I lowered my pack to the ground and stood by, watching the activity for a few minutes. “Where are you taking the bananas?” I asked him.
“To Haiti, mon,” he replied. “Sailin’ me bananas to Haiti.”
I watched the drivers maneuver their trucks. “I could use a ride to Haiti,” I said. “You have space for a passenger?”
“Got an extra bunk in the foc’sle. When you plannin’ on goin’ Haiti?”
“As soon as possible. When you putting to sea?”
“Break of day tomorrow.”
“The men load the bananas during the night?”
“Yes, mon. They labors be easier after the sun go down, it not bein’ so hot, you know. The ladin’ crew show up here a little later, have a drink of rum. Then they work all night, stack bananas ‘til the morning come. When daylight come I tally their banana, ’cause they wanna go home. Soon’s that done, we cast off for Haiti. Get to Port au Prince the next mornin’. That suit you?”
“Yes it does. My name’s Jake Fonko.” I put out my hand.
“I’m Captain Quarrel,” he said, giving my hand a hearty shake. “Will be a pleasure havin’ you aboard.”
“Why do you take Jamaica bananas to Haiti? Doesn’t Haiti have their own bananas?”
“Jamaica grow plenty of bananas, Haiti folk have plenty of nothin’. De American Uncle Sugar govment send ‘em Haitians hoomanitarian aid. Which Baby Doc put in his own pocket, him bein’ hoomanitarian as de nex’ bloke. What hoomanitarian aid he overlook, he leave for de people, small change enough to pay for Jamaica bananas, ha ha.”
“Would it be all right if I sleep on board tonight?”
“No problem, Mr. Fonko. I have a boy show you down to the foc’sle. You take care down there, might be deadly black tarantula, ha ha.”
I stowed my gear under an empty bunk and went back topside. With both my Jamaica disguises blown, I put on the shirt I’d worn when I left Grand Cayman. I lurked out of sight until night had fallen good and dark, then furtively made my way down to the café. Brightly lit and busy, it filled with boisterous workingman’s chatter, day crews going off work, night crews coming on. The day’s chalkboard scrawl featured goat stew and rice, fine by me. I gobbled it and returned to the John B as quickly as I could. I’d have loved to hang out in that lively café a little longer, but staying out of sight was imperative. Back on board I watched the banana loaders from inside the cabin. Five huge, sweaty, muscle-rippling black men toted stalks of bananas into the hold like they were delivering sacks of Kitty Litter. These guys were wasting their time in Kingston: they should have been the offensive line for some NFL team.
I turned in early and passed a restful night down in the foc’sle, tarantulas notwithstanding. I awoke before daybreak and was emerging to run down and grab breakfast at the café when Mr. Quarrel stopped me at the top of the companionway.
“Mr. Fonko, just one moment. I hear some bad fellows come to de harbor last night, be askin’ around about an American with a suitcase. I know nothin’ about any of dat, but you better be keepin’ an eye out. Dem bad fellows, dey tell me, plenty bad men.”
“You don’t think it’s safe to run down to the café for a minute?”
“My advice is not do dat. Better if you eat with me in de cabin. Plenty good food.” He ushered me in. A weathered table was neatly set. A pile of fresh fruit, a platter of sweet pastry, strong Blue Mountain coffee, and the cook was turning out scrambled eggs. Plenty good food indeed.
As we ate I remarked, “I thought bananas were yellow, but last night I saw them load red ones, purple ones, green ones.”
“Dem yellow ones, dey United Fruit Company banana, for the Yankee market. For the islands market they come all colors, all shapes, all sizes. Yellow, red, purple ones. Big ones, little ones. Six foot, seven foot, eight foot bunch. Pick ‘em green so dey travel nice, ripen after dey get to market.”
“Mr. Quarrel, have you always been in this business, trading Jamaica bananas to Haiti?”
“Only last few years. One time I had a guano business—bird shit, you know. Hauled it out of Crab Key off de coast. Sold it to Americans, dey want put on their strawberries. Why dey do dat? I put sugar on mine, taste mo’ bettah. But den dey blow up Crab Key, blow it clean away. No more guano business. Strange Chinaman own dat island, he a very bad man, don’t miss workin’ for him. Banana business better, more steadier.”
