Dearest Rachel –
I always took for granted that, when you described visiting this place with your folks back in 1990 on the Sovereign of the Seas, it was a private island owned by the cruise line, not unlike their later acquisition of Coco Cay. And we’ve been here before; I remember you finding a purple and white bathing suit here at one point (ironically, it wasn’t one of your favorites, as it lost its elastic and got saggy on you rather quickly). As a result, I don’t have any pictures of you in it, unfortunately.
Now it’s entirely possible that the occasion of our visit to Haiti – which now that I think about it, probably was back in 2007, when the three of us travelled with Ellen, but I can’t confirm it – I wasn’t even really thinking about how the place was or wasn’t an island, and in the intervening years completely forgot about the particulars. Seventeen years is a long time, after all.
***
This morning started off grey and cloudy yet again – I was wrapping up my letter to you about Falmouth in Central Park in the morning while Lars was still sleeping, and there were moments when it was actually raining – but by the time the ship docked, we’d had breakfast, and made our way to the gangplank, it wasn’t just cloudless and sunny, it was blazing hot. Yup, we were like either mad dogs or Englishmen, heading out into the midday sun. But hey, when else were we going to go ashore? We would only be here for another three or four hours, and while I was pretty sure I’d been here before, it was for an equally short period of time; a second visit would be welcome in order to take it all in again.
Once ashore, however, I started to wonder if I’d been here before at all. There wasn’t anything in terms of familiar sights that were coming back to me, like with Miami, Nassau or Coco Cay (excuse me, Perfect Day at Coco Cay). Was I imagining it; a personal version of the Mandela effect? We’ve been so many places on these trips; had I just assumed I’d been here? What about that swimsuit of yours that fell apart; had we gotten it in Coco Cay, and I’d forgotten it? Between this and the whole “not an island” situation, I was starting to doubt myself and my memory.
Best to throw out my assumptions, and spend the day as if I wasn’t familiar with the place in the slightest; especially since i basically wasn’t. We wandered into the information center, picked up a map for each of us, and made our way to the tram station, which would take us to any one of four different beaches (there was a fifth beach as well, but it was specifically for those who’d reserved a place there, had a suite aboard ship, or were members of the Pinnacle Club; in short, the high rollers among the guests). We decided to ride it all the way into the interior, to the town square.
However, upon disembarking from the tram, Lars made for the cafe on the opposite side of the road as the market. His prerogative, of course, but we’d only finished breakfast an hour or so before. He insisted that he needed to get some water, and so I followed him in, wandering about among the rows of fruits, salads, hamburgers and hotdog fixings, until I realized he wasn’t in my line of sight.
At that point, I heard someone asking a staffer where the beverages were, and saw them be pointed to a separate large hut, in the opposite direction I’d last seen Lars headed. While I wasn’t particularly thirsty, I was getting warm (isn’t that wild; barely a week ago, it was the cold that was getting intolerable. And to think, I’ll be back to that in only a couple of days, too), and could do with a cooling beverage. I thought it might be ironic if I found it before he did, though.
However, while wandering back with my water, I still couldn’t figure out where he was. Moreover, unlike Coco Cay, there was no WiFi connection; it wasn’t as if I could text him and ascertain where he was. Considering he’d given me his towels to carry (I had brought a beach bag with me for just such a necessity), he might well have left me with his phone in any event. Even if I could contact his phone, it might just be with me, rendering the effort worthless.
Given the situation at hand, I decided to do what one is supposed to when one is lost; I plunked myself down at an empty picnic table, and waited for him to be looking for me. He was in more need of what I had with me than the other way around, in any event. These last half-dozen paragraphs (or more! I’ve lost count already) were drafted while sitting around waiting to see if he’d come looking.
At some point, I concluded that he might just as easily have decided to do the same thing that I was doing. Certainly, he’s proven to be considerably more capable than I of finding a spot, putting up his feet, and taking it easy. But where would that be? I wandered up and down a stretch of beach by the cafe before concluding that it would be fruitless unless he spotted me.
