoramic vistas. Traffic jams of tap-taps. Where ocean fights the horizon in constant struggle. Where people live fully in themselves and not just in their heads, without the worries and trappings of an affluent society—this, there spiritual wealth: to trust in the earth, the spirits, The Spirit, God, Christ Roi. They are provided what they need, which seems like nothing to our jaded desires. But it is everything.

Today’s nostalgia may seem strange after yesterday’s ill humor. But the people are singing, I am sweating, hungry, tired, settled. It has been a journey without my constant analysis; one day I will live in myself like they do, incarnated but not incarcerated, without the need for thinking ahead or behind, to be truly in the moment, without a filter.
Haiti: the place where nothing works, but it always works out.
God bless Ayiti.

EDH: 6PM-8PM, 9:15PM-10:30PM

The Creeping of the Hours (Day 27)

Today has been a hard day, a battle of thoughts and ideas, of action and trying not to act.
I packed today. I am ready to come home. What else am I really doing around here for two more days? More of the same, which is very little. It is very similar to taking a seven hour drive—the last thirty minutes are the most difficult because you are so close to home but not quite there yet—but you want to be so much you try to will it, and, in willing it, you point out just how far away you are. It is a control issue, wanting to pack up and travel and be somewhere, to do something. The obsessive compulsive creation needs to act and move because it has become unbalanced. I moved a bookshelf from a room and back just to have something to do. Packing was only a pretense of practicality—"to see how much space I have now"—but was really just acting out of control.

Control.

I am so afraid I haven’t learned anything here. The last several weeks have been more luxurious than before—the air-conditioned room, the feast meals, the hours of no work, the staff becoming more and more like servants (which is an awful and ironic thing to think while in Haiti). This is so far from removed from what I anticipated—I am afraid I have depleted spiritually by coming. Will I have moved to the next realm of my life? Will people say "He changed so much in Haiti"? For the better? Am I more spiritual, more easy-going, more flexible, less controlling, more yielding? I am so worried about not having accomplished something, become someone different. Perhaps while being-on-The-Way, I am moving myself In-the-Way-of-Myself—embodying my old habits and thought patterns, instead of yielding to the truth. I feel no different, simply seeing the country as another place to be, unaffected, detached from the poverty. I am simply used to it, maybe even taking my position here for granted.
Jesus is the paradigm of someone who has yielded completely to the Father, so perfectly that he was the Father Himself. We are to follow this example. But to understand Jesus’ role, we must return to the story of the stormy sea, Jesus asleep, the fearful disciples’ terror. The priest discussed this posture, this strategy, of eyes closed as a moment of true faith. Only in the moments that we are lost can we reach for God Himself, without even Jesus. He removes himself as a mentor and guru, teacher and friend, so that we can find our own place; example, yes, enabler, no, so that we can find true empowerment.

I would hope that this is where I am in these final days, that my confusion and tempestuous thoughts—the sea as subconscious, the sky consciousness, in battle for the balanced horizon—are the true vestiges of yielding: letting-go of the situation so completely that thoughts, ideas, change, self-improvement are no longer important. It is the flip side of experience undermining the need to do in order simply to be, without judgment, even enduring the monotony of the last two days. Waiting for nothing. Acting on nothing. No-thing. God. And then acting in the space. Experiencing. Living. Breathing. In-Spirited. In-Carnated. Godly.
I want to be the right person, do the right thing, feel the right spirit, so much that I try to will it, and, in willing it, I simply see just how far away I am. But then, as Dawn said to me yesterday at Hospice, I am missing the ride, the being, and the growth experiences, the acting. Not-doing: the feeling of nothing-coming, no-being-coming, which is impossible, because being-always-is, even after death; the ultimate act of Yielding?

EDH: 6:10PM-10PM, 12AM-7AM.

Genyen Maladi nan Chay La (Day 26)

Stomach-sickness this morning. I hope this is not due to a bacterial infection or some other nasty thing in food or water but is merely from a poor eating choice. I have felt better as the day progressed, so I am hopeful, though I spent most of the morning in bed feeling weak.

The Internet men came today and succeeded in disconnecting us completely from service, saying that we need a new receiver for the antenna. That will only cost $500 American, and renders communication with friends impossible for the rest of the journey.

