This is Adrian’s Mother again. Today we received Adrian’s treasured diary in the mail from an anonymous source in Haiti. Nevermind that there is no postal service in Haiti. We believe the diary was delivered by goat, but as our own mailman is fairly goat-like it is impossible to tell at the moment. We can only assume this means the worst has finally happened. Funeral plans are underway: The theme is “Jungle Fever.” Adrian was constantly scribbling in his fruity diary, so we thought it a fitting tribute to publish a few entries from his last days, in Haiti. Following is Day 1:

Edna and I flew into the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere on the classiest airline in the Western Hemisphere: Air France. They served a tasty turnover type-thing on the Air France flight and played hip music throughout. Landing in the capital of Haiti, Port-au-Prince, you see few buildings that are taller than a few stories. Small, concrete cubes stretch out below, blanketing hills and valleys. This is a city of nearly three million. The fact that it exists more horizontally than vertically makes the city both more and less impressive to fly over than a typical, densley builtup American metropolis.

The airport itself is small and dingy and reminds me of the one back home, in Vermont. It’s air conditioned, though, so you don’t feel the full force of the tropical heat until you step outside and are nearly bowled over by it. A large crowd hangs over a fence, which separates an outdoor waiting area from the entrance of the Airport. The air smells like hotdogs, but Edna assures me it’s “some other kind of meat.” As three or four taxi drivers begin accosting us and the crowd stares, I remember the State Department warning: Kidnappers will frequently pick out their victims first at the airport.

Edna’s mother has 8 brothers and sisters, and her extended family is the size of a medium-sized town. The first person we meet is her mother’s cousin who picks us up at the airport. She has a strange tic. We jump in a truck and barrel down a dusty road toward another airport, where we’re catching a small plane to the north of the country. There are no lanes on the road and, apparently, no laws. We pass a truck on the left, screaming towards an oncoming car and dart back to the right just before contact. The streets look like a giant open-air market and are lined with people selling food, trinkets and clothing, people walking, scooter repair stations.

As we pull into the smaller airport, a man comes up and starts talking loudly into our window. Then another, and another. Five or six more gather around, hanging off the side of the truck, or the back. I’m worried now about my bag, which is in the back. Now there are about 20 men covering the truck, all yelling, some reaching into the windows. There are efffectively no laws in this country, no police and a 75% unemployment rate. In January, 600 Americans were kidnapped by bandits. I should have never come here.

But the driver calls them off, pointing at two of them. I realize these people were just engaged in a particularly aggressive form of advertising for their airline. More effective than pop-ups, definitely. In the airport, we’re met by another distant relative: Wolf. Wolf dresses like an American and has an easy air about him. He waits with us for our next flight in the crowded airport. He has two cellphones, and at one point he is looking intently at one when Edna asks him a question. As he drops the phone to his lap, I catch a glimpse of the screen: A dick enters slowly into a large ass.

Every account of travel to a poor nation has to have the “scary plane ride” scene. This is mine: The plane is a Russian prop plane–everything is in Russian. As we begin to taxi, a woman shouts in Kreyole (the Hatian dialect, a mix of African languages and French) “Jesus Christ, we’re in your hands!.” I notice that the pilot’s name is “Jesus,” but I’m not much relieved as we bump into flight. A small plane makes movements that are very unsettling a couple thousand feet in the sky: Sliding, rolling, dipping. Throughout the whole flight, the woman is waving her hand and chanting prayers. The country seems beautiful below, and very mountainous. A nice place for a crash landing.

We land in Port-de-Paix (”Hallelujah!” screams the woman) and are picked up by Edna’s uncle, Geles. Geles has a big belly and an enormous, raspy voice. He seems always to be speaking above the roar of an imagined vacuum cleaner. He gives Edna a big hug and me a giant handshake. We head to his house, down rubble- and trash-strewn streets. Scooters and donkeys are everywhere. Geles’ house is a large concrete structure with 5 bedrooms, a bathroom and a small yard where a few chickens run. A goat is tied up outside. Like most houses in Haiti, it has no electricity or water–though Geles has a generator which he turns on at night. Exhausted, I head to bed. I spend the next 3 hours slapping misquitoes and drowning in my own sweat. It’s about 90 degrees. I’m in Haiti.