I started writing my ‘we’re safe in Haiti, talk to you later’ blog about hour 14 on our bus trip from San Juan, D.R. to Port-au-Prince. It had a little of this…a little of that. What it’s like to cross the Haitian border in a sea of white skin…the chaos of haggling with locals at the border to exchange currency as our bus is literally leaving us behind. The real fun started once we had been awake for almost 24 hours, 20 of them spent on a bus. Come take this trip with me, it’s exciting.
Team Reckless is in route to the orphanage where we will be serving until the end of August. We are an hour outside of Port-au-Prince climbing toward a town called Fedja, far up the side of a mountain. Winding our way through a village with hair pin turns and snake-like paths it is dark. Our minds, bodies are not so with it after this travel day, but are very much looking forward to laying down anywhere to get some sleep. From the vantage point I have the turn our driver, Bodeler, is contemplating attempting in a full-size school bus looks like it was going to need some prayer. A humorous after thought now.
He goes for it and the makeshift frying shack I was staring at right outside of my window collapses as our bus pummels through it with a crashing screech I will not forget. Sparks and flames shoot along the side of the bus, a window behind mine. The cliché of an eerie silence post-catalyst, pre-realization occurs. Then come the screaming wails in Creole. Catastrophe. Boedler, Markes our contact, and his friend run off the bus. The six white people opt to stay put in the dark amongst the wails and pray. Hard.
Elapse a good five minutes of us being quite confused and praying that no one is seriously hurt or worse, and asking God to immediately grant Markes protection and wisdom for how to handle the situation. More time goes by. We have been left by the only three people we sort of know in Haiti so they could resolve the awesome conflict that we are beginning to figure out has met us. Enter: angry, Haitian mob.
The shouting is only growing louder and faster. We are praying. PRAY-ING. Crying out to God for safety and protection because He is truly the only option we have for help. All we know is that we are an hour somewhere outside of Port-au-Prince in a village on the side of some mountain, and we need God to show up.
The mob is around the bus. We see scuffles, arms being pulled back, a punch thrown. People getting dragged. We just met our contact an hour ago, in the dark, and all of this continues to happen in the dark – we have no idea where he or the only other Haitians we ‘know’ are. We are scared for them. This has been going on for a good twenty minutes. Then the fists begin to hit the windows of the bus. Rattling as the front door is being violently jerked, clearly outraged bursts of Creole are penetrating our pleas to God that his guardian angels do not leave this bus.
Bludgeoned?! Really? I had considered stabbed, but wasn’t really banking on a bludgeoning welcome to this country. The six of us are all probably pondering thoughts like these while still screaming out prayers of protection and deliverance to our Savior. Then it sets in that our guardian angel has appeared. His name is Malek. He is Markes’ friend who happened to be along for the ride to pick us up from Port-au-Prince. He remains on the bus momentarily, metal pipe in hand, making it clear to the mob outside that they do not want to enter the bus. He jumps off the bus and into the crowd with his weapon.
