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One day in the life of...Will you read it?

Haiti 1974: Journal--Week One My first trip up the mountain. Our group was headed to a small, dilapidated church in some nameless, godforsaken mountain village. Our goal was to make any repairs necessary, and if there was time, do a little scraping and painting. It wasn’t at all what you think of when you hear, ‘mountain climbing’; the trail was wide and smooth, not really steep at all, with hundred of twists and turns. It was just dirt, but it was hard as concrete, often with deep ruts made from tipsy wooden wagons with wobbly wooden wheels being pulled by some kind of shaggy oxen with long, curled horns. We passed all manner of Haitians; women on the way to market with erect postures and slow gaits--with god-knows-what balanced four-feet high atop their heads, young malnourished boys with big eyes and wide, white grins and ragged shorts held up with rope--running alongside rolling metal hoops--guiding them expertly with sturdy sticks clenched tightly in their little black fists, and nuns--they were everywhere. You couldn’t walk a mile anywhere in Haiti without passing a gaggle of nuns. We’d been walking for hours, seemingly making little progress against the mountain, but we soon realized the views were becoming spectacular, so I figured we must be making some headway. And then, we heard a slow, rhythmic tapping none of us could identify. It was driving us crazy--trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. It seemed to be coming from all directions. Eventually, we spotted the source–a farmer using a pick-axe. He was far across the valley, on a facing slope, slowly swinging his pick over and over, working the soil of a small rectangular field carved into the mountainside. The field was clearly outlined from our perspective, almost like looking from the window of an airplane. We could see the tiny figure bright and well-defined in the thin mountain air, even though he was an impossible distance away from us. But what we found so fascinating was the sharp noise coming from his pick each time it struck a rock–it would reach us several long seconds after the swing was completed. We all stood there for a few minutes watching and listening. We had never seen a finer example emphasizing the difference between the speed of light and the speed of sound. Later, we found ourselves walking beside an enormous stone wall that seemed to go on for miles. It turned out to be a huge fort that also contained an ancient castle within its walls--like something straight out of Europe. It was open to the public as a remote tourist destination. The whole thing seemed out of place, as we had passed nothing but make-shift shanties thrown together with bits of wood, plastic and tin. We delayed our mission by a ½ hour to take the tour. There was an immense marble courtyard beside the castle--with a long section of it unprotected by the great wall that surrounded the fortress. No wall was needed there, because of a sheer drop of over a thousand feet, and legend has it--a general once ordered his five best soldiers to jump over the edge--in full view of a visiting commander during a momentary truce. Immediately, the five hurled themselves to their deaths without even a questioning glance. The story goes, when the commander saw the loyalty and devotion the opposing soldiers had for their leader, he gave up any further notion of war. I peered over the edge and tried to imagine myself willingly jumping off because someone ordered me to. It was unfathomable to my young mind. We stopped an hour later to eat lunch. Peanut butter sandwiches and 12 0z. cans of thick, sweet pineapple juice. I took the opportunity to examine my right foot, which had been bothering me for several miles. I was wearing new hiking boots, and I discovered I had an open sore the size of a dime right below my ankle-bone. The skin had worn right off. It would become infected a few days later. I crammed a religious tract down the side of my boot before lacing it back up. It seemed to help. I had been in Haiti exactly three days. I would be there for the next fifteen months.

Public Comments

1. I don't think tbis belongs in poetry.
2. Yes, I did read it. And I am amazed of how much you noted and took into importance in only three days. It seemed that you have learned what is perhaps at least a year's worth of information in only a short amount of time. Three days seems to you like eternity, especially from such a tired journey. It must have been difficult, but I definitely treasure your writing about your brief trip in Haiti and the days to come. You could actually enter this in teen ink. There is a possibility that you could win. Good luck:)
3. I hope they don't have to amputate your foot dodo. endangered species are rare!
4. FASCINATING! Absolutely mesmerizing write! I cannot say enough about it. Wish I had time to, but THANK YOU for sharing this, you made me feel as though I time traveled right to that place in time and stood there with you...almost checking my ankle to be sure it wasn't bleeding... When I was in Saipan, I stood at a similar cliff, where the Japanese jumped off rather than surrender. And there, in the middle of a hike, was Amelia Earhart's "museum" open for visitors, and not a soul there. (Many claim she crashed there, they had pictures and artifacts from the plane.) Wow...eerie how your write took me back there.
5. I loved it, thanks and in the same prose context I offer this. I had occasion, younger, to be far away from home, travelin, explorin, backpackin alone I came to a crest, saw a Monastery and red clad monks seeminly smilin, pushin, jokin, as if at play. I got there, they stopped, all bowed in tradition. One spoke English and welcomed me, but I asked "Why are they all puttin their feet up to the giant statue?" It is Buddha child and each is comparing, with respect their foot against his No one leaves a bigger imprint than our God."
6. This was wonderful - you have a knack with writing and I loved this so much. I want to hear more, how bad was that infection? When your feet hurt everything hurts and a sore like that is hard to heal. And nuns - I haven't heard mention of nuns in awhile - do any of them wear habits anymore? Thanks for this!
7. Wonderful story! You kept my attention, and now I need to know... Is it fact or fiction??? If fact, what a great world experience! Our church supports such ventures with special offerings once a month. We just heard a testimony how difficult, deprived and often dangerous their missions are. Can't wait to read your next installment!
8. I enjoyed your story so much that I went to your profile page to see if you had written more. Thanks for the enjoying read.