The flight was early. It took me all night to gather the
gear and test everything, leaving me only an hour to sleep before the taxi
arrived. I loaded up the taxi and when to pick up (lets call her) Lauren. After
a long wait, she emerges and we lot her two enormous bags, one of which is
filled with children’s clothes and shoes for a school. In the cab is the first
time we’ve met so we talk and get to know each other. We’re both exhausted so
eventually we slip into a sleepy, understanding silence.
LAX. We’re late! We’ve missed the check in time. The woman
behind the counter tells us we’re very luck. She’s covering for the manger so
she can override the system to get our bags checked and our boarding passes
printed. She tells us to sprint to our gate. I grab my bag, ready for a
stressful security check. Lauren looks at her watch, looks at me and
nonchalantly says, “I think I have time for a cigarette”. Who am I to argue? We
hang outside for a few minutes, giving zero fucks about the urgency of our
flight. We talk about music, continuing to get to know each other.
Once finished, we make our way through security and to our
gate. We walk straight on the plane, the last ones to board.
Now, I’ve never flown first class. So, for me, flying means
a certain number of things. Its mean a general pain in my legs and back from
lack of movement. It means restless sleep and tiny battles for the neutral arm
and leg space. It means a 1 in 10 chance of getting motion sickness with all
the cold sweat and agony that goes along with it. First Class flying is
something else. First Class means drinks before take off; all the space you
need to spread out and make yourself comfortable; full meal service with trays
of mimosas floating by. It means enough space to put your luggage up without a
struggle. It means no stress. If I could I would do this for every flight and now
that I’ve had a taste of it, it’s hard not to want it again.
The last leg of our flight was an hour and a half. I’m
lounging and enjoying myself. All I can think about is how much I’ve enjoyed
these little pleasures and how nice it would be to live this relaxed all the
time. No stress, feeling taken care of and important. I remember being in
Mexico last year reading a script on a white day bed, drinking pina coladas
enjoying the sea breeze. The type of relaxation that shuts down the rest of
your brain only leaving the pleasure center working, pulsating out good
feelings.
The crack of the pilot’s mic breaks my fantasy. I hear
the pilot say, “we’re going to be making our dissent into Port Au Prince” and I
start to remember. I’m going to Haiti. All the research I did on the country
starts to surge. It tells me: Haiti is by far the poorest and most
troubled country I’ve ever visited. The rate of crime is staggering, after the
earthquake all the prisoners who weren’t crushed, escaped and took shelter in
tent camps with the rest of the refugees. They regained control of gangs and
now use the camps as their bases. The corruption is terrifying. Politicians use
gangs to bully illiterate, scared masses into giving their vote. Their justice
system makes ours look divine. A person can be arrested without cause and thrown
into jail without even knowing why. In Haiti they have mandatory jailing for
those waiting to see a judge but the courts are so backed up and backwards that
it can take 5 years to ever be charged. Kidnappings are frequent. There is huge
political and social unrest that can explode into violence any day. Cholera, mosquito born disease are the most common illnesses available. Scenarios rush through my head. Suddenly I don’t feel so comfortable or taker care of or
important. I’m just scared.
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