Arrival

The Air Jamaica jet bumped its way through the mist nine hours late and most of the lights below never grew brighter. I looked incredulously upon a wonderful scene, my first and I guess most impressive of Port au Prince. There were no tall buildings visible in the darkening landscape. A mountain grew up from the sea. Streams of traffic flowed during the commute hours on several arteries. Trees everywhere softened the outline of the architecture. Small fires trailed smoke toward me. The amber of kerosene lamps in contrast with the brightness of pressurised ones and evenness of electric lighting counter-pointed the deepening shadows of evening. Oh yes, and the candles, the candles’ pinpoints like diamonds were everywhere on this dark mountain in this light mist.

We bumped harder, braking retro-jets screamed and we rolled evenly forward then turned and drove toward what I thought must have been a mistake. I guess I thought the lights of the city of Port au Prince would have shown brighter when one was aground but this looked like it did from the sky. Even the Francois Duvalier International Airport Terminal building only had a few lights on in different sections.

The pilot finally and briefly let us know where we were by announcing simply, “Porta prince” in a distinctly condescending aspect of his Jamaican accent.

Most of the people were up and in the aisle pushing to get off before the plane had stopped. Most of the passengers were shades and tints of brown, were smiling and laughing and talking and all carried bundles, even the finer dressed. After most of the people had descended the plane I unfastened my seatbelt. I retrieved my day pack and camera case, shouldered them and with the few whites aboard made my way quietly to the hatchway. The stewardess looked at me with concern in her eyes, bit her lip and said, “I hope… you have a nice stay.” more as a eulogy than a salutation.

There were two uniformed guards, armed with machine guns, at the bottom of the staircase, who both stared at me as I struggled to breathe in the humid furnace I was stepping down into. But they did not say anything to me so I followed the disordered queue to the immigration window. Since most of the people in front of me were Haitian the line moved swiftly. The few white passengers ahead of me had their passports stamped, a question asked and passed through. When my turn came, the two guards from the staircase were there and talking to two other guards near the immigration windows while openly pointing at me. These guards, in turn, went to one of the immigration officers, said a few words, which my immigration officer took note of and they all looked over in my direction, assessing me. I got nervous, began practicing my inadequate French and summoned up the courage and conviction not to be intimidated.

“Bon soir, monsieur.” The big eyes of the immigration officer were smiling.

“Bon soir, monsieur oficial.” I responded, my mind suddenly blanking out any further French, “…habla, I mean, uh, parlez vous anglais, monsieur?”

“Mai oui, monsieur, me autre idiom is englisch.” He said, almost laughing at his counter mixture of language.

I looked at his skinny neck and seeing that he was sweating also, I decided that even though he seemed an officious bureaucrat he was probably human.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“San Francisco. “ I answered.

“Oh… are your family Haitian?” he asked.

I thought about wanted refugees from Papa and Baby Docs, but decided to tell the truth anyway.

“My great grandmother was Haitian.”

He smiled a ‘gotcha’ smile, turned to the other waiting immigration officer and guards and rattled off a melodic language, a mixture of French, something else, Spanish, something else, tongue smacking, something else. One did a high pitch whooping laugh, none looked at me. I looked at the passengers’ startled eyes behind me.

“What was your gran mer’s name, Haitian name, family name, monsieur? And have you visited Haiti before?”

‘Oh shit.’ I thought, “Williams.” I said. “No, I have never been here before.”

They started an animated conversation about these statements, the words lemonade, du cap, nord and williamson mentioned at times almost in argument. I was sweating, the waiting passengers were sweating, the immigration officers and guards were sweating, the corners of the building were sweating.

One of the guards came over to me holding his Armalite across his chest, finger on the trigger, but I noticed, curiously there was no magazine in the weapon.

“Monsieur,” he said solemnly, “monsieur, please take your passport and come with me.”

I looked him in the eyes, my heart in my throat, my poker face showing and decided I would not waste talk on him but the next person would hear and bear my anger. I thought, as I followed him to the other guards and my immigration officer, these guys don’t even have bullets in their guns. Of course I was armed with my broken tipped boat knife and somewhere in my pack a Swiss Army knife…

The five men faced me, the immigration officer opened a door. I thought of making a break for it, but where?, back to Air Jamaica? Where? We went through another door to an open hall with passengers getting their luggage, rental car stalls, luggage carriers hawking and bargaining for their services, all this echoing from the plain high ceiling to the polished floors. I noticed only two guards were with us now.

“Where is your luggage, monsieur?” the immigration officer asked me. He was taller then I thought before.

I spotted my duffel rotating on the belt and pointed it out. A guard retrieved it.

“What hotel did you reserve, monsieur?”

“I didn’t.” I responded. “I was going to see about a hostel or pension, something cheap.” I explained.

We walked to a main entrance past customs men and luggage carriers looking offended by our transit. Outside, one of my guards snapped his fingers for a taxi. The taxi man got out casually, opened his trunk, came and took my bag.

The three men gathered round me and each said warmly, all putting their hands on my shoulders,

“Welcome on your return to Haiti.”

“Welcome, monsieur, to Haiti.”

“Welcome, monsieur, to the land of your gran mer, your land.”

The immigration officer said something to the taxi driver, joining him in a laugh as he closed the trunk. The driver smiled at me, clicked his teeth and opened the door.

I got in, still not quite sure what had happened. I explained what had happened to the cab driver in French, English and Spanish intermixed of course. He said (in French, English, Spanish and Creole), “Yes, you see there are not a lot of Black North Americans who visit Haiti, and then to receive one who has Haitian blood in his veins, mon sher, it is a great thing to us.”

Outside we passed music, lights, action. At nine o’clock the streets were crowded, everybody was doing something. Smells hit me. Shit, roasting chicken, gas fumes, kerosene, candle wax, sweat. Laughter hit me. High pitched, groaning, gurgling, giggling, a boisterous life all around. Teeth, hands, tilted hats, full dresses (most unbuttoned in the back), burdens of anything and everything held on heads while people moved or stood still talking. The streets were alleys and avenues, tree lined or broken, guttered and gutted, asphalt, cobbled or mudded.

Music boomed, slow meringues, classical baroque, salsa, rock, socca, rap, reggae. The driver blew his horn constantly as everybody driving was doing, and talked about how he loved and hated New York. But mostly how he loved Haiti.

I was excited. I wanted to get out into this… I wanted to see what this was. If I didn’t have my gear and luggage, and if it wasn’t so hot I would have gotten out of the cab to wade into Port au Prince there and then.

We tried several hostels and pensions but the driver thought their rates too high. Lots of Europeans in town was his explanation. We finally landed one, the proprietor a cousin of a cousin of his, a price was struck and I was assigned a room. When I came back down from seeing the room the driver was gone and my luggage stood at the desk.

“I haven’t paid him.” I complained to the manager/owner/cousin.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said languidly, “He said to say, ‘Welcome back.’”

I had tears in my eyes, then on my cheeks. The manager nodded and began to write in his book, while I wiped the tears away quickly.

“We have breakfast from six to eight, monsieur.”

“Six to eight.” I repeated, taking up my luggage, feeling the heat again all at once as I lifted them onto my shoulders, and made my way to my small room one flight up.

The noise from the streets came through the walls, so after dumping everything in a dark corner, washing my chest, back and underarms quickly, putting on a crumpled but fresh shirt, I left the room, locked the door and joined the noise.

The hostel was located on a small rise just above flows of people and traffic. A little girl was walking ahead of me a small package sitting gingerly upon her head. A little yellow bird swooped from side to side above her. The girl was whistling to the bird and the bird seemed to be doing an air dance for the little girl.