The Terrible Mountain...

Monday, October 26th, 2009 9:00p.m.

It was 4a.m. when I opened my eyes to inky blackness and heard the hushed voices of Mdme. Kiki and Crash. Time to get up. I stepped outside and looked up at the sky. It was like walking into another world. Orion and the Pleiades were clearly visible, billions of other sparkling lights dotted across the firmament, and three falling stars shot across my view in the few moments I stood there in awe, unable to take my eyes away from the sight. All too soon the truck was packed up and we headed out to begin our adventure.

We turned off of the highway onto a wide, newly-graveled mountain road, surprisingly, and followed this until we reached a marketplace just beginning to fill up with people. It was still barely 7a.m. Here we left the truck and followed the men who had greeted us and taken our bags…followed them past the market to where they had five mules laden with baskets and saddles, waiting for us. Yes, we were to continue our journey on mules. I was not particularly thrilled with this idea, but apparently Haitians think it is both easier and more fun to ride rather than walk, and that they were doing us a favor by providing such transportation, so mount the beasts we did, and began our expedition into the mountains. Only Mark and Pastor Julmis (this was his church) had been here before, so even Dee and Wilckly were greenhorns on this trail. At first the path was smooth and fairly level, but before long we were traversing over large rocks, around sharp corners, through knee-deep mud and narrow passages, and down extremely steep hills. Besides trying to stay on my animal, keeping my legs from being crushed by trees or other passing donkeys on their way to the market, and taking in all of the gorgeous scenery, I was also doing my best to take pictures of the rest of the team – while riding on the mule. And I didn’t do too badly, if I may say so myself.

At one point we got caught in the middle of a huge traffic jam. Everyone was shouting and arguing, there was pushing and pulling, crushing of the legs, and all the Haitians on their way to the market were telling the men who were leading us that they were crazy for bringing blans up the mountain…until they heard that we were going to the church. Then they said “Oh, good…they need to preach the gospel.” We finally got through, only to soon reach a swiftly flowing river, which we crossed, while on the mules. I truly felt like I was in a book, or a movie, as though this adventure was too bizarre to be real. After two hours of jolting and jostling atop the mules, we were able to dismount, clean up a bit, sit on chairs, and eat something before the last leg of our journey. That “leg” turned out to be another two hours…little did we know that when the Haitians say “almost there”, what they really mean is that we are just closer to the destination than we were when we first started. It could be anywhere from one to three more hours until we arrive.

After ascending nearly vertical inclines and following winding mountain paths, we finally reached the church, where a group of silently staring people waited to greet us. We would later learn that these people had given up a day at the market – their livelihood – to be there to welcome us. They kept saying that they were so honored that we had come, and they brought us handmade chairs to rest on, fresh grapefruit juice to drink, and allowed us to take countless photos and video of them. The children, so shy at first, eventually came to us and let a few of us hold them and speak with them. We watched as they clung to their mamas, who smiled and laughed and played with them – something quite unusual for mothers here to do. When they had a mini church service, such singing and dancing and true excitement occurred as I have not ever seen here before. These mountain people really know how to celebrate. They even had a time of prayer: the pastor rang a little bell, and everyone immediately knelt to the ground and began praying, out loud. The sound sent a chill up my spine and brought tears to my eyes.

I was reluctant to leave when the time came, and not just because I did not want to get back up on that mule. We were hugged and kissed by all the ladies, hands were shaken, and everyone said farewell as they escorted us part-way down their mountain, which we had discovered was named “The Terrible Mountain.” Yes, really. We had climbed The Terrible Mountain. The trip down was faster at first; I had opted for mache-ing (walking) for the first half of the return journey, and so had a few of the others, which our bones and muscles greatly appreciated later on. Darkness was swiftly coming on, and clouds had begun to gather, so our leaders were hurrying the mules as much as the beasts would hurry, but it wasn’t enough. Soon the sky let loose and we were walking in a downpour, slipping and sliding on muddy ground that was growing less and less visible as the night came on. It was completely dark by the time we reached the truck and unpacked, completely exhausted, soaking wet, and muddy. The rain let up long enough for us to get down the mountain and back to the highway, then the torrents and wind returned, even stronger this time. The raindrops felt like little knives pelting our skin, and the wind was icy cold. The storm was so bad that Wilckly could barely see the road, and had to drive very slowly for a while, but we finally arrived back at the beach, I got a hot bath, thanks to Crash, and then dropped into bed, my eyes closing before my head even hit the pillow.

Our adventure was over, but the memories of it – both in my mind and in my bones – would remain for quite some time.