After night full of fierce thunder and lightning (it looked as if someone was taking pictures through the window and the building shook with each thunder clap) we had breakfast at the hotel and carried our bags ten minutes up the road to the ferry dock. After boarding and finding seats, we sat in the belly of the ship for at least an hour and a half. After the boat finally set off we moved up to the upper deck where it was much cooler and less crowded. We arrived at the opposite side of the strait on the island of la Gonaive. Among the crowded and hectic pier we spotted our contacts who spirited us away to an awaiting red pick up truck. Soon we had all of our bags as well as 15 people crammed into the back of the truck. After a two hour bone-rattling, butt-crushing, jarring ride I can rank he roads on the island among the worst in the world. But it is not without pros. The mountainous interior is very isolated, little comes in from the outside. This long ride, which leaves me sore as I sit on a bench writing this, is one my lasting memories from seven years ago. We met our host family and settled in for the night. The challenge of the day: learning a new card game without speaking each other’s language.

After a pretty bad night, thanks to all you trillions of mosquitoes out there and your mosquito nets and your buzzing and your tropical nights, we began our day by heading over the hill to the house of an old woman named Anita. We met Chris at the house where Anita had about 5 pounds of beans already roasting over a fire on her front porch, we took turns stirring the beans in their pot. Once they had all been blackened they poured in at least six cups of sugar and stirred into a rice-crispy like blob. It was then removed from the fire and set out on a battered reed map. After only a few minutes it was put inside a log that had been hollowed out from one end. Then we took turns “grinding” the coffee by pounding it with a large stick. After twenty minutes of pounding, we brewed the fine powder into the BEST coffee I have ever tasted. The whole process, lasting at least an hour if not more while sitting in the middle of the jungle with old ladies singing funny songs about coffee (pounding coffee has no friends) was all so rustic and idyllic. Twas pretty coolio-neato. The coffee itself was super-duper sweet but wasn’t to sharp as sugar can be. The dense, heavy bread that we live on was also really nice when dipped.

Early in the morning (but not too early) we headed with Emanuel and some local boys to the bat caves and the spring. When plodded our way down the steep slope, slipping and sliding, down to the cave’s entrance. The gaping maw of the mountain was quite unfriendly looking, but I had been in once before. Once inside you squeeze past stalagmites and stalactites into the three chambers. The first is nothing but the second is something to write about. A cylinder about 3 meters wide and 12 tall, it tapered to a small skylight that illuminated the cave. Bats are flying in and out of the chamber, squeaking and some coming a little to close to our heads. If you shine the light up into some of the darker recesses you dozens of the little things hanging as bats do. The ground was a little squishy with guano, but it wasn’t too bad. As we passed into the next chamber I was careful with my feet, remembering the six-inch tarantula I had nearly stepped on two days before. The third chamber, the largest and absolutely black, was swimming with bats. There seemed like a few hundred bats hanging from above. After some gazing and a few pictures, we left for the spring. On the way back, while snacking at some exotic fruit trees, I had a little run with a branch covered in spikes. After I stumbled out I found two inch-long thorns, one submerged just above the back of my ankle, the other broken off in my big toe. Very fortunately, I had put my swiss-army knife in my daypack the night before, so we were able to half pull, half cut the thing out. It was a grueling affair.

Friday is market day here, and is by far the busiest and most exciting day of the week. Early in the morning you seen donkeys piled high with goods head down the road towards the town, about an hour on foot. We left fairly late compared to most people, but we took a shortcut that proved not only to be the scenic route, but about 15 minutes shorter than the road. The market is a loud, crowded, dirty, hectic place. We were lost and confused, and without Emanuel, who know where we would have ended up. One of the best things that happened all week, we bought little plastic bags of flavored ice, the first cool thing we’d had in a week. Mostly we bought food, of which a good portion was shared, rather unwillingly with our entourage of young boys. We bought a stick of sugarcane, well over a meter long to have later. Along each of the roads and paths leading into the market, there were hundreds of donkeys tied o trees and each other. It was quite a sight. We filled our bags with fruit and amenities and headed back home, having whetted our appetites for something new.