Around 1:30 p.m. Frantz, the Haitian priest, and Pat Labuda (a woman from the States who comes here regularly and our translator for this trip to the country) picked us up, at the Hospice, in an all-terrain vehicle and we were on our way to Verrettes. The main highway is a circus of crazy driving, avoiding pot holes (the whole infrastructure, here, is collapsing) and various vehicles (all sizes, shapes, colors, crammed with people and produce—no vehicle so full that it can’t hold one more—and the wild and strange tap-taps are indescribable).
Three-quarters of the way to Sant Marc, we took a side-road and went to the deserted beach located near a closed down Club Med. Frantz, Pat, Arsylvie (a nun from Venezuela), Gail, and I changed into bathing suits and swam for an hour in the sea. It was a superb treat and felt just a bit decadent.
Then, on the road again. At Sant Marc we came to our first army roadblock—a little scary. We were taken for tourists who had been swimming. Frantz had strategically draped a wet towel over the dashboard. That coupled with the dripping hair and the back end of the Rover full of backpacks evidently was convincing.
The road from Sant Marc to Verrettes defies description. To say it was dirt is to laugh. It was like driving up a mountain creek bed often with the creek cohabiting. After dark it became treacherous as we encountered huge ditches flooded with mud and water—with no means to judge the depth of the water or the tenacity of the mud. Somehow we made it though, always remembering to clap and shout “Bravo” for Frantz’s extraordinary driving acumen. We arrived at the rectory around 7 p.m. It was pitch black and cloudy.
On the trip, Frantz had told us of his close calls with the army. Last night, I dreamed we were with him as he was being pursued. In my dream I was afraid. I guess it was expressing my sublimated fear—fear that I had probably not allowed myself to feel while awake. I have had better night’s sleeps; I have had much better beds than a 2-foot wide cot; but, I have never been so thankful for just having a bed—the same with the moldy, spider-infested bathroom facilities. The rectory is ancient, huge, and austere—high ceilings, peeling walls, almost no furniture, the feeling of patchwork, everything in semi-disrepair. Solar batteries sit charging on the floors of the upstairs veranda. Last night, in the shower, the dust turned to mud and drained off of me. But, the experience did not.