It was 1984 when my husband of just over a year suggested Haiti as a vacation destination. He had an acquaintance who recently returned from the popular Club Med resort and suggested I bring T-shirts for the Haitians.
“They need clothing,” he informed me, “and they are grateful for anything you can give.”
I dragged my much too heavy suitcase outside.
“What’s in that thing, rocks?” my husband mused as he grabbed the big sky blue suitcase from my hand. “You’re not going to need much clothing here, it’s hot as hell.” I smiled to myself.
Once in Haiti, all along the road on the way to our resort I spied Haitians hauling children in makeshift carriers on their back, others bore colorful fruit in handmade baskets, while still others balanced massive sacks of what might have been flour or rice on their heads. Between the rows of tin shacks women were bent over in a single file washing clothes and pots in a stream. The smell of wood burning filled the air stinging my nostrils. It was their only fuel source for cooking.
We learned that Haiti is the poorest country in the western hemisphere and the third poorest in the world. The annual income of a typical Haitian was roughly a dollar a day. Those statistics hold true today, 30 years later.
The resort was a stark contrast against the extreme poverty seen during the ride over. Scattered about were three story bungalows that faced the beach. Pink roofs topped the bright buildings, each one a different color, as if a child opened a box of crayons across the welcoming blue sky.
The locals were allowed on the far end of the beach off the grounds of the resort. Every day they lined up hundreds of paintings facing the ocean, like soldiers guarding the coast. One morning, I grabbed my bag filled with items from my much too heavy suitcase. Taking out an array of new and gently used t-shirts I collected from family, friends and my own stash, a swarm of Haitians surrounded me. I started handing them out; one to a little boy who donned a tattered ripped red shirt as if a cat clawed at the front, another to a young man whose shirt too small for his frame showed his midriff and still another to an artist whose paint splatter made the shirt look like its own work of art.
Appreciative beyond words, the Haitians shook my hand, hugged me and flashed wonderful wide smiled grins. Deeply touched, the warmth and honesty from strangers was something I never experienced before. In return I was gifted with a painting from an artist named Michelet. In bright hot Caribbean colors, a familiar scene of women in their colorful garb tending their chores exemplified typical Haitian life. To this day the painting adorns my family room wall.
Another day I was approached by a no nonsense Haitian woman, grinning with a smile as beautiful as the perfect sunrise, she was holding the hand of a little girl. While most tourists turned away, I eagerly met the woman half way, excited to find out what she was selling. The girl struggled to hold a basket filled with soft cloth filled dolls. Brown fabric for the skin, the doll adorned a multi colored striped skirt and blouse and bejeweled dangling shell earrings. A matching turban covered the head as simple stitches of thread created the facial features.
“Would you like?” she asked with that lovely thick Creole accent I’d come to enjoy, “You stick a pin when you want to curse someone.” She joked half-heartedly.
Smiling and giddy, I inquired, “A voodoo doll?”
“Yes,” her hearty chuckle made her belly jiggle, “you buy one?”
Handing her one dollar, the full price for the doll. I was ashamed to haggle. I then reached into my bag, and pulled out a few t-shirts. “Here”, I said, I hope you can use these.” She took my hand in both of hers. “Thank you, thank you” she kept repeating. I reflected on how a few T- shirts could make someone so happy and I am not referring to the woman’s happiness, I am referring to mine.
When my time in Haiti ended, I left the resort with an almost empty suitcase and a very full heart. I set out on a vacation solely for rest and relaxation however, the reward from giving was way greater than what I set out to achieve.
About the Author:
Sandra Ruyack is the Vice President of direct response fundraising for a consulting firm in Brewster, NY. As a short story non-fiction travel author and freelance food writer.
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Who would have thought to do this on vacation…..a real “pay it forward story” I’ll remember this story for quite a while….