DÉLIRE
It was Wednesday morning at 6am as the campus lights were switched off and the sun appeared on the horizon through the windows of my bungalow when I awoke. Suddenly, as I stepped out onto the floor, the walls and floor began to extend dramatically – the ceiling of my life, as it were, was listing and bowing uncontrollably, trying to right itself to my head’s position. Evidently I was experiencing a bout of vertigo which landed me on the floor in a split second. Scrambling to get my bearings, I crawled to the bed and propped myself up while a wave of fever and nausea washed over me – thankfully only momentarily. My dizziness abated somewhat and I was able to shower and manage the day – but not without trepidation. The next morning at about the same time, I turned to reach a small light at the bedside table and I perceived my immediate world ferris-wheeling steeply down then climbing up accompanied by a non-descript warping sound – signalling to me that I was back in the vertiginous realm only more extreme this time. I rolled onto the floor steadying myself as best I could until I was able to get up – went about my morning ablutions while holding onto walls and doors – then ventured outside hoping all would normalise soon.
It was a day when I had arranged to take a photograph of one of the second year students – by the sea in the crepuscule light – with my assistant from first year. I arrived on the scene but could hardly stand – a security guard saw me falter and quickly got me to sit down on a bench near the front entrance of the school. There, as students and staff entered for the scholastic day, I became the spectacle for all to see – in the hapless state of delirium and feebleness. A local doctor showed up and informed me that my heart was not beating regularly and that I should have an electrocardiogram test done as soon as possible. I was escorted back to my bungalow where I lay in bed until 4pm when I was collected for the EKG appointment in downtown Jacmel. The wonderful directrice of the school took me there and fielded all the information on my condition – yes I had an irregular heartbeat and I should get to a heart specialist in Port-au-Prince the next day. The voyage to Port-au-Prince along the Route de L’amitié (described in La route) was the loneliest on memory. Sitting in the back seat with increased delirium and nausea – feeling every bump and curve of the road – rolling over, being jostled and changing positions uncomfortably – not saying a word to the school’s chauffeur and assistant directrice in the front seat, I began to take stock of my past life and present circumstances. Would I have my rendezvous with mortality in this remote place – far from home and all familiarity? Should I have held closer the ones who loved me and handled better my love for them? Seems I had matured late and was still paying for the many rash choices of youth – my development hampered by petty concerns and false psychologies. What an idiot I’ve been to squander the opportunities of life! As we reached the suburbs of Port-au-Prince with their ramshackle tent cities, the depressed state outside my window became my own. We passed through the capital to Pétionville, the affluent hillside community with many hotels, terraced residences and modern shops that serviced its bourgeois white population. When I was delivered to the clinic of the heart specialist, it was like entering an oasis in the midst of dust and traffic – a walled courtyard with its palms and flowers giving cool shade and zen-like atmosphere.
The specialist, a portly Haitian woman who exuded authority and intelligence, declared that my heart was beating normally and I was perfectly healthy. No doubt the vertigo was caused by the stress of new country and job, and one more element that caused the school’s assistant directice sitting beside me to cringe: salt. According to Madame Doctor, Haitian people used far too much salt in their cooking and the fact added to my condition. The school was to reduce radically their salt intake – pointe finale. Subsequently, I was given a prescription for my vertigo and told to relax for a few days without loud sounds or sudden movements. Now all my former fears and dark musings seemed far-fetched and melodramatic – my rendezvous with mortality would have to wait – at least for now. On our return trip over the mountain, as night fell and a light rain began to fall – our camionette tried to overtake a large bus full of passengers – when a pickup truck came out of nowhere and sideswiped us – sandwiching us between the bus – causing us to crash into it sending it rolling into the roadside ditch. I was half dozing when jolted to the reality of the crash and the impact on the door on which I was leaning – thrown forward to the back of the passenger seat where thankfully, our assistant directrice had her seat belt on and was prevented from being thrust further against the dash. Our chauffeur refused to stop and it was just as well – as we sped away we heard shouting and our vehicle was being pelted by stones. The mountain roads might seem empty at night, but unseen populations live just beside it and they turn out in droves to converge on any disturbance. So I found out that in Haiti, if you were suspected of causing an accident, angry crowds would destroy your vehicle and possibly cause you bodily harm. To avoid mob rule it was more prudent to go straight to the Commissariat de Police and report the accident than to go back to see if everyone was all right. We finally made it back to the school campus – our assistant directrice with a wrenched back, me with a small scrape on my side and a banged-up knee, and our chauffeur with damaged pride and an adrenaline rush he won’t forget.
