Road Trip to Jacmel

Road Trip to Jacmel

 

The trip to Jacmel started around 1pm on Sat., 15-Jan.  Aside from some R&R, we were going to erect a 40+' geodesic dome for a school.  We would make the 2 hour trip in the North Carolina school bus that was loaded with tools and donated to help GrassRoots United get off the ground.  All the seats have been removed so it is just a large mobile container that we filled with 20 people, their gear and lots of beer and other alcoholic wherewithal.

 

From the moment we left the compound, this was a party.  The mostly 20-something crew, unrestrained by anything, partied like they do in the beer commercials.  I'm reminded of a Doonesbury cartoon where he's describing such a scene where everyone is having more fun than YOU ever have.  I felt somewhat consoled by that cartoon knowing I wasn't the only one who felt I had missed the bus.  But this time I was on that bus and we found that promised land and lived that dream.  Someone had thought to bring a fairly high-powered battery operated radio that they used to play their i-pod.  The music was techno and/or gangster rap and was mostly unintelligible to me but the rest of the crowd knew all the words and sang and danced along heartily.

 

Add to this the response of the bus to the twists, turns, bumps and potholes in the road and you have a madcap scene that is impossible to describe, you had to be there.  At one point I was shooting a video of the scene in the bus when Sam hit the brakes.  I went ass-over-teakettle, landing on my head with my right arm outstretched, holding the camera up and away from harm's way.  I have uploaded this clip to my flickr account (http://www.flickr.com/photos/52559215@N07/) for your viewing pleasure.

 

The 2 hour trip turned into something like 3 ½ hours, probably because we had to stop periodically to buy beer or to pee it out.  Along the way we partied like there was no tomorrow (there isn't) as we traveled over the mountains to Jacmel with views and vistas that were astonishing.  As the title of Paul Farmer's book, "Mountains Beyond Mountains" implies, the rugged, tropical and, at least on our journey, fog encrusted landscape was breathtaking and beyond description.

 

Eventually we made it to our destination, an eco-resort operated by some Haitian friends of GrassRoots United.  An acre or 2 that abuts a rocky coastline not unlike that found north of the S.F. bay area.  We had land available to pitch our tents and a pavilion to hang out in.  The Haitian help cooked our meals and otherwise took very good care of us.  Being about ¼ century older than anyone else, I opted out around 10:30 pm.  When I got up the next morning I learned that some of the youngsters had stayed up until 3:30 am.  I was glad I hadn't and that I felt great, though amazingly they did not look too much the worse for wear.

 

Sunday was to be a day off for us and some opted to go to a nearby beach where they could hang out, drink beers or whatever, eat lobster and swim in the bathtub temperature water.

 

That did not sound bad, even idyllic but reasonably predictable.  Instead, I opted to join the more hearty souls who would hike a couple of hours up a steep trail to basin bleu, a series of 3 pools that were described as otherworldly beautiful.  The fact that it would require some climbing along with the assistance of ropes only added to what would surely be an adventure.

 

Along the way we passed some "blanchs", the Haitian term for whites, along the road.  We thought they might need a ride so Sam turned the bus around and went back to see if we could offer them one.  In another of what I no longer consider unusual coincidences, Sam knew one of the guys who came up to his driver side window and gave him a hug.  Sam asked where they were going and, continuing the coincidence, his friend said, "basin bleu."  Sam said that's where we were going and to hop in.  I was standing in the entrance to the bus so I stepped out to let them in as I heard what I first thought was a scream of excitement from their group that they had managed to hook up so exquisitely.

 

Instead, the scream I heard was of the other type.  As I stepped around the front of the bus I saw a woman from their group on the street, convulsing.  In a nano-second the mood changed from one of elation to something on the other end of the scale.  I soon learned that she had been hit by a "moto", someone on a motorcycle.  She was twitching in what I thought might have been some sort of death throe.  A crowd of Haitians immediately gathered around her as her friends tried to comfort her.  One of them was clearly in shock herself, twitching uncontrollably.

