by Lorin Grace
He sneaked another peek only to see her seat empty. The fasten-seat-belt sign was off. A glance over his shoulder confirmed she was joining the line for the lavatory. Kyle unbuckled his seat belt and hurried down the aisle.
“Sorry about the seat thing.”
Araceli half turned and gave him a shrug. “I am glad she moved. I was afraid it would become another viral airline incident.”
He couldn’t come up with a name for the shade of her light-brown eyes. They reminded him of the last few drops of root beer hiding between the ice of an empty cup. “Your sprint to the plane was impressive. I didn’t think you would make our flight when your flight was delayed.”
“What would have happened then?”
“I would have waited for you. My sister Marci would have gotten everyone to the orphanage and then the guesthouse. She’s been on enough trips to navigate, and she speaks both French and Haitian Creole.”
“Why didn’t Marci wait for me?”
“This is going to sound sexist, but after you experience Haiti for a few hours, maybe you will understand. Letting two young single white females navigate from the airport to the guesthouse after dark would not be very responsible.”
She crossed her arms. “You’re right. It sounds sexist.”
“Aren’t there parts of Boston your father would feel the same way about?”
Araceli bobbed her head in answer and changed places with the passenger exiting the lavatory area.
Fifteen minutes later, the snack cart came by, and Kyle ordered a root beer. Marci looked at his glass. “I thought you preferred ginger ale.”
“I did.”
seven
For the third time, Kyle passed word back for everyone to wait at the end of the Jetway when they got inside the airport. Araceli wondered how used to going to Haiti Kyle really was, or did he think the group couldn’t process taking orders? She looked out the corner of her eye at Jade and the woman who’d finally introduced herself as Chelsea. They seemed to be in another world. Maybe he should repeat his orders a fourth time.
That wasn’t fair to Chelsea. She did seem adept at listening. Araceli wished she had been able to meet the group in person before the flight. The group was easy enough to pick out. Most of the passengers were likely Haitian from the smattering of French she heard mixed in with what she assumed was Haitian Creole. To be honest, the dozen Caucasian twenty-somethings in their group stood out like marshmallows in a giant cup of hot chocolate. Blending in wasn’t much of an option. There was a smaller group of Caucasians consisting of middle-aged men and women all wearing matching T-shirts further up the cabin. Araceli assumed they were also on some type of service mission.
As the plane started its final descent, Araceli caught snatches of lush green hillsides outside the window next to Chelsea. Little buildings lay clustered close together. The ocean’s cool blue water looked inviting. Cutting off Araceli’s view, Chelsea and Jade crowded the window, with Jade pointing out various landmarks.
Araceli sat back in her seat. She would see Haiti soon enough.
Kyle looked over his shoulder at her. “I’ll make sure you get a window seat on the way out if you want. It is more fun to see when you know what the view looks like from the ground.”
“Thanks.”
As the thump-thump of the landing gear shook the plane, adrenaline pumped through Araceli’s veins and she had to resist the urge to squeal with delight. They were here. As they taxied to the terminal, Araceli caught a glimpse of the airport. Perhaps that was just the international wing. There was no way an international airport could be smaller than the one she’d flown out of in Fort Wayne.
Chelsea turned to Jade. “The airport is so tiny!”
“Welcome to PAP. No big shiny airport here when this will do. Wait until you see the inside. They could film an old ’70s movie there.”
“I guess I expected the airport to be modern.”
Jade laughed at her friend’s comment.
So the airport was smaller than Fort Wayne’s—not that she expected something the size of Boston’s Logan airport.
When they’d all gathered at the end of the Jetway, Kyle counted heads before he spoke. “Bathrooms are over there. I suggest you use them as it will be two or three hours before you see another one. Remember, do not flush the toilet paper or anything else. Everyone needs to get their passport and five dollars out to pay the entry tax before we go through customs at the desk at the end of the hall.” He gestured to the other side of the room. “If anyone tries to take your bag once we are out of the customs area, say, ‘Non, merci!’ as firmly as you can as many hundred times as you need to. Do not let anyone take your luggage. Before we leave the airport, have a firm grip on all your bags.”
Each stall in the bathroom contained a large garbage can full of used toilet paper. No wonder sanitation was such an issue here. Araceli had read about the poor sanitation infrastructure, but experiencing it was another thing. She followed the other group members through paying the entry tax and customs.
One of the guys, Boyd, if he matched his photo, held up the small paper he’d received at the tourist tax desk. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Jade answered before anyone else could. “Keep the paper with your passport. We have never needed it on other trips, but just in case.”
“What she said.” Kyle counted the bags and containers, then motioned to two of the guys. “Go get a couple of carts, and remember, ‘Non, merci’ if someone tries to help.” He looked down at his phone. “Our drivers are here.”
The guys returned and loaded most of the checked baggage onto the carts.
Kyle lined them up like an army marching into battle. “Ryan, go last with Marci. She speaks enough Creole to address any issues we have getting out of the airport. Araceli, if you can take Boyd’s extra bag, and Chelsea if you take Tanner’s, I think we have everything. Let’s go.”
