Eleven kilometers from the Port-au-Prince International Airport, where we had a small office and one Bell 212 under contract to the United Nations, was the town of Petion Ville. Even though it took between 30 to 90 minutes to drive along the clogged and narrow streets, many of the United Nations workers chose to live in Petionville, and we did the same.
From high up on the mountain, it overlooked the harbour and the sprawling city and offered a moderated climate, and fewer malaria-borne mosquitoes — something we definitely appreciated.
Petionville was hit hard in the recent earthquake — the hotel in which we stayed did not survive very well, but near the hotel was an amazing and colourful market and I only hope that the life I saw there returns.
In memory of the Haiti I knew….
At first, there is only chaos.
The pavement is blistered and cracked. Festering piles of garbage lie in front of square, cinder block storefronts that appear to have once been painted in vivid colours. Concrete rubble, fish bones, bits of scrap paper and shredded plastic mix with rotting corn husks and mashed papayas, mangoes and plantain to ooze like compost into the street. Potholes are filled with stagnant water. In the air lingers the sharp odour of sewage and charcoal smoke. Crushed plastic bottles crackle underfoot as you sidestep clumps of mud, abandoned sandals and squashed entrails.
In contrast to the faded and crumbling buildings, Haitians are dressed in brilliant attire — three piece suits, shirts and slacks, skirts and dresses. Round ebony faces glisten in the afternoon heat. They seem to conduct their business with indifference to their surroundings. Some laugh and joke amongst themselves; others scowl as they barter for the best price.
Hand-painted tap-taps — small, battered pick-up trucks with benches and a metal cage in the back — slowly plow through the crowd, which parts like a bow wave to let it pass. Thick diesel smoke rises from the exhaust; the driver leans on the horn, indicating that he has room; he’s providing a service for those who want it. Passengers stuff themselves into the cage and peer out through the metal bars with wide, white eyes, like cattle on their way to be slaughtered.
But amidst this chaos there is some order.
Tumbling forth from the dunes of garbage, vendors display their goods neatly arranged on large metal saucers or wicker trays. A dark, leather-skinned woman offers Aim toothpaste, shampoo, Dial and Lux soap bars, scented hand cream all fanned out like a magician’s deck of cards.
Next to her will be orderly displays of Chiclets, jawbreakers, mints, pieces of fudge and nuts. Many vendors squat under multi-coloured umbrellas displaying neat rows and columns of sunglasses, watches, hairpieces, berets, brushes and combs. Jammed side by side they sell brooms, snuff, women’s underwear, colourful ribbon, plastic jewelry, zippers, batteries, small radios, flashlights and bulbs.
One vendor has laid out vivid plastic framed mirrors all around her. Another has neatly arranged guavas, oranges, bananas and okra; small green limes stacked three or four high like towers. Others seem carried along with the crowd, balancing on their head wide trays stuffed with safety pins, bandages, and pills for all sorts of ailments.
Here at this market you can buy wallets, cell phone dust covers, padlocks and keys, tweezers, nail clippers, pocketknives, toilet paper, stuffed tubes of sausage and pate, segments of Gouda cheese, metal cups and plates, utensils, bright plastic bowls of all sizes, shirts, sandals, shoes and dresses.
Loud, distorted Reggae music blasts into the humid air where young men sell CDs. Fresh eggs, meat and dried fish are laid out in the sun and heat; pyramid-shaped piles of charcoal can be scooped into a plastic bag for the evening’s cooking fire.
The market has everything for everyone, it appears.
Then the stuffy heat and the smells, the babble of Creole, bleating horns, music, and tap-taps chugging by takes its toll. Seeking out some quiet and solitude, I leave the market and the crowd thins as the last vendor pleads for a sale.
And there, only steps from the chaos of the market is a small porcelain angel embedded in the cement, hands clasped in prayer, wings outspread as though captured rising up through the cracks of the sidewalk on her way to save some poor soul.
Photo Credits
“Roadside Market in Port-au-Prince” Fred W. Baker III, Wikimedia Commons
“Another Tap-Tap” © Allan Cram
“Haitian Sun” © Allan Cram
“A Crowd Gathers” © Allan Cram
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