A group of pastors from Missouri who had never traveled to Haiti asked if I would be their guide. They were interested in a water project I had been spearheading. According to the World Health Organization, 3.4 million people die every year due to water-borne illnesses — contaminated water the number one killer. So when the pastors asked if I would help, I couldn't say yes quick enough.
Eight Missourians, two Haitian friends, and I arrived in Arcahaie before noon. The local church affiliate arranged our lodging. For the next five days, our Hilton was a small two-room building surrounded by a concrete block wall with chunks of broken glass cemented into its top. ADT Haiti.
After taking a tour of the property, the chief pastor pulled me aside.
Since that was about all there was to see, my answer was pretty obvious. But before I spoke, I went through the whole scenario in my head. He is asking because there are ten men and me — again, obvious. He thinks I wouldn't be comfortable sharing a room with men, a place used only for sleeping since the heat keeps you outside until you're ready to call it a night. So I would say, "It's OK. I'll sleep outside." He would say, "No, if anyone should sleep inside, it should be you." I would reply, "I'm happy to share a room." And all would be well.
This was when my head scenario took a sharp left turn.
As the men were picking out their beds, I was working on mine. I looked at the truck. I could sleep in the back, but what if it rained? I could sleep in the cab, but the heat would be unbearable. Then I saw this interesting apparatus — to call it a table would be generous. A piece of plywood held up by two Haitian-style sawhorses. We had an air mattress that would fit underneath, on the hard, rocky ground.
My room at the Ritz.
That night, as the sun descended to its own plywood cover in the sky, the eleven of us sat on homemade wooden chairs. Mostly it was the Missourians' stories. Bull-running in Spain. Shark diving in South Africa. Biking across the Sahara. I wasn't really paying attention. My mind was on my own inevitable vacation destination.
It was him again. The one who would be king.
Love is patient and kind and whatever.
By the time I was done showering, everyone was either dreaming or snoring or both. I ducked under the plywood onto the previously inflated air mattress and laid down. And then did what I did many times that night and the nights to follow. I prayed.
"Lord, please don't let anything with or without legs crawl on or anywhere near me."
By the end of hour one, my air mattress became an airless mattress, and I could feel every stone and stick underneath. Hour four was quiet. I drifted off. Then came hour five. Voodoo drums. Not exactly the calming roll of ocean waves — but the rhythmic percussion was surprisingly relaxing.
Just as I dozed off to the pa rum pum pum pum, I heard the most gut-wrenching sound I had never heard before but knew exactly what it was. A dog was crying. Not a yelp or whimper. A loud, long lament. An unearthly wail that made my heart sob. I wept quietly, prayerfully. Lord, please help that dog.
Deliverance came with the dawn.
Sometime between the drums ending and the sun peaking, my floating slumber came to an abrupt end when I felt something on my leg. Sleeping on my back — the best way if you have to get up quickly to run — I was afraid to open my eyes. What if it's a snake? A tarantula? I dug down deep, found the last speck of courage hiding behind my spleen, and partially opened my right eye. I thought if I only opened one, whatever I saw would be half as scary.
Beady red eyes stared back at me. Sharp talons gripped my thigh.
I opened both eyes wide.
The terrifying beast — the one that got my heart pulsing 1,200 beats per minute, raised my blood pressure well over stroke level, expanded my pupils to the size of vinyl records, and had water raining out of every pore causing a small flood on my deflated mattress — was a chicken.
A dang chicken. On my leg.
Two nights later, it happened again. Squinting one eye, gradually bending my neck, imagining the worst, knowing I couldn't be that lucky twice — and there it was again. The chicken.
When dinner was served that night, I was comforted knowing there wouldn't be a three-peat. Sorry, old friend.
After a day installing water filters in one-room shacks where families of four rested their heads at night, my private room with plywood covering a deflated mattress seemed like the Taj Mahal. I had nothing to complain about.