Voodoo Tree

Frigid air snapped his eyes open as Mark left The University of Michigan’s stuffy, outdated West Hall. He wished that review session had been just a dream. I can’t wait for 2008, I can’t wait for 2008, was the mantra he couldn’t stop repeating. Graduation was all he thought about. “Hey Mark,” he heard someone yell from behind. “Slow down, mang.” He turned around to see a familiar face heading his way. 

Adam was an unusually tall guy who wore a puffy red jacket and dark jeans that were too tight. The resulting appearance was rather top-heavy, like an oversized flamingo. Angular features and long, sharpened sideburns reinforced the resemblance. Mark looked up at him and said, “I need to get in a quick workout and grab some dinner before we start.” The edge in his voice made it clear there wasn’t much sleep in store for either of them that night. “Dana building in ninety minutes?”

“You got it, mang. I could use a nap anyway.”

Their semi-secret study spot was trapped in a world of gray. Sharp networks of cement were penned in on all sides by dirty, half melted snow. Clouds hung low and unmoving, like an unseen hand was holding them in place forever. Walking briskly with his head down to combat the cold, Mark noticed how darkened pools of ice provided the perfect medium for some good entertainment. He hoped he would be the one laughing, not the one walking with a limp for the next few days. 

Formidable, hibernating hardwoods stretched throughout the center of campus, mocking him with their long slumber. At least the frozen air woke him up. Or maybe it was the Red Bull. 

Bronze handled double doors swung open as Mark retreated into cozy stillness offered by comfortable chairs, abundant woodwork, and soft carpeting. A recent overhaul smoothly blended the old and new with a strong emphasis on the environment. Sheep from New Zealand provided wool for widespread carpeting. Thermostats in every room, a wide array of solar panels, and even composting toilets helped to fight climate change while easing the consciences of many environmentalists who spent the better part of their days within the stately brick walls. Mark didn’t care about the environment. He needed a quiet place to study.

The fourth floor met him with silence. Motion sensors commanded hallway lights to turn on as he padded toward a conference room. He poked his head through the doorway, but it was deserted. The open area under a new glass roof was the next best option.

She was waiting for him at a table next to the balcony. After he sat down, all that was between them and a four-story drop was a series of glass panels topped off with a wooden railing. It made his stomach turn a little. She was reading something about sociology. He took out a hefty mechanical engineering textbook and started the practice problems. They didn’t discuss class work often. Mainly because he hated engineering and she was tired of him not listening to her talk about family dynamics and social justice. 

It wasn’t long before she stared at his freckled features framed with red hair and broke the silence. “Do you want anything from Panchero’s? I’m going to pick up a quesadilla.” 

“Nah, I just ate, and Adam should be here soon.” 

She frowned. “Oh, well thanks for offering to bring me something!”

As she walked out, Mark recognized the voice that said, “Hey, April!” He tuned out the rest of their conversation. A few minutes later Adam walked in. He dropped his stuff noisily onto one of the many unoccupied tables and asked Mark if he wanted some tea. 

When two steaming mugs emerged, Mark started complaining about the review session. They debated what classes to avoid next semester. Eventually, the topic of spring break came up. Mark asked, “You wanna go to Florida again this year?” 

Adam took a sip of tea. “Florida is all right, but I was thinking of something more adventurous.”

“Sounds expensive,” Mark said as he rolled his eyes.

“Indeed. Let’s go south of Florida. I want to get as far away from this climate as possible.”

“Mexico?”

“Nope, too typical. How about an island?”

“Jamaica?”

“Not much better than Mexico. Let’s go somewhere that isn’t full of tourists. What do you think of Haiti?”

Mark shook his head in amazement. “Are you crazy? I would like to make it back alive and without intestinal parasites.”

Adam just shrugged. “This should be pretty safe. One of my friends is going with some church group. She said there are still a couple spots open. I want to go.”

“I’ll have to think about it. April asked me to go to her family’s place in South Carolina. Too cold for me. Maybe this will be a good excuse to go somewhere she won’t follow.”

“I need to know by Tuesday, so think fast. This is our last spring break. Let’s make it count!”

Friday afternoon was a blur. Half of the winter semester had already passed, and Mark could not help but worry about the next day. Would there be roadblocks? Riots? Bandits? Would he get Malaria? Yellow Fever? Cholera? So many unknowns. So much could go wrong. He wondered why he ever agreed to go along with this crazy spring break trip. 

