The plane is miserable, if I’m honest with myself, none of this tough guy business, the plane is miserable. It was an old Air Bus, European and old. Very old. My backpack was jammed under my legs. It is a maximum legal carry bag. It should be in the overhead bin, not under my feet and the seat in front of me.
This has happened for two reasons.
Reason # 1 The plane is filled halfway with American short-term missionaries like me. They are scared of having their checked bags stolen, and so they’re pushing that carry-on size limit something fierce.
Reason #2: The other half of the plane is filled with Hatians. Expats, businessmen, first sons of immigrants, there were a lot of Hatian subgroups represented here, but they were all, in their soul, Haitians. Well, the Haitians are bringing American stuff back. They carry a lot of pillows, clothes, and gas-station toys. And they’re carrying them to such abundance, that I can guarantee that a good portion of it will end up for sale. Usually, this is called smuggling, today, this is called Spirit Airlines.
See that? I just wasted thirty seconds of your life talking about one inconvenience that I felt on a two hour flight. That’s bad writing, and bad living. I had to ask God to stop me from letting discomfort distract me from his adventure. Because you’ve got to give all that stuff up to really get changed by the world.
So there will be no more time wasted.
This is the story of a country 52 days after devastation. This is the truth that I found, without all that messy self-examination that literary types love so much. (And yeah, I’m going to be throwing a lot of quasi-intellectualism in here, so yeah, I’m a literary type, I know). Because this story isn’t about me, not really, I’ve been changed, yes, don’t get me wrong, but I was changed by the river that I was dancing in, not my own steps.
“Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind—and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both.”
Mark Jenkins, the Ghost Road
The Port Au Prince Airport is a quasi-U.S. military base. Like a miniature Heathrow, except full of cargo planes, no sexy fighters. Airliners are intermingled on the runway. It was all very helter skeltor. The planes empty into what can only be described as a holding area. Airport security is mingling about. Those arriving stand around with their backpacks on.
It is now time to reset your watch. Welcome to Haiti time. The conversation isn’t very rigid, but it doesn’t take long to learn. Basically, just add a bit of time, and a lot of vagary and you’ve got it, accurate to within two hours.
The wait isn’t that bad by Haitian time.
The wait ends and leads down to a Haitian folk band dressed like bumblebees, playing morocco’s and steel guitars while American soldier posed for pictures. I guessed that this was the Haitian equivalent of Hawaiian lei-girls, but I couldn’t be sure. They had a sombrero laid out for tips.
We get onto a shuttle bus and drive to the old hanger where customs has relocated. Baggage claim shares the real estate. Customs is efficient, and baggage claim is chaos. Bags are driven from the planes to the warehouse loading docks in box trucks, and then dumped into a big pile. There is no line, Americans are pushing forward to grab their bags before they’re all unloaded, and the Haitian workers are telling everyone to get “back!” The waiting Haitians are less physically aggressive, but I’m pretty sure they’re giving the workers hell in Creole.
I got my bag, everyone in my group got their bags. But some people don’t get their bags, so no guarantees.
As soon as we leave baggage claim, we see food distribution. It’s very small operation by some airport workers, but every little bit helps. We’re told that the streets are as bad as India.
Maybe they are, maybe they aren't, I've never been to India, so I really can't say. We walk out into them with little fanfare, one minute we’re under an airport awning, the next we’re pushing through crowds of Haitians waiting outside the airport, through six inch deep water from potholes and failed drainage onto a Blue Bird school bus. A Blue Bird, in Haiti! I thought that was pretty cool, but I would come to hate that bus.
And then we drove to the orphanage, where I met a little prince named Wilton.
End Part 1.
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