Coming back to Haiti is always interesting. At least for me, some transformation happens, involuntary and largely unnoticed by myself until lately. Doesn’t matter what you’re dealing with back in the States or what internal struggle you have raging in your heart and/or mind; Haiti trumps all that. She demands your full attention the moment you deplane and are enveloped in an atmosphere of swelteringly hot air and loud, unreasonably cheerful music. I can crawl onto a plane in Nashville or New Orleans, heart (figuratively) bleeding out, and by the time I walk through immigration and out into the parking lot’s blinding light, the wounded animal is largely replaced by a swaggering, Creole-mangling director. Or as our plumber cutely puts it: directress. You’ll hear more about Boss Ernst in a minute.

As the big flatbed truck loaded with hundreds of 98-lb sacks of cement waits, I walk over to verify the number of sacks delivered (“control”) as they are unloaded behind our storage house. Four Haitian men talking rapidly and loudly carry the sacks one by one on their heads as the Haitian on the back of the truck carefully lowers each sack to the crown of a waiting head. They stumble and stare when they realize I’m there to count. I hear fast phrases peppered with “blan” (white) and finally say to them, “mwen compren ou.” I understand you. As the novelty of a pretty woman in a long yellow skirt wears off, they fall into a steady rhythm of playful insults to each other and the slide-drop of unloading the cement bags.