A Wedding in Haiti, Page 3

  The road from Ouanaminthe to Cap-Haïtien is actually a very good one. We speed along, congratulating each other on our escapade at the border, and teasing Homero on his skill at bribery. “Lamentablemente,” he acknowledges, this is the way business is often done in the DR. He shares a story of visiting a national park recently with his young son, a boy of ten. No one was at the entrance gate to sell them tickets, so Homero and his son drove in, parked, and began their hike. A guard came running after them. He informed them that they had to drive back to the entrance and purchase their tickets. Homero explained that no one had been at the booth to sell them tickets. Well, then, father and son would have to come back another day, the guard persisted.

  Again Homero used the magic words, “Isn’t there a way we can resolve this little problem here now?” Homero ended up paying the guard less than half the amount he would have paid for their two tickets. Homero’s son was shocked. “Papi, you corrupted a guard!” My glee dissipates, imagining that moment when a child’s fairy-tale vision of the world begins to crack.

  As we near Cap-Haïtien, we rely on Leonardo to tell us where to turn. The map shows there is a bypass we can take, southwest to Limbé, where we’ll pick up Route 1. But unfortunately, Leonardo has only traveled back and forth on crowded buses or packed in the flatbed of a truck with two dozen migrating Haitians. At every crossroads, we have to stop so he can ask in Kreyòl where we can pick up Route 1. But calling what we’re looking for by its official name doesn’t work as well as calling it “the road to Limbé,” though sometimes the answers go in opposite directions. We might as well be asking, “How do we get to the gas station where Pablo is waiting for us?” It would probably get us better results.

  How do we find the gas station where Pablo is waiting? Once we’re reasonably sure we’re on Route 1 and headed for Limbé, we start worrying about our rendezvous. Leonardo actually has a phone number for Pablo; the problem is that none of our Dominican cell phones seem to work in Haiti. But just then, as if a deus ex machina had been paid under the table to intervene on our behalf, we find ourselves driving past a large gas station. Surely, they will have a phone we can use.

  We pull in, but unbelievably, there is no phone at the gas station. “So how do they order their gas? By passenger pigeon?” Bill quips testily. Thank goodness none of the attendants seem to understand English.

  News spreads fast, and before we know it, a young man hurries over to the pickup carrying a cordless handset with a receiver: a roving phone booth, as it were. He dials the number himself and—it seems miraculous given this setup—Pablo answers! He’s already at the gas station past Ennery, waiting for us.

  Again, we’re elated. Things are going to work out, after all. And maybe it’s the fact that he is already waiting for us that leads us to think that Ennery can’t be that far away. Leonardo guesses about an hour. Try three and a half hours on very bad roads full of what Bill calls craters, not potholes. No quaint towns or roadside stands or eating places break up our tediously slow, nerve-racking progress. The mountainous road is deserted except for the occasional bus packed with travelers or huge trucks carting fuel and supplies, all coming in the opposite direction, as if they know better than to be heading where we are going.

  Like a kid on a long car trip, I keep asking, “Are we almost there?” Leonardo’s answers downgrade from smirking affirmations to gee-whiz shrugs, as if the roads in Haiti have been shuffled around in the two years since he has been gone.

  But finally, we arrive at the station to find Pablo standing in front, holding a hanging bag to protect the suit he will wear to the wedding. Even without the hanging bag, the tall, handsome Pablo would stand out. My older sister, who is old enough to be his grandmother and still flirts with him, says Pablo is good-looking and knows it. He’s also a sweetheart of a guy. Tall, lanky, with long ropey arms, Pablo actually reminds me of Bill—that is if Bill were forty years younger, black, and not as stubborn.

  I can see why I need not have worried over which gas station we would meet up in, because this is the only station we’ve encountered since we left Limbé hours ago. The station seems to be a hub: buses stop here; motorcycle taxis wait to give travelers a ride out to their rural houses. Several businesses flank the pumps, but it’s hard to tell what transaction takes place within them, as none of them have signs. They’re also closed, though it’s well past the noon lunch hour. The only thing open is the restaurant, but it, too, is deserted. No promising centerpieces of salt and pepper, no menus posted on the wall. There is a restroom, which does the job of eliminating any desire to eat here anyway. The toilet hasn’t been flushed in ages, and there’s no water at the small sink, which explains the big barrel of standing water by the door.