I drove by myself to Hospice St. Joseph today to meet with Dawn. We had a talk for several hours about life and suffering. She counseled me that I was already on my way and that I needed no advice from her. This is validating. I did not receive all of the information from her that I would have liked, but partially this was due to my talking about other things. She gave me a tour of the Hospice, which is several stories tall, overlooking the mountains and sea to the west of Port-au-Prince, towards Cite Soleil and Carrefour. Truly beautiful—she mentioned the amazing sunsets and that there was also a year-long volunteer position open there. I did not feel drawn to it, though the sea beckoned from afar, telling me that I could be a next-door neighbor should I want. I would love to stay and learn more Kreyol and work with the dying patients from the countryside—but now is not the time. I am refreshed and ready to play the piano again—it feels like a foreign activity to me now—can I even do such a thing? Music, in general, is creeping up on me.

EDH: 1AM-8:15AM

La Mer: Galilee (Day 25)

I realized today that I have broken through a Kreyol barrier, and have come to the other side of being able to use the words I know without thinking. I am not saying I am anything but a beginner, but I don’t have to try and remember words—what I know is now flowing nicely. I have also suddenly been able to understand more in conversation. I had about an hour discussion with Theremise this morning during which, except the times she spoke too quickly, I understood a fair portion. This figures, of course, since I will be leaving in four days and will not be able to use the language again for some time. It does inspire me to go back to French class for a semester and to possibly take up some German—I will be going to Germany, "si Bondye vle," with the University Chorus next spring, and, hopefully, to Switzerland with my mother.

We went to Mother Theresa’s Orphanage again today. Always a beautiful experience, feeding and nurturing those who are broken and abused; by them, we are evermore changed. I look forward to going to the St. Joseph’s Hospice tomorrow.

Yesterday many of us heard the story of Jesus calming the sea, a tale familiar to all of us: Jesus is sleeping in the bottom of the boat while the disciples are crossing the sea. Suddenly a storm whips up a gale force wind and threatens to capsize the boat. The terrified followers wake their master and plead for help. He rebukes the storm, "Quiet! Be still!" Asking the disciples why they are afraid, he continues with a more poignant question: "Why are you lacking in faith?"
This story, like many of the tales of Jesus, can be seen as fulfillment, literarily and mythologically, or literally and factually, of the Old Testament, the latter parts of Psalm 107 in particular (the Brendan psalm, as I like to think of it, which, it occurs to me, could have informed the famous Latin tale of the saint’s travels). Or, like many of the stories in the Gospels, it can foreshadow the coming trials, death, and resurrection. I had not considered it this way until yesterday, so I would like to use this hermeneutic, that of a foreshadowing, as the point of interpretation. I will also use the event mythologically—that it did not actually happen, literally, but as an elucidation of truth which surpasses mere factuality, that a story can be truer than real life. Early Christians, as I understand it, used the story of Jonah as a symbol for the death of, the harrowing of hell by, and the Resurrection of Jesus. We can view this sea story in a similar light.

In his homily yesterday, the priest at St. Louis de Gonzague said something to the effect of "Jesus was not really sleeping—his eyes were merely closed." This seems true to Jesus’ understanding of death—when he raises someone to life, he always proclaims, "She is not dead, but merely sleeping." This fits the apocalyptic understanding of the Gospel writers regarding the end-times—bodily resurrection. What is more important is Jesus’ laying himself down amidst the world and then reviving into a new situation. He sinks into the bottom of society, descends into the dream-like illusion of existence only to return—but to what? Jesus descends into chaos and revives into peace. What is so important is that the resurrection into the new self is always one that begins in chaos and leads to peace. Psalm 144 begs God to save us "from deep waters, from the power of [our] enemies."

The priest yesterday also pointed out the possibility that Jesus’ apparent detachment was a stratagem for testing the faith of his followers. I could not but wonder if the people of Haiti felt this way, that they are in a sinking ship, waiting for some saving command, an authoritative voice of leadership, a stillness in their lives. It is normal to ask, but I will ask again: can we bring the peace of Christ to them? Can we do this unless we have been taken into the depths of our selves, our errors, our over-active minds and schedules, and been stilled by the power of faith? If we can see ourselves as part of this tossing sea, understand our part in churning off the waves, feel the daily sinking of unmindful actions, and understand this ocean as vast and great suffering—can we then, by faith, come back out and be at peace, even when the boat still is rocking? Can we herald the call of change for the world by sleeping first in inner peace and then commanding stillness outwardly with the great power of our own tranquility? In this harmony we can resolve ourselves both into discord and out again into resolution: integrated serenity of mind, body, and spirit with a resolute will to change ourselves and the world.

It was fascinating to me to think that this story was simply the story of Jesus dying and coming back to stillness—of going under to his enemies, sin and suffering, and to bring us through this process likewise, whether it be literal, or, again, the mythology of our own spiritual journey.
Jesus called most of his followers from the sea. That includes all of us.

EDH: 10:30PM-11:40PM, 12:15AM-1:30AM, 2:30-4:30AM