Quarrel looked me up and down. “You know, Mr. Fonko, I think maybe you a bit of bad man yourself. But dere only one of you, and many of dem other bad men maybe lookin’ for you? Go back down de foc’sle for a time. After we clear past the harbor mouth, den it safe for you up here.”
4 | Zombie Jamboree
The boat ride to Haiti went without incident. The weather was benign, the waters calm, Captain Quarrel a skillful seaman and good company. Apparently, I had not been observed departing on the John B; at least, we’d not been pursued or harassed. The route from Kingston to Port au Prince included only a short stretch over open water between the islands. During the night, we’d entered the long bay leading to Port au Prince. Haiti—the entire island it shares with the Dominican Republic, Hispaniola, actually—was mountainous, reaching nearly 9000 feet. Quarrel and I, over strong morning coffee, watched the sun rise over the approaching peaks. “We be there in a couple hours, Mr. Fonko,” he said. “What business you have in Haiti anyhow?”
“As you know, bad men are after me on Jamaica. Haiti’s the nearest place I could get away from them safely.”
“They not after you on Haiti as well?”
“They may well be, but I think my odds are better someplace other than Jamaica.”
“I’m hopin’ you right, but nobody’s odds is better on Haiti. Haiti one bad place, mon. The people are poor. The government is evil. Baby Doc, he follow in Papa Doc’s footsteps, evil man. You step out of line in Haiti, him Tonton Macoutes step on you, maybe turn you into a zombie.”
“What are the Tonton Macoutes?”
“They like a police force, but not police because no law for Tonton Macoutes. Judge, jury and executioner right on de spot. Oh, maybe not like dat for a white man, but bad enough, put you in jail, beat you up a bit, just not so bad as for black man. Even worse for black woman. De police, dey just want a little pourboire, grease de palm, you know, give ‘em a few gourdes and dey go away happy. Tonton Macoutes, dey take de bribe, den do you anyhow.”
“Do they wear uniforms? How do I recognize them?”
“Some wear uniforms, some dress sharp, all of dem wear big dark glasses, all of dem look well fed. Dey everywhere, watchin’ watchin’ watchin’. So a man mus be careful his step everywhere.”
The sun had ascended high enough to unleash shades of blue out to sea, but in the long bay leading to Port au Prince the water nearer shore had a sludgy brown caste. Quarrel explained that the Haitian mountains had long been cleared of trees and other vegetation for firewood and charcoal manufacture, leaving the bare topsoil to wash into the sea with the rain runoff. He gave me a look through his binoculars. Yes, the hills surrounding the city were bare indeed, some scrub and brown weeds but not much else. No surprise that grazing goats had the anorexic bodies of high fashion models.
From the water the city didn’t look so bad, seemed to have a few parks and trees here and there, some broad avenues, some dignified buildings. It appeared low, flat, the highest buildings just a few stories tall and bright white in the oppressive sun glare. Domes here and there, a few spires. Not much very modern-looking—no glass-façade high rises. Nestled between hills on both arms surrounding the bay and backed up by mountains, the city sat in a heat-trapping basin, its morning air already as stifling and foul as Bangkok at its worst. Just standing on deck in the morning breeze, sweat plastered my Bob Marley T-shirt to my torso.
We landed mid-morning, tying up along the banana dock, a rickety wharf. Loaders loitered around awaiti
ng work to commence when the trucks arrived. I put on my baseball hat, shouldered my backpack and put a foot on the gangway to shore. “You take care now,” advised Quarrel. “My advice to you, go to the main road, have a taxi get you to a hotel straightaway, do not linger on the streets here. You should know, Haiti was French colony in de old days, not English like Jamaica. French de official language here. However, mos de Haiti people speak Creole. You find English speakin’ mon straightaway, that be best for you.”
I thanked him for his advice, as well as for a most pleasant boat ride, and mounted the plank to the wharf. It fronted an older section of the waterfront whose pilings, deck, warehouses and office shacks confessed timeless years of weather, abuse and vandalism. Wood was splintered and splayed; corrugated iron walls and roofs patched, dented and rust-rotted. The waiting loaders sat, squatted and leaned against anything upright in what shade they could find, eying me from under droopy lids as I started toward the streets.
