The past has been a mint
Of blood and sorrow.
That must not be
True of tomorrow.
~Langston Hughes: “History”
We awoke and packed our things for the journey back down the mountain fortress.
Needless to say, a memorable night, wrapped in workers’ blankets, still cold from the altitude and the silence.
The clouds burned off leaving long shadows.
At the base of the mountain there are the ruins of the palace.
Though certainly only a couple centuries old, they stand as some millennia-old Byzantine structures do: roofless and devoid of most evidence of grandeur beyond the imposing stance of each edifice.
I found it inspiring, actually, that young Haitians were on school trips and being taught about the ones who lived here: those who fought for their independence and inspired such structures to be built.
Even more inspiring, there were some here – like the girl seated on the right in the image above – who were actually here to sit amongst the ruins and simple read. It is as quiet a place as many can find in places such as this. The palace is mostly a safe zone from hawkers and buskers: you only have to go just outside the front gate to find them, however.
Of course, we had to make one more stop before heading back to Port-au-Prince.
Luckily, we ran into Bertrand who was visiting his brother (at who’s house we had stayed at the night before our Citadel stay).
There are few characters in any story who are as real as my friend Bertrand; though, before I had met him the first time, I thought descriptions of him were more big fish stories than anything.
Then I met him.
Men such as Bertrand cannot be contained by mere stories and quotes, however profound they may be. He is far larger than life.
And he calls me his “bad son” because I don’t come and visit enough.
A brief stop by a market in the mountain pass above Gonaives.
Likely the most aggressive market I’ve ever experienced. Our friend Cherlene took point in the transactions and all we had to do is show our empty pockets.
My travels feel brief. Intense flashes of life from city to city and country to country. Snips of newspaper articles and sound bytes, single-line descriptions below stand-alone images that represent entire hours (or perhaps even days) of my travels.
A hunter makes the kill and mounts the beast’s head on a wall for everyone to see the outcome of risking life and limb only for the thing to become a brief glance or a signpost on the way to the restroom: “Oh, it is the door over there beside the….”
I have a few images hanging on the walls of my apartment. Perhaps just a simple photo of a foggy mountain road in Darjeeling, India. Anyone could make that photo if they stood there, of course. But almost no-one realizes that it took almost four full days of traveling to stand at that point.
Or perhaps a photo like this?
How much of life did it take to stand in the vestry of a 150 year old church in the jungles of northern Haiti? Can a number really be put on that?
How about a dollar value?
So… glance by my photographs, friend, but realize that you are not only seeing into the lives of people that I show you… you are seeing mine as well.
Stay tuned…
-Noah D.
