Haiti, the smell drifted across the water as our ship, US Coast Guard Cutter Lipan, maneuvered to the pier, slicing through the humidity and haze that filtered the sun’s scintillating heat. The crew was ready for some time ashore, away from the current drug patrol. As the Duty Officer, I would stay aboard for the first watch while the rest of the crew went sightseeing.

The brutal smell of Port au Prince in the summer of 1984 was only second to the reality of life on its streets. The poverty, heat, and disorder suffocate the senses. I stood on the signal deck of the ship during that first afternoon and scanned the city through the “Big Eyes” (large binoculars). There is much to see as Port-au-Prince sits in a half-bowl that funnels the chaos down to the Port. The higher the hills you ascend, the better the homes and living conditions. The poorest of the poor live close to the water.

I planned to visit a missionary who lived in Port-au-Prince and formed a small exploration party with two like-minded believers from the crew. I didn’t know these missionaries, but I had heard of them from Officer Christian Fellowship and wanted to visit and be a blessing in any way I could. 

Immediately upon leaving the ship, we were accosted by vendors selling the ubiquitous carved wooden figurines. We negotiated with a hyperactive boy to guide us to our destination, which it turned out, he wasn’t very familiar with. Our circuitous route took us into the heart of downtown, and as we were attempting to track our route on a map, we realized that our guide had gotten us lost.

Once we realized this, we tried to explain it to the guide. Eventually, he understood and pointed the way, and we were off. He said we were going through the Port-au-Prince market, which was downhill from where we were.

As we approached the market, the smells began to amplify until they became overwhelming as we walked into the market. In any other city, this market would be “The Dump.” Hundreds of people crowded into perhaps one half-square mile, contesting over piles of steaming garbage. Dump trucks were weaving in and out of stalls hastily erected by desperate entrepreneurs trying to find a place to dump their loads. Children scrabbled over the tops of decaying piles of refuse, looking for something to sell. Some, no older than 5 or 6 years old, stood by the dirty garbage-encrusted road selling 2 or 3 coke bottles. Chaos reigned in that place.

The sense of poverty was thick and inescapable. America could not have been farther away at that moment than Mars. I know I felt as though I were from a different planet.

Eventually, we wound through the market and found our way up the hill to the mission. True to its relative position higher up in the city, the mission — and the surrounding neighborhood — stood on a larger lot than the buildings down toward the Port. It was a sizeable, whitewashed home with red tile for a roof. Shaded from the heat by eucalyptus trees, the mission sat encased in a quiet shabbiness. Here, the neighborhood almost seemed deserted compared to where we started.

When nobody answered the front door of the parsonage, we walked around back and found a playground. There, surrounded by children, some her own, was the missionary’s wife. It was evident that something was wrong. As we approached, the children stopped to look at us and acknowledged our presence. But, when we introduced ourselves to the woman, we were presented with a blank, almost catatonic stare. She never responded to us in any way; she just kept staring out beyond the road, over the hill towards the harbor. It occurred to us that she was in shock. Later, as I thought about this, I realized that she, understandably, most likely suffered from culture shock.

We moved back to the street and took a quiet moment to pray for her. Then returned to the ship. The day had been a day of learning and a time of questioning. I spent time asking God what happened to the missionary’s wife. 

Questions piled on as I attempted to reconcile my heart with my mind. I had seen poverty before. I saw it in parts of Mexico on a trip I took after graduation from college. But Port au Prince was different. There was, and I imagine there still is — although I have heard it is getting better — an undercurrent, a spiritual layer of hopelessness.

Cap Haitien

Later that week, we left Port au Prince and continued our patrol on the island’s north side, eventually anchoring in the harbor at Cap Haitien for another shore break. Cap Haitien is smaller than Port au Prince and much cleaner. At least it was in 1984. It looks like a small Mediterranean town. Whitewashed homes are brilliant in the hot sun, and clean streets rise from the water’s edge, following the smaller homes to the mansions on the higher elevations.

Here again, our small band of believers went in search of a missionary, a local independent Baptist missionary. In this case, the family had been there for a while. There was no catatonic missionary’s wife in this home, but a healthy family in a beautiful home, well-established in the community. They invited our small band for dinner and made us feel at home. It turned out that we were the ones being ministered to. The homemade cherry ice cream was fantastic.

But after the sun went down that night, it was time to return to the pier, where we could catch the zodiac back to the Lipan. Ten blocks straight downhill to the pier. From the missionary’s house, we could see the Lipan at anchor in the harbor, her deck lights reflecting off the water. The day’s heat was gone, replaced by a cool but humid breeze, which carried the enticing smells of dinners being prepared in the neighborhood’s homes. The stars were brilliant overhead and framed the picture of a beautiful Caribbean city. The end of a joyful and satisfying evening.

However, what we experienced on our way downhill reminded us that even when things look beautiful, that beauty can hide a spiritual darkness. Many of the homes in Cap Haitien have stucco-covered brick walls surrounding the yards. So, the walk downhill felt like we were walking through tall, man-made stucco canyons in an abandoned city. We were the only people on the streets, which after Port au Prince seemed ghostly. The silence of Cap Haitien is much different than that of Port au Prince until the voodoo ceremonies begin.

As we walked down to the zodiac, the drums and chanting began. First, on our left behind the wall we were passing, then coming from many other directions. The eerie sense of otherworldliness settled upon us, and our pace quickened. As we progressed down the hill, the ceremonies multiplied. I don’t know if we just happened upon the “Voodoo Hour,” the designated time for the evening rites, or if what we experienced was a typical evening event for Cap Haitien. I know that it has left an indelible place in my mind.

Was I shocked by these experiences? More like saddened. Cultures around the world were given to man by The Creator. Each is different and carries a significant seed of the Creator’s destiny, buried deep within that people’s history and culture. As a believer, I am saddened by how men and their cultures have drifted from the knowledge of the Creator. Thankfully, we have a Saviour, Jesus Christ, that will set everything right. Our job is to go and be His instruments of Love.