An emaciated, raggedy man emerged from an alley to intercept me, his hand out for a handout. Avoiding eye contact, I walked beyond him. He fell in behind, chanting “dollah, dollah, dollah…” Another shambling scarecrow joined our little parade, close on my heels. And another and another. By the time I’d walked the two blocks to a busy waterfront road, I’d collected a regiment comprising every disease, defect, disability, dilapidation, degeneracy and deformity known to modern medicine and ancient legend. Noisy, insistent, wild-eyed, filthy and foul-smelling, they beseeched me from every side, tugging at my clothing, pack and bare arms. Was I in danger? I began to think that I might be. I threw elbows around, causing the ones nearest me to back off in bewilderment. One of them shouted “Blan!” then rattled off a speech in a language I’d never heard before. The crowd broke into loud laughter and started chanting “Blan, blan, blan.” Another one made a speech, evoking more riotous laughter. Then, pressed by their comrades behind them, they oozed back toward me. I no longer wondered if I might be in danger. Yep, no doubt about it. Starving, desperate, and they ‘way outnumbered me.
I saw no clear path to the street through the reeking mob, decided to make one of my own and plowed into what seemed the weakest part of their defensive line. As I reached the curbside of Boulevard Harry Truman, a black Mercedes screeched to a halt, the four men inside sizing up my roiling entourage from behind black sunglasses. Two police cars pulled up behind it. I spotted a taxi at the curb about fifty yards down the street and made a break for it. The crowd of beggars surged after me, whereupon a squad of police piled out of their cars and waded into the swarm, whaling on everybody within reach with long batons. Thumps and thwacks punctuated shouts and yowls of pain. Instantly, my beseechers morphed from threatening to pitiable, but I didn’t linger to empathize with their plight—let ‘em feel their own pain. I hustled into the taxi and said just about all the French I knew, “Hotel. Anglais.” I looked back at the seething mob. Two men had emerged from the Mercedes and were pointing their arms at the crowd. I heard pistols pop. The cab driver peeled away not a moment too soon. I kept lookout abaft. The Merc didn’t follow us.
The scene that greets the visitor as he approaches from the sea, I soon discovered, was just a wee bit deceptive. The shining white buildings were Haitian government buildings, for example, the Palais National and a museum. There were a couple semi-lux hotels on Boulevard Jean-Jacques Dessalines. My driver pulled up to one and stopped. No, too easy for anyone to find me there, if they’d even take me with no passport. “Speak English?” I tentatively asked the driver.
“Little,” he replied.
“Too expensive for this hotel. Money too much. Take me to English hotel, cheap cheap.” He nodded and re-entered the crawling stream of traffic. Presently we departed the high rent district of gleaming government buildings and confronted actual Port au Prince. The streets narrowed and jammed up, teeming with battered cars and trucks, riders laboring along under their loads on rusted bicycles, and pedestrians and overloaded porters needy of a lifetime of square meals. What seemed to be a middle class district by Haitian standards would qualify as an American big city slum, except that the Haitian version looked less prosperous. Shabby, low buildings with corrugated steel roofs, their facades painted in screaming raw colors—scarlet, yellow, electric blues, acid greens—offered a variety of products and services. What they might be I can’t say, as even the signs still legible were in French. Street vendors spilled out over the curbs into the dusty, crumbling road. The street crowds predominately came in darker shades of African black, no white people in sight and not even many mulattos. The male uniform was threadbare white T-shirts and faded blue jeans. The women, many of them balancing burdens atop their heads, sported long, brightly colored cotton dresses and bandanas. Off the business avenues, I caught glimpses down what passed for residential streets, shanties desperate despite the bright paint covering their rust and rot, piled on top of equally desperate shanties. And all of it grinding slowly along in a murky basin of fetid tropical steam heat. The only comparably poor housing I’d ever seen was peasant villages during my tours in Nam and Cambodia, but those at least were functioning communities in the rice paddies, not the sorry despair of Haitian slums. On the other hand, Haiti was more colorful.
