Strange New World

 

As we approach Haiti from the air, we look down on an ocean glittering in shades of turquoise and aqua. We see a submerged ship, sailboats with tall masts, and a freighter or two. The sky is blue and dotted with clouds. From the air as we approach Port-au-Prince, we see small houses  throughout the countryside with rusty corrugated roofs. As we taxi in  to the small airport, one of the concrete buildings has an enormous gash in the ceiling, no doubt a remant of the eatthquake. We land, deplane, walk through the immigration desks, and enter chaos.

The luggage area is a mob scene. The space is a small concrete room with what seem to be hundreds of people and bags everywhere. We collect our bags, pass through another immigration counter, and see with delight Pere Walins, who kisses us and hugs us and welcomes us to Haiti. Collecting the bags is zany, with dozens of men wanting to help us (for pay). We load the bags and exit. We see Jim Crosby! We see Johnny Wilson! We see our rented vehicles and cross to them at real risk to our lives.

A barbed wire fence rims the edge of the parking area, and young boys reach through the wire, begging plaintively. When they see me, their efforts increase. "Do not forget me, sister! Oh, do not forget me!" they say in English. I feel profoundly uneasy for not giving them something--but we have been told to not give money to beggars, even children.

We stop a mile or two down the road to pass around snacks and drinks. (The boys like the MagicTime Yummy Tummy potato crisps.) Two little  boys in red approach our group. They're rubbing their stomachs and holding out their hands to us. "Mesi, mesi!" they beg. "Grangou!"  I ask Yvonne if it's okay to give them snacks. "No," she says. "It will start a rush toward us."

Ursula comes up to me and asks if we can give them drinks. I repeat what Yvonne has told me.  As we leave, Johnny hands them very discreetly some snacks and a few dollars. ""Shh!" he says. They nod their heads with enormous grins on their face.

We drive through Port-au-Prince. The driving is absolutely nightmarish, with motorcycles darting everywhere and drivers deciding at will to turn two lane roads into one-way roads. White vehicles with large black block letters "UN" go by.

Port-au-Prince is a city of about three milllion, and today it seems that all three million are somewhere on the city streets. "Oh, look, that man has a bull on the city streets," Philip says. He's right. An old man leads a small bull with a rope. Later we see a couple of donkeys and and maybe twenty small horses or ponies being herded through the narrow urban streets.

 Everywhere we look, people balance their possesions on their heads. Primarily women but also men balance corrugated boxes, plastic bins, baskets, plastic sacks, tin buckets, Igloo coolers--anything that could possibly be a container-on their heads. We see people carrying huge sacks of rice, vegetables and fruit, laundry, water buckets, snacks, enormous bundles of hay, soft drinks, and more perched up top, poetry in motion.

Brightly colored tap-taps go by, loaded with bags of concrete, garlic, plantains, charcoal, whatever, with people riding on top of the bags. Street kids who beg are fearless. They come right up to the window, tap, kiss the window, grab rags and "wash" the window. They are very persistent. As trucks pass by, they jump on the backs, or ride on the bumpers, then jump off.

The road we're on now is a narrow  one, rutted, with rubble and trash and people everywhere. Schoolchildren in neat plaid uniforms are walking home from school. A man in a suit is riding behind another on a motorcycle. People sell wares (used shoes, T-shirts, food, odds and ends, household appliances, electronic gear, used clothing, irons, sugar cane, bottled drinks) scattered on blankets. Small shops line the sides of the street for miles, all with people sitting or standing in front of the brightly colored concrete fronts. Some shops are made from natural materials or corrugated tin. The traffic is relentless. The road is rutted enough to jostle the car. Lonely Planet recommends that women wear sports bras at all times when traveling in Haiti for just this reason.

Once we drive out of town, the road is smooth and our pace picks up. We're on the main highway (40) into the mountains, and trucks are everywhere. We start a climb on a 7 percent grade up the mountain. Soon my ears are popping as we increase altitude. This is the road that maybe six years ago was rough, bumpy, and washing out. This part was paved before the eathquake and has reduced the time to Hinche from seven hours or more to maybe two.

The land is barren because of deforestation. It's bright and hot. Despite the heat and grade, people are walking up the hill with bundles on their heads. A little boy leads his goat on a string.  

Yikes! Our green Toyota truck driven by Napolean, Pere Walin's driver, which is carrying the luggage , is nearly run off the road by a passing car. The truck was pulling out to pass, but athe aggressive car from behind pulled out faster and tried to pass the passing car--so there were three cars abreast on the two-lane road, two of them in the lane for oncoming traffic. Everyone holds their breath. Then we swerve around a dump truck that is almost stalled in the road because the grade is too steep. The turns on the mountain road are hairpin sharp. Soon we're on the other side. Coming up the road, a very small boy is smacking a donkey hard on the flanks to get him to go up the hill. Another giant truck is stopped in the road with car parts spilling out from underneath it. Johnny deftly swerves around it. He points out some brightly painted houses: blue and pink, green and yellow. He says he wants to paint his house in Rosedale in the bright colors, but he's not sure if Debra will let him. Huts and tents provide more shelter.

We arrived at the rectory of St. Andres wtih fanfare--lots of cars, people, and greetings. We were served cold drinks and then shortly thereafter a nice meal of kabrit (goat), fried plantains, meritons, cabbage, a fried vegetable that sound like okra but isn't, a delicious rice dish, and then a kind of bread pudding with bananas and cinnamon.

Pere Walin's Friday night Lenten service is filled with nicely dressed Haitian women, children, some men, and a surprising number of teenagers. Church is at five; outside, as the sun sets, the streets are lively with Hinche citizens enjoying the cool night breeze.

Out kids go out with James, Pere Walin's seventeen-year-old assistant, and walk through the breezy and crowded streets of Hinche. Then everyone goes up to the best place in all of Haiti--Pere Wallin's rooftop patio--to play cards, talk, laugh, sing, strum guitars. Then we go to our comfortable rooms already hung with mosquito nets for welcome sleep.