Beyond mountains, more mountains. An old Haitian proverb that holds very true on Hispaniola. Not a terribly big island but it seems to stretch on forever when you're there. Obviously a product of the poor roads (and sometimes a complete lack of roads), but I imagine that the feeling is much closer to what it might have been like before the "modern" world.
Trail running in Haiti seems closer to what running should be like. Granted, it's rough ... very, very rough. But there's a pretty intense beauty to it as well. And isn't the rugged nature of things the way the most natural, the most serene yet exciting at the same time? What do we hate the most? Treadmills. They suck the joy out of running like the vacuum of space. They disconnect you just about as much as possible. Haitian trails are probably just about as far from treadmills as you can get, so I'm going with the theory that this is a good thing. If you can let yourself go ... get past the heat & humidity ... start to enjoy the mountains, it's the best thing ever.
Last Saturday I went out by myself. Did a bit of exploring and expanded my retinue and, per usual, wondered why I hadn't done so before. I ran along a ridgeline with the most incredible trail .... popped out into some jaw dropping terrain. Dancing along the rocks and gullies. Views that force a person to pause & consider. Made me think that this is the spot I might like to propose to my wife ... that is, if we weren't already married.
And then, the people. Haitian trails have a tendency to run smack-dab into somebody's porch. Creates the need to do a lot of end-arounds and back-tracks. But there's the happy coincidence of running into people, sometimes almost literally. These are folk that are tucked into the side of a mountain, their homes obscured by a few palms and some brush ... you'd never know they were there. Suddenly you're cruising past the woman in her 80's vigorously scrubbing her wardrobe into the eye-popping white that only Haitians seem to be able to pull off. Her gaggle of grandchildren scatter like chickens, screaming with laughter. It's hard to imagine what they must think of this big, sweaty white guy come crashing around the corner, out here in nowhere, roadless Haiti. The magic comes when you smile. A quick greeting in my atrocious Creole produces giant smiles, waves, and a flood of conversation .... none of which I understand. I've been going to Haiti now for a long enough time that it's embarrassing how bad my Creole is. This needs to change. What stories these folk must have to tell. What they must be thinking ...
I got out three times this week. Not enough really. I miss the kids. When I was out, I found myself wishing that Jax could've been there. I can't imagine how much fun he might've had dashing around with these kids. The screams of laughter, the waving farmers working their fields, and the ensuing parade as the little boys and girls took up the run. One afternoon 3 little ones ran with us for most of the route. Two of them had no shoes. They ran giggling and with abandon, crashing down the slopes without care or consideration for safety. They ran as if it were completely effortless, like smoke. I actually broke into a sprint at one point in an attempt to catch a particularly quick boy. I couldn't. This boy with no shoes ... I hope that I can find and run with him again.
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