  Out in the restaurant, a young woman stands at a counter watching us. Behind her, there is a kitchen area with empty shelves. Perhaps all the food got cooked up at noon. There seems to be nothing to order except a Haitian beer named Prestige.

  “It tastes a lot like Presidente,” Bill says, comparing it to the popular Dominican beer. The names also strike me as similar: Prestige, Presidente. Maybe both beer companies used the same advertising firm, specializing in developing markets in the Third World. A clever if cynical approach: pump up the poor with a little boost of self-importance as they gulp down their alcohol on an empty stomach.

  On the road to Bassin-Bleu

  We hurry our rest stop, as it’s already midafternoon. A longer road awaits us, which, according to both Pablo and Leonardo, is even worse than the one we were on, unpaved and washed out in places. And now that Pablo has joined us, we have the numbers problem I never did figure out in my sleepless travels. How are we going to get six people inside the cab?

  Someone will have to ride in back on the flatbed. Leonardo out-and-out refuses, upsetting Bill, who’s already frustrated with our useless guide. But I can understand how the young man feels: after a two-year absence, he wants to arrive home in style, not coated in white dust from the unpaved road.

  The gallant Pablo offers to ride in back. (No wonder the ladies fall for him!) But the road sends up such a dense cloud that we can’t even see Pablo through the back window. We stop. We’re not letting Pablo, or anybody, for that matter, ride in back. They’ll be asphyxiated, not just coated with white dust.

  “This is the way to become a white man in Haiti,” Pablo jokes.

  Somehow we pack four of us in that backseat, stopping only once at a roadside display where over a dozen women are selling mangoes. Each one has laid out her wares, basins and buckets overflowing with every conceivable size and color of mango, from a deep orange the size of a baseball to a yellow-green the shape of a sweet potato. Since we haven’t met many vehicles on the road, where are these women planning to find customers?

  It must be their lucky day, because soon after we stop, a truck pulls over, loaded with cane chairs and women sitting on sacks of charcoal. It turns out they aren’t stopping to buy mangoes but to check us out.

  The driver climbs down from his cab, taking this opportunity for a pit stop right on the road. But no one is looking at him. They’re all intrigued with us, and as the only woman, with me. Comments and calls waft down.

  In response, I reach my hands to them, and then, punch-silly from the terrible road, I call up, “Oh angels from on high, send your blessings down on me!” Pablo translates. The women must think this is hilarious, because they burst into laughter. Maybe there’s a future for me as a stand-up comic in Haiti?

  The stop lightens our spirits. There is something blessed about connecting with people so seemingly different with something as simple as laughter, though I suppose it would also work with tears.

  From Pablo, who has been in most recent contact, we find out that we will actually be meeting up with Piti in Bassin-Bleu, an hour south of Port-de-Paix. Piti’s family lives up in the mountains, west of the city, but Pablo believes the wedding will be taking place in a church right in town. It makes sense for us to stay in a hotel in Bassi
n-Bleu and not head out to the countryside tonight to be introduced to Piti’s family, whom we will meet tomorrow at the wedding anyway. After nine hours on the road, it feels good to anticipate our arrival.

  Bassin-Bleu, Bassin-Bleu, Bassin-Bleu, the alliterative name becomes my mantra. The promise of a bath, supper, a night of rest . . . A Graham Greene scene begins playing in my head—the handicap of readers whose first experience of a place is often in print: expats with a past, beautiful women, a terrace, palm trees swaying under the stars, soft lights at the bar, drinks with little umbrellas, hip-swaying music. What will I order for dinner?

  But after a couple of hours, the hot, gritty reality breaks in. Spirits flag. We are weary, we are hungry, cramped and cranky inside the cab. The going is rough: washed-out roads, impromptu detours through dried river­beds. Suddenly I start wondering what would happen if it should rain? What if the rivers flood? We’ve taken the precaution of bringing a tarp to protect our luggage, but what about our lives? More immediately, what if the pickup breaks down?

