Sense of Place

The first time I ever learned that term, "sense of place," was while reading "Walden," by Henry David Thoreau, in college. For those who haven't read it, it is a senses story that takes place in the mid 1800s in some woods near a pond in Cambridge, Mass. The point of the first-person account is that we need to be fully aware and appreciative of our surroundings at all possible times. There is beauty, tragedy, and godliness everywhere. The busyness of life sometimes prevents me from focusing; but, when I do, and I search for the senses words to describe a "sense of place," there is joy in that. Sometimes, in order to become awestruck afresh with all that we see, hear, touch, taste, and smell, we have to take ourselves to new environments. I recently thrilled at a new "sense of place" when I had an opportunity to visit Haiti. Although I've traveled out of the country, the extremeness of this place prompted me to want to write, and write, and write. Although far from the genius of Thoreau, I've written a sense of this place. I encourage you to try capture your own experiences in your own words.

Slowly, the Haitian driver maneuvers over extremely bumpy, rocky roads - and then accelerates at bursts of breakneck speeds down few paved roads. Our conspicuously white faces witness bizarre sights from the van's windows: men peeing publicly, severely malnourished dogs mating, children hanging upside down against a crumbling wall, a boy rolling a tire down a dried-up riverbed with a Sprite bottle attached to a stick, children pointing and smiling, roadside tables displayed with mangoes, feminine protection, sunglasses. Ankle deep, smoldering garage. Rubble spilled into the alleyways from earthquake-compromised buildings. Deafening honking and screeching brakes due to no traffic laws. Women walking erect with loads as large as a basket of live chickens balanced carefully atop their heads. An irrigation system capturing water from high atop a mountain and rushing it past bony horses and naked bathing woman. Voodoo chants and drumbeats leading dancers winding through street vendors.

A country of contradictions. Vibrant bougainvillea draped over razor-wire walls. Landscapes of garbage set against a backdrop of picturesque mountains. Enamoured with Jesus while working to appease Voodoo deities. Emerging from densely packed tent cities neatly dressed. Children in uniforms to attend schools in a dilapidated building. Tap-Taps painted with images of Jesus alongside likenesses of American movie stars or women in seductive poses. No sanitation, yet brightly-colored water delivery trucks that blast friendly, catchy tunes. Police with shotguns at entrances to convenient stores and fast-food restaurants. 

Resonating over the Valley of Hope countryside on a Sunday morning is the rhythmic beat of the hands of men and boys making contact with crude percussion instruments. Feet tap, bodies sway, arms are lifted high, voices yell praises in Creole. "Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"

In the still darkness of an early morning, I grip the van's seat to avoid bruises from the extreme dips and mounds of the "roads."  Putrid smells of decomposing waste penetrate the van's interior. Oppressive poverty, earthquake damage, desperation - mile after mile. Barely lit with the dawn's light, a women walks through the garbage; nostrils filled with the pungent smell, she picks her way over the rocky bumps and around the debris.  But her head is tilted back. Her hands are lifted toward heaven. Beauty, thankfulness, and praise rise from within her - audibly expressed in the grayness of that place.