It Takes A Village

I thought I was stuck for good, that the Galloper had enjoyed its last ride into the sunset. Certainly its destiny was to be a curb-display for the rest of its rusting years as passerby's stripped it of anything valuable and left it to rot on the corner.

Last night, I took the Galloper for a ride to the guesthouse. Silvy and Jerome had gotten news that FINALLY, after almost 4 months, Kristanor's visa had been approved. All the paperwork was done. They were free, free to go home whenever they wanted. Kristanor was theirs officially, legally theirs and given wings to fly. And tonight they were celebrating.

Patrick was fighting a little GI bug, and needed to give a raincheck on celebrations, so it was I and the Galloper who trotted off in the night. We bounced and jostled over the deeply rutted rocky roads through the neighborhood. Driving at night always carries with it its own unique challenges as pedestrians seem to melt into the night, and road hazards blur in the darkness.

But the Galloper has proven itself to be as durable as the Energizer Bunny. In the last month the muffler has fallen off, a headlight has popped from its socket and crashed against the side leaving nothing but a dangling bulb in the socket, and the entire inside of the driver's side door came off leaving nothing but the window-roller-upper box dangling from wires. But the Galloper keeps galloping.

And then with a giant CLUNK, and a drastic change in the horizon, the Galloper came lurching to a halt in the darkness of night, next to a corner I was slowly turning.

Picture a manhole without a manhole cover. But bigger. Picture a pot hole without a floor, an opening in the street to the underground below. Then picture one of the Galloper's tires dangling in such a whole, the frame of the car resting on the street boarding the vast abyss.

I had hit the ultimate of road-hazards on the Port-au-Prince streets.... a sewer hole. These holes are 2-3 feet in width and length, and aren't covered by a protective curb or grate. They lie like boobie traps long the sides of the streets waiting for a wrong turn, a glance in the wrong direction at precisely the right time. And I drove the Galloper RIGHT INTO one of these openings in the earth.

There is no backing out of the hole. As I got out to survey the damage, my mind raced. How was I going to tell Patrick? How was I going to get home? Do I just LEAVE the car here and hoof it back? What were my options?

A man met me on the curb, his eyes wide, but not as horrified as mine. I imagine this happens from time to time, especially with blans at the wheel. "We'll need a lot of people" he said to me matter of factly. And almost as if he had pulled out a bullhorn or whispered his telepathic thoughts to everyone on the bustling street, the people came. As a crowd was forming around the Galloper, the man instructed me to get behind the wheel and throw the car into reverse.

With the massive collective strength of a dozen men, the Galloper was gently lifted out of the whole and allowed to back up onto the solid pavement without as much as a squealing tire.

And my moment of panic was absolved. Thanks gushed out like a geyser. The community of men seemed embarrassed, smiled, thinking nothing of it (pa gen pwoblem), and continued about their business on the street. Silly white girl.

And thus was my quintessential Haitian moment. Just when you think you are done in, that you will gallop no further, the community surrounds you, lifts you up out of the whole, and sends you on your way with a wave and a smile.