VOODOO DRUMS

Voodoo Drums

Who would think that my first Caribbean Cruise would lead to such an uncomfortable, troublesome, adventure.

It started off with all the excitement one might expect from winning a cruise trip for four from the Simmons Beautyrest Mattress company in the mid-70s. To make the trip even more special, we took my dad and step-mother from San Diego.

It was our second port of call, Haiti. My husband just wanted to sit on the beach in the sun. My folks wanted to take a tour of the city and me… anything with horses caught my eye. The cruise line offered a day trip, on horseback through the jungle, up to the Citadel on the top of a mountain overlooking the bay.

I confess, I was very aware of the past horrific acts of the past dictator. It was an uneasy feeling, but the opportunity to ride horseback through the jungle, come on!

The cab, a scheduled hour's ride to the horses, was old and no frills. I shared it with a young couple from the cruise line. Soon we were out of the dirty city and into the country side. Small huts with no doors or windows spotted the landscape. It was uncomfortably hot, no air conditioning here.  Driving the dirt road kicked up dust trails that somehow managed to drift into the cab. All of a sudden, the cab began to buck and sputter... then it stopped dead in the middle of nowhere.

Now, I tell you, it was an uneasy, frightening moment. All kinds of scenarios flashed through my head. None of them had a good ending.

Everyone exited the cab, too hot to stay inside it. While the driver checked under the hood, I looked around expecting to see poverty at its worst. There was a square shaped hut not to far from the road, children were playing and laughing. It looked as though a few woman were taking some kind of fruit from the trees that shaded their home. One had a baby in some sort of sling over her shoulder. Birds were tweeting their song, and even a brief breeze fluttered through. This was not what I thought poverty looked like. (More poverty looks like?)It wasn't long before our driver hailed down a passing cab, and we all squeezed in to complete our ride.

Remember I said horses? When we arrived at the parking lot where we were to start our trek, there stood the scrawniest, boniest, most pathetic creatures that could ever be called a horse- a very small horse at that. The saddle had both a breast collar and a tail piece to hold the saddle on. At each horse's head was a pony boy that would lead the horse. As I got closer, I saw an open sore peeking out from a thin saddle blanket. I refused to get on, telling the pony boy that I would walk. He didn't understand a thing I said. I tried a little Spanish, then a little pantomime. Nope, he just smiled and held the stirrup for me. At this point the head wrangler was getting irritated that I was holding up the trip. He was yelling at me in a language I certainly didn't understand, all the rest of the tour was mounted and ready. So, I mounted the poor horse and off we went into the jungle.

It was cooler as we climbed into the trees on what looked like a dry creek bed. I tried to keep as much weight off the horse and into the stirrups. The smiling face of my pony boy was always there every time I looked at him. Birds were singing, the sound of talking drifted down every now and then. A horse would knicker. A sound of a stone rolling as the hooves  loosened them.

Was that a drum beat? It was getting louder and most definitely it was drums. I caught the eye of my pony boy and pointed into the jungle where the sound of drums seemed to emanate. He nodded and said something I didn't recognize. He said it again slowly and drawn out. VOODOO. My eyebrow flew upward and my lips stretched tight. Voodoo? I questioned. He pointed toward the drumming and smiled his pony boy best.

As I said it was an uncomfortable, troublesome, adventure, and I lived to tell you about it.

What Happened After the Voodoo drums?

Well… nothing. Our horses finally got us to the top. At the Citadel , the tour people had lunch for us and soft drinks that were flown in by helicopter. I loved the tour around the fortress. It's history was intriguing. One lady was sick, and she was flown down to the hospital at Port au Prince. Normal tourist stuff. Then we got back on those poor horses and headed down.  

In the parking lot, as we all were dismounting, a swarm of children surrounded us with their hands out, begging. From out of nowhere came a gang of uniformed military guys with guns, yelling at the children, hitting them with the butt of their guns, pushing them away from us. They were little children. We were quickly escorted into waiting cabs and down the road we went, dirt flying.

I know I told you nothing else happened.
The drums had stopped, and the guns came out. Yes, big rifles.

I was so happy to return to the safety of the Cruise ship and my loved ones.

I AM INVISIBLE

INVISIBLE!

You know that feeling. You call your children and they are too busy to really have a conversation with you. You call your friends to get together, the same thing, too busy, got appointments. At work, your conversation is interrupted because, as you are talking, your boss starts walking away. I hate, hate, hate that words, NO, CAN'T, BUSY.

 Can one really be invisible? It's a valid question. For me, I started feeling invisible when Luc, my little longhaired chihuahua, died. I thought it was grief, and part of it was an overwelming feeling of missing him, of loss, of loneliness. It's when those agoraphobia tendencies started to set in making me a self-made prisoner in my own house.

Let's face it, we talk to ourselves all the time. Some might call it thinking, some might not think they do. We talk all night in our dreams. We talk to ourselves when we are listening to others, driving a car.  We talk to ourselves as we read, immersing ourselves in characters or in understanding fiction or non-fiction plots. Sometimes I'll get so engrossed in my thoughts, that I have to back up the TV show to catch up on the story I am watching.

Now that my family is grown and their families are grown, and I'm long retired from my dream jobs, this feeling of loneliness rears up. Then again, I can be very lonely in a crowded party or event. My charisma takes over, I can be charming! No one there would ever know I felt invisible at that moment.

 I've felt like this for quite awhile. It was worse years ago before I discovered Facebook.  A place for me to be social, I said. Even if I'm stuck in my home, I won't be alone, I said. It's easier to post multiple photos than to send in an email, I said. I can write my blogs (pages), I said. If this is all true, then why am I writing about being invisible, you say? See, you were talking to yourself. Ha.