Lending a Helping Hand
Chapter 17
The cargo plane landed safely and on time at the Louverture airport. It carried a large load of pallets containing food stuffs destined for the interior of the country. Bags of rice and soy flour were on today’s shipment. Each bag was branded with the U.S. Agency for International Development, USAID for short. Its red, white and blue logo with clasped hands was prominently displayed on each bag letting the recipients know the food was supplied by the American people. Even the illiterate would understand the source of the largesse. And it was nutritional, good ole Yankee promotion.
The one 18-wheeler was loaded until it could hold no more. The driver would return for the rest tomorrow and make the same run. The destination was Hinche, a provincial capital close to the border with the Dominican Republic. It would be a three hour drive over rutted roads and forged streams. The driver had made the trip many times before. It was always a tedious routine.
An hour into the trip, a gendarme on a motorbike pulled aside the truck and motioned the driver to pull over. Oh God, the driver thought, another handout to the constabulary. It was a fairly common experience and his employer reimbursed him for the bribes.
The driver rolled down his window and greeted the officer. “Bonjour monsieur, how may I help you? I wasn’t speeding and obey all the traffic laws. I am a professional driver and scrupulously follow the rules of the road.”
“No, speeding is not the issue my friend, but your brake lights aren’t working. That’s a serious code violation, as you’re aware.”
The driver mentally scratched his head. He’d checked the lights before leaving Port-au-Prince and they worked just fine. Oh well, whatever excuse for a bribe. The cops were getting more brazen and less imaginative these days, he thought.
“You and your helper must come down and follow me to the back of the truck. I’ll show you the problem.”
They did as ordered and stared at the brake lights, looking for any damage. The police officer then quickly withdrew his pistol and fired shots into the backs of their heads, a coup de gras with fatal results. He pulled the bodies into the brush, leaving them to rot in the noonday sun.
A pickup truck arrived shortly thereafter. Its passenger jumped into the driver’s seat of the 18-wheeler and turned the big rig around, heading back to Port-au-Prince. The ersatz cop placed his motorbike into the bed of the pickup, which followed the larger vehicle at a distance.
The truncated convoy made its way to the outskirts of the capital and pulled into a warehouse chosen by Mama Mambo. Much of the food would be sold for a tidy profit on the black market. The rest would be doled out as favors to her faithful.
The Americans were causing her embarrassment, a nuisance really and little more. The food was merely the spoils of a war she planned to win at all costs.