 

As a one-time volunteer fireman, I tried to think of what I could offer.  She was clearly still breathing and her heart was still beating so aside from keeping her immobile, I could not think of anything I could do.  Along with some others from the bus who by now had disembarked, we joined hands and tried to keep the onlookers at bay.

 

I'm sure I was not the only one who was trying to figure out what to do next when, in another of those coincidences that have become quite common, a "doctors without boarders" jeep pulled up and a doctor, or at least an emt, got out with her medical equipment and took charge.  Knowing that keeping her immobile until an assessment of her condition had been done is one of the mainstays of emergency treatment, I was surprised that within a few minutes they had her up and walking to the back of the jeep.  I found out later that she was conscious, talking and probably did not have any broken bones.  I also found out later that she had walked into the street without looking and that the driver of the moto had sustained some road rash when he came off his bike in the collision.  It could have been much worse as apparently one of her friends had tried to pull her back, avoiding a full-scale collision.  Someone mentioned the idea of calling the police but fortunately that did not happen.  If the police had shown up they would have arrested the moto driver and, regardless as to his culpability, he would have spent many years in prison for running into a white person.

 

After a half hour or so, we got on our way again, but substantially subdued.  When we checked the time we decided that it was too late to continue to basin bleu and headed instead for the beach.

 

You know life is good when plan B is to spend several hours on a tropical beach drinking rum and coke, eating lobster and swimming in water warm as a bath.

 

But before we got there, we had one more indescribable event that had to be traversed.  For the first time in 2 years, carnival would be celebrated in Haiti.  This is a celebration that begins in January and concludes several weeks later on Mardi Gras or fat Tues.  Christians begin lent the next day (ash Wednesday) and for 40 days cannot eat meat.  So carnival represents the last chance to cut loose.

 

And the way the Haitians cut loose is to dress up, sometimes in drag, put on masks and take to the streets to sing, dance and otherwise carry on.  But the most striking aspect of the scene are the black men who cover their bodies with (are you ready?)… motor oil.  Glistening, they prance down the street, gesticulating wildly and shouting, their white teeth in stark contrast to their shinny jet black skin.  While it would seem to an outsider like me that copious amounts of alcohol would need to be involved, I'm told that a more accurate description would be to say that they are possessed in some voodoo-like way.

 

Our local guide was Aaron, a blanch who lives in the place where we were staying, has been in Haiti for about 6 months working on various projects including some art therapy, speaks pretty good Creole, has a Haitian girlfriend and knows at least something about the customs.  He calls a carnival event a, 'rah-rah" and we ran into one on the way to the beach.  There was no way around it so we pulled the bus up towards it on a side street and watched the scene.

 

Not knowing any better, I got out and with my camera in hand went towards the main street to record the madcap scene.  I was having a great time until one of the celebrants, completely covered in motor oil, noticed me and came my way.  He was smiling exuberantly and with his arms outstretched he advanced my way as I realized I was in danger of being slimed.  The last thing I wanted was to get hugged by this gooey mess so I backed off, managing to limit the contact to a single high five that took 20 minutes to clean up after I retreated to the bus.

 

Slowly the bus advanced to the main drag and we became the center of attention for many of the celebrants.  One guy was walking along side the bus yelling F*** this, F*** that and open the F***ing door.  Of course we didn't but all the windows were open and for a bit I was concerned that one might try and climb through one.  I glanced at Aaron and he didn't seem worried so I figured everything was cool.  Even so, some of the motor oil that everyone near us seemed to be covered in made its way through the windows and onto most of our clothes and us.  Then some of the Haitians climbed on the hood of the bus so that Sam could barely see where he was driving.  Another reached in the driver's window and began pulling on the air horn.  To say it was crazy seems so inadequate but that's about the best I can do.  When it was time for us to exit the scene, Aaron said something to the "boys on the hood" and they immediately jumped off to let our now partially blackened bus proceed on its merry way.

 

The rest of the day at the beach was pretty tame after all of that.  But it was also quite lovely.  The water was exquisite and the beer was cold.