A Capital Quagmire
Chapter 4
The captain flashed on the sign to fasten our seatbelts since we were starting our descent to Toussaint Louverture International Airport. This was my second trip to Haiti and I hoped the last one. It wasn’t my favorite country by a long shot and reminded me of several, impoverished African nations I’d visited during my career in the Foreign Service, only much worse. The words Fourth World came to mind as I looked out and saw a large chunk of the island of Hispaniola.
The island was discovered by Christopher Columbus during his first voyage to the New World. Spain colonized the island until 1697 when the Spaniards ceded the western portion to France. So, the ceding resulted in French speaking Haiti and Spanish speaking Dominican Republic.
As I walked down the plane’s hardstand to the tarmac, I immediately felt the overwhelming heat and humidity. Fortunately, the smog was swept away by the constant sea breezes. I’d forgotten just how hot and muggy the weather could be here. However, I’d remembered to pack several of my better, short-sleeved leisure jackets with matching pairs of Bermuda shorts, so I could better weather my visit. My pair of black wingtips rounded out my trendy ensemble.
I readily admitted to being an unabashed clotheshorse, but bridled when someone called my attire a safari suit. That simply wasn’t chic or geographically accurate. And I’m a stickler for detail, except when it came to my investigative reports and expense vouchers. Thank God Jersey was shortsighted and myopic too!
The taxi didn’t have air conditioning and all the windows were rolled down, much to my discomfort and dismay. The stench emanating the piles of rotting garbage strewn either side of the road was simply offal. The recent rains, combined with the runoff from the open sewers, created a pungent stew that assaulted my senses. But the driver didn’t seem to notice or mind. It was just normal life and business as usual.
The shanties of the city came into view and were a deplorable sight. Shanties were a polite way of saying a large slum. Sheets of plastic or tarps of one kind or another typically served as roofs. The wealthier abodes used corrugated metal to keep the rain out. Siding consisted of anything and everything imaginable: cardboard, scrap wood from boxes and crates, cinderblock chocked with newspaper. Windows, where they existed, were pieced together with makeshift wooden shutters or sometimes glass, but most often with plastic. Seemingly nothing went to waste. Seemingly nothing had changed for the better since my previous visit.
Telephone and electrical wires hung above the shanties like a maze of spider webs that crisscrossed one another in no discernible logic or order. Piped water, if available, wasn’t potable or drinkable either. Sewerage was mostly nonexistent creating cesspools in some instances, especially during the rainy season. Basic municipal services and infrastructure had simply crumbled over time. And the residents continued to suffer the vicissitudes of life in the decaying city.
Most of the residents lived cheek by jowl in these conditions. To make matters worse, the hurricanes, earthquakes and mudslides easily leveled these fragile homes on a fairly regular basis. And I just didn’t foresee any improvement to the horrendous living conditions. To the point, many people were still living in tented camps set up after the last earthquake several years ago. It was like God was punishing the Haitians for past sins. And voodoo hadn’t seemed to help the situation one bit or wit as far as I could tell.
Given the horrible living conditions, the capital of the country, Port-au-Prince, had been dubbed Port-a-Potty many years ago by the wags in the State Department who had experienced the sights, smells and sounds of the impoverished city. It was considered unlivable by western standards. And I wasn’t referring to Albuquerque or Flagstaff. It was a basket case without the pretense of a basket since wicker was in short supply like much of everything else in the beleaguered country.