One of my favorite verses in the Bible says, “A man's heart plans his way, but the LORD determines his steps.” (Proverbs 16:9) I’m sure there’s a Haitian proverb out there that says, “A man’s mind plans his day, but Haiti determines what actually happens!” If there’s not, there certainly should be!

Thursday was much like any other day. I had a list of items to cross off my to-do list, one of which included going into Port au Prince to meet some friends from home at the airport who were bringing some things down for the Hope For Life kiddos—and also a spare camera for me as mine recently broke. I had breakfast with and said goodbye to the team who had been staying here at the guesthouse. And then Lesly and I headed to the airport.

As I said in the last blog entry, I want to be more attentive to this world of Haiti around me—considering it from the perspective of a blog author who may want to share my experiences with all of you. So allow me to share the events from this almost successful day…

We hop on a moto to go from the guesthouse to the “bus station” less than a mile down the road. Our cook’s sister Myrlande (who helps when we have big groups) is heading to Port au Prince at the same time, so we all leave together. Lesly and I with our moto driver, Jacke, on one motorcycle and Myrlande with the driver of another.

Arriving at the bus station (aka: a chaos of people, motorcycles, trucks, food vendors, vans, and big buses everywhere—including in the middle of the road) we pass by eager transportation salesmen (the guys repeating their destination over and over again, pointing to their bus or van, and sometimes reaching out to try and escort you on it) until we get to the bus we actually want to board… the first white bus in a line of a few white buses. They line up in order of who’s leaving first. Trying to board the first one sometimes means you will be hard-pressed to find a seat, but it also means you’ll be hitting the road before the others. They don’t leave until they’re full, and full means PACKED—though the rule in Haiti seems to be “there’s always room for one more!” We are happy to find that the first one in line has a row of three seats open just for us. Myrlande gets by the window, I’m in the middle, and Lesly is at the aisle. The seats are scooped so your backside can fit inside them. These buses are called “Obama buses” by the locals because they were shipped down after the earthquake. I remark to Lesly that the buses must be made in China where the people are obviously smaller, as I scoot a bit more towards him as Myrlande has the build of a basketball defense player (= overflowing into my backside space). We wait a good 15 minutes for the bus to fill up and then we’re on our way. We pick up more people along the side of the road until the whole aisle is filled with people standing. There were over a dozen rows of 5 seats and at least 15 people standing in the aisle…

Anytime you ride a bus in Haiti, you’ll experience traveling salesmen and women. These are individuals the driver has given permission to ride the route and try and sell their products. I’ve heard sales pitches promoting a range of products including English learning books, stomach relief medicines, vitamins, perfumes, you name it! There are usually one to three sales people per bus ride. The first guy who stood up offered something I’d never heard before…

“If you have a cramp, headache, or even an illness that has bothered you for 25 years, raise your hand. In two minutes, I will heal you. I will give you that gift for free!”

Well, that’s interesting! I leaned over to Lesly to ask if anyone will take him up on that offer. “Perhaps. Maybe there is someone who is crazy like him,” he said. After his 15 minute offer for healing (which no one responded to), he pulled out some miracle oil…

“If an elderly person or a young person is about to die, rub this over his or her entire body and within one hour, they will be healed. For other ailments, within 45 seconds you’ll be better.” At least five people bought this oil for the special price of 100 goudes, less than two and half bucks. The next lady stood up and began to sell some kind of solution to help care for your teeth. By the end of her pitch, the price was sliced in half.

We arrived at the Port au Prince bus station about an hour and a half later. If you think the Leogane bus station is chaotic, imagine one 10 times as big and major multiplication of vehicles and people! We help Myrlande and her bags get loaded into a taxi and then we walk a couple blocks to catch a taxi van to the airport. They are all quite full and we squeeze on. This van is smaller than what we call 15-passenger vans at home. It has four rows of seats and they force at least four people per row and two up with the driver for a total of 19 inside and sometimes one or two hanging out the door or standing on the back. For longer distances you may have people on top. But for this shorter route, 20 people give or take is normal.