  Almost as if in answer, we come upon a stand, a shredded tarp thrown over four poles. Nailed to the poles are horizontal bars draped with every conceivable automotive part you can think of.

  It looks like a vehicle has been disemboweled and its entrails are on display. Hanging from a nearby branch, a sign reads:

  JEAN JONAS AUTOPARTS

  PIECES POUR: TOYOTA-ISUZU

  GROS CAMION-MOTO-BICYCLETTE

  That about covers everything we’ve seen on this road. No sign, however, of Jean Jonas, though across the way, there is a church made of small river stones. It must have taken forever to build, but at least the materials were portable. The church is locked up, not a soul in sight. But perhaps Jean Jonas is inside praying for a customer as we ride by.

  Arrival at Bassin-Bleu

  For the dangling carrot at the end of a nine-hour stick of bad roads, Bassin-Bleu turns out to be a disappointment. This is not the Bassin-Bleu you will get among the top hits if you Google Bassin-Bleu, Haiti. Instead, you’ll be directed to the beautiful waterfalls, also known as Bassin-Bleu, frequented by visitors in the hills west of Jacmel in the lusher, more prosperous south. This Bassin-Bleu is a dry, dusty city of empty streets and deserted-looking wooden houses. The few concrete residences have iron grilles in front, the doors locked, the windows closed, the shutters shut.

  We park on the main thoroughfare, looking around for Piti. It occurs to me: where exactly in this city of thirty thousand are we to meet him? “Meet you in Bassin-Bleu” is not exactly like saying, “Meet you in the only gas station on the road between Limbé and Ennery.”

  But by now, I’ve surrendered to the rhythms of this adventure, albeit with periodic attacks of anxiety, when the road washes out or the possibility of flash floods or other misadventures occur to me. I’m trusting in angels from on high to shed their blessings down on all of us. And this approach seems to be working: Pablo and Leonardo go in one of the houses and return with good news. They’ve called Piti, who is setting out right now from the countryside and should be here very soon. “Very soon” turns out to be another of those flexible terms, like “almost there.” We will wait for over an hour before Piti arrives.

  “It seems the wedding will not be in Bassin-Bleu,” Pablo adds, as if this is an insignificant detail.

  My heart sinks. Have we come so far for nothing? “So where is the wedding going to be?”

  “Where the bride lives.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Just beyond where Piti’s family lives.”

  I decide not to ask how far that is.

  What’s surprising is that Pablo has found out this information, not from Piti himself, but from the inhabitants of the house where he made the phone call. According to them, there are no weddings scheduled in any of the Bassin-Bleu churches tomorrow.

  How do they know? The city is sizable enough to merit its name on maps. But this is not the first time I’ve been astonished by the capacity of oral cultures in our so-called underdeveloped little countries to get the news out. By now, all of Bassin-Bleu must know about the arrival of three whites, one brown Dominican, and two Haitians, looking for a wedding that will not be taking place in any Bassin-Bleu church tomorrow.

  In front of where we are parked, a couple of girls sit on a concrete stoop leading up to one of the locked houses. They watch us with sidelong glances, but continue with their work: one is braiding the other’s hair.

  A young man in a sky-blue shirt with a Lacoste logo and a notebook approaches us. He looks professional, perhaps because of the notebook, the logo shirt, the folded arms of someone sizing us up. He knows a little English. “Hello, my friend, can I help you?” he asks me.

  I smile, uneasily. Something about him reminds me of pushy salesladies following me around in a store. “No thank you. We are just waiting for a friend.”

  The girl who was having her hair combed joins him, her front braiding still unfinished, so she has a wild Afro on the aft part of her head like the mane of a lion. As the pair examines me, their glances change from curiosity to a look of blatant appraisal that disappears me and sees only what of value I am wearing.

  The girl starts in, pointing to a little medallion on a gold chain around my neck, and then to herself. I shake my head. Although she can’t understand me, I explain that it’s my Virgencita. She protects me. The girl points to my left hand. How about the rings? I explain: this is my wedding ring, this is my engagement ring. On my right hand are my high school graduation ring and a garnet ring that belonged to Bill’s mother. Suddenly, I see myself through this girl’s eyes: a white woman wearing a watch, a medallion, earrings, and four rings. I am a rich woman in Haiti and flaunting it.