His parents didn’t help. They campaigned hard against it, so, naturally, he fought to go. “Why would anyone in their right mind voluntarily go to Haiti,” was the repeated question. Had they just told him to enjoy the adventure, he would be packing for South Carolina.

Adam couldn’t wait. Finally the time had come to escape all the exams, lab work, and Michigan’s awful winter. He met Mark at a bar called Ashley’s for dinner. Adam always got the same thing: fish and chips along with at least one pint of IPA. Mark said he wasn’t hungry and ordered a plate of fries and a Guinness to prove his point. Ashley’s had the best fries. 

“Stick around for another pint?” Adam asked after they had finished. Mark hadn’t been overly talkative.

“Nah, I’ve gotta finish packing.” He reached for his wallet.

“You’ve been packed since Wednesday!”

“It doesn’t hurt to double check stuff.” He pulled out a credit card and started tapping it on the table.

“I haven’t even started packing. I mean, it’s only a week. You can manage anywhere for a week.”

“I guess. You should get your stuff together. We still have to bring our bags over to that girl’s house tonight. What’s her name?” Mark scowled and waved his card at the busy waitress.

“Amanda. I’ll throw a few things together. Pick me up in an hour?”

“Sure. Don’t be late this time.”

As the three-door Saturn crunched up to Amanda’s house they saw her on the porch smoking a cigarette. Mark still hadn’t shut the car off by the time Adam slammed the trunk. Time seemed to slow down. Maybe it was all the stress and anxiety throwing him into a funk, but he froze, staring at Amanda. Something about the glow of the porch light opening right above her and spreading across fresh snow, almost spilling inside the car, but not quite, made him think he was looking inside a snow globe with a perfect little house trapped within. Except he was the one stuck inside all the glass. She was shivering on the porch telling Adam to throw their stuff inside the black Jeep.

Mark heard, “See you in a few hours,” and the passenger door swung open letting in a cold blast of air along with a few snowflakes. Adam scrunched into the small space with a sarcastic, “Thanks for all the help!” Without a word Mark drove off.

Several hours later, they were back and the clock on the dash told them it was four in the morning. The Jeep was gone. Several people were piling into a van. Mark was glad he didn’t have to worry about logistics, but wondered why the bags needed to be dropped off the night before. Maybe it was to be certain everyone was packed and accounted for? 

This time Mark didn’t hesitate to kill the engine and step out into a fresh and squeaky layer of snow. The van seemed full already, but they made room for the last two sleepy travelers. Nobody was really awake, but they surely didn’t sleep. 

The under-booked American Airlines flight descended below the clouds to reveal what looked like an island paradise. Green mountains rose sharply out of the ocean and disappeared into the same clouds that had so recently cloaked the oversized Boeing. 

Another lazy turn brought the slums of Port au Prince into view. Corrugated metal roofs, abandoned vehicles, and piles of trash spread across the relatively flat seaside plain like rotting barnacles on a capsized ship. 

The pilots landed the aircraft smoothly but failed to taxi up to the building. A tall staircase was rolled over to coax anxious passengers into the blazing heat of the runway. A stream of Haitians disembarked and obediently filed toward the terminal to get their passports stamped and pay whatever bribes necessary. 

After the disoriented group of Americans wearing loudly matching t-shirts made their way past every checkpoint, they emerged on the other side of the terminal. A tall, iron fence quickly filled with black faces that stared through the bars like they were visiting a zoo. 

Shouts and pleas for money in an odd accent were thrown at bewildered college kids as they loaded everything onto the most bizarre bus they had ever seen. It was about half the size of a coach and looked far too old to handle any sort of terrain - much less washed out mountain roads. It was painted in an array of bright colors only to be found in the Caribbean, covered in Miami Heat window stickers, and broadcasted Jesus Saves across the top of the windshield.

The colorful beast roared to life and lumbered into chaotic streets that were only paved in a few select places. Pedestrians, animals, and abandoned vehicles made for slow going. It took over an hour to get through the sprawling junkyard that claimed to be a capital city. 

Mark used duct tape to muffle the shrill highs of reggae music blasting at them. He covered the tweeters that were somehow mounted onto an unpainted plywood screen separating the passengers and the driver. The tape had little effect. By the time they cleared the clamor of crowded streets almost everyone was either carsick or had a splitting headache. 

Adam and Amanda were too excited to worry about such trivialities. They couldn’t stop pointing things out to each other, yelling above the music in order to do so. 

