M ap kouri

I step outside and the air is cool. It hasn’t been this cool out in weeks. The early afternoon rain and the low hanging clouds it left behind must be the cause of the weather change. My other exercise plan didn’t work out today so I decide to take advantage of the cool weather and go for a run. I put on my shoes, grab my phone and keys. I greet our guard as I walk out the gate and onto the busy street. It is noisy today; Saturdays are always busy. I pass the machanns selling produce from baskets on the street. They give me the same strange look I always get when I walk down the street in my running shorts. Shorts aren’t 100% acceptable in the culture here, but it’s much too hot to run in anything else. I make it to the end of the busy street and turn into the alley where the taptaps, old trucks painted and converted into taxis, park and wait for patrons. The alley is quieter. There aren’t many taptaps lined up along the road so I am able to begin my run sooner. I start my timer and begin. The first few steps and the last few steps of any run are the best. I start out slow on this bumpy road. The seasonal rains have washed away the looser dirt on the road so all that remains are large rocks and even larger gulleys and potholes. I continue on my route, my legs grateful as the road smooths and I am able to lengthen my strides. I turn onto another road, my feet automatically know where to take me, they are used to the path. I smell chicken being grilled and hear the sounds of dominos being slapped onto a table. I don’t see many of the people around me, my eyes are focused down trying to avoid the holes and cracks that want to turn my ankles in unpleasant ways.

After a few minutes I turn onto the road on which I will spend most of my time and am greeted with a wonderful gift...silence. Only a few people are walking along this road. I do not bring my iPod when I run. It isn’t smart to run on any street with headphones, but a street in a third world country where you already stick out and are known for having money just because of your skin color makes it an even worse choice. The only noise to entertain me are the thoughts in my head and the rhythmic beat of my shoes on the road. My thoughts are different with each run, but the sound of my shoes is always the same. The soft, muted crunch as I run along in the softer gravel changes to a heavier slap as the road becomes more packed and littered with large, smooth rocks. The beat is the same. It is hard to describe the thrill of a run to someone with words, it must be experienced. That ethereal feeling of the muscles and joints in your lower half working in perfect harmony with the internal systems in your upper half. The sensation of feeling your body working in total sync with the road and nature around you cannot be described, only felt. I enter this feeling along this road. I am transported. I am no longer in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. I am no longer running in a country with a sordid past and a painful present, a country wounded by corrupted leaders and still bleeding from the worst natural disaster in the western hemisphere. No, now I am running along a smooth sidewalk that borders a lake in the pre-dawn light of a Saturday morning. 

A motorcycle honks his horn behind me and awakens me from my daydream and I am instantly reminded of where I am. I turn onto another road. I continue to dodge rocks and end up in a puddle. I try to convince myself that there is only muddy water on my leg with no bodily fluids in it, but one smell and I know I am wrong. I’m getting close to where I will need to turn around and head home. When I run with a friend of mine, we often explore, but on my own I try to stay within the confines of the areas I know. I reach the end of my familiar fence and rest for a second. A little girl around eight years old yells to me from across the street. She asks me if I am “doing sport”. I reply that I am, and that I am tired. She tells me to rest. My return route will take me uphill for most of the way, so I take her advice. I catch my breath, tell her goodbye, and am on my way again. The road is busier now. I breathe in exhaust as a large truck carrying bags and bags of produce drives by, leaving a thick cloud of black smoke in his wake. The smoke from the truck mixes with the dust he kicks up on the road and makes its way down into my lungs. I wonder if I am making myself healthier by running if this is what I am breathing in. 

My thoughts turn to Haiti. When I run I often wonder what people think when I am running. What do they think I am doing in this country? Am I welcome here? Do they find it interesting or offensive that I run around their streets? While some people are concerned about having enough food for their family to eat, I am running. While some are worried about sleeping under a tarp that is beaten by rain and wind each night, I am running. While some are worried about this or that illness that a trip to a Target pharmacy and $12 would cure, I am running. I wonder if it is wrong to run here; if doing this somehow alienates me even more than my skin color and American passport already do. But still, I run. 

As these thoughts rotate through my mind I run past a group of teenage boys. One of the boys breaks off from the pack and runs alongside me, matching my pace in his blue jeans and broken sandals. I ask him if he “has strength.” He replies that he does and I quicken my pace. He matches my pace with ease, so I go a bit faster. We continue in this way until we are both too winded to continue. He asks me where I am running and I respond toupatou, “everywhere.” He laughs; either at my adoption of the Haitian evasiveness in answering questions or at the idea of me running everywhere (or maybe at my unskilled Creole). He says he must go back to his friends. Goodbye. See you. I slow my pace back to what it was before the little race. Instances like this happen each time I run; sometimes it’s a teenage boy, sometimes a little girl, once it was an old man with very few teeth. Each one joins me for a stride or two, laughs, and waves at me as I go along. These instances remind me of why I love it here. 

I come up on the steepest hill in the neighborhood. I muster up my strength after my little race. I get about halfway up and begin to struggle. A couple of old men along the side of the road shout encouragement to me. M ap kenbe. “I’m holding on.” They laugh, surprised I know how to respond. Sometimes I get negative reactions when I run. Usually I am met with confused glances. But many people, a surprising amount, are entertained. They shout encouragement, they smile, the greet me with warmth and welcoming. Often times I will give a breathless bonswa “good afternoon” and receive in return my favorite Creole word, a term of endearment meaning “dear.” Bonswa cherie. These moments keep me running. It may be different from what people are used to, and I pray that it is not offensive. Running is a gift; it moves my soul and allows me to see this country from a different perspective. 

I make it to the top of the hill and am getting closer to home. The afternoon rain clouds are coming down the mountain and getting closer. People begin walking a little faster as a few drops fall down. I welcome the rain; it cools the air and settles the dust, but Haitians don’t like the rain. The machanns begin packing up their stands, ready to leave in case the rain gets heavier. My feet are keeping up their rhythm as they hit the dust, but my body is beginning to feel the miles I’ve put it through. I’ve lost a lot of endurance over the past year. I remember that at this time last year I was able to put down a 10-12 mile run without thinking. That is just one of many areas of life that have changed this past year. 

I turn onto the taptap alley and get closer to the busy street. I slow to a walk and stop the timer on my watch; 5 miles used to not hurt this much or take this long, but even a painful run is a gift. I begin walking up the street to my gate. The ladies ask me if I am “doing sport” and if I want to buy any number of fruits and vegetables they have for sale. I tell them I don’t have money with me but I will come back later. Eating organic is easy here. 

I make it to my gate and rap on it, alerting our guard. A woman walks by holding two chickens upside down by the feet. I follow her with my eyes as she walks past a lady selling mangoes out of the back of her truck. As I wait I look all around the street; a man is peeing in a corner. A big brother is carefully guiding his little sister across the street, holding her hand and protecting her from traffic. The noise from the cars mixes with the passionate conversations happening around; a sound-track to life here in Haiti. The gate opens and I take one last quick glance, drinking in the sights, sounds, and even smells that have become so familiar to my life here. A life I’m still trying to figure out. A life I am loving more and more each day.