Yesterday I took a drive down the mountain with some of the kids. You might be picturing a leisurely cruise down skyline drive, tuned in to NPR, the vibrant foliage, the heat on and the windows cracked-the sunshine is warm but the air is crisp and smells of damp orange leaves and earth. Perhaps you're driving to visit a friend, latte in tow, you day dream and hum along to chimes for All Things Considered.
But that was college, and Virginia, and Starbucks. Pedicures and friends and SUVs. That was October, even.
And this was yesterday.
Some of the kids get to go horseback riding on Thursdays. It's occupational therapy, and when I stepped onto my balcony to watch the sunrise yesterday morning, I was startled to find roughly 10 of them, fully dressed in matching t-shirts- patch worked riding pants, and dilapidated close-toed shoes of varying makes and models, sitting by gate, eagerly awaiting a 7:45 am departure, 2 hours early...
I was happy that they so looked forward to the venture, and found myself equally enthused to get out of Fermathe, see some more of Haiti, and even ride a horse.
Around 7:30 our ride showed up. I scooped up one of the kids from her wheelchair and we headed out the gate. Upon turning the corner and seeing said vehicle, I was confused, and unsure of how to proceed. Slipping Joyze into shotgun, I milled around, watching to see what the teachers and other kids were doing. They began to pile in, so, not understanding a thing being said, I took my cue and hopped in as well.
It was a the smallest pickup truck I have ever seen. Masquerading as some version of a 150, it took me back to times, when people older and wiser than me had told stories of the good old days, of smaller portions, and smaller shoe sizes. Petite clothing and shorter heights. In fact, what we had on our hands was a MiniCooper in jeeps' clothing.
It's nice and refreshing in the mountains. Shrouded in the clouds, one has the illusion, if not the vibrant colors, of fall. Enjoying my coffee as the sun welcomed a new day, I dawned a sweatshirt, thinking nothing of it.
Going down the mountain, and into the bottom of port-au-prince, is quite a different story. Dropping over 5,000 feet in an hour, the sun demands recognition and saturates the air. There are so many exhaust fumes that more often than not holding ones breath is preferable to trying to find oxygen in what I formerly referred to as 'air.' You can turn a corner, and see a bustling market- stopped in traffic- some tap tap or truck, some crusty old motorcycle tries to coax its gears into submission, and all of a sudden the air is opaque with black smog and I always hold my breathe, trying not to envision the chemicals and grime seeping into my pores.
But anyway, we aren't there yet, back to the top!
Hoisting myself into the truck, there are two benches secured to each side of the bed. I sit down on the right side towards the back, in hopes of not suffocating, and take up approximately 1/4.5 of the bench. Let's just put it this way, people! I'm not that wide a gal- and there is no way in ____ that five of me were fitting on that bench.
Well, call me Dante, as 5 minutes later we crowded 19 people into this matchbox I would later tell Jackie could be termed, 'proof that there is a god- on wheels.'
6 people on my bench. 6 people across the bed on the other bench, knees intermingled and intertwined- hips mashing up against one another, elbows going around shoulders and in front of stomachs. Human spaghetti.
The driver, two of our handicapped kids, and two teachers wedged themselves into the front, and two teachers hopped onto the back, holding on to the makeshift roof as with one hand, resting their chins on the other- nonchalant, and quite possibly feeling gallant as I blatantly gawked.
Off we went, the gravel path in front of us so bumpy that the truck seemed to zigzag in varying forms of 45 degrees and every gear shift meant the inevitable whack of knee caps into shins and elbows into chins.
Trying not to get ahead of myself, I took a careful sip of water, popped my headphones in, and gazed at my knees, quite confident that if a man could stand up and hold on to the back of the truck with 4 fingers then surely I could manage.
The first thing I saw as I looked down was the ground beneath us. Yes, that's right. The truck bed was rusting through and I could count the pebbles and boulders beneath us.
Well, ok.
Turning my head to look out the slat between the sideboards instead, I noticed that the left rear view mirror was duct taped on. The steering wheel had had some serious 'cosmetic' work done, and every time we tried to go into second gear, the truck made an apologetic groan and lurched forward- proud of itself for the accomplishment.
It's fine, Elizabeth, the driver is not suicidal, he wants to live through this as well.
Yes, it's fine. Stop being so American.
But then we turned onto the mountain road. Whirling around curves I couldn't have made with a pipe cleaner, the truck seemed hell bent on putting some of Newton's laws to the test. With every round about, rampaging down the mountain between 40 and 60 miles an hour, the sides of the truck would threaten us, saying, 'hey look gal, I stayed together on that turn, because I know you're petrified and all, but you know, the future is uncertain, and I'm not making any promises, alright?'
Slamming into one another and gripping the side rail as if it were my dying fiancé, I looked out the window again. Motion sickness threatening, I faced my fear of plummeting to immediate death, and told myself, Elizabeth, looking out the window will not coerce the vehicle to propel itself over the mountainside.
This presented a whole new line of terror, as not only were there no guard rails, but some of the declines were so steep that the side of the mountain seemed not to exist at all. Yes, that's right people, I'm talking about cliffs.
the road was unmarked and motorbikes whirled by us on either side, playing chicken with oncoming traffic. Our driver was a temperamental speed demon, and if ever he rounded within 20 yards of a car in front of him, he became indignant- throttling forward into the oncoming traffic's lane, 80 miles per hour, passing whatever nuisance dared encumber our path, and before I knew it - back onto our side of the road.
Sometimes however, he seemed to misinterpret the oncoming traffic's level of acceleration, and we would barely skirt back into our lane before haphazardly careening around another bend. The truck always seemed relieved to be solidly on all four wheels. ' hey, I might be decrepit, but baby look at these tires.'
Nearing the bottom of the mountain, I begin to breathe again. Crowded, sweaty, the sun penetrating every crack in the truck, the smog filling our lungs, the downtown of port-au-prince is a driven game of Frogger. Children everywhere, salesmen, market women, dogs, goats trucks, motorcycles, boulders and puddles and just general, uninhibited chaos. As we lurched and came to screeching stops, I thought about our shared experience. I thought about how not one of the other 18 people in this matchbox spoke English.
I thought about how I shared this experience with people who don't speak English, and people who don't speak at all.
There's a boy here, about 16, his mother was beaten and raped, and when he was born, she was so traumatized, she didn't speak for three years. When his grandmother made her first visit to meet her grandson, she found her daughter, mute, and incapable of caring for the toddler- so she took him. Having suffered too much neglect, Frank Ely endures permanent psychological damage, and has a severe speech impediment. For these reasons, his grandmother had to leave him here. Going down the mountain, Frank Ely spoke incessantly. I'm not exaggerating, this kid does not stop speaking, ever. And really who can blame him? A pathological liar and schizophrenic, he can no better handle silence than I could handle the death of a loved one.
Down that mountain, terrified, nauseous, alone. We finally made it to the riding club, I hobbled shakily out of the truck, turned on my heels, poured some water on my face, and tried to catch my breath.
In all honesty, going back up the mountain was not much better. And though it was a relief to head back into the cool mountain air, I knew not a single turn would be easy.
A day well spent, we piled in to our chariot. Arranging elbows and knees, wheelchairs and backpacks, we prepared for our journey.
But this time I didn't put my headphones in- I wanted to hear everything that Frank Ely had to say.
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