( _______ )

The seasons have changed.

Women carry watermelons on their heads and men are selling sugar cane out of crotchety wheelbarrows. They crouch on corners, weaving hammocks, and sit underneath palms, waiting out the heat.

And I have changed, also.

It's subtle. And I feel it in small victories and conquered fears.

I felt it in New York, when a mission team flocked by me, wearing safari gear and comparing shorts that masquerade as pants with a zipper option.

I felt it when I arrived in port-au-prince, by myself, for the first time.

Different than being left, arriving alone hosts its own array of possibilities for failure.

For danger.

And inevitably, for fear.

The airport has been renovated, and when the plane taxied, I functioned in survival mode. Surgical, mechanical, heightened senses, and a general separation from myself.

What do I need to do, next.

One. Step. At. A. Time.

Get your carry-ons, don't forget your guitar, off the plane, across the tarmac, follow the Haitians like breadcrumbs. Passport?

Ok.

Through customs, into the baggage claim, get a cart, get your bags, navigate the exit, avoid having 13 airport 'officials' put their pinky on your cart and demand something in return.

Bags in tow, an elderly employee shimmied up to me, meekly mentioning that I had three bags and two arms, in very soft spoken English.

Yes. I'll take you!

An internal proclamation, as if I just declared who was my best friend in kindergarten.

A victory. (Of sorts)

Following my guide, it was all I could do not to hold to the back of his t-shirt, like I used to do with my dad when we ran through the haunted house at Ashland Berry Farm. In both cases, there's the slight possibility that I overreacted, but in either case, fear is fear, people!

Out the door. And this is when my composure falters. Everyone is wearing red shirts. Everyone is telling me that they're my taxi. Pulling on my arm, and when I turn to ask my man to do something, he asks for his tip, telling me he doesn't go outside.

Breathe.

Taking rein of my cart, I remember my animal planet predator/prey protocol.

No sudden motions, Elizabeth. Slowly retreat back towards the wall. Don't make any sudden gestures. No eye contact! But then how will I find him?!

Him. My driver. Where is my driver. It's 12:54, I told them to send a driver at 1:15, and I can't go back in the airport!

Then, a blue shirted man approaches me. His creole is gruff and in broken English he says 'hello, it's me!'

Ah... Relief... then doubt.... then relief.. I'm walking and Haitians are swarming all around, telling me it isn't him, it is him, they're with him, come this way, here's your ride.

Starting to panic that I don't recognize this man, nor his associates, a hand reaches out to me and grabs my wrist.

'Hello, my friend, boss, it's me. I've been waiting for you. You didn't see?'

Gathering myself, (and possibly breathing for the first time,) I look up into a familiar face.

Wide-nosed, wrinkly. A toothy grin and one arm.

A spray of confused conversation, a crescendo of angst, I'm clinging to this one armed angel, and he says,

'My friend, just give them something small so that they go away.'

Gladly.

He's always been the man to navigate our bags to our vehicle. I know this face.

He's holding a green piece of paper, the size of his palm.

Elzabet Witmir
St. Joseph's.

'I'm so happy to see you, my friend.'

'No. I'm happy to see you.'

(And why didn't I see you before?)

'Were you looking for me, my friend?'

'I couldn't see you.'

(Fear)

'No, but you found me!'

(Victory)