The Baby.
A short story about a day in Port-au-Prince.
“It is the destiny of the people of Haiti to suffer.” Jean-Claude Duvalier
It started as soon as the bus stopped on the Boulevard La Saline in Port-au-Prince. The beggars and hawkers came from every direction, slapping the bus sides, trying to get their hands through the windows, grabbing our shirts. “Close them up,” our guide yelled from the aisle. “We’re going further down the street.”
The beggars and hawkers ran after us. We turned down by the Iron Market and parked along the crumbling wharf. Years before, this same wharf was used by the rich and famous to dock their yachts. Years before that, the American military used the same wharf for their troop ships in what was described as a “humanitarian intervention.”
The guide opened the door and the beggars and hawkers tried to push their way onto the bus. Some had crafts, beads on strings, carved objects. Others had their hands out, yelling in padua, eyes yellow-tinged from jaundice and other diseases.
As soon as our guide gave the word, they moved in, pushing the beggars and hawkers away from the bus doorway.
Standing amongst them, a group of men wearing red knitted Rasta caps smiled as people stumbled over each other. These were the escorts. As soon as our guide gave the word, they moved in, pushing the beggars and hawkers away from the bus doorway.
“There is no government now,” our guide explained to us at the back. “Everyone has to be careful. Stay close to your escorts.” He went on to tell us that the elections in Haiti wouldn’t happen for another month. Aristide would be elected, even if the Tonton Macoutes and the military tried to stop the process. “The people will get Aristide,” he said. “They want a priest. He is their only hope. Everyone must be careful until then.”
He told us it wouldn’t be safe walking around on our own. This was market day in Port-au-Prince, and the people were there en masse. He told us to stay with our escorts.
“Don’t wander off,” he said. “And don’t let people pull you into doorways. This is a very dangerous city right now.”
We were broken up into groups of two. All items, bags, cameras had to be left on the bus. A man in his fifties stood next to me. He said he was from Georgia. He had a comb-over and large pink lips. His white safari shirt was stuck with sweat to his large belly.
“I guess I’m with you, son,” he said. “You got a name? I’m Elroy. Look at them out there. Never seen anything like that in my life.”
“It is not everyone,” the guide told them. “Some don’t want tourists here. They want Haiti to be just for Haitians.”
He stooped in the aisle, staring at the Haitians out the window. The guide was talking to a mother and daughter who were still sitting in their seats, looking terrified. Someone had mentioned rotten tomatoes being thrown at tourists.
“It is not everyone,” the guide told them. “Some don’t want tourists here. They want Haiti to be just for Haitians.”
“What if they throw things at us,” the mother said.
“You’ll be safe with your escorts,” the guide said.
One of the escorts was yelling at the beggars and hawkers. They yelled back, swinging old gym bags in the air. They moved towards him and he kicked out, then punched one of them in the face.
“Go with him,” our guide said to me and Elroy. “His name is Pierre. I’ll bring the ladies with me. Get off now. The driver needs to move the bus away from the crowds.”
The driver never spoke. He wore a starched white shirt and chauffeur’s cap. During a papal visit the year before, he had been the driver. Nobody bothered him. He was held in the same regard as a priest or Houngan.
The guide was pushing us to the front of the bus.
There were pink marks on his arms that looked like burns.
As we came down the bus steps, hands were everywhere. Beaded necklaces were draped over our arms and around our necks. Pierre, our escort, forced the hawkers back, pulling us through the crowd.
“Don’t let them grab you,” he said. “Keep moving.”
A woman stood near an old rusted bollard, holding a baby wrapped in a greasy shawl. She caught Elroy’s sleeve as he was passing.
He got us away as the bus started up. Plumes of diesel smoke rose in the air. We moved quickly along the wharf, passing the beggars too weak to keep up with the others. A woman stood near an old rusted bollard, holding a baby wrapped in a greasy shawl. She caught Elroy’s sleeve as he was passing. She didn’t say anything.
“Sorry, girlie,” he said. “I don’t have any change.”
Her slender hand moved the shawl back.
“God Almighty,” Elroy said.
Elroy ran towards us.
“Hold up a minute,” he said to Pierre.
