From Dajabon, DR to Ouanaminthe, Haiti
by Catherine LaineAugust 22nd, 2006
I must admit that our first few minutes in Haiti were hassle-y. Aside from the general hustle and bustle that you would expect from a border town, we were swarmed by motorcycle riders offering us transport and moneychangers with horse-choking wads of Haitian Gourdes. When the riders see a potential fare, they a) pounce on you, b) get very territorial in that “I saw them first sort of way” and c) quote you insanely exorbitant prices. You will yourself to be understanding given the dearth of cash flowing through the country and hope they get the hint before your patience wears thin. Here my Creole comes in very handy.
The customs and immigration setup are a bit confusing. Once you pay your exit tax to the immigration DR officials (a pricey $25), we were let into Haiti by these Uruguayan UN soldiers/peacekeepers. A non-uniformed young man in a crisp white embroidered shirt asks for our passport and points us to the Haitian immigration 100m away. Motorcycle riders roll up to us like suitors. All but one eventually gives up.
The transition between the DR and Haiti is harsh. Yeah, if you’ve seen it, you’ll know that harsh is the most inadequate adjective and a gross and pathetic understatement. You are essentially moving from a country with a well-functioning government to a failed state in just a few steps. It is a grim reminder of the importance of government in the establishment of infrastructure, building the economy, etc. etc. My guess is that there is no reliable electricity or running water in the town.
Inside the customs office, we each pay the entry fee of a tenner. We only get our passports stamped because I remember to ask in Creole. You have to go next door for that. I ask a woman how to get to the tap-tap station that will take us to Cap-Haitien. My big strategy in developing countries is that whenever I’m lost or confused I seek out the nearest woman for advice/information. She tells us we need to take a motortaxi as the station is about a km away. It should cost $3. We see the familiar face of our most persistent though not pesky motorsuitor and hop on.
It’s funny the things you do in a developing country that you would never do at home. Normally, I would not get on a motorcycle without a helmet, with Pete and myself sitting behind the rider with our framepacks in tow. Not even counting the rider, the two of us and all our gear added an extra 350-400 pounds.
I’ve sort of gotten used to the madness of passing cars, where a head on collision is imminent until you squeeze back into your lane just in time. The amplified madness of doing this on a motorcycle over a bumpy dirt road was… um … novel and unpleasant. But we made it to the bus station in one piece.
Some things are just so similar the world over. Whether it’s matatu, tap-tap or microbus, you generally don’t leave until the vehicle is full, there is always room for two more, and of course you can bring your chickens, motorcycle, mattress, yards of PVC, etc.
The ride to Cap took 3+ hours. The chickens tied to the outside squawked in protest at the indignity of it all. Overall the trip passed along uneventfully. There was a dodgy moment at Carrefour Chifry when an English-speaking cop asked for Pete’s passport. He didn’t pay any attention to me. It’s a new feeling, this blending into the scenery. I’m used to sticking out like a sore thumb.
We’re off the tap-tap at 6:30 pm. There is another flurry of activity as taxi-drivers battle over us. Tired, dusty and hungry, our previous understanding is chipping off like cheap veneer. We get into one cab and have no idea where Citee Lescot or the Domus Mariae, where we are meeting the Ekip Chabon, actually is. It could be down the block, it could be miles away. This lack of local knowledge is a surefire recipe for us getting ripped off.
Another familiar face appears. A beautiful woman with that amazing strong cheekboned type of African face, subtly motions us to get out of the cab. She sat across from me on the bus. I’m always struck by moments like this; how a simple exchange of smiles on a bus forges a human connection. And for a small window of time, that person will feel responsible for you and try to help later if you need it. It’s one of those things that gives me hope about the human race.
Still in the cab, we hand a sympathetic seeming cab driver who is standing outside the slip of paper with our address. Fearful of the loss of his fare, our driver jolts the car forward. At this point, I lose it, berate him in Creole to stop the car, say that we are very displeased and we’re getting the heck out. Due to limited vocabulary, my vitriol is fairly polite, though my tone is not. We launch out of the car, the two cab drivers start yelling at each other. While they are distracted, our angel in red tells us that Citee Lescot was just up the street. WALKING DISTANCE! She subtly guides us to another cab and indicates with a nod that the price is within the realm of reason. She walks off with her basket on her head. Over the river and past a UN armored personnel carrier with a mounted M16 to the Domus Mariae we go.
At the Domus, Shawn Frayne opens the door. We made it.