I enjoy being in one of the middle spots. For the most part, no one on the streets outside notices me. For the thirty minute trip I don’t hear anyone shouting at me… “Blan!” (literally means “white” and is what they use to refer to any foreigner), “HEY YOU!” or if they have time, “Hey you, blan!”

We hear tires screech and gasps and CRASSSHH!!! I quickly look left to see a moto toppling over sending the passenger falling on his backside and the moto driver trying to save himself from the fall. He jumps up shaking his left hand in pain. As he looks—and as we look—he finds his left ring finger perpendicular to all his others. I cringe and am deeply saddened for him, wondering what options of care there are for him here and realizing that even a minor injury like a broken finger can be quite debilitating without proper treatment. Apparently another taxi van is at fault. He stopped a few feet ahead. As we pass, one of our passengers shouts out the window, “Go back and see what you did!” In an incident like this, the driver will need to go to the police station (or maybe the police will come here) and will be responsible for the damages. Often drivers at fault may try to flee, but in the crowded city, there’s not much opportunity for that.

Arriving at the airport we head to the shadiest spot we could find. It’s around 1pm. My friends’ plane doesn’t even arrive until 3pm and it can sometimes take an hour for people to emerge after the infamous baggage claim experience. I send Lesly to buy a hot lunch for us. Rice and beans with some really fatty pork. The rice is good but we both skip the pork. He was going to save it for his dog but as he was throwing it away, a man came up to him and asked if he could have it. He gave it to him.

Long (3.5 hours) airport story short… my friends’ four suitcases didn’t make it. They’ll arrive tomorrow. The sheets for the kids and camera for me will have to wait. But on a good note, I got to see Stacy and Rory—and seeing familiar faces from home is always good for the soul!

Lesly and I headed to find a taxi van back to the bus station. This time we squeezed on a bigger van. I find myself wedged—literally, between Lesly, a woman, and a man sitting opposite from me. His knees are on either side of my knees—or should I say knee because I couldn’t even put my legs square together as there wasn’t enough space, so one leg is tucked up under the seat to make room for the other one wedged between his legs. It’s more humorous than awkward because what choice do you have?! More people get on at each stop as again, there’s always room for one more. Unfortunately for me, I have to unwedge and rewedge myself at every stop to let people pass through the small opening on the front row we’re sitting on. Finally enough people exit that I can have my own space by the window. All good except my cover is blown, everyone can see the blan on the crowded bus and OUCH—watch out for that jagged piece of rusty metal under the window!

It’s after 5pm when we reach the bus station. Not as many options for buses, but we eventually find another 15 passenger van type taxi and settle into the front seat. We wait about 20 minutes for it to fill up. I watch out the window where a guy is shaving a three foot block of ice. In his hand is a metal container about the size of a shoe. He’s raking the ice with it and then opens the end to dump the shaved ice into the cooler on the ground. There are street vendors with mobile carts who use this to sell shaved ice drinks with various flavors. Even though I eat street food, I’ve never tried one as I haven’t fully investigated the estimated stomach risks of this treat. The van is packed with all men and one woman. They are squeezed in the back like sardines. Even though my middle seat is harder than the rest of the seats and my head is close to the roof of the van, I’m glad I’m not squished in the back.

A begger in his young 20s comes up to the driver side window. He spots the takeout container beside me. I explain to him that it’s not mine and I can’t give away someone else’s food. He continues to plead. I tell him that next time I see him, I’ll bring something for him to eat. He tells me he might be dead by then. I tell him I’ll pray he won’t be dead by then. He asks how I’ll remember his face. I hold up my hands like I’m taking a picture and tell him I’ll take a picture of him in my mind. I tell him to smile. He does. And then he tells me I didn’t really take it. I try again. He’s still not convinced. I hold up my simple Haitian phone that doesn’t even have a camera and tell him to smile again. He’s happy enough. “A la pwochèn!” I say. (“Until next time!”)

We make it back to Leogane around 7pm. I’m exhausted and find it amusing that we spent all that time and travel and came back empty-handed. Oh well, it's on my to-do list to go to Port au Prince for something else tomorrow anyway… surely everything will work out then!