The threat of danger wasn’t entirely unfounded. After waiting around the chaotic terminal for half an hour our colourful tap-tap took off like a screaming hurricane, honking away everything in our path while swerving through the narrow, congested roads of Port au Prince.
Once we got out of the capital, we spent an hour climbing over mountains. The driver relied on the horn for divine salvation, tearing around blind corners with sheer drops in the opposing traffic lane. It got particularly interesting when the girl in the seat beside me accidentally bumped the emergency exit lever and the entire window soared over the deforested countryside. The guy behind me threw up into a plastic bag.
Full meant full on the old American school bus converted into a colourful road terror. The poorest country in the western hemisphere struggled to make things affordable for people often earning less than a dollar a day. Packing three people into benches intended for two school kids was one of many strategies.
We arrived in Jacmel to the tune of melodic kompa, a style of home-grown Haitian music. Jacmel is a village on the south coast boasting a long affinity for art. The reputation of tranquillity drew me as I reasoned it would be a good way to get comfortable with the culture before taking on the madness of Port au Prince.
Jacmel was indeed calm – the beautiful white beach was basically deserted apart from a couple of women drying laundry in the sun. Just off the beach were several local art galleries. I sat down for a drink and the lady running the small lean-to bar explained that Jacmel was a calm place. “Even when there are manifestations nobody here gets hurt. But the newspapers mention violence and the few tourists we have disappear.”
We fell silent as a UN jeep rounded the corner and coasted down the quiet seaside street. I sipped the last of my warm beer – the town’s electricity only came on for a few hours each night – then headed out. I bought some mangoes to lighten a woman’s load as she walked down the street carrying a large bucket on her head. I gave them away as soon as I passed a crowded square. It was tough to eat when so many locals were starving, even though I knew any money I spent would inject more life into Haiti’s economy.
After a couple days in Jacmel I felt prepared to dive back into Port au Prince. The first thing I did was set out for the Marché en Fer in search of vodou flags. After a few transfers I ended up in a swirling market. A guy noticed my wide-eyed expression as soon as I stepped out of the tap-tap and offered to lead me to the vodou section. I nodded and a few minutes later we were weaving through the narrow corridors of a covered market.
Once we arrived, I was shown a display of sequined canvasses depicting the lwa, or vodou spirits. With some difficulty I asked about the different properties of the lwa and was given elaborate explanations in Creole. At some point intensive bargaining began and before long I had a couple flags, a magic bottle and an appointment later that day to get the stuff baptized.
With time to kill before the ceremony, I decided to spend the afternoon at the cemetery looking for zombis. In Haiti the legend of zombis existed long before Hollywood popularized the classic image of the rotting skeleton. The Haitian idea is akin to slavery. People are more afraid of being turned into mindless labourers than getting their brains eaten. Zombis lack personal control, and will work for their despotic masters endlessly unless they somehow manage to get a hold of salt, which will free them from servitude. As people laboured on the streets for less than a dollar a day, the notion of zombis didn’t seem that far-fetched. Like rice and cooking oil, salt is a basic staple of life that many Haitians are struggling to afford.
In a lonely section of the cemetery I was just beginning to feel like this was an ill-conceived adventure when around the corner came a guy with a shotgun. My heart skipped a beat but I knew he’d already seen me. I approached him directly and asked where I could find the Baron – the lwa of death, black magic and the afterlife.
“Baron the Criminal or the Baron Samedi?” he asked.
“Both,” I answered with a shrug. At this point I had nothing to lose.
He led me through the elaborate tombstones until we approached a charred altar with a black wooden cross. A massive rat jumped off the altar and disappeared while lizards scurried between the graves.
“This is Baron the criminal, the devil,” said the man with the shotgun, who had introduced himself as Joel. My anxiety dissipated when it turned out he was the cemetery’s security guard.
The altar of Baron Samedi was a little more elaborate, with a larger cross and a relief of the baron dancing with his skeletal wife. I bought some candles and rum and Joel showed me how to leave an offering on the black altar.
Next, I made my way to the craft stalls outside the Champ de Mars. The whole area was covered in graffiti, some condemning current president René Préval and others condemning the UN occupation. I met the vodou priest and was brought to an abandoned cinema near the main square. Despite the fact that it was held on the top story of an abandoned building and we had to climb up three stories in the pitch dark with nothing but a candle lighting our way, there was nothing remotely sinister about the ceremony. It merely involved singing, candles and incense. The bulk of it consisted of hymns and prayers borrowed from Catholicism.
Near the end, the priest rubbed a special solution into our limbs. “To protect you from evil influence,” he explained.
“And what about protection from zombification?” I asked.
“We need a lot more magic for that,” he stated with a grim look. Indeed, Haiti needed a lot more magic to improve its lot. Even salt wasn’t that useful when you didn’t have any rice to put it on.
Keeping an eye on the current political situation is a must when travelling to Haiti. Once you arrive, there are many volunteer organisations to get involved with. Try Voice of Haiti at www.vwaayiti.org/people.htm or contact Veniel from Wall’s Guesthouse in Port au Prince. He can have you volunteering with a few days’ warning. www.wallsguesthouse.org.