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