“Did you see that guy with no legs?”

“That house must have been amazing fifty years ago.”

“Look at that garden – tomatoes, corn, and pot plants.”

Their incredulity was heighted as the bus slowed to a crawl while passing through a coastal town that looked like a post-apocalyptic holiday destination. Windows were broken, piles of trash smoldered in the streets, and the smell of burnt tires filled the air. 

Amanda could not get around a feeling of unease that seemed to hang about the place like a heavy fog that muffles sound and exudes stillness. She asked Adam, “What do you think happened here?”

He looked around and shrugged. “Doesn’t look much different from all the other chaos to me, but that smell is terrible.”

The bus stopped near a sign painted haphazardly on a little blue shack advertising Coca-Cola. Everyone disembarked, with relief, in order to purchase a cold soda and snack food. Their guide, Jimmy, ignored his group and talked to the shop owner in Creole. Adam listened carefully. This unique language sounded a lot like the French he had studied in high school, but he couldn’t really understand more than a stray verb here and there. Before they loaded back into the moving sauna, Jimmy made his way across the street and stooped to investigate a curiously placed pile of palm leaves. Upon his sad return, the bus roared to life and wound its way further down the coast.

Under cover of darkness, the top-heavy bus finally rolled to a stop in the dimly lit parking lot of one of Jacmel’s seaside hotels. The guard who rode on top with the luggage to deter thieves started throwing bags down to the driver. A faint crashing of waves drifted up from the bay to subtly replace the diesel rumble as weary travelers wandered indoors to find their rooms and fight over who got the first shower. 

Bill, the aging trip leader, arrived at the small bar first and ordered a rum and Coke. Jimmy appeared out of the shadows and sat down beside the retired engineer. He asked the tall, lanky bartender for a Prestige - Haitian lager. “Glad we got here in one piece,” said Jimmy with obvious relief. 

Bill sighed. “Me too. You never know what might happen in this country.”

“Good thing we didn’t come through yesterday. Wouldn’t have made it.”

“Why do you say that?” 

Jimmy sipped the ample foam loudly. “There was a riot in that little town where we stopped for drinks. A man was caught breaking and entering for the third time. They stuffed him in a stack of car tires, doused the heap in gasoline, and tossed a few matches.”

Bill’s face went pale, although it was hard to tell under the dim lights. “I wonder if these kids should be coming down any more,” he said. “It seems like every trip we have a near-disaster.”

“God works hard around here,” retorted Jimmy, “I am sure he will watch out for all those you bring who are doing his work.”

Bill sighed again and scratched the side of his bulbous nose. “I suppose you’re right. I wish I had faith like you. My anxiety spikes on every one of these trips. My wife says I should stop going. Sometimes I think she is right, but every time I come here my heart breaks a little bit more for these people. I can’t seem to stop spending time on this godforsaken island trying to help them!”

“Godforsaken? It is anything but that! You know what happened with my brakes. God’s hand appears when people are truly in need, so miracles happen every day in Haiti. Americans are smothered with their own comfort and security; it is America that has been forsaken by God.”

They sat in silence for a while, nursing their drinks and staring at the shelves lined with bottles of alcohol imported from all over the world. Bill thought back to the story Jimmy had told so many times about his brakes. Seven years ago, he was winding his way down a treacherous mountainside in an old white pickup with his wife and three-year old son. Halfway down the grade, he moved his foot to the brake pedal for what seemed like the thousandth time that day, but it wasn’t the same as the previous nine hundred and ninety-nine. 

Jimmy pumped the brakes several times; the sole result was a sickening thud of the pedal hitting the floorboards. He quickly jammed the gear shift into first, sending the engine into a roaring fit of protest. He then forced his wife to grab their son and roll out onto the grassy shoulder thinking perhaps he could save the truck – but didn’t want to risk their lives in doing so. 

The road curved so sharply that Jimmy knew his best chance was to keep going straight into the brush as opposed to trying to take the corner and end up barrel-rolling down the steep slope. As he braced for impact the strangest thing happened. The wall of foliage halted its ominous attempt to swallow his truck whole. 

The vehicle stopped all together, seemingly in an instant, front bumper resting against a few giant leaves. Jimmy’s seat belt was not even strained. He opened the door in disbelief, stepped out onto solid ground, and peered down into the bushes. Several rusty automotive skeletons loomed far below him, echoing distant tragedies. 

