My First Three Weeks as a Blan

Haiti looks so perfect through a square Instagram frame. I’ve found you’re guaranteed at least 25 ‘Likes’ within an hour of posting any well-doctored snapshot of impoverished children or ‘developing’ landscapes.

Certainly this isn’t my draw to Haiti, but I know there are at least a few romanticized motives behind my recent relocation. Since arriving to Port-au-Prince on July 1st, with plans to live in Haiti for the next year, making the country kay mwen now goes beyond a sepia-stained image on my iPhone. I’m now having to embrace my new position as a blan — the Haitian title for foreigners.

After completing my undergraduate studies in International Affairs, I (along with my lovely wife) decided to relocate with minimal plans, make Haiti home, and pursue career interests in social entrepreneurship and economic development. While this path is by no means inherently better than coming to Haiti on a short-term contract with a large aid organization, as many expats do, it’s certainly had its advantages.

Learning the ropes of daily life in Haiti is comparable to a ride on an infamous tap-tap – typically a brightly decorated vehicle with its truck bed packed full of upwards of 12 travelers. They traverse the entire country with seemingly no official schedule or rhythm, most trips within the capital costing 5 to 15 Haitian gourdes (less than $0.35).

‘Trapped’ is the best way to describe my initial feelings after spending the first night in the country getting virtually no sleep (no electricity meant no fan in our bedroom, which had to have been 90 degrees). You want so badly to navigate your own course, to freely come and go from your car-less host’s simple home whenever you want. Then it hits you. You realize you can’t communicate (I’m learning Kreyòl, and my French is elementary at best), you don’t know your way around, it’s a million degrees, and all your dreams of saving Haiti dissipate. Once I step aboard the tap-tap, the best I can do is hope I’m heading in the right direction. I’m at the mercy of the chofè­, the man behind the wheel, and I’m just a passenger.

Probably no one moves to Haiti without a sense of adventure. Though being in such an uncertain and ever-changing world for a year still seems daunting, the everyday thrill never disappoints — weaving in and out of chaotic traffic, constantly paranoid about colliding with a moto or breaking a CV axel on a pothole that’s more like a chasm in the dirt road. Life in Haiti has me somewhere between safety and folly. But, ‘Se Ayiti,’ and I am content with submitting to local norms as often as possible.

This is my idea of adventure — not being limited to the bubble of the back seat of an SUV with the doors locked and an A/C unit drowning out the citywide symphony of street-vendors, makeshift boom boxes, and dissident car horns (though sometimes that sounds quite nice).

Amongst all the newness, I’ve found my efforts to find a sense of normalcy are most effective when I simply trust others. A control freak by nature, it isn’t easy for me to take a back seat (literally) and be completely reliant on everyone else. I’ve found it invaluable, however, to give up my self-assuring, at times subtly ethnocentric, mentality and remember that something like 2.5 million people live here day-in and day-out. Returning to my proverbial tap-tap ride, there’s a peace of mind that comes with knowing these drivers are not teenage thrill seekers with a new license, they are Haitian professionals. My fellow passengers are more than happy to attempt to explain to me where my stop is, how much it costs, and how to negotiate a deal for my next moto ride. There’s no room for carelessness, but living in fear only cripples my ability to be authentically me.

Nearly three weeks into my stay here, each day is exponentially more fulfilling than the one before. I’m getting my footing -- understanding the helpfully simple constructs of Kreyòl grammar, memorizing taxi routes, and feeling more at home. I’m hoping to understand Haiti from the ground up, as I am striving to see a bit more clearly through the inevitably distorted lens of a blan like me.

One day soon I’ll be able to respond in Kreyòl when I walk by a huddle of moto drivers, who jokingly spout off about my above-the-knee shorts or partially visible tattoos, and prove that I don’t take myself too seriously either. For now I will remain a learner, knowing that life here will find a steady pace in time.

Updated with definition of blan.