I am ridiculously forlorn and have been up since 4am hobbling about sorting out my stuff. The morning was horrible and whilst I didn’t want to ever leave this place or these people, I unintentionally withdrew myself from all communication, a trait I appear to have learned from my dad. Whenever he comes to visit, he hides in the bedroom till it is time to leave, then runs off. I know this feeling. I can’t bare it to end but can’t manage to say goodbye to all the children.
I manage what I can and say goodbye to the various teams setting off for their daily tasks. Justeland and Babby arrive and I hide upstairs with Jake as I know I will breakdown.
I ask Babby what size his feet are as I think he has the smallest out of the translators, so could put my trainers to good use. “8 or 7,” he says. Mine will be a bit tight as they are only a 6. He insists a 6 is fine also and immediately goes about trying to cram his feet into the shoes. He walks up and down as if to prove his point that they fit. I laugh and shake my head; oh well, as long as he is happy.
I deeply regret not throwing my arms around them and saying goodbye properly.
I had packed two large bin bags full of items I wasn’t taken home for the translators to share out and Chelsey was going to hand it out at the end of the day: clothes, toiletries, mattress, pump, medical bits and bobs, hats etc.
I hid upstairs with Jake whilst he packed (he wasn’t leaving until the afternoon) until I heard the car arriving for me.
I get in the car and really don’t want to leave. I am doing my hardest to keep it together. All the kids are at school and are staring at me wondering where I am going. I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. It wouldn’t have been fair to interrupt their classes and cause an emotional scene. They are shouting my name – I am in pieces. Romario and Robinson and all the ‘belle’, ‘tres jolie’ little girls that I am leaving behind.
“Bye, bye gorgeous,” Jake yells as he runs after the car.
I would give everything never to leave here. I am very envious that Georgia, although not in our group anymore, has decided to stay put.
Patrick from HAC (GVN’s partner organisation in Haiti) is taking me to the airport. On the way, he stops for petrol, “d’argent” he softly says.
“C’est combien?” I reply.
“$50.”
I look in my wallet and only have $40 left. “C’est tout,” that’s all I have. That seemed to suffice.
We get stuck in the usual road annoyance. The roads are always flooded badly (the roads were in a terrible state before the earthquake) after any rain. There is a huge traffic jam and we end up reversing in-between cars as Patrick knows an alternative route; at least I hope that is the plan.
Now we are travelling down an alley when he stops the car. At first, the alley is empty but very quickly it fills with about 30 people looking to see what is happening. The jinx has struck again, we have a flat tyre. That’s just about every time I have set foot in a mode of transport, we have experienced a malfunction.
Finally at the airport. Case, rucksack, crutches and rubbled street – oh the fun!
The airport staff are amazing and insist I have a wheelchair even though they can clearly see how stubborn I am and push me into it with no further argument. I beep every time I go through a metal detector; it must be the metal clip on my binding. The staff help to steady me while I am checked and laugh again at my ‘I can manage’ attitude.
Bob’s leaving words still make me well up every time I think of them…..
My rucksack gets checked quite thoroughly and I think my bags of new medication have shown up on the x-ray. It seems not. It’s my apple (that I forgot was in there) to tide me over whilst waiting in the airport. The need to be there 3 hours before flight time turns out not to be necessary and I plank myself down on the cold metal ‘airport’ chairs. The pungent smell of shit is unavoidable and I try to discreetly wipe some tiger balm on my nose to disguise it as best as possible. I am super tired, but restless, and I hobble upstairs for one final Prestige. Again, the staff are super sweet and ask about my injury. When they hear that it happened here in Haiti they are so apologetic and sincerely saddened. Like it’s their fault. “It’s not a problem,” I tell them, “these things happen.” I beam back to them hoping they can see my genuine love for this country and its people and I fight back tears every time I think about leaving.
It’s a funny little airport. A cute, young American boy asks people if he can borrow a pen and is turned away with shaking heads.
“Do you need a pen?” I ask.
“Yes please,” he nods rapidly, “I’ll bring it back.”
“No worries !” and he bounces off down the stairs.
Amazing Grace is played on the radio and I struggle to hold back the tears.
1 bar, 1 coffee joint and 1 dodgy looking fast food place sit umbrellad within this mini airport. I recollect us all singing ‘under Thuan’s Tarparella’ (to the tune of Rihanna obviously).
The radio now plays ‘we are the champions’ in French.
12.34 pm now and I will hobble back downstairs at 1pm. My phone is out of juice so I can’t warn Iain about my situation. I don’t want him to get a fright when he picks me up at the other end, but there’s not much I can do about it.
On the plane they give me a row to myself so that I can put my leg up. I am a complete wreck and can’t stop crying. A lovely couple from Conneticut come over to ask if I am ok and end up just hugging me to try and stop me crying. They too have been in Haiti, for a funeral, and are returning home. I am thankful for the comfort they give me, but still can’t stop crying.
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