We arrived safely in Porte au Prince and were quickly shuffled through customs under the weary eyes of officials too busy to really pay attention to the new arrivals.  Leaving the airport, we were met with the usual, “Zami mwen yo, do you need a taxi?”  Zami mwen, my friend, do you need me to carry your bags?”  The inherent assumption being that he was not offering free of charge impregnated the interactions.  With everyone so convivial, almost family, why not ask for money.  Surely you wouldn’t approach a stranger that way.

                Side stepping and brushing off several would be relatives with a brisk “non, merci” and an averted glance I was able to navigate through my new extended family.  One persistent tonton, uncle,  though, accosted me using our friendship.  “Zami mwen, take my taxi.  I will take you anywhere,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes.  Stonewalled by tonton I was forced to work my tongue around the broad strokes of the African nuanced French.  I looked tonton in the eye and said firmly, “Nou cheche zami mwen.”  Without missing a beat, tonton said, “If your friend doesn’t come, I will be your friend.”

                I couldn’t be sure, but as we were landing I thought I saw tents but surely, I had thought, those just covering stuff, protection from the sun and wind.  The irony didn’t hit me immediately.  My rosy reasoning was befouled shortly after leaving the airport.  Surrounding the road which takes you from PAP to the main north south highway are hundreds or thousands of tents and tarps.  Side by side, overlapping, one within another.  Women, unashamed, bathed in the open.  Cash crop can sugar grew in the alleys created by so much canvas.  No room for subsistence farming here, money is the only commodity that works in such conditions.  Haitians are strong people, they eek out a living in a country becoming quickly on large Cite Soleil. 

                Cholera camps, a gruesome reminder of the most recent crises to hit Haiti, and a reminder to wash my hands, have popped up all around PAP.  Convalescent homes.  Hospice care.  Pacius, out faithful guide, host and friend points out the hill side tent city, much larger than the one before and the mass grave where the dead were taken after the earthquake.  Thousands of black crosses and a giant purple ribbon descending down a denuded hill with a large white cross in the center mark the paupers grave of so many poor Haitians.  Most cemeteries are bright, white and orange and yellow above ground sepulchers.  This is dirt.  This man took dead bodies from PAP to this grave in the very truck we were in.  All of this is a vivid reminder or the day that thousands died. 

                Little more than a year ago, Haiti was rocked by a massive earthquake.  Buildings still lay in ruins.

                Little more than a year ago, I was witness to Haiti being rocked by a massive earthquake.  Parts of me still lay in ruins.

                My emotions gathered steam as we approached the seaside resort in which I was during the quake.  They climaxed as we passed and continued our trek north.  I was left breathless as I listened to Pacius and Oneal speak words I could only think or feel.

                As time passes and slowly heals or provides rest by amnesia, so too our journey north did.  Cars and camions and bicycles and pedestrians vie for position all over the road and around it.  Honking swerving , but never break slamming.  Another reason Haitians are tougher than the blancs, a Kreyol term used for all none black, non-haitians, even mullatoes, mixed race Haitians, are placed in the same category.   Foreigner and so much more can be heard in that word through the echo of time.  Decades of white European oppression of black African slaves.

                Pacius laughs nervously, congratulatory for the kid on the bike who barely missed the front right bumper of Pacius’ 4x4.

                We arrived in Gonaives to “RaRa” bands and raucous Mardi Gras dancing.  Feasted like royalty.  Ruth brought us water and cold cokes.  She’s pretty.  Probably too young.  But pretty.