About an hour into this process of seeking or waiting to be sought out, I was starting to conclude that we probably wouldn’t connect again until we met up back on the ship. At which point, I figured it wasn’t worth panicking about. I wasn’t his minder, nor he mine; we’d make it back safely under our own steam. If we did run into each other, that’d be a plus, but if not, we’d manage separately to enjoy ourselves.
(As it turned out, Lars had headed to a different beach entirely; he’d asked one of the local staff at the information center which one was the best one to go to, and we were recommended to check out ‘Nellie’s Beach’ in the middle – and on the southern side – of the peninsula. That’s where he was waiting for me, while I continued to wander about on the northern side of where the peninsula net, the rest of the landmass. We were never going to find each other at this rate; I’d forgotten all about Nellie’s Beach at this point, and simply thought to check out the nearest one instead. We’re just not on the same wavelength as each other)
The funny part about it all is that, the less interested you are, the more aggressive they seem to be. Eventually, I have to practically return fire: “excuse me, sir, I’m walking.” Even the pleas to “look at my shop” get a glance, and a “well, I looked, and now I’m moving on.” Part of me hates to be cruel, but I can’t find that part of me that wants any of it to bring home.
At one point I get so fed up – and I’m surrounded by so many guys at once – that I decide to pretend that I only speak ‘nihongo.’ One of them approaches me and tries to go through all the languages he knows “Sprecken zie Deutsch? Italiano? Francais?” trying to catch me out. I clearly don’t fit the phenotype of whatever it is I’m speaking (and I don’t have enough Japanese to pull off the masquerade adequately, anyway), and my English language shirt gives me away, too. Eventually, he figures out that I’m funning with him, but it doesn’t deter him; “I like you, man. You come up to my shop.” They literally do not take “no” for an answer; all you can do is walk away.
All there is left to do once you get here is to make your way back through the gauntlet of art shop touts. “Ah, you’re back! Come look at my shop now?” Much as I might want to look, the fact that I don’t want to buy anything leaves me with no choice but to stare straight ahead as I march back to the town square.
Ironically, the market building itself has none of these touts (dressed as clerks, presumably) imploring you to buy anything. I’m almost willing to make a purchase out of thanks, except there still really isn’t much that I might want (I’ve stopped collecting flags from everywhere I go long ago, so even a Haitian flag is ruled out in my mind). But at least they don’t notice as I pass through silently, without picking up anything and asking how much it costs.
I attempt to settle in on a beach chair, and lie back to soak up a few rays, but it isn’t long before the wind picks up, and I start getting sandblasted. I sit up and realize that all the beach umbrellas have now been folded up, presumably to avoid getting blown away. This state of inertia just wasn’t for me, anyway; I have to keep moving, too be honest. It’s a strange realization to come to, but there it is.
With that in mind, the next thing that occurs to me to do is to walk the entire length of the peninsula, heading back to the dock. In the process, I get distracted by a nature trail, and wander up it to a little fort hidden in the foliage. I’m not sure if it’s a real one, or if it was built for us tourists to explore, but in either case, there’s not that much of a view, surrounded as I am by trees and vines and what have you.
I make my way down from the fort, to find myself near Dragon’s Beach, the first one visitors encounter upon wandering into Labadee resort. It looks as if it gets its name from its fierce surf; it’s rolling in and creating some powerful waves. It’s at this point that I look down the beach and see a red flag waving from the lifeguard station; the wind is such that they recommend that no one should be in the water at this point. Correspondingly, I watch as crowds of people make their way to the ship; what’s the point when you can’t swim?
And while I never really intended to swim in the surf, I figure that at this point, it’s time for me to go, too. I should be seeing Lars in the next hour or so, and all this can be resolved with a good laugh – or something like that. Hopefully.
In any event, honey, keep an eye on me, and wish us luck. We’re going to need it. 
Letters to Rachel 