From haunting darkness to embarrassing light

It hit me suddenly. I was too embarrassed to talk; in fact, I was speechless for several minutes. That's unusual for me. I just didn't know what to say, or more importantly, how to say what shook me up out my window.

We had just cleared the runway at Dallas-Fort Worth, headed for my home in the Northwest. I had boarded the plane hoping to end a long day of travel with some needed rest. In the aisle seat of my row sat a young-looking black man. I asked him if he would prefer a window seat, since I had been traveling all day and didn't need to look out anymore. In clear but accented English, the young man said, no thank you. He had been traveling also, and felt the same way about looking out at the night.

I had left the city of Port de Paix on the north coast of Haiti in pitch darkness at 5 a.m. The haunting darkness of a place — on this same Earth — that has no electricity most of the time had struck me at the start of my trip home.

Except for the bright building that housed the United Nations mission, the five-mile trip to the airport there had been encased in total darkness. The journey takes close to an hour during the day. It is slightly faster at night since the traffic is greatly reduced.

As the sun rose, we boarded a small plane for the hour flight to Port au Prince and the international airport, and then a flight to Florida and on to Texas, both daylight flights.

My buddies and I had been going for about nine hours by this time, and we had already solved most of the world's problems — in our minds, anyway. I just wanted to get home.

As I often start conversations with people from other cultures and countries, I asked where my seatmate's accent came from.

He explained that he was from Haiti! And the conversation started, even bringing in one of my fellow travelers in the row ahead of ours.

My seatmate was a medical doctor who grew up in a small village at the far west tip of Haiti, where he could see the lights of Cuba on a clear night. His mother was a missionary. Through hard work and by applying for monetary assistance, he had become a leader in HIV-AIDS prevention and treatment. He had served in several areas of Africa and other Third World destinations, and was to speak at a conference at the University of Washington.

We asked many, many questions. We were hoping to glean some information that would facilitate the same sort of opportunities for other Haitians. We exchanged addresses and e-mail contacts, and then it was time to take off.

I could only imagine the mind of this man of so much promise, who saw his future as serving his fellow countrymen in his native country, without a thought as to what kind of money or possessions he could have with his talents and training.

As we cleared the runway, I gazed out the window at a sea of what seemed to be a bazillion lights.

It made me think about how little it would take — just turning off one light per household — and how the money saved could probably light the whole country of Haiti.

I just told him I was sorry, that there are some Americans who wish Haiti a better future.

He understood, because the lights had struck him, too: so much light, so much waste.

When we arrived in Seattle, I stayed with him to make sure he made his connections and then bid him goodbye and good luck.

Larry Bailly is a resident of Snohomish. A mechanic by trade, he spends time in Haiti in support of missionaries and an orphanage/medical-treatment facility, the House of Hope, in La Pointe, Haiti. E-mail him at baillybusbarn@juno.com