A Peacock in Winter

My brother called me the other night and told me about the earthquake in Haiti.

There were two reasons for this.

The first is the fact that Haiti is pretty damn close to Florida where he lives and he wanted to talk about whether I thought that a possible tsunami was coming. I had just left Southeast Asia in 2004 when the tsunami hit so he thought I might have some special knowledge on this topic.

The second was because he knew I had been to Haiti for my former job a few times and wanted to gently alert me to the fact that I should maybe start making some phone calls to check-in on friends and former colleagues.

I had jet-lag, it was the middle of the night, and I barely processed the information. I managed to get online and see the first reports but, like most people, didn't want to believe it was as bad as it was.

Haiti has always suffered. I couldn't believe it could get any worse than it had been in the past. I couldn't comprehend it.

"Luis is dead," my friend said this morning, finding me on Skype.

It took me a minute or two and then I understood what she was saying.

I was in shock.

Many years ago, as I was breaking into the very male-dominated world of peacekeeping and military operations, I met a Brazilian lieutenant colonel in Kosovo. His name was Luis Carlos da Costa and he was larger than life.

I was most definitely NOT larger than life at that time and was intimidated as hell about a new job where I seemed to be the only chick in a world of men.

I tried to be brave, most times, but then I would go back to my hotel at night and think, "Shit, I am scared out of my mind. How am I ever going to do this? No one thinks I am serious, how can I get anyone to accept that I am?"

Enter Luis.

He was everything that you would expect a Brazilian to be: grandiose, adoring, over-the-top...and smart as hell. He took a liking to me and offered to show me around Kosovo...a country that was still smoldering from the recent war.

Everything was grey in Kosovo. Everything was still smoking. People were still shells.

Everything was a shade of grey.

It was my first fundamental experience in a war zone.

And Luis was like a peacock in the bleakest landscape of winter.

He offered me his time and wisdom for hours in the one hotel that had survived the war. He bought us glass after glass of wine as he shared so much of his knowledge on peacekeeping operations and the military.

I kept expecting him to hit on me but he never did.

He was the ultimate peacock and the ultimate gentleman.

He had a true heart of gold and thought he could save the world. And, quite honestly, he was doing a pretty damn good job of it in Kosovo.

Anyway, I got a hell of a lot braver after meeting Luis and, for many years, I would call him to ask for advice on a whole range of topics. He always had time for me.

One time we met at his home in Brazil and he insisted that I show him that I had learned how to shoot a gun...and I nearly shot both his dog AND his 95-year old mother.

Another time we spent a few hours in an airport together as he quickly looked over the manuscript of the book I was writing and editing on peacekeeping operations.

"Good, good!" he kept repeating. "Remember when you were so unsure in Kosovo years ago? Now...look at this!" he said, tapping the pages.

The last I heard from him, and this seemed like years ago, he sent out a mass email saying he was going to Haiti to be second-in-command of the United Nations peacekeeping force there.

I wrote him back to congratulate him and he replied, "Always an open door for you, cara mia."

Now Luis is gone.

And, as the news continues to trickle in, I am beginning to realize I have lost so many other friends as well.

But, just for today, I mourn Luis.

Always the brightest peacock in winter and a man with a heart that knew no boundaries.

Thank you, my friend. Godspeed.