It was never about sex. It was more about the wind whipping your hair on the back of a motorcycle while someone tried to sell you a homemade necklace while going 25 mph on a crowded Colonial era street. It was more about limping off a sweaty taptap into a parking lot of a grocery store to find 5 friends standing around drinking beers and smoking cigarettes. It was about whatever you might find or encounter throughout your morning, day or week. Each moment more magically unknown than the next.

Haiti.

Come on in.

Sure there’s a shit ton of trash strewn about and it kinda smells in certain parts, but I promise you there’s nothing like this place wherever you’re from.

In Haiti it is possible to see the lives of generations past. You can see old women leading pack donkeys loaded down with pots and pans, shoes, oil and cloth. Modern day Target on a single mule. You can see sagging architectural renderings that most assuredly were constructed around the time of the slave revolution around 1791. The sounds of drums and homemade instruments hit the streets for a rara on a monthly and often weekly basis, these sounds of the island began with African ancestors 500 years ago.

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