If I had expected a reaction I would have been disappointed. The lady immigration official scanned the form almost disinterestedly. With a curt, “Wait here.” she walked away and out of sight behind a nearby screen. I assumed that she had gone to confirm that I should be refused entry. I turned to Gary and Linda, directly behind me in the queue, and shrugged wordlessly.
Almost as I turned back, the immigration official was there again. Without saying one single word, she stamped the form, handed it and the rest of my papers back to me and waved me through. I could only conclude that, what with all the other criminals already in America, they figured that one more wouldn’t make much difference.
Miami itself was a disappointment. Admittedly, we didn’t see that much of it on an overnight stay, but what we did see was characterized by massive freeways that proclaimed the realm of the car. As a result, almost no one walks anywhere. When Gary and I explored the vicinity of our hotel on foot, there were so few people on the streets that it was like a ghost town. Linda had already declared that she wasn’t one for socializing, not much of a surprise there. So Gary and I dined alone that evening in a nearby restaurant.
The morning flight from Miami to Haiti was uneventful. I had no worries over immigration problems here and we were ushered through with a minimum of fuss. The few airport officials we did encounter treated us like they were actually pleased to see us. I knew that there were very few tourists who came to Haiti. In the circumstances, that was hardly surprising. The U.S. and Canada specifically advise their nationals not to go there under any circumstances. All the international aid agencies warn of the spiraling AIDs problem and the ever-present danger from car-jacking, robbery and random murder.
Haiti was officially listed as a Fourth World country, and it showed. With Linda driving the hire car, we made our way through the deeply, pot-holed roads strewn with rubbish that were the outskirts of Port au Prince. On all sides, decaying buildings formed a backdrop to our progress. Clapped out cars driven manically, clogged the narrow streets that were completely without road markings. Traffic lights were very few and far between. I could see why Linda had insisted on driving. Only someone with experience of the place was liable to survive a journey by road.
We had gone only a short distance when Linda stopped outside a scruffy-looking store. It was one-story high, like most of the buildings we had seen. Saying that she needed to buy some film for her cameras, she went inside. Gary and I followed her. Whilst she was being served, I noticed some long-bladed knives in a display case. I picked out one that looked like a Bowie knife, complete with it’s own sheath. Saying that we could do with some protection in such a dangerous place, I expressed my intention to buy it.
The reaction from Linda was dramatic to say the least. As if stung, she spun around and confronted me. Face red and eyes dilated, she shouted that, if I bought it, that was as far as she went with us. When I asked, quite reasonably, what we should do if we were car-jacked and in fear of our lives, she replied that we would just have to deal with the situation.
It was obvious that her mind was made up. It was equally obvious that, without her, we wouldn’t get far with our assignment. To me it made little sense. I reflected that, should we end up on the wrong end of machetes wielded by local thugs, then perhaps her attitude would change.
Unfortunately, it set the tone for the rest of the journey. Never loquacious at the best of times, she drove the rest of the way in silence. It didn’t really affect Gary and I. With him filming, I was doing pieces to camera, commenting on our surroundings. The obvious poverty was dire. “If anyone sees someone smiling, we should stop and ask them what they’ve got to be happy about”, was one remark that just about summed it up.
The Oloffson Hotel was a revelation. Although it had clearly seen better days, the graceful balconies with Gothic designs and acres of decorative lattices were quite beautiful. Linda explained that it was known as ‘gingerbread architecture’ and it certainly gave the impression of a fairyland gingerbread house.
The riotous, unrestrained greenery that seemed to assault the hotel on all sides made for a perfect backdrop. I couldn’t help but reflect though that, whilst beautiful by day, it would be extremely sinister by night. A point remarked on by Graham Greene, who had said,” You expected a witch to open the door to you or a maniac butler, with a bat dangling from the chandelier behind him.” Greene had stayed at the Oloffson whilst writing his book, ‘The Comedians’, set in Haiti at the time of the murderous dictator, Papa Doc and his equally murderous Tonton Macoutes secret police.
You could tell that it was home from home for Linda. The receptionist greeted her warmly and told her she would put her in her old room. As we set off for our separate rooms Linda cautioned us against the regular power-cuts, but reassured that the hotel’s generator would restore power almost immediately.
