Saturday, July 12, 2014

Safe Haven

The morning was Haitian-bright as we ate our routinely delicious breakfast and donned our bright blue Reiser Relief t-shirts. We filled our water bottles and climbed into the back of the tap-tap, which was beginning to feel like a second home. The road was as bumpy as ever on the way to the water truck filling station, and we welcomed the break we were allowed while we waited for the Reiser truck to take its turn under the spigot. Cows, goats, and chickens picked their ways around the compound, and we laughed and chatted under the shade of a small garden of delicately pink-flowered trees. The sky was a vibrant, caribbean blue, and the mountains in the distance were shrouded in a pale mist that kissed the tops of the looming rocks. The beauty of the island couldn't be overpowered by the dust rising around us or even by the horn of the Reiser truck, that blared loudly at us to signal that it was ready to leave. We jostled along behind it, singing songs and laughing wildly.
Our second entrance into Cité Soleil was no less powerful than the first. My eyes raked the homes packed in closely on either side of me, and while I waved at the children running excitedly alongside us, I was completely speechless. Before we even touched the ground in Soleil #17, children were climbing into our arms and grabbing for our hands. A chorus of "HEY, YOU! HEY, YOU!" rang out around us, almost deafening. Even as water began to gush from the truck, the children stayed wrapped around our entire bodies, trying to communicate with us in any way they possible could (usually by shouting "HEY, YOU!" as loudly as humanly possible.).
I began to notice a kind of protective bubble around the truck. It was as though inside the radius the invisible force field the water provided, the desperation of Cité Soleil melted away. There was hope inside the bubble: smiles, laughter, hands being held. Kids sang, danced, and played in the water. They were completely unafraid of the "blancs", the foreigners. They weren't afraid to ask for help setting buckets atop their heads or transporting the sloshing water down the alley. They were not only nourished physically by the liquid life we were providing by the gallon; they were nourished spiritually.
After the rush of Soleil #17, we travelled just a bit farther to Juno's Orphanage. Luckner, one of our wonderful guides, vivaciously honked the horn of the tap-tap at a dusty gate set into a pale wall, and we were admitted in. Inside the walls was a completely different world than the one we had just experienced. A large tree sat in the middle of a well-kept courtyard, its bright leaves offering shade to seventeen beautiful kids who immediately welcomed us into their home with hugs and smiles. They were gracious beyond their few years, playing nicely and sharing the toys and games we had brought for them. Their laughs reverberated off of the stone walls as they made farms from play-doh, played soccer and catch, painted their nails, and tied ribbons into their gorgeous hair.
Almost as soon as my feet first touched the ground, I felt it again. The bubble. The hope. Desperation stopped at the gate, but it did not come from a truck full of water: it came from the children. The building. Juno himself. They all powered the force field with their endless love, and it was strong. Inside it, there was no hardship, no memory of sadness, or of loss. It was beautiful, and I felt so incredibly lucky to be a part of it.
As we made our way back to the guesthouse over the characteristically bumpy roads, I realized that this was the magic of Haiti: safe haven despite tragedy. While the protective bubbles may be invisible, the beauty and endless love are not. This is Haiti.

-Meg Maurer

No comments:

Post a Comment