He leaned on his knees and then started dry heaving.
Pierre pushed us under the overhang of a nearby building.
“Gawd,” Elroy said. “I never seen nothing like that before.”
He dry heaved again and got out a handkerchief.
“They start to smell. Maybe it died this morning.”
Pierre stood there watching him. He kept looking around.
“Hell, Pierre,” Elroy said, “why don’t she bury it?”
Pierre shrugged and spit in the street.
“It couldn’t be dead long,” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“They start to smell. Maybe it died this morning.”
Elroy gave one more dry heave. People were starting to gather around. They looked at Elroy breathing hard.
“We have to move,” Pierre said.
“You got Coke machines around here, bud?”
“I’ll find one.”
“How far we gotta go?”
“Not far.”
“What’s not far?”
“We have to go through The Iron Market.”
Under the tables, people lay curled up on the greasy concrete floor, using their arms for pillows.
Crowds moved up and down between the market stalls. We couldn’t see the other tourists. Pierre led us down some of the aisles, stopping occasionally, talking to people along the way. Sometimes he took out rolled up pieces of brown paper. He tossed them to the different vendors. Under the tables, people lay curled up on the greasy concrete floor, using their arms for pillows. Others fanned themselves with newspapers and small ratan fans.
“Whatcha giving those folks?” Elroy asked.
“Ganja,” Pierre said. “I come and get my money later.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Elroy said to me. “Man’s taking us on his dope rounds. Where’s this Coke machine, partnuh? I could lick the sweat off an exhaust pipe.”
“We’ll go down to the back,” Pierre said.
He led us to an alleyway at the rear of the market. Crude Haitian paintings hung on brick walls. Many were done on the backs of old license plates hammered flat. Everywhere we went, hands came out from small alcoves, grabbing us and pulling us towards them.
Out at the south end of the market, Datsun pickups known as Tap Taps, with brightly painted caps, moved through the crowds. They honked their horns. People stepped out of the way, then surged in again. Large white bundles rocked on women’s heads.
An ice vendor was selling bottles of Coke across the street. Elroy bought one for each of us. “I’m about done here, son,” he said to Pierre. “Where’s the bus at?”
“Over by the presidential palace,” Pierre said.
Elroy gulped his Coke and gave the empty back to the vendor.
“Let’s go partnah,” he said. “I might have to puke again.”
Working in the gardens were convicts in prison uniforms. Guards stood around with machine guns and sunglasses.
The street opened into a broad boulevard with the long, white presidential palace on one side. Tall, wrought-iron fencing surrounded the property. Working in the gardens were convicts in prison uniforms. Guards stood around with machine guns and sunglasses.
Elroy sat on the curb by the bus. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck.
“I’m still shakin’ here, son,” he said to Pierre. “Maybe we should light one of those ganja balls of yours.”
Pierre grinned and got one out of his pocket. He showed Elroy how to roll, smoothing out the paper first, licking one edge, then arranging the grass in the center.
We smoked the joint while the beggars and hawkers gathered around us. Some of them sat on their haunches, looking amused. One of the hawkers brought out a carton of Marlboros.
Pierre grabbed a carton from one of the hawkers and tossed it to Elroy. “Five gourds,” he said, taking the money and handing it to the hawker.
“I’ll take one of those,” Elroy said, handing the joint to me. “How many cartons you got in that bag?” Everyone pulled cartons out of their bags. Two men started fighting.They kicked and punched each other, then walked away smiling.
Pierre grabbed a carton from one of the hawkers and tossed it to Elroy. “Five gourds,” he said, taking the money and handing it to the hawker.
Our guide was coming back with the mother and daughter. Behind them were two Chileans. They’d arrived at our resort the night before, claiming to be agricultural attachés from Chile.
They wore white shirts, pants and shoes.
“I saw a good piece of art,” one of them said to our guide.
The guide sat on the bumper of the bus. He rubbed his knees and dangled his long hands. “There’s no good art in there, man,” he said. “The good art is in Petionville. The rest is shit.”
“I know art,” the Chilean said. He was the taller of the two with black hair greased back. His associate was balding and didn’t speak.
“You know art, huh?” the guide said and spit. “Sure.”