That evening at dinner, it became clear that Linda intended to compartmentalize working and socializing into separate spheres. She didn’t exactly ignore Gary and I, but she did maintain her distance. After initially introducing us to Richard, the hotel’s owner, she retired to a table for four, where three people she obviously knew were already dining. In passing, she remarked that we would be going to see the voudou ‘priest’ in the morning.
In the event, the lack of Linda’s company proved to be no loss at all. Social conversation with her was always awkward at the best of times. Further, the hotel’s other guests all had interesting stories to tell. A mix of missionaries, peace corps volunteers, teachers, journalists, writers and artists, they were eccentrics all. This seemed to be a condition brought about by the environment, rather than any inherent character trait. I felt sure they wouldn’t have behaved like it at home, wherever that was.
One staid, middle-aged white woman, who was something high up in the peace corps, showed up for dinner on occasion with her black, Haitian boyfriend who could have been no more than 20. Not to be outdone, the elderly male missionary also had a young, black boyfriend. Other customers came and went with various beautiful Haitian women on their arm. Not one word was said, not one remark made. The rules of polite company were scrupulously observed. It was all delightfully funny.
Gary and I table-hopped and, over a period of several days, got to know them all. They were a fount of information about all things Haitian. The power cuts and crime were the main topics of conversation, but on the day we arrived the talk was all of the intended civil protest to disrupt the ‘Day of the Dead’ proceedings. Riots were threatened, as were attacks on white tourists. To a Government that was desperately trying to promote tourism as a source of revenue, this was a serious threat.
At breakfast, Linda introduced us to Milfort, a middle-aged, heavy-set black guy who walked with a limp. He seemed to be a cross between a guide, a bodyguard and a translator for Linda, who said that we should employ him to accompany us everywhere. All personal differences apart, I fully realised that I was very much in Linda’s hands as far as logistical and security considerations were concerned. Milfort joined us in the car.
Silva Joseph was a voudou ‘priest’ who lived in the rather inappropriately named Bel Air, a festering, dangerous-looking slum in the suburbs of Port au Prince. Dressed in scuffed trainers, track-suit bottoms and a grubby vest, the elderly, wizened old guy didn’t look much at all. However, as he squired us about his domain, you could tell that he was held in some esteem by his neighbours. All greeted him warmly and smiled at us.
The voudou temple was clearly dual purpose. Women and children were washing clothes, preparing food, eating and gossiping. Drying laundry hung everywhere. Linda pointed out the central post which held up the pitched, corrugated tin roof. It was fantastically carved with symbols and figures. This was the ‘poto mitan’ or sacred post, around which all the ceremonies revolve. When the ‘priest’ summoned them, this was the post that the ‘Iwa’ would descend to enter the material world.
From a multitude of perspectives, not the least of them the visual one, this was something less than a gripping setting for anything. I was trying to visualize the photos we would get for ‘Front’. You could tell people it was a voudou temple until you were blue in the face, but the ultimate reality was that it looked like some ramshackle old tin-roofed shed with lots of washing drying. Couple that with the old boy in his tracksuit bottoms and grubby vest and you would have a spectacle that fell far short of the mystical.
I intimated as much to Linda and she pointed out the altar in a nearby alcove. I had completely missed it. Black-faced, extravagantly-dressed dolls with horns jockeyed for position with dusty old skulls. Bright, multi-coloured objects of indiscernible origin filled the spaces in between. This was much more impressive.
With both Linda and Milfort translating, we explained to Silva what my particular problem was. I might be troubled by evil spirits. He took this in as if he heard it every day, as no doubt he did. He said that he would conjure up his own, personal spirit, Mazaka La Croix, to check me out. Then, if there was anything troubling me, he would drive it out with a magical bath. The conjuring up of his personal spirit would cost £50 and the magical bath another £100, a lot of money in Haitian terms. There was nothing particularly mystical about his prices.
In a similar, businesslike vein I told him I would need a receipt. Voudou ‘priest’ or no voudou ‘priest’, absolutely no one was immune from the rules of ‘Front’s accounts department. I paid a deposit and agreed to return the following day, the 31st and Halloween eve.
...to be continued