Wood of the Low: out of the dust.

You never really know what to expect when you pull that creaky gate open.  As I drove through and jumped out to lock it behind me at five am Sunday, I wondered if this was really a good idea.  

I mean, if going to town to buy bananas is an adventure, should I be driving south into the deep heart of Haiti, having no idea what to expect, with people I've never met, with a cell phone and bottle of water and a very vague plan?

Maybe not.  But ever since Vilmer told me that I had family living at the top of a mountain in the middle of a dessert in Bois d’Homme Bas, Wood of the Low Humanity, I’ve wanted to meet them.  

And sometimes, meeting people where they are means heading out in the dark.

So I did.

Matt has since deemed it “Mother Theresa Day”, and Vilmer’s calling it “Our Great Adventure”.  The people of Bois d’Homme Bas called it a miracle, that an American woman from far far away would come through so much just to meet them.

But me?  I don’t know what to call it yet.  I hardly even know how to process it.  And as you know, that’s when I blog!

Almost as soon as I arrived out front of Vilmer’s church in town, I saw his car pull up.  I turned off my truck, assuming I’d jump in with him, but then he was opening my doors, kissed my cheek, hoisted in a few women, slammed the doors, jumped back in his car, and took off. 

So I guessed I was driving, too :) We all started to talk and I learned that one of the girls in the back was from Pignon, hitching a ride, and everyone else were women in the church’s Dorcas group—a group of women over a certain age who are dedicated to serving the poor, orphans, widows, imprisoned, etc. 

In Vilmer’s car were several man shadows, and I pulled out behind him, still wiping sleep from my eyes. 

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the Citadel

We drove.  And drove, and drove.  At first, the roads were decent.  I’d been as far as Milot, the area we took Gertha to the hospital when we almost lost her over a year ago.  Then Don-Don, which was neat to see, because four or five of our students are from there, and I’ve always wondered what it was like.  It’s beautiful.  Quiet.  On a river.

our home is the top magenta dot, and this map shows the "road" I followed to arrive in Bois d'Homme Bas, the bottom magenta dot

After Don-Don, St. Raphael, and the road turned into nothing more than piles of rocks-- jostling, dipping, jerking--for over an hour.  Finally, around 8:45, we pulled into the little community of Pignon, and stopped for the first time. 

Suddenly, there was Sarah, Vilmer’s wife, on the sidewalk, motioning us into a house, and there was sugary sweet coffee, bread, spicy peanut butter, and Sarah’s sister’s family.  Sarah had come a day earlier to visit, and now would be heading on with us.

A few moments later, we were back on the road, and just a few miles more, the road was finished.  Two men were standing at the end of the road, one of them Sarah’s uncle whom she hadn’t seen in over 10 years, and the other, Ernst, the pastor of Bois d’Homme Bois that had recruited Vilmer in the first place. 

No more road...but we weren’t there yet.  The terrain had been gradually getting less and less green, and suddenly, as we started picking our own paths over the mountain, we entered into the desert--driving across hot sand, past huge stretches of cacti, blowing dust everywhere, making it impossible at times to even see Vilmer’s car. 

The houses around us totally changed.  No more cement, tin, block.  All structures were made of planks of wood slated together, the same color as the dust.  Roofs were thatched in browned palm branches.  Many houses had a small lofted columbina-- storage depots for grains or corn hoisted up out of the dust and away from rats.

Even with the windows closed, the dust was already settling on the interior of the truck, making my teeth grimy and my hair stiffen.  After 45 minutes of "climbing", we parked on top of the mountain in the “shade” of two bare little twig trees.  

As soon as I opened the door, the heat and dust hit me in the face, and out of the dust, I heard bold singing ring out.  There was a dusty white tent against the dusty brown surroundings...everythig, the color of dead things, various shades of tan.

Here they finally were, in a place you'd never think you'd find a soul--on top of a mountain, in the middle of an island, right under the blazing sun in the dead of the dry desert--

the Low People.

tbc...