Araceli tried not to roll her eyes at Kyle’s overprotective attitude. She assumed everyone had flown before and probably internationally. Dragging her wheeled carry-on and pushing Boyd’s in front of her, she fell in line behind him and the heavy cart he was pushing. Not two feet out the door to the parking lot, a skinny man in a dirty T-shirt tried to take Boyd’s bag from her.
“Non, merci.”
The man walked beside her and tried again. Araceli would have stepped out of the way, but the sidewalk was lined with men trying to do the same thing, so she held on to the bags and raised her voice. “Non, merci!”
Traversing the twenty yards to the parking lot, Araceli joined the others in shouting “Non, merci!” and shaking her head at the dozen or so men reaching for their luggage. No one had told her entering Haiti required running a gauntlet. She reevaluated Kyle’s overprotectiveness.
In a parking lot only slightly larger than that of a typical chain-restaurant, Kyle directed them to two large vans and an SUV. “Don’t let your bags go until you hand them to the drivers. Boyd, Tanner, take the carts to the blue van.”
The overly helpful men followed them nearly to the vans, still trying to take their luggage, until the drivers shouted at the men in Creole, and the men left in the direction of the terminal. Kyle hugged one of the drivers and asked him about his wife and new baby, then shook hands with the other two. A fourth driver appeared and also received a hug. Marci joined her brother in both giving hugs and exchanging greetings.
Loading of the vans became a game of 3-D Tetris. Not once did Kyle or the drivers pull out a bag or rearrange them. “The blue van is going directly to the orphanage. Marci, you and EmilyAnne go with that one, please. Tanner and Boyd, you can go with them. Marci, you remember where the bags go so the kids don’t get into them first?”
Marci gave a mock salute. “What about the eggs?”
“I put them in the bin with
the yellow lid. They will go to the guesthouse.”
Eggs? They’d transported eggs on the plane? Araceli was sure one of the books she’d read talked about the plethora of roosters on the island. Why would they need eggs?
“The black van is going to the guesthouse first. Jade, will you be in charge of that van? Put things where Mrs. Delino tells you and don’t worry about rooms. I’d like to get everyone to the orphanage this afternoon, so drop off the stuff as fast as you can.”
Jade pulled Chelsea and the two other guys in the group, Brandon and Ryan, into the van.
Kyle turned to the remaining women. “Madison, Kate, and Araceli, you are with me in the SUV. We are going to pick up the bottled water.”
Kyle sat in the front with the driver, whom he introduced as Aselòm. Araceli took the seat between the other two women. The vans inched out of the parking lot and past the last stop sign they would see for the rest of the day. They passed brick wall after brick wall, some plastered with graffiti and ads or colorful murals, though most were gray cinder block and topped with concertina wire. Every once in a while, they could see inside a gate to a business or church.
Tap taps, the brightly painted busses and converted pickup trucks that served as the city’s transportation, passed them going either direction on what Araceli assumed was meant to be a two-lane road but was actually five disorganized lanes. As she watched motorcycles zip between the cars, Madison pointed to one of the tap taps. Flat, hand-shaped metal spikes stuck out at right angles near tire level, threatening to scratch a car or pop the tires of any impatient driver who dared drive too close. Every inch of the tap taps was painted in bright colors in various themes, one boasting movie stars, including John Wayne and Humphrey Bogart. Others were of a religious nature. Almost all of them, including the one covered with ’80s rock stars, featured a variation of “Mèsi Jezi” written somewhere on them.
“What does Mèsi Jezi mean?” Kate asked.
Kyle turned in the front seat. “‘Thank you, Jesus.’ You will also see the phrase in French as well as in English on them. I have heard it’s because the drivers are thankful they didn’t crash today. And now y’all know what happens to all those trucks and school buses that die in the States.”
“Resurrected in Haiti?” Kate pointed at a Gone With the Wind–themed tap tap.
Beep! Beep!
Honk!
Araceli followed the progression of one of the motorcycles. “All of the different honks. It is like a different language.”
Aselòm laughed. “Miss Marci says she make a honk dictionary so she can translate all of them.”
They came to an intersection of five roads, all the vehicles trying to cross at the same time. Horns blared. A motorcycle wove through traffic. Araceli expected a crash at any second as a pickup-sized tap tap sped past a black sedan with diplomatic flags. There was no clear flow of traffic in any direction, no stop signs, no one giving directions. She had been in traffic jams in Boston, but they had an order and symmetry to them. Their driver honked and moved forward, cutting off a bus with a giant face of Tom Selleck painted on the side.
“Where are the stop signs?” Araceli wondered out loud.
The driver answered. “No stop signs here.”
Madison’s white knuckles contrasted with the arm of the seat she was gripping. “Are there traffic laws?”
