Adventures in the Caribbean: Back to Santo Domingo

This morning we began the day with a plate each from our hotel's breakfast buffet before our van came to pick us up.  It whisked us through the Port-au-Prince streets and we once again found ourselves desperately trying to catch everything we were seeing outside--the people, the garbage, the homes, the streets, and those enormous black pigs again.

We could have driven those blocks for hours and we would never have been able to absorb it all.  

Eventually we got to the airport, through security, and onto the tarmac to board our plane.

We flew back to Santo Domingo, where we spent a couple hours shopping before making our way to the bus stop and then back to Boca Chica.  

Adventures in the Caribbean: Port-au-Prince, Haiti

The Plaza Hotel is no longer what it apparently used to be, and the service is as poor as the rumors say.  Still, it has a beautiful courtyard, and offers refuge from the chaos in the street. 

At the front desk I asked the woman if it would be possible to check in, and she replied that she thought it was too early.  I was quite disappointed, since I would have liked to change and have a moment to relax, but we acquiesced and simply asked if we could leave the backpack. 

Hoping to at least partially address our cash issue (we had $63 left), I asked if there was an ATM around. 

“Yes,” the lady said, pointing around the corner.  “But sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.”

We walked by it on our way to the front door, and, sure enough, it was blank and dark.

We decided to visit a supermarket first, to get water and something to eat.  We exited the hotel and turned left. 

We worked our way single file along the crowded sidewalk, avoiding cracks, holes, random rebar, garbage, parked motorbikes, people, and various goods for sale.  Despite the fact that we were the only nonblack people in sight, we appeared to be mostly ignored, which was nice, since I felt like we stood out worse than sore thumbs. 

Most of the people on the sidewalk were moving much as we were, quickly and purposefully.  Others were standing, or even sitting—talking, eating, selling, or buying. 

We passed what was basically a men’s clothing store, only out of the back of a truck, which was welcoming clients via a step on the sidewalk into the retail space, or else selling out the open back.  We passed women frying food, and boys selling cell phone parts, and squatting men eating noodles. 

The distance from hotel to supermarket is about 250 metres, but it felt like a triumph once we arrived; a sign outside said "Roi des Rois."    

Once inside, and past the security guard with his machine gun, we could have been in a European grocery store.  It was comfortably air conditioned, very clean, and, most importantly for us, took credit cards. 

We bought bottles of water and some apples and then more or less walked back toward the hotel, crossing the street to the compound of Mupanah--the Musee du Pantheon National Haitien.  The Mupanah grounds are part of the champs-de-mars, but are separated by a large iron fence.  The museum itself is more or less underground, with a large system of water fountains on the roof.  

The fountains were dry, but they made a nice seating area nonetheless.  

There was no one else on the roof, and although we were well back from the street and the sidewalk and the strong fences, we still had a bit of a view. 

We drank our water and ate our cookies and took some time to soak it all in. 

The guidebook had said the museum cost $1.40, but even at that price I was worried about spending the cash.  At that point I thought we needed $40 for the transfer back to the airport, and $10 each for our departure tax from Haiti.  Little did I know that that was actually $55!

We also needed $10 each for our entry tax for the Dominican  Republic, but I was trying not to worry about that, since there wasn’t much I could do, not matter how many times I went over the math in my head.  With the taxi and Haitian departure tax cash set aside, we had $3 to spare, which would cover our museum admission, with nothing left over.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked Andrea.  “We can afford it, but then that’s all our cash.”

We decided to do it.  After all, it was the only obvious choice of something safe to do, and it interested us, and anyway, we were now assured we could pay for food with credit card, so we wouldn’t go hungry.  Plus, we couldn’t very well just sit on the roof all day.

So we walked down to the entrance and stepped inside.  We blinked to get used to the relative darkness, looking down a hallway toward a cluster of Haitian flags. 

“Bonjour,” an important looking Haitian lady said.

“Bonjour,” we replied, turning to our left.  A very small desk was set up with a computer on it.  It hardly looked like your typical museum admission counter, but apparently it was that.  The price turned out to be $5 for foreigners, and they only accept cash.  After some deliberation we paid it anyway.

The museum is basically divided into two parts, an inner circle of small historical exhibits surrounding “symbolic” graves of Haitian heroes, and an outer semi-circle that serves as an art gallery.  The art gallery contains maybe a hundred works of art in total, all Haitian.  Some were beautiful, others ugly, and some simply strange. 

The inner circle holds the history exhibits.  These were interesting enough, and I definitely learned plenty about Haiti’s history, but the exhibits lacked much in the way of actual artifacts.  There was an anchor from Christopher Columbus’s Santa Maria, and things like coins, maps, letters, and weapons—and even a piece of the moon that President Nixon gave to Haiti—but overall it felt very bare. 

We finished our tour and walked back outside into the bright, hot sunlight. 

“What now?”

It was only 11:00—three hours too early to check in. 

In retrospect, it’s easy to think that we should have been braver, more willing to walk extra blocks, linger in front of monuments, or stop to take pictures.  But at the time, simply being amongst the champs-de-mars bustle felt courageous and trying to cross streets and stick together was remarkably draining physically, emotionally, and mentally.

We made our way across the street to walk alongside the where the National Palace had been, but there really was not much to see.  The palace had been ruined in the earthquake and demolition and removal has left little more than a flat, empty lot.

We decided to go back to the supermarket to get some lunch. 

This time we spent more time shopping and collected a veritable picnic, which we ate in the hotel courtyard by the pool.  

The courtyard really is the highlight of the Plaza Hotel, with its pink flowering trees, babbling pool, and walls full of artwork.

Even the chairs were tiled with floral designs. 

We enjoyed our picnic, although we had nothing to use to open the beer with.

Finally we were able to check in, and a porter led us to our room.  Our bathroom lacked a door, and the walls held excellent art, and otherwise the room was unremarkable. 

We freshened up some and then went back down to the pool for a dip.  

The pool water was awfully cold, and the day was already cