Transitory musings

City is back to "normal" today - but we still aren't allowed back to clinic until tomorrow. The prime minister was voted out on Saturday and the president has instituted some short term price controls on rice. (I'm still not quite sure I understand the balance of power in countries with both a prime minister and a president...). People are saying that this might work "for now"and then add a "but." The overriding sentiment seems to be that things could start up again at any time....but that life must go forward.

Am stealing a neighbors wireless signal in order to post this posting that in the boredom of recent days, I had a chance to finish. It's a little long but it has been really boring around here! Hope to be back on regular email soon.

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Things have definitely felt a little strange coming back to Haiti this time. I’ve been back for almost two weeks but due to the protests and the clinic leadership wanting to be very cautious with foreigners, have only spent half a day at work (and even then none of my team was there). We haven’t had any internet at home since before I left Haiti in late February. My neighbor forgot to tell us where he put our shared car key before he and his girlfriend left a week ago for a month in Japan. So we’ve had no way to come and go independently. But even with all that, I’d say the different tone to my return started when I boarded a plane in NYC bound directly for Haiti rather than transiting through Miami (or Fort Lauderdale) like I have always done before.

Over the last six months – between flight connections and extended layovers - I’ve spent more time in South Florida than almost any other place in the world except Port-au-Prince, New York or Chicago. I’ve never been much of a Florida fan – lovely beaches and long time Floridian uncle and cousins aside – it’s as flat and uninteresting as my home state of Illinois but stirs no feelings of being home.

That said, I’ve gotten to know the MIA (Miami) and to a lesser extent FLL (Fort Lauderdale) airports better than most. I’ve even developed a little routine when coming back to the US via MIA – 1) change SIM cards in my cell phone while the plane taxis, 2) walk directly to the far right line in American Airlines’ immigration area (it always moves faster because people can’t see that it splits and feeds into multiple stations), 3) scrounge together enough US change to buy a café con leche at one of the cash-only Cuban snack bars (being as ready I can be to explain in Spanish that I want to use my reusable mug for the sake of the environment therefore it really defeats the purpose if they prepare it in a disposable cup and then pour it in), and then, 4) settle into one of the not-so-comfy chairs outside terminal C security to call a friend or two or just watch the passers-by while waiting for my connecting flight.

Despite the dated-to-the-point-of-tacky-while-being-endlessly-under-renovation setting of the American Airlines ticketing area, the people watching at MIA is some of the best in the world. As a global gateway to Latin America and the Caribbean, I’d definitely say that it has surpassed my hometown airport in Chicago in the cosmopolitan clientele rankings. You see attractive 30-something Latin American women with the requisite long flat-ironed hair, surgically-perfected noses and breasts, and manicured fingers / pedicured toes more often than not on the arm of a slightly shorter (due to the 3-inch + heels on her) investment banker-looking type guy wearing a pastel colored Lacoste polo shirt under navy sports jacket with boat shoes (think younger, sexier, tanner Mr and Mrs Howell from Gilligans Island). There are European backpackers who can easily be distinguished from their North American counterparts by their cooler footwear and smaller more streamlined backpacks (due partly to the absence of a dangling American-made nalgene bottle hooked to a non-load bearing carabineer) - not to mention their fluency in multiple languages. If you come through on a Friday you see all sorts of musicians carrying drum sets and guitar cases as they cross international boundaries for weekend gigs in NYC, Miami or the capitol city in their country of origin. Styles within this musical subset range from Mexican mariachi group members in matching silky embroidered jackets to Caribbean jazz musicians with polished shoes and heavy gold jewelry to Spanish-language rockers whose black t-shirt over skinny black jeans ensembles would blend into most European café and arts scenes. The more recent immigrant families are distinguishable by the large group of aunties, uncles and cousins gathered around the security line entrance to send off the next familial ambassador dressed in their Sunday morning or if young, Friday night best. Then, there are the dark-haired, dark-eyed airport staff – roles very often delineated as Spanish speakers taking tickets or managing crowd flow and Kreyol speakers pushing overflowing luggage carts or sweeping waiting area floors.

The boarding/unloading area for a Port-au-Prince flight is usually one of the easier places in the airport to pick out. Arriving flights are the most obvious – most people are deplaning with a bright yellow case filled with five bottles of high quality Barbancourt rum. (The sight of which will make you instant friends with Haitian-American airport staff). When they see I have come from Haiti, the US customs and immigration staff usually begin to grumble about how much they dislike processing these flights. It think it’s due to the frustration created by the language barrier between Spanish/English speaking agents and the relatively small percentage of Kreyol-only speaking passengers – many of whom are traveling for the first time ever and are understandably confused by the US immigration bureaucracy.

It’s also possible to pick out the Haiti flights from the outbound side. Start by snaking through the MIA airport to find the most inconvenient, out of the way gates. (Can’t remember which letter they are but they are located right next to a mirrored snack bar serving Cuban sandwiches). Check to see if it is filled mostly with people of African descent looking like they have been stuck waiting for hours (which they likely have because the American Airlines always seems to assign the equipment with mechanical failures to the Port-au-Prince route). Another big hint is the clusters of teen and/or middle-aged white folks in matching t-shirts who prior to boarding the plane for their week-long missionary exploit, regroup into a prayer circle at the request of an overly confident-looking Midwestern guy wearing cargo pants and a baseball hat. (Note: While I have never experienced this matching t-shirt based travel personally, I am sure the missionary label is the one most likely applied to me by other people watchers at the boarding gate. I am usually outfitted in not quite cool enough jeans or a knee length skirt and Birkenstocks or (in winter) too-white tennis shoes and balancing my overloaded roll-on luggage, bursting daypack, i-pod, and zip-loc baggie filled with home-prepared trail-mix - which when taken together don’t exactly scream Brazilian super model, United Nations section chief, or even, Euro-cool backpacker).

From time to time (probably more likely than not) my stereotyping falls way short – but that is half the harmless fun. On my last trip out of Port-au-Prince, there was an attractive, tall, lean, mid 30-something year old Caucasian bald guy standing in front of me in the security line. He was wearing a nicely fitted tan army-style jacket, dark jeans, trendy casual shoes and carried a messenger-style yet professional-looking bag with a non-American brand name. While most of the white guys with shaved bald heads coming in and out of Haiti are UN solidiers or Blackwater-style private security, this guy didn’t have the characteristic bulky arms, swagger, or dark glasses that tend to characterize those folks. I immediately pinned him for a Quebecois journalist/media type or a representative of one of the more edgy European relief agencies (e.g. Medicins sans Frontieres). As he put his bags on the belt, I caught a glimpse of the business card he used as a luggage tag - and it turns out he worked for a faith-based group out of Kansas City, Missouri. He was quite possibly a fellow Bible-belt Midwesterner. Who would have guessed? Next time I find such a person I’ll confirm his identify by starting a conversation with my fail-proof identify the Midwesterner question - At any point in your childhood did you consume a “salad” that included fruit flavored gelatin as a primary ingredient?