Kyle turned in his seat. “You might want to refer to them as ‘guidelines.’ I think in the fifteen years I have been coming here, I have only seen a policeman pull a car over twice. The good thing about the traffic moving so slowly is most car accidents are not deadly, though the ones involving the motorcycles are often tragic. It can take a half hour or longer for emergency personnel to arrive. That is why we caution all our teams to never take the motorcycle taxis.”
The driver turned between two tall cinder-block walls into a parking lot.
Holding back a smile at the women’s reactions, Kyle followed them past the guard and into the grocery store. He never got tired of watching the surprise on volunteer faces when they saw American brands and foods and prices listed in dollars. The women walked around the produce, talking in hushed tones. Already he was guessing how well the women would adapt to the country. Kate’s face showed relief at seeing the familiar brands. She might survive the trip, but she would not be back. Between her white knuckles during the ride and her careful study of the store, Madison could go either way. Then there was the one who took everything in. Araceli would come back if she could.
He watched her study the mangoes.
Kyle picked one up. “We will have them almost every morning at breakfast, so you don’t need to buy any.” He picked up a banana-like fruit. “These are plantains. They fry them into delicious chips—one of the few things I purchase from the street vendors.”
Madison and Kate joined them.
Kyle directed them to the far side of the cash registers. “Let’s buy the water. We will bring everyone back to the store the day before we fly out. The Haitian vanilla is one thing I suggest taking home as a gift for your favorite cook.” Kyle led them over to the drink aisle.
Madison picked up a cola bottle. “Hey, this is made with real sugar. I haven’t seen that since the plant out in Dublin closed.” She grabbed two other bottles. “My caffeine and sugar fix for the next three days.”
Kyle hefted four cases of water into the cart and grabbed a Limonade. “This is one of my favorites—it’s like lemonade but better.”
All three women grabbed a bottle.
“Remember to pay in the lowest denomination American dollars possible. They will give you change in Haitian gourde.” Kyle pulled out his phone and turned on the calculator app. “The dollar is worth roughly sixty-five gourdes.”
“This is why you told us to bring so many dollar bills, right?” Madison handed the cashier four dollars.
“Yes. Almost everyone accepts USD. The last day, we will take you to a street market and you can spend your accumulated gourde there if you don’t get to the store. If we go to the hardware store, you will see most prices listed in dollars.”
The group exited the building past a glowering guard and climbed into their car.
Kate settled into her seat and nodded to the door they’d come through. “He looked ominous.”
Araceli climbed into the back seat. “I read they had huge problems with theft in Haiti, but it’s odd to see an armed guard at the grocery store.”
“Most Haitians make less than three dollars a day. The minimum wage income is about $800 a year. So as you can imagine, the cola Madison is drinking right now is out of most people’s budgets—especially if they have children, as school costs $500 or more per year, per student.”
Madison took a sip of her cola. “Wow, so someone would need to work a half day to buy this drink. That really puts it in perspective. To think I complained about minimum wage when I was in high school.”
“In January I took a custodial job to help pay for this trip. Working part-time for a month, I made about $800.”
“You mean you cleaned toilets to come here?” Madison made a face.
“Rather ironic, isn’t it. Cleaning toilets to come to a country where the plumbing is suspect.” Araceli laughed, a rich sound that made Kyle swivel in the seat so he could see if her smile dimpled.
It did.
Kyle turned forward again and wondered why he’d thought she would have dimples when she laughed. A memory of playing a version of Uno that shot cards out of a dispenser came flooding back. No, way! Kyle tried not to turn and look at her again. The girl from his memory had followed him and her brother Greg around most of the vacation, her attraction to him as obvious as it was uncomfortable, especially with Greg’s comments and kissing noises. She was cute enough for a girl, but he’d acted like the stupid teenage boy he was and made her cry. He must
have suppressed the memory.
Someone asked about the bridge they were crossing. Kyle didn’t answer, so the driver told how once, a mighty river had rushed under the bridge but disappeared after the 2010 earthquake. The two-lane bridge was one of the few ways to cross the nearly empty gorge.
The song Kyle had made up to get the girl to leave him alone popped into his head. Remorse twisted his gut. He recapped his drink and thought of Marci and how he’d wanted to punch the guy who’d made fun of her braces in seventh grade because it made her cry. An apology was long overdue. As a therapist, he knew how something like what he’d said and done could emotionally stunt someone for life. At least she seemed normal. But the hurt could be hidden.
Had the girl he’d dubbed Celi-Belly forgiven him?
eight
The photos Araceli had seen online didn’t do the island nation justice. The bright colors that now permeated the car windows were stunning. Women in dresses balanced baskets and various bundles on their heads. Men hefted bags of water and foodstuffs she didn’t recognize into the slow-moving cars. Other than the bridge they crossed over, the cars, tap taps, and motorcycles didn’t stay within the lanes as they made their way around parked busses and vendors. Araceli’s imagination failed to see what could be hiding behind the cinderblock walls and solid metal gates, though some proclaimed in both French and English that a school or a hospital lay beyond.
