First Impressions

Our flight was 2 hours late, so we got into Haiti after dark.  Getting through the airport went just about as we had expected, with a bus across the tarmac to immigration, then search for our bags, then passing through customs.  We had been told to expect a $2 fee to rent a cart, or $2 per bag to one of the many porters who would be vying to help us.  One man collected my $2 for a cart, and I thought that would be it, but of course, he wanted a little more for himself – another $2.  I thought this would enable us to traverse the 500 yards to the HAS pick up area on our own, but as soon as we walked out the gate we were just swarmed by aggressive porters.

They all were wearing the same madras shirt and khaki pants.  Jake said later that he instinctively wanted to push me behind him to shield me.  (Yeah, Jake!  But I was already behind him.)  Immediately, though, we saw a man holding the white HAS sign, which we hadn’t expected to see until we reached the pick-up area, because the HAS drivers are not allowed to enter the airport.  It turned out that our driver sent a porter in to meet us because he was concerned about it being dark.  He told me that he had chosen a well known man named “Bo,” a man who had only one arm (for a long time, not just since the earthquake) in order to give him some work.  Bo wanted $10 for all 5 of our bags, but there was a hanger-on with him who wanted some money, too.  Bo said “it’s OK, I’ll give him some,” but he didn’t, so when we got to the car, the other guy talked us into giving him $4 more, so we paid $18 to get our bags to the car!  We got taken, but we didn’t mind helping.

Once in the vehicle, an air-conditioned Toyota Land Cruiser, we headed to the nearby Visa Lodge to collect the earlier arrivals who had to wait there much of the day for us.  Along the way there were pockets of electric lights, but most buildings were dark.  We turned into a rocky track that sloped uphill between darkened buildings brightly painted with words and illustrations, bumping and turning here and there, until we rounded one corner and were met with the sight of 4 or 5 big grey hogs rooting around in a patch of garbage next to a painted wall.  Moments later, we passed a roofless cinder block building, its front wall broken down in a stair-step pattern, behind which our headlights illuminated a young woman in a green shirt sitting in a chair against the side wall, just gazing, all alone in the dark, empty shell.  Just beyond this was a collection of tents with people gathered around one or two gas flames, food set out, music playing, with a dozen adults and children dancing and chattering in the night.

The Visa Lodge was an oasis in all of this, a pleasantly lit, 2-story butterscotch colored building with cream pillars, fuschia bougainvillias, and a wide staircase leading to a trellised patio. While the driver went up to collect our riders, Jake and I sat in shock at the disparate vignettes we had just passed in one little block of the road.

Age, gender, and timing won me the front seat, for which I was grateful, not only for potential motion sickness, but also because I could see so much better.  Once the three new men, who were public health physicians and grad students from Yale, joined Jake on the side-facing bench seats behind the luggage, we set off through the Port-au-Prince night.

Roads were bumpy, barely paved, narrow, and crowded with cars and trucks, tap taps (brightly colored pile-on, pile-off transports), motorcycles, and people.  We learned later that because the resolution of the contested runoff for the presidential election had just been announced that day (disputed candidate out, apparently legitimate candidates in), there was a travel advisory in Port-au-Prince for fear of renewed unrest.  But people were apparently satisfied with the situation as they milled about, busy with socializing and commerce.

There were stalls, stands, and tables all over with people selling all sorts of things such as mangoes, packaged goods, and Coke from ice chests (I don’t know if there was any ice).  Many were illuminated by the same single flames we had seen before, with some kind of fuel source set on a table or up on a higher surface.  People, cars, and motorcycles vied for space along the dusty, chunky road, but thankfully, no one could go very fast.

Soon we turned into a walled compound with a guard toting a rifle at the gate.  This, we learned, was the HAS office in Port-au-Prince, where we picked up a Haitian woman for the ride to the hospital.  By now there were more trees, smoother, straighter roads, and fewer people.  Eventually we headed out of the city.  Every so often we’d pass a motorcycle with 2, 3, or even 4 people aboard.

Buildings were more intact out here, and often we’d see a sort of cantina lit up with strings of colored lights.  At one point, we passed a broad, well lit building set back a bit from the road.  Through the wide-open double doors, I could see a full congregation, the white-robed priest facing outwards with arms outstretched.  It was 8:00 on a Thursday night.

After a while we reached a town with lots of walled compounds and trees planted alongside the road, short palms on the left and bushier trees on the right, that went on for miles.  I commented to our driver in French, and he told me the name of the town was Cavale, but it used to be called Duvallierville.  I couldn’t quite make out the name until he said Baby Doc, and then I understood:  Baby Doc established the town during his regime, but when was exiled, they changed the name.  I managed a joke, saying in French, “And now that he is back…?”  And he laughed, meaning no, they were not going to go back to the name Duvallierville!

We passed through several little towns near the beach.  The beaches themselves were walled off, because a fee is charged to enter which is beyond the capacity of most Haitians to pay.  Apparently, one of them used to be a Club Med.  Further on, we wound through the hills, twisting and turning through little villages where from time to time we’d see a western-style store called Deli-Mart, but more often colorful cantinas and tall, crooked buildings.  There were also little shacks mashed up against one another, maybe 8 feet wide and tall at the most, with hand painted lettering indicating their offerings.  One little pair advertised “auto parts” and “bank.”

At one point during the drive, we passed a big, haphazardly parked open-back truck with its cab tilted forward, obviously broken down.  Like many Haitian vehicles, it was brightly painted with pictures and words.  This particular truck seemed emblematic of Haiti, in its broken state, emblazoned in large, happy letters along the side, “LA VIE CONTINUE.”  Life goes on.