As I arrive to Haiti, it finds its lodging in my heart. The soul of the country charms me like an exotic belle with her pulsating rhythms of higglers' chatter, the blaring colours of the tap taps and the remnants of mourning buildings silently wailing their dirges.
Upon being whisked away from the airport, I encounter the reality of Haiti. A sea of faces etched with hope greet us. We are foreigners. We have something to give. They have needs. The homeless-looking guy, the madame selling bun-less hot dogs with ketchup and the brassière-less granny toting a bucket of charcoal all become personified reminders to me of this.
On the way to our 'compound', I feel privileged and it does not make me feel good.
1. I am a foreigner, my mode of transport is different from theirs. We zoom past overcrowded buses and I can't help but feel conscious of my empty seats beside me and well fastened burglar proofing. We are some big shots; thought the mind of that dread-locked guy pinched together with his compères like mackerel in a can.
2. My outfit was sort of well put together. I was contrasted with clothing ensembles of varying mismatches commonly held together by the dingy, daily dust.
Lastly, for the first time in my life, my wearing of locs disallowed me from publicly ministering to others. I was told from the higher ups that conservative, Christian Haitians would confuse my hairstyle with Rastafarians who seemingly had a bad rep on these shores. I humbly retreated in the background- shocked, disappointed and speechless.
However, the new creation that had been born from the last 9 months of my internship rejected the rejection I felt. Christ deserved to be glorified whether from centre stage or even backstage.
B
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