Glo

There are so few times that I’ve experienced Haiti at night outside of the walls of our compound. I’ve heard parties and other kinds of celebration in the distance so many times, but frankly have never had the ability to experience a lively nighttime atmosphere here. In many circumstances, there would be absolutely no way that I would leave our apartment and venture out in the dark. But on the rare occasion, we have a safe ride and an opportunity to enjoy ourselves, and we carefully proceed out for an evening.

One of my new favorite places is called Le Observetoire, or The Observatory.  It rests cantilevered off the hillside above the valley that is Port au Prince. You can see all of Port as well as the ocean from the patio of the restaurant. It’s a relatively small place, which is part of why it has such a unique charm. All the seats have a magnificent view of the city. The menu is relatively simple and short, but the food is good, and you can’t beat the view. I would love to be there for sunset one night. Our trip up the mountain to have dinner there was shortly after sunset; and even then with the still and dark night above us, and the sparse twinkle of light below, I was in awe of the scene. I can’t imagine the drama of a sunset in comparison. I would like to go back soon if possible. I highly recommend that anyone who comes to Port and has the means to travel toward the light beacons up on top of the mountain should do so. It is very much worth it.

Another experience we had driving at night was a stark contrast to the beauty that our first night out granted us. This time we were in the back of a tap tap in the rain. I saw a different kind of beauty that night, however. I watched as we rolled forward, with my view of everything behind us moving away from us as we went up and down the hills of Delmas. The streets were freshly wet from a short lasting rain, and they looked so fresh and clean. I could hardly believe this was one of the same streets I’d driven down hundreds of times. Many times I was on the same street prior to it being paved. Moving with ease, I was impressed as I thought about how much has changed in the past two and a half years since I started visiting Haiti. It seemed like no so long ago that we were barely able to inch along on this same road, as there were huge crater holes that allowed for only one car at a time to pass. And now, we were moving along at a rapid enough pace that I could feel the wind blowing my hair about in my face. What a difference. This night, the cool breeze felt so comforting. It was a different kind of night than I had experienced within our walls. The streets were calm. It was quiet. Quite a dichotomy. I don’t recall that street ever having been so calm. It was comforting to feel “at home” in such a foreign capacity. Night.

As we ventured out, it began to rain again. And where there is rain, there is most assuredly going to be an excess of water.  One of the things I fear the most here in Haiti is the water. Especially the water on the street. It is filled with toxins and scary things, and possibly the boogie man. Yes, definitely the boogie man.

We were unlucky enough to get caught in a deluge. We wound up having to walk through a flooding path of water at least six inches deep. What was in that water? Excrement. And other waste. Trash and debris from the vegetation. Tree branches and insects. One bit me. It must have found my foot and clung to me for dear life, sinking into me and then washing away.  That was the water I never wanted to make contact with, and I waded through it holding onto the hand of my extremely cautiously hesitant little boy. I felt everything inside of me flip and turn and well…totally freak out knowing that I was walking through THAT WATER. That water that I could have cried over splashing me.  We were in it. And as I stepped back into the safety and relative comfort of our tap tap, I recalled how many people around me spend their lives living in and around that water. They have experienced it rushing into their homes, their tents, and their schools. Daily.  How many times had THAT WATER washed away their belongings? How many times have people here clung to the few remaining things they have by holding them high above their heads as the water pouring from the sky carried the ground rushing in a current past them, carting way all that they couldn’t hold? It was no longer the calm night it began as.

Very quickly the streets were flooded. Like something after a tsunami. But this is the norm here. Trash floated down the streets in a river. It settled within minutes and filled the craters with puddles of left over wrappers, containers, and debris from the houses. Men swept the streets in their shorts with no shoes and no shirt. They used shovels and brooms and worked in the dark to clear a path for the vehicles that would come bumping along after the rain ceased. Even after spending several months here, I had no idea how much work even something like a regular heavy rain could cause. Most of us think little about a heavy rainstorm. We hear the crack of the thunder, see the sky light up with lightning, and occasionally we might lose power. But it likely will do very little to upset our evening. Most of the time, we might look out the window and take pause at how much rain we are getting. We might have a conversation about how badly the rain is needed. We might see bits of debris and small limbs and leaves on our grounds by morning. But here, rain can be catastrophic. People have to survive floods. They have to comfort their children and hold onto everything they value for dear life until the waters calm and retreat. And when the rain does stop, it becomes someone’s night job to clean up after a storm. Most people find themselves working out in the streets to clean up all the garbage that has floated from blocks away and has come to rest at their gate. They will not just be able to take a look out the window and assess the issue. They have to become part of the clean up and fix it crew. They will have to reassemble the tarps on their tents, and use shovels to clear a path. They will have to find a way to alleviate the flooded areas. By hand if necessary. And with small receptacles, like buckets and bowls.  Some storms must require that these hard working people continue their work all night long if necessary. And it will happen again just about as soon as they clean it up the first time.

Witnessing the efforts that go into daily life here always leaves me so appreciative of how easily I live life by comparison. I don’t usually worry too much about running errands in the U.S. I just get in my car and go. I don’t typically have to fret too much that an impending rainstorm will leave me trapped by currents that hold me hostage with little means to circumvent them. I have never worried that in leaving my home to run out for dinner that I will have to emulate a mass clean up crew just to be able to make it home should there by chance be some precipitation while I’m out. But here, this is the way of life. Haitians know that no one is coming to rescue them. They are their own help. If you want something done, you have to do it yourself.

As we continued through the streets that were chivalrously cleared by our total stranger friends, who looked briefly to acknowledge our attempts to pass, I realized that I very well may have been the only white person out on those streets. I likely looked like a glowing hi-lighter. The beams of light that came to rest on my face must have indicated the stark contrast of my skin tone from that of every other passenger in our vehicle.  I was safe though. I didn’t feel alarmed by being different. I felt that I was simply part of a communal effort to successfully “passé”. The folks who were working hard to clear the streets wanted nothing from me. They were performing the difficult task to ensure that I would be able to get home.

Each street we came to we saw a small crew of men working. And eventually the streets opened again. And as the calm returned in the night and we all let out our well earned yawns, we made it closer to “home”. Back to the walls of familiarity. Where the water didn’t pool. Where everything remained clean and kept. Where we were safe from the daily toils of what it is really like to live in Haiti. Back to our comfort. As we walked toward our apartment soaking wet,  Djedly turned to me, holding my hand, and said, “mom…we must shower.”

“Yes.” I said, and I thought of the next phase of Haitian water that awaited me.