  “I am hungry,” the young man takes up the petitioning. “Give me something.” The plea becomes more and more insistent. The girl joins in. If the roadside encounter with the truckload of women early this afternoon was a moment of grace, all differences obliterated as we joined in laughter, this encounter is its opposite. A gulf has opened between us, one that cannot be bridged by humor or friendship or courtesy. I turn away, reduced to my possessions, feeling the insult of my presence in this place.

  Meeting no success with me, they turn to the men in my party. The young woman asks the man in the blue shirt to translate a phrase for her. “Come to me,” she repeats, addressing Homero, who grins and shrugs. She gets the same response from Eli and Bill. Leonardo and Pablo have been hanging back, not fully understanding that this is not a friendly encounter. But now they come forward and extricate us.

  Accommodations?

  While we are waiting for Piti, we decide to check out the hotels. We ride down to the corner gas station, and a discussion ensues in Kreyòl. We finally get the translation: it turns out there are only two hotels in Bassin-Bleu, and one is not completed; in fact, construction stopped a while ago. The other hotel is a deserted-looking building beside the gas station with a dangling sign in front that reads HOTEL & RESTAURANT. The door is locked. We peer through the dirty windows at the abandoned lobby. No trace of a restaurant within. The word goes out to the owner that he might have some customers.

  A large man appears in a ripped T-shirt and cutoffs, a bandana around his head. He has the build of a football player and an impressive keychain, which marks him as an important man around town. Someone who owns things that have to be kept under lock and key. It takes him a while to locate the key that will open the hotel door. Not a good sign. When was the last time there was a guest in this town? It turns out that the restaurant is not presently operating, but the owner can provide a meal if we’d like one. As for water and electricity, unfortunately, the generator for the city has been broken for months.

  We pick our way through the trash heaped in the hallways inside. Even in the waning light, the tour confirms our suspicion: every room is filthy, the beds unmade, a coating of dust everywhere. The closed-up rooms are like saunas without air conditioning, ventilation, or fans.


  But even if we decide to stay here—because what other options are there?—where would we put our vehicle overnight? The hotel has no secure parking area. “I’m not leaving the pickup out here,” Bill declares, shaking his head at me as if I’ve suggested any such thing. I can guess what he’s thinking. If he leaves the pickup on the street, by tomorrow its disassembled parts will be part of Jean Jonas’s inventory.

  As we are conferring outside about what to do, Piti appears, walking briskly down the road that leads into town, flanked by two young men who turn out to be his brothers, Jimmy and Willy. They might as well be angels coming from on high, we are so pleased to see them. Piti rushes toward us, his arms spread in welcome, his face radiant. We hug him, we hug his brothers.

  “Little Piti is getting married!” we half-tease, half-congratulate him. He grins from ear to ear, and the years fall away. For the moment, the problem with accommodations is forgotten.

  When he hears our predicament, Piti explains that his family will put us up. All along, this has been his plan. As for a meal, there is also food. “But we are poor,” Piti adds apologetically. “There is not much food. But there is food.” We decide to visit a supermarket before we leave town and buy some supplies to contribute to the meal. This turns out to be harder than we think. There seems to be no supermarket in Bassin-Bleu, and the market is not opened at this hour. But an onlooker points to the station. There is a minimarket inside. We walk over to check it out.

  It is interesting to consider what consumer food products have found their way to this remote corner of Haiti: ten bottles of Del Monte ketchup, half a dozen big boxes of cornflakes, four cans of Pringles, some cartons of fruit juices, five jars of mayonnaise, a stack of evaporated milk cans, and some jars with red lids whose beige contents might be peanut butter. There is also a whole top shelf of wine bottles and hard liquor. In short, nothing to make a supper out of, although we could just clean out the alcohol and the chips and make a wedding rehearsal bash out of it! But that wouldn’t work. As devout evangelicals, Piti and his family will not touch alcohol.