CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT
2010 - Lajan
We partied pretty late into the night, but even so, I was up by eight am. My body was always attuned to early morning whenever I was in the Caribbean. I set up the Whatsapp group chat and texted Hopeton and Edo to get a move on and meet me downstairs for breakfast.
“Did you have fun last night?” I asked Hopeton.
“I really did,” Hopeton said. “I know we’re here on business, but it was refreshing to socialize with such smart and interesting people.”
Édo and I cut our eyes at each other.
I couldn’t help it. I had to give Hopeton a hard time.
“You mean Mireille?”
Hopeton tried to shoot me an approximation of the type of bland look Biz would give me when I was riding him about something, but he failed miserably. There was some spark of interest- or maybe it was excitement, that I’d never seen in his eyes before- aside from that one time in PanStar when I caught him reflecting on how much he’d loved Browning handguns back in his Badman days.
“Mireille is pretty fucking special, Hopeton,” Édo said. “If you’re really interested, you’re going to have to put in work. She doesn’t have time for bullshit.”
“How do you know each other?” Hopeton asked.
“We went to The Union School together until I was sent to Orlando. It’s an American school here in Port au Prince. Actually, from, like, 1987 until 2001 I think, this hotel was the school grounds! But I was long gone before then,” Édo replied.
“So, you’ve known Mireille for forever,” I said.
“Yes, for most of my life,” he confirmed. “She’s one of my best friends.”
I found it highly interesting that Hopeton was actively choosing not to participate in this discussion, so I decided to needle him a bit.
“What’s the deal? You interested in her, or what?” I asked, purposely being a dick. “Did you get her number? Because I have it if you need it.” Of course, I would never just hand out Mireille’s number like that, but I couldn’t resist.
“Never you mind about what I have or don’t have,” Hopeton said quietly, but with a very slight edge to his voice. “If I want a number, I can get it without your assist.”
Édo laughed- a deep, loud and long laugh. It was such a ridiculous sound that Hopeton and I started laughing, too.
I rapped on the table with my knuckles and said, “Alright, motherfuckers, let’s get this show on the road. We have shit to do today.”
Édo had arranged for a driver to take us out to Croix des Bouquets. It felt good to be back in a behemoth Toyota Landcruiser, traveling fucked up roads. In Panama, I had my own zo reken and driver, but it just hit different in Haiti.
Édo jumped in the front passenger seat and Hopeton and I climbed in back. I wondered if the driver had a machete under his seat. I knew for sure he had a gun on him.
I saw Hopeton’s eyes grow wider once we got off the road from Karibe and onto Avenue Lamatiniere. It was pretty fucking crazy to see all of the houses that were down, just collapsed piles of grey rubble, while people went about taking care of the never-ending minutiae of their day-to-day existence.
“Take a look to your right,” Édo told us. “That’s the Petionville tent camp. It’s on the country club grounds.”
We saw miles and miles of white tents stretching out farther than the eye could see.
“Mireille said it’s like a city there,” Édo said. “There are bars and food vendors. They throw parties with rappers and DJs. They even have a pharmacy.”
“Nothing’s gonna stop our people from getting on with life,” I replied.
Hopeton nodded gravely.
“Mireille will take you into one of the camps,” Édo told me. “Probably one closer to Delmas, where she’s gonna be overseeing her part of the 16/6 project.”
Édo turned to Hopeton and said, “We’re going to be passing through parts of Delmas soon and after that we’ll be passing right by the airport.”
Hopeton nodded, taking note of the fact that Édo was actively trying to help him situate himself, both socially and geographically. He was very quiet during the ride, looking out the window, taking it all in.
Every time we passed into a new neighborhood, either Édo or the driver would tell us where we were. “Delmas Trente-Trois.” “Tabarre.” And finally, “Croix de Bouquets.”
Édo directed the driver to a certain part of road that cambistes used as their center of operations.
“Pierre, give me the money you want changed,” he directed.
I handed him a thick knot of hundred-dollar bills. He counted it.
“Do you need gourdes?” Édo asked Hopeton.
Hopeton pulled a significantly smaller wad of bills out of his wallet and handed them to Édo, who counted them with the type of efficiency I’d expect from an “emerald dealer.”
He rolled down the window and one of the cambistes nodded and started towards the truck.
“Sak gen la?”
“Sak gen la?” Édo responded and handed over Hopeton’s bills first. The cambiste counted out a large stack of soft, faded gourdes and passed them through the window to Édo. Édo took the bills, recounted them, then nodded. He then handed the cambiste my significantly larger stack of USD. When he received the huge knot of gourdes back he took his time counting them, then nodded to the cambiste, and we were out.
“You guys hungry? I know a really good spot on the road where we can get some kabrit and tassot. Drink some beers and chill out for a second.”
“That sounds exactly like what I’d like to do,” I said.
I looked at Hopeton and said, “You good?”
“All good, frè’m,” Hopeton replied.
I could see he was settling in nicely, which was encouraging.
Next morning, we were setting off for Jacmel.
