RUNNING CIRCLES AROUND HAITIAN SALT FLATS

I expected dust to cloud my ankles as my green-strapped Chaco sandal hit the ground. But nothing moved. The dirt was harder than I had imagined.
Cemented in time.
​Stories in stone. 

Three little boys ran toward our vehicle, encircling us, jabbering in Creole. The only member of our ten-person team that spoke any semblance of French, long-forgotten words spilled off my lips. Three faces twisted up to meet ours then launched toward the ground - belly-aching over in an explosion of laughter. Their eyes sparkled brighter than the crystals of salt piled high in the dirt behind them. To my surprise, they grabbed my arm and yanked me across the arid landscape.

I considered a tree's roots pulling everything it needs from the ground it touched as I watched their six feet, bare and calloused, energized by the earth below them.

They led us away from the corrogated metal and cinder block buildings they called home, across an intrepid little bridge. Humble hands had nailed irregular bits of nature together. Powerful bodies crossed them daily.

A walk to the flats. A walk home. A walk to the flats.
A walk home. A walk to the flats.
​A walk home.

Suddenly the firmly-packed dirt turned electric white. I squinted on cue and glued a hand to my forehead. Admiring the craftsmanship of the handmade depressions, I imagined trying to jam a shovel into this rugged terrain under this beating sun. I looked further and found a single plastic lawn chair in the water. A woman. A bucket. A basket. The hot sun quickly evicted any liquid tenants. White sedimentary lines cracked across black bodies.

I was thirsty, and the heaps of salt policing the edges of each pit taunted me. I attempted a few questions in a hobbled-together blend of English, French, and Haitian Creole. She amused me with a response in her native tongue, in which I caught disconnected bits of her process.

​She knew I didn't fully understand.

I thanked her just the same.

My head swivled back to find my friends far ahead with a tall man who I hadn't noticed before. In the other direction, Tommy was frozen in position, capturing the boys crossing that bridge over and over, to their amusement. We hustled to catch up, then crawled to a stop after ducking under heavy foliage that welcomed us to the seaside mangroves. The thick muck jailing our feet was an opposing juxtaposition to the dry salt flats not fifty feet behind. As the man attempted to tell stories of trees that revived villages, three fishermen jumped and screamed and shouted and rocked the boat until we acknowledged their presence - or rather, they acknowledged ours - and we sent friendly waves across murky waters.

I felt another little hand slip into my fingers on my left side. Between the two, I was grounded and at peace in a foreign land. A balance scale at equilibrium, weighing both our differences and our similarities. Thankful for naive trust and irresponsible friendship. Humbled by the immediate assumption that I was safe to them
- and them to me.

"Est-ce que vous etes prêts?!" We all smiled coyly at each other out of the sides of our eyes before attempting the overzealous leap across a tributary. One, two, three sets of legs safely across. The fourth - attached to my right hand as it trailed behind me in mid-air - got one foot on the other side before sliding backward and splashing directly into the grey liquid below. This brought his friends a week's worth of joy. I reached out a hand. He refused. He climbed up on his own and held his arms in the air until we cheered for him.

We all give and take energies from this earth - whether shoeless in the dirt, or sneaker-clad in the streets.

The farther I venture, the more I'm reminded to occasionally stand with my bare feet on the ground, sending my energy back in.

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