I’ve been in Rio for less than a week and I need to write about the colors of Haiti (from where I’ve just come) before they fade. 

The Haitian street markets are ablaze with every shade of the spectrum. Subdued colors in the darkness of a night-fallen tent city conjure a magic I can still feel. The hidden paint store has me seeing red and the technicolors of the Hearts of Haiti dazzle my soul, awakening a new perspective. Before leaving Haiti the pale pastels of an ancient cemetery infuse me with furthered passion to saturate my life and share it freely.

The market is boisterous. Dan and I pass golden towers of oranges stacked on scarves of fuschia, yellow and carmine. Leafy green plants of viridian and citrine are piled high in large wicker baskets. Women dressed in ebony with skin the color of midnight sit on blackened carpets selling charcoal. Shiny watches glorified in glass boxes sparkle in the sun on the side of the dusty, dirt road.

A riot of colorful vegetables at the street market

The charcoal ladies in shades of black

Later that afternoon we explore a neighborhood made up of a labyrinth of white and blue tents. Dan and I encounter James, a Haitian poet in a newsboy cap with a bold face full of light and dark. His jazzy eyes speak with the prose of an old soul. He is a friend of Johnny’s (our translator). We stay for hours drinking beers at a little bar that doubles as a barbershop, writing poetry back and forth, smiling and crying from beautiful moments and words. “The World is a big family.” James says as he gazes into a far away place. “If we can just find peace we will live forever.” And here we are, a few more Universal brothers and sisters reunited. The saffron sun dips below the ebonous silhouettes of the landscape and soon we find ourselves in tent city after dark. It is beautiful. Our white skin fades away into sooty blackness as we maneuver through narrow alleyways lit by lanterns and candlelight. 

Then there was the paint store. The heavily guarded paint store.
The next day we go in search of it after securing a “Tap Tap” (Haitian communal taxi) to paint. We arrive at a massive black gate topped with razor wire which looks like it could be the entrance to prison. My heart bolts out of my chest when the gate opens for us, revealing two very serious men armed with shiny black shotguns on their shoulders. I looked at Johnny as if to say “Are you sure dude?” The gate closes behind us and all the horror stories I’d ever heard about violence in Haiti flashes through my mind. Johnny walks in with a smirk on his lips. All I can think of is that we can disappear in here without anyone ever finding us. I suppose it would be somewhat fitting for me to die buying paint, but I don’t feel ready. The security proceeds to pat down Johnny and our driver somewhat forcefully using the weapons. No smiles except for that persistent smirk. “Can’t we find a paint store without guns?” I whisper to Dan. After awhile we’re laughing about it and I am almost relaxed. We order the paint and victory is ours as we leave with all body parts in tact carrying fire red, bright aqua, cosmic blue, jet black, shiny white. and golden yellow.

Onward to the Tap Tap! We found it earlier that morning in dire need of a paint job. It had a little graffiti on some unpainted parts and the rest was decorated in red, white and blue. I paint over the American flag (all due respect) and replace it with the Universal Heart. I paint torches of life with flames that spread down the sides, hourglasses full of diamonds, golden eagle mud-flaps and “Your magic is real” in Creole on the back. Dan helps me paint lines and before long there is a crew of locals wanting to paint too. I give them brushes and they help me fill in colors, make borders and get the whole thing painted in just over two days. Even the Tap Tap driver lent a hand.

The next day we went to the infamous Cité Soleil to paint hearts with the kids. Through the process my mind expanded worlds and I was blessed with a broader perspective on life. That night I went back to my guesthouse with a melted heart and joined the dinner table where some missionaries from Canada were celebrating a birthday. I picked at the slice of birthday cake in front of me thinking about the kids that I was with just hours before. In such a short time they managed to teach me so much. These kids have to travel 40 meters with a big plastic bottle in a wagon made from garbage to find and retrieve fresh water. After seeing that my life could never be the same. My cake was too sweet.

Life is sweet and full of color. It’s also bitter and full of darkness. Everything has it’s duality and there must be a balance between living for yourself and living for others. We are nothing without others. We wouldn’t be alive without other people. We’d have no roads to drive on, no planes to take, no books to read unless we built them or wrote them ourselves. I am searching for this balance.

The next day we visit an old Haitian cemetery. The graves are painted with light pinks, blues and yellows, the colors of Easter, rebirth. We wander around reading the dates and names of the graves as the sky changes it’s tone. It becomes laced with fluorescent shades of violet, red and orange. The sun sinks lower. Dan and I talk about death and how we rarely think about it. We keep it far from our daily reality. We decide we want to stare death in the face so we can further recognise the great gift of life. So we crawl into empty graves to try it on.

Haitian cemetery in Port au Prince

Dan and I contemplating our death

The cement is cold and dusty beneath me. I shudder a little from the thought of where I am. I close my eyes. Darkness. I try to let go of my senses. No sight, no sound, no feeling, no smells, no taste, no friends, no family, no world, no thought, no existence. Time passes and I drift further and further away. Total empiness, nothingness. There is Peace.

I open my eyes. The light pours in.
Resurrected from the grave,
I get up and my life goes on…