He told everybody to get on the bus as more hawkers arrived. They pushed and shoved, trying to get their necklaces around people’s necks. We had to leave the windows open because of the heat. The hawkers kept dropped things on our laps.
“Still can’t get over it,” he said to me. “At least I’m stoned now. Darned woman. What’d she have to show me that for?”
The guide walked up and down the aisle, pushing their hands out the windows again and again.
They yelled at him and banged the side of the bus.
Elroy sat there with his eyes glazed over.
“Still can’t get over it,” he said to me. “At least I’m stoned now. Darned woman. What’d she have to show me that for?”
“I don’t know. Pierre wouldn’t say much.”
“I liked Pierre,” he said. “Nice boy. Stuck these in my pocket.”
He showed me four ganja balls rolled in brown paper.
“Wanna do some when we get back?” he said.
“After today, why not?” I said.
“You said it, son. Dang, why did she do that? I told her I didn’t have any money. No change, anyway. I wasn’t givin’ her bills.”
“Hell, if she’d just said it was for the burial, I’d of given her all I had. Swear I would’ve.”
“She was desperate. Maybe it was for the baby’s burial.”
“Probably in some dang voodoo ceremony, I suspect.”
“I don’t know anything about Haitian burials.”
“That’s what they do, I hear.”
“Pierre didn’t say.”
“Hell, if she’d just said it was for the burial, I’d of given her all I had. Swear I would’ve.”
“Can’t do anything about it now.”
“I didn’t say this before partnuh,” he leaned over. “The baby’s eyes was white. Gawd, white. I’ll be seein’ that for years.”
We traveled up the highway that ran along the coast to Cape Haitian. At the side of the road, people bathed in small ditches. Further up the highway, we saw a small group of thatched huts with dirt yards. A white shack, the size of an outhouse, stood in the middle with a window. “Those are for the lotteries,” the guide told us. “Every village has one.”
“The people here will probably never see a pope again, so he is their memory. They call him Driver of the Pope.”
Brightly painted tap-taps passed us, honking at the driver and waved. Everyone knew him. “He’s a very respected man now,” our guide said. “The people here will probably never see a pope again, so he is their memory. They call him Driver of the Pope.”
The bus driver never took his eyes off the road.
We drove north of Saint Marc, pulling into the resort just after five o’clock, passing through the gate and the armed guards. The resort itself was surrounded by chain link fencing.
Elroy went straight to his room and didn’t come out again until dinner. That night, we dined on the patio with lanterns strung on long poles that swayed in the light breeze . Across the bay, we could see the dim lights of fishing villages over on Gonaives Island. The island itself looked like a long sleeping figure. Everything was peaceful now. Elroy sat with his drink.
“I’m done in, partnuh,” he said. “I’m gonna have nightmares. We doin’ another joint, or what?”
“If you want,” I said.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said.
Over near the chain link fence, local villagers were standing there, fingers through the links, staring at us.
We went down a path lined with bougainvillea, passing people on their way to the dance pavilion. Over near the chain link fence, local villagers were standing there, fingers through the links, staring at us.
Elroy took out one of the ganja balls, made a joint, and lit it up.
We smoked the joint and then he said, “I’m gonna turn in, partnuh. I had enough for one day. See you at breakfast?”
“Sure,” I said.
He walked off across the grass. The villagers were moving away from the fence now. I went back up the path towards the long low-slung rooms surrounding the pool area, the tiki bar and the dance pavilion on the far side. I was too tired to join the rest of the guests.
I got to my room and sat on the bed, looking at the moon out the window. I didn’t feel stoned. I imagined Elroy trying to sleep, seeing that baby with the white eyes. Good thing I didn’t see it. I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I’d be staring at that moon, wondering how there could be so much beauty up above, and so much pain down here. But, like I said, I didn’t see the baby. I got up, brushed my teeth, then went to sleep. No problem at all.
Robert Cormack is a novelist, short story writer, blogger and journalist. His work is now free here on Medium. His first novel “You Can Lead A Horse To Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online through Simon & Schuster. I’ve even learned Walmart is selling “good, used copies.” His stories and articles are also available at robertcormack.net
