While we were in Santo Domingo, my mom kept asking me why I didn’t get in touch with anybody from my university days. I didn’t want to get into it with her in depth, so I just kept saying that this part of the trip was family time for me.
“I’m going to be extra social in Haiti,” I promised. “I need you to stop worrying over me.”
My father, on the other hand, totally got it. He wasn’t crazy about socializing in Santo Domingo either.
But I hadn’t been lying to my mother- I knew I’d be more social in Haiti. And truth be told, I was looking forward to it. As awkward as I was everywhere else in the world, for some reason when I was in Haiti, I was super comfortable in my own skin.
On the seventh day of our trip, we flew to Port au Prince. We were in the air for less than an hour. My mom’s face lit up as we began our descent. She hadn’t been back home since she’d made a quick visit on her way back to New York after my graduation from university.
“Pa bliye sèvi paspò’w Ayisyen,” I reminded her. As Haitian passport holders, my mother and I would be able to get through immigrations and customs without having to pay anything. My father, traveling this leg on his American passport, would have to pay a ten-dollar tourist fee. My mom had paid the same amount when she entered the D.R. on her American passport.
After the usual interminable wait for our luggage, we left the terminal and folded into the familiar crush of airport activity. I’d asked the Montana to send us a driver- he was standing to the side, holding a sign with our last name on it. For this leg of the trip, I planned to embrace my inner Mundo and have all transportation pre-vetted and pre-arranged. Our driver led us to his pristine late model SUV, and then we were off. Heading upwards, towards the Montana.
The Haiti half of our trip was surprisingly less frenetic than I’d expected. We drove up to Furcy to visit cousins, went to mass at the Cathedral, stopped by the all-girls Catholic school my mother had attended in Bourdon and ate at a bunch of top tier restaurants in Pétionville.
I messaged Mistou, my Miami dance partner a couple of times- a photo of a flyer from an upcoming TonyMix party, and a short video of the view from the Hotel Montana pool.
A few days into our stay in Port au Prince, Édo, the emerald dealer, texted me to see if I was in Haiti.
Bswa! Are you at the Montana? I could bring some friends over on Friday evening for poolside drinks if you’re free.
I did promise my mother I’d be social in Haiti and here was an opportunity offering itself up to me on a platter.
Sounds great. Just let me know what time to expect you.
Édo and his party posse rolled up at around 8:30 Friday night. It was a group of six guys and four women. Same as at that night at the Mandarin, this was not a “wives and girlfriends” event. Unlike at the Mandarin, all of these people were cool, everyone was Haitian and they all had something interesting going on. And, funnily enough, when I looked around at the group, I noticed all of the men were dressed very similar to what I’d put on- slim fit button-down shirt and dark rinsed jeans in a vaguely European cut. Had I finally found my people?
I had a great time standing by the pool, as I chatted with the four women- Sandrine, Mireille, Fabi and Saradj. They were all in their late thirties to mid-forties and each worked in international banking and development. I told them how I was about to ditch my policy analyst position to be strong-armed into construction project management in Panama.
“This is my last hurrah,” I said as I stared out into the distance, watching sparkling city lights bounce off the mountainside.
“Well, you can take the skills you gain in Panama City and come back here to work,” Mireille replied. She was a no-nonsense woman in her early forties, beautiful in a very “no make-up and simple jewelry” kind of way.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” I replied. “For some reason, I really feel like I’ll wind up in Haiti full-time at some point.”
“We’d love to have you back,” Fabi said and clinked her glass of rhum sour against mine.
By the time we said good-night I had seven new phone numbers in my phone. I gave Édo a big hug and told him that night was the highlight of my trip. He clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Next time we need to get up in Jamaica.” Little did he know we’d wind up doing just that, many times over the years to come.
I went to bed feeling deeply satisfied. It felt good to socialize with people I didn’t instantly dislike on sight. I wanted more.
My parents and I did a lot during our week in Haiti. We were consistently out and about from nine in the morning until nine at night. The one thing we did not do was head south to Aquin or Jacmel. Getting to either of these coastal beach towns required a four-plus hour journey over a mountain and down pockmarked roads. Neither of my parents were up for it.
“I hope you’re not very disappointed,” my mother said, once it had been decided we’d stay put in Port au Prince.
“Not at all,” I told her. And I meant it.
I loved hitting the road in Haiti, but it felt good to not have to go through all of the rigamarole of packing up, getting gas, heading out, driving up and down mountains and then having to do the same thing all over again only a day or two later. My parents made the right call.
We arranged to have our Hotel Montana driver take us an hour up the coast to Montrouis, where we spent a beach day at Club Indigo. This was the right move. A perfect day trip. Côte des Arcadins was beautiful. Club Indigo was upscale and lowkey lavish without coming off as try-hard or pretentious. My mother was in heaven and I hadn’t seen my father so relaxed in years. He set up a chess board and invited me to knock out a few games while my mom reclined in a beach lounger and read a book.
On the ride back to Port au Prince, my mother declared, “That was a perfect day.” My father agreed.