Our route left the slums and entered a district of once elegant mansions embellished with towers and gables, weathered gingerbread wood carvings and rusting ironwork filigree and lacework, interspersed with neglected houses of more modern design. They sat on overgrown but undernourished plots strewn with non-biodegradable trash. The driver rolled down an eroded gravel driveway flanked by wind-shattered banana palms to, according to its weather-ravaged sign, “Hotel Trianon.” It occupied a decent sized plot of ground whose gardens had been well-landscaped in some distant past. It was a good-sized building. A verandah overhung with a roof missing half its shingles spanned the front. Towers, balconies and wood fretwork decorations, all of which cried out for rehab and three coats of fresh paint, gave the impression of something out of an old Charles Addams New Yorker cartoon. I half expected to find Angelica Huston as “Morticia” greeting me from behind the reception counter.
Instead, I was met by a weedy, greying Britisher. “My name is Brown,” he said, advancing toward me. “Welcome to Hotel Trianon.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Brown,” I said. “I’m Jake Fonko. I told the cab driver to take me to an English hotel, and we ended up here. You’re the manager?”
“No, the owner. You’re lucky. He could have done worse by you. How much did you pay him, if I may ask?”
“I didn’t have any local currency, so I gave him an American five dollar bill. He seemed happy enough with it.”
“As well he should. That’s a week’s wages here. But not enough to cause trouble, I think. Some Americans have over-tipped to the extent that we were beset with hordes come to offer their services.”
“I need a room for a while. Anything available?”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Brown. “That’s never a problem at Hotel Trianon. Perhaps up on the third floor? You can have the Barrymore Room. John Barrymore once stayed in it. We even have his bar bills, in case you want verification.”
“If it was good enough for The Great Profile, it’s good enough for me. When did that happen?”
“About 50 years ago, I think. I don’t remember rightly. I was just a little nipper then. Let’s sign you in. Could I see your passport, please?”
“I’m having difficulties about that right now,” I said. “I lost it on Grand Cayman. I hitched a ride to here on a banana boat from Kingston. Is it a problem?”
“Not to Hotel Trianon, but you’d better have a good story for the authorities. I suggest you get yourself in a proper frame of mind for the inevitable official visit, concoct a good story. Newly arriving white men are always persons of interest. Why would a white person in his right mind sneak in here? They’d like to know.”
“I kept an eye out. There were polic
e around when I caught the cab, but they didn’t follow me. They were too busy beating up the crowd of beggars I’d attracted.”
“No need for the police to waste their time tagging after you—they know the cab, they’ll question the driver. Was there by chance in the vicinity a Mercedes with men in sky blue uniforms wearing sunglasses?”
“Sunglasses, yes. I didn’t notice their clothing. Were those Tonton Macoutes? My boat captain warned me about them. What are they, secret police?”
“Tontons Macoute,” he corrected me. “Nothing secret about them. They’re everywhere, some in uniform, some in plain clothes, all of them government thugs. ‘Uncle Gunnysack,’ the Haitian bogeyman. It’s an old Creole myth. Tonton Macoute comes around and puts bad children in his gunnysack. Most people they come around to see would gladly trade being put in a gunnysack for the treatment they get. They’ll be showing up to talk to you, count on that. You see, whites of any shade are privileged in Haiti, not only pure Caucasians, but also mulattos and the Syrian shopkeepers. Non-blacks are only 5% of the population, but they own the place. Baby Doc’s of a slightly lighter hue, possibly quadroon. It’s the reverse of where we come from. In the U.S. and U.K., any black and you’re a black. Here, any white and you’re a white, privileged. But not immune.” I told him about the crowd of beggars taunting me. “That’s what they do when a white intrudes on a black situation and gives offense. ‘Blan’ is from the French word for ‘white’—’blanc.’ They compete with derisive stories and rhymes about ‘blans,’ the winner the one who draws the biggest laugh from the crowd. Harmless fun for them. Unsettling for a foreigner fresh off the boat. Speaking of which, you came from Kingston on a banana boat, with no passport or papers? You don’t happen to have a gun in your pack, do you? If so, let’s get it hidden. That would bring trouble you don’t want. I’ll settle you in your room; then we’ll see where things stand.”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 7