Bill wanted to believe Jimmy’s story. He had heard others like it. Even though they had been friends for many years, Bill just couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. Surely there was another explanation. God didn’t just reach down and stop moving vehicles in their tracks. The brakes must have engaged somehow. Maybe the engine seized up. He shook his head in a failed attempt to shed the doubts and took up some small talk with his old friend Jimmy.

The wakeup call came at seven in the morning, as always. Breakfast consisted of Nutri-Grain bars and fresh coffee. The coffee was unlike anything they had ever tasted. Sugar cane harvested an hour before was brewed with unroasted beans. Its syrupy thickness and delicious aroma almost justified waking up at that painful hour. Sleep was a challenge for many due to the restlessness of relentless roosters. Birds were up before the sun and most Haitians followed suit, in stark opposition to college culture. 

It was the third morning on the island and everyone around the breakfast table looked up in surprise as Adam and Mark burst through the door. “Where were you?” Bill asked with a frown. 

“Long story,” said Adam, “mind if we hop in the shower first?” The two latecomers did not wait for a response. Cold water, normally an unwelcome shock to the system, had never felt so good.

By the time Adam and Mark toweled off, the other students had moved on from breakfast, leaving nothing behind but crumbs and the tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee. The scent drifted in circles, unable to find a suitable exit. Bill grilled the two while Jimmy listened intently, observing both Adam and Mark savor a glass of water as though it contained the elixir of life.

The night before, a flat rooftop was home to six or seven students who weren’t interested in board games. Their numbers eventually dwindled to three: Adam, Mark, and Amanda. The night sky was unbelievably clear and they were having a contest to see who could count the most shooting stars. 

Then the drums started. It must have been after eleven. Relentless, booming, otherworldly bass echoed off the mountainside giving Amanda chills. Jimmy had said something about late night Voodoo ceremonies. She always listened carefully when he spoke. 

Jimmy explained Voodoo as a tool used to heal the sick. Scary stereotypes that come to the mind of an American when thinking about the sinister religion are not widespread practices. 

Christianity is relatively new to the island. It spread rapidly because its claims for healing were about the same as that of Voodoo, but much cheaper, usually free. Most Haitian households held to a strange combination of the two surprisingly similar sets of beliefs.

This unexpected mix came to life when church hymns wafted up the rocky slope in their direction not long after the drumming commenced. The nearby choir mingled with rhythmic pounding in an unsettling way that lulled the trio into silence. 

Adam broke the trance. “Wanna take a morning hike? I was thinking about finding the top of this mountain.”  

“Are you kidding,” replied Mark, “breakfast is in seven hours. It's already midnight!”

Amanda was in silent agreement, simply shaking her head. She needed sleep, and the thought of exploring the mountain made her shiver again.

Adam was persistent. “Look, mang. Do you think we will ever come back to this place? How could we pass up a chance to explore it? You could have slept in if you went to South Carolina with April. You chose adventure instead, so don’t back down now!”

Mark relented with an exaggerated sigh. “You are probably right. Amanda, will you tell the others where we went? They are probably all asleep by now. If we make it back I doubt it will be before seven.” 

Adam’s alarm chirped to life four hours later. Roosters began to fill the air with shrill proclamations of impending dawn. He slipped out of bed and shook Mark awake. They grabbed lights, cameras, water, and a few snacks. On the way out, Mark went back for beef jerky in case dogs attacked them. Lucky, the shaggy old flea hostel, decided to tag along.  

As they began their uphill trek, people and animals were yawning awake. The twisted, uneven path before them was illuminated as far as bright bluish beams emanating from their state of the art LED headlamps could shine. 

A stand of pines emerged several hundred meters up the slope, backlit by a glowing horizon. It was so steep, and the path so windy, that the pair would end up walking almost twice that before they reached the trees. 

The tiny forest seemed quite out of place. Almost all of the timber had been cleared from the Haitian side of Hispaniola several decades before. The remaining landscape promulgates a decidedly barren look, reflecting the lives of people who barely scrape a living from unforgiving slopes. 

Sounds of humanity faded into the distance, muffled by deceptively soft looking needles. The trees were giant earplugs. Ever-increasing light revealed surroundings that looked oddly similar to parts of Lake Michigan’s shoreline, minus the huge yucca plants. Not much was said due to the effort required to keep on climbing. The air was thinner a mile above sea level.

They reached the topside of the forest just as the sun made its appearance. Rocks became chairs as snacks found their intended home. After a few minutes, they realized Lucky had vanished. “Strange,” Mark thought aloud, “dogs usually show up when the food comes out. Maybe we should go back.”

After snapping a few pictures, Adam said, “I am sure Lucky knows her way back. We came this far. Might as well find the top.” Mark grudgingly consented.

Sparse dwellings began to reappear as the climb continued. Adam asked, “Are the locals afraid of the forest? If I lived here I would put my house in that stand of pines, out of the wind. I mean, wouldn’t that pile of junk be much nicer to live under if it was tucked into those trees?” He pointed at a shack with a rusty metal roof that looked like it was about to disintegrate down the slope it hung so precariously onto. The rest of the small town of Seguin spread below them like buckshot, clinging onto hills in a perilously similar fashion.

The trail led past that seemingly doomed structure. A figure emerged from inside and began to follow. They didn’t notice the old lady shuffling along behind them until she started yelling. Even if Adam and Mark spoke Creole they couldn’t have understood a word this ancient woman was saying. She had no teeth and was speaking so fast. Syllables seemed to merge together into a squawking, incoherent sputter. 

In a sufficiently uncomfortable manner, the climb continued. After a few minutes of trying to ignore the crazy old woman they came to a low wall made of large, smooth boulders very different from the rough volcanic rock that littered the landscape. On the other side of the wall was an unbroken expanse of light-colored, out of place stones stretching beyond the curve of what appeared to be the top of the mountain. In the middle of this sea of white towered a lone tree unlike the pines they had passed through. This tree was impossibly tall and seemed like it belonged to a jungle, surrounded by an ocean of vibrant green, not isolated on a ravaged hilltop.

The two looked at each other curiously and opted to continue. They stepped over the low wall as the ranting coming from behind them turned into screams. Looking back and terrified by what they saw, they tried to run, but only made it a few steps before collapsing, face first, onto the indifferent stones worn smooth by time.

Bill’s face grew progressively flushed until he had the appearance of a ripe tomato. Veins stood out on his bulging Irish nose like those of a squashed spider. He couldn’t believe these two had wandered off without his knowledge. Pent up anxiety combusted into rage. It seemed inconceivable they were sitting here spilling the details of a near disaster with such joy; a little voice in the back of his head whispered that perhaps he should be thankful for this fact. Bill suppressed his emotions and managed to listen to the rest of the story.

Adam’s eyes danced as he spoke. “So when we woke up, Psycho Grandma was gone. Nobody in sight. In fact, we didn’t see another person until we got down past those pines. I have no idea what happened up there, but I can’t get that lady out of my head. It was as if a giant fist grabbed onto her and wouldn’t let go. She was trying to get away, writhing in fear, but couldn’t move.”

Jimmy, who had been listening carefully, spoke up. “Adam and Mark should not have been there. The rocks around that tree may be bleached white now, but they were once stained red with sacrificial blood. You only hear me talk about miracles the Christian God does, but that doesn’t mean Voodoo is impotent. The spiritual realm often bleeds into the physical on this island, among my people. Christianity is not the only active force.”

The words sent chills down Bill’s spine. “Let’s try to forget the whole thing,” he replied abruptly. His red face diffused like a pricked balloon. “We have work to do. There never seems to be enough time. It’s already getting late.”

Adam and Mark got their things together as the final bits of excitement left them. The hike up the mountain felt like yesterday. It was as if their involuntary nap had provided them with a solid nine hours of sleep, and they couldn't wait to get out there and help some people collect rainwater. 

Mark appreciated his surroundings more than ever before. The colors in the hills looked exceedingly bright and beautiful, fields of beans and corn perfectly pristine, and even the Haitians themselves emitted a surprisingly healthy glow. 

For some reason, this enhanced vision lasted throughout the trip. It was as if his perception of the world had gone from standard definition to the incredible, new, HD1080p. Not only did things look sharper, but rain smelled fresher, food tasted better, railings felt smoother, and laughter of children came from all directions. 

Back at school in Ann Arbor, the inexplicable enhancement of his senses abated, but a new appreciation for the world remained. Mark felt lucky to be able to take exams offered by one of the finest universities on the planet. Instead of having to grow food on a rocky slope, he could walk two blocks and grab a burrito. Clean water flowed from a tap as opposed to being sourced from dirty gutters they had spent a week helping to install. 

A spring blizzard of stress should have risen up inside him. It didn’t. The sun came out and gratitude bloomed like purple, yellow and white crocuses covering a thawing garden. Mark hoped the feeling would last.