My first glimpse of Haitian reality was in the Miami airport. I smiled at an elderly Haitian woman who was dressed in her Sunday best for traveling with some family members. She looked frail yet adorable in her big white hat and fuchsia suit. When we came to the first escalator the woman stepped up to the moving staircase, froze long enough to back up a long line of people, and at the urging of her family members (who couldn’t help her because their arms were full of luggage) she awkwardly stepped onto the escalator and her feet flew out from under her. But she clutched the railing as if her life depended on it (which it did) and she fearfully watched for the moment when she was going to have to step off again.
I realized that most Haitians have never experienced escalators.
I watched helplessly while she disembarked awkwardly, and then there was another escalator with a repeat performance of stumbling and gravitational realities until finally some of us Westerners feared for her life and we tightly held onto her as she staggered on and off five different escalators. Touched by her bravery, yet shaken by the danger for this poor woman, I raced ahead to get on the airplane.
The flight to Port au Prince was uneventful, but as I completed customs paperwork on the plane I caught a second glimpse of Haitian reality. Seeing that I had a pen and that I was writing on my customs documents, the two Haitians sitting next to me said something in Creole, smiled shyly, and passed me their passports and blank customs documents.
They were illiterate.
So comparing my English documents with their French ones, I gamely did my best to fill in the correct blanks for them. And I sent up a quick prayer that they wouldn’t get detained at Immigration because I didn't study very hard in my high school French class.
After a red-eye flight from San Francisco, I arrived in Miami at 5:00 am and wearily awaited my next flight at the departure gate. The waiting area was bustling with early morning activity. With a quick glance around the room I estimated that about 15% of my co-travelers were Haitian, and 85% white.
There were more than a few middle-aged men whom I imagined were managers or engineers of various NGO’s (Non-Governmental Organizations). With their gray wavy hair, clean blue jeans, t-shirts, and multi-pocketed khaki photographers’ vests they emitted an air of expertise. They rested their feet on brand new backpacks as they pecked away at battered laptops.
There were various teams of 8-12 people whom I guessed were church groups. One team wore bright yellow t-shirts that said “Love a Child Construction Team”, and another group wore blue t-shirts proclaiming the obvious “Here to Serve Haiti”. The team leaders bustled around in baseball caps, offering firm handshakes and peppering their conversations with questions such as “what’s the weather like?”, or “what are you working on?”, or “how is the drainage working now?” One by one the church groups migrated inconspicuously towards some quiet corners to clasp hands in a big circle and pray.
Lately, in preparation for my Haiti trip I have been watching all the news specials and documentaries about Haiti that I can get my hands on. I recently watched a Frontline special about that state of Haiti one year after the 2010 earthquake.
A Haitian man named Daniel was interviewed. He is a successful businessman who is putting Haitians to work building a power plant in Port au Prince-- at high cost to himself and his family. As one of the “business elite” Daniel is a target. His wife was kidnapped by gangsters and held for 10 days while he paid three different ransoms. When she was finally released she was so traumatized that she moved to the United States with their kids. He stayed in Haiti.
A soft-spoken man of incredible faith, this is what he said: “Coming from Haiti feels like a burden. It feels like a heavy cannon ball tied to your ankles. It feels like a curse, really. I used to really feel that. Until it occurred to me that living in Haiti was a blessing. It’s an opportunity to touch Christ every day. In the person who can’t feed himself. And the men in the prison. And the kids who contacted AIDS and don’t have access to medicine.”
That statement blew my socks off. This is exactly the type of attitude I am going to be on the lookout for while I am in Haiti.
Pushing the treadmill speed up to 5.2, I stuffed the buds into my ears and blasted “I Gotta Feeling” on my iPod. Involuntary tears came to my eyes. What is that all about?, I wondered.
I had 40 minutes of treadmill time to figure it out, during which time I determined that I have a Pavlovian response to that song because of the YouTube video where the Black Eyed Peas surprised Oprah with a flash mob for her anniversary a couple of years back.
And I always get teary-eyed when I see a flash mob.
I’m a flash mob cry baby.
But I don’t get emotional for any old flash mob. I respond to the grand scale mobs—not the small, weak ones. The organizers of Oprah’s flash mob allege that 21,000 people learned the choreography. That qualifies as grand scale, my friend.
Secondly, I respond to the songs that they play. This flash mob in an American mall food court is fantastic, not because there is free advertising for Arby’s, Subway, and Panda Express, but because children, adults, and seniors were all blessed with the sounds of the sacred Hallelujah Chorus while spreading mustard on their corn dogs.
Lastly, location is important. I love this classic flash mob in the cavernous Antwerp train station where children and adults dance to “Do Re Mi’ from the Sound of Music.
A search on YouTube reveals that there were flash mob tributes to Michael Jackson in Paris, Cebu, Stockholm, Seattle, Bucharest, Montreal, London, San Francisco, and apparently every other major city in the world.
There are flash mobs that pay homage to Glee songs, and some enterprising advertisers—like T-Mobile-- are organizing flash mobs to draw attention to their products.
But why do I love flash mobs, and why do they invoke such an emotional, visceral response in me? Simply put, flash mobs represent everything that is good in the world.
They are a joyful celebration of life-- exciting and spontaneous. Flash mobs shine a spotlight on the arts— music and dance. They represent large-scale unity. Flash mobs require humans to cooperate with one another and they highlight the value of global community. They are a profound example of people peacefully working together, delighting others, calling attention to an issue, celebrating, and spreading good will and cheer. Flash mobs exult in turning ordinary places- a food court, public square, train station- into sacred space.
And most importantly, flash mobs represent a transcendent moment-- an “ascendancy of the soul” as Thomas Moore would write.
And if I can get all of that inspiration from just 40 sweaty minutes of blasting a mediocre band’s music through my iPod, then flash mobs are even more powerful than I thought.
A fashionable woman could buy a Dolce & Gabbana black wool jacket.
An adventurer could buy a scuba diving package.
A romantic could enjoy a Las Vegas weekend vacation package at the Bellagio.
A boss could secure 4 chairs and a 36 inch round table “break room set”.
A computer geek could buy a Toshiba notebook.
A sports fan could purchase a Samsung 46” LCD HDTV.
A teenager living in Alberta could get a Canadian iPhone.
A driver could pay for a one month lease on a Mercedes. And they would be spending the same amount as the average annual income of a Haitian at the start of the cholera epidemic. $659.00
I popped a couple of Advil last night in a pre-emptive attempt to ward off some aches and pains this morning. My shoulders hurt from hauling 2 liter bags of mulch. My hands ache from grabbing handfuls of weeds. My arms hurt from digging and overturning soil in a planter. My knee hurts from kneeling down to pick up rocks, marbles, chunks of concrete, and chopped roots. My feet ache from countless trips to throw junk from the backyard into a dumpster in the front yard.
I have a sunburned face. I have scratches on my legs. I have bruises on my forearms. My clothes are covered with ground-in dirt. My shoes are spattered with rancid mud water and slug juice. Bees buzzed around my ears, my feet crunched countless snails, and spiders crawled across my shoes and up my socks.
And I couldn't be more satisfied.
Because yesterday, while working on a project for Rebuilding Together, my Tribe helped turn a family in need's backyard from this..... (decades of accumulated junk, weeds, overgrown garden)
To this..... (uncluttered patio, planters with flowers and herbs, mulched garden area, trimmed trees)
We also cleared and organized a garage that looked pretty much the same as the "before" backyard photo, and laid new linoleum in the hallway and kitchen. All things considered, a great way to spend a day.
I'm an Experimenter, Listener, Contemplative, Simplicity Buff, Traveler, Leader, Book Lover, Feminist, Follower of the Teachings of Jesus, and Fairly Decent Karaoke Singer.
I realized that most Haitians have never experienced escalators. 
The flight to Port au Prince was uneventful, but as I completed customs paperwork on the plane I caught a second glimpse of Haitian reality. Seeing that I had a pen and that I was writing on my customs documents, the two Haitians sitting next to me said something in Creole, smiled shyly, and passed me their passports and blank customs documents. 
