1 Hour Outside Port-au-Prince. Sunset

There was something distinctly American in his body. Perhaps it was the way he tucked in his checkered shirt so that it bunched slightly just above his belt buckle or the way he puffed his chest and smiled as he walked toward us. Real Haitians walked with strong, swinging arms. He launched into the tour of his school without invitation, opening doors to computer labs and air-conditioned staff-rooms with long egg-shell white floors. I gave my purse to the tallest of the young girls who trailed us and she immediately changed her stride to carry it daintily, like a real woman. We sat down on the second floor patio benches and looked out at their beachfront compound. “Do you know what’s wrong with Haiti?” The little girl’s hands were as soft and dark as my purse’s fake leather. “Voodoo! Haitians sold their soul to the devil for independence from white slavery”. A piece peeled off of the strap and she looked up at me with innocent terror. “Out of slavery and into the storm”, he concluded with a feigned compassionate sigh.