We're on our way to Jacmel. It's a two hour drive from Port au Prince through mountains, dried up river beds, and lush patches of palms, Mango, and shiny leaved trees that stand as the rare reminder of what Haiti once was. the pearl o
f the Carribean. Frank has traditions along the way.
First stop, a little town at the base of the mountain. We turn down a bumpy dirt road that I wouldn't have known was even there... between a coal merchant and a woman selling bananas. We squeeze through, then bump along for about a mile. Then a right up a steep hill. The men sitting in chairs on the side of this lane, passing time and stories, get up and each take a step back so that I can make it through. I chug up the hill. At the top is a proud church. White with baby blue trim. School children are on the steps of the church and joking around with each other, it is their recess. They see me. The eyes follow. They follow. Frank jokes, "Ooh white girl." The most curious come up to the side of the car as I get out. There is a hush of silence. I greet them with "Bonjou" they are quick to reply back. and to giggle. Frank buys a candle and we walk into the church... a handful of children following behind. We walk to the front of the church, they stay behind, eyes steady on us. Frank lights the candle and leaves a prayer. We head back to the car. I stall a few times. The kids giggle. As we turn around there is a blind man speaking to the sky. Frank calls him over and we give him some change. He is grateful - the sky is generous with answering his prayers. As we leave this little village Frank tells me he prayed for my mom.
We drive through the mountains. The road goes up, curvy and windy - honking my way around each corner, and sometimes just squeezing by the passing truck that is always on my side - strangely we never hit. An hour through the mountains like this. I now understand the Creole expression "mountains beyond mountains" here, it is so true. My arms hurt, ass hurts, toes are cramped - this is the most intense driving I have done in my life. Finally, we begin to descend. Now it is about speed bumps. Or as called in Creole - polis kachay - sleeping/fallen police. I find that funny. It makes it a little more bearable to go over the dozens of them.
The the ocean is now up ahead, guiding us like a blue serpent. It is calm, majestic in its movement. We pass through a patch of jungle - it draws up memories of my childhood bible - colorful drawings of Eden. Green, green and greener. Frank explains this is what Haiti once was. It begs a tear of grief, for what this country has truly lost. It's beyond angering. The loss of trees and resources. The erosion, rash scars that rip through the villages - the constant buriel from the rocks and anemic soil that fall on the tin rooftops. We pass. I make a promise to myself to learn more about effects of climate change and what can be done.
Frank's next tradition. To stop at the riverbed. We make a turnoff on the road he has so often travelled. From what i can see it looks like dry cracked soil. We were wrong. Within 20 seconds we were sinking. We were stuck in mud. Surrounded by it in fact. We both let out a four letter word with the mix of laughter and panic. Or the panic was mine. Within minutes there were about 15 men ranging from teens to the well experienced in assessing these kinds of situations. They laughed. I laughed. The panic was over. I kept asking Frank to ask them to push us. He had it under control - they were now conversing - each giving their version of what happened. A handful of young naked boys who had been swimming moments before came running over and quietly sat themselves on the sidelines to watch the show about to unfold. It took all 15 guys to push, and push, slip and to push. We were all laughing by this time. They got us out. And still were smiling as we drove off with mud flying and spinning off every direction of the car. Now we were truly only minutes from our destination. Jacmel. I think.
Although, we drove past Jacmel to Cayes Jacmel - a sleepier version, and quiet beach. I learn that Frank had lived here for several years. We are able to park our car on the side of the road in front of his friend's home - I'm learning Frank has friends all over Haiti! We walk down to the beach. Beeeeaaauuutiful! Three young boys come over, Frank gives them big hugs. He has known them since they were babies and it's been awhile since they've all seen each other. Frank is kind of a pied piper. Samson, Samuel, and Francoi. They run off and come back with coconuts. Samson, the youngest at about seven years old, uses the machete like a pro - he banks open coconuts one after the next. I'm still on my first. I joke that usually I drink it with a straw and that usually there isn't a gallon of juice in the coco's i'm used to. The juice runs down my chin. We throw the finished coco's onto the beach. The boys swing from the trees and do gymnastic tricks in the sand. I walk to the water's edge. blue blue and warm. Nature's bath. The waves uncover the pinkest stones. I think of Jane and Christine, back in Maine, who gave me heart-shaped stones from Maine's beaches upon my departure in May. I pick up two. And then I see a perfectly round stone 1/2 pink, 1/2 yellow. Hanley. The message is clear. It's her colors. The night before had been the dedication of Hanley's memorial bench in Yarmouth Maine. Stones that children painted from Guatemala had been placed around the bench. This stone was calling to go too. I picked it up - feeling my eyes burn, ready with tears. I brought the rocks to dry over by Frank. I told him the story of Hanley, her intentions in Haiti, her love of children, and then this stone. He smiled. replied "everything happens for a reason, I felt we were supposed to be here today. You know we're all so connected." My turn to smile. the boys come over and sit next to us, their love for Frank is evident. they sit closely to him. I try a few of my creole sentences - they reply - I try to respond badly - they are patient.
Frank and I leave in search for Myel (honey). My mere presence in the car jack's the price up from $80 to $250 for a gallon. That is US dollars. Frank is baffled yet wishes them a pleasant day. I joke that the bees must be churning the honey with golden spoons. An image of little bees churning honey with their little hands, cracks me up. Needless to say we leave Jacmel without the honey.
But it has been the sweetest of days so far.
of being fully awake.
