originally written on May 15, 2017 in the back of a car en route to Jacmel, Haiti.
I can feel the heat radiating off of Katey and Brielle as we rumble down the Haitian road, weaving our way through the city. Eyes follow us as we brake through traffic. I'm sure it's quite the sight--three white American girls slipping in and out of sleep all while wedged into a five passenger car with three Haitian men.
Everything feels alive--the people, the buildings, the stands selling pockets of juice.
There's no distinct line here between thriving and surviving--here it seems there's a beautiful coexistence where everything is dancing with each other, slipping into new places of belonging with every passing second--especially the cars.
The old sits against the new only to be picked up and made new again. A rusty red gate sits against a freshly painted storefront waiting to be seen and repurposed next time someone needs a gate. There's no out with the old and in with the new.
Shiny painted ads adorn peeling stucco walls. Pink flowers on vines cover every inch of space in between. What I see as seasonal grows steadily here.
It's 4:10. We arrived in PAP at 1--it's a three hour drive to Jacmel and we're still in the city we started in. Just like any other road trip I've ever taken, first we stop to fill up on gas.
Most of the buildings are enigmas--could be a house, could be a school, or a hotel or even a restaurant. It's a toss up. It's that rhythm of balance and belonging again--one thing readily shifting into the place of the other. Old is seen with new eyes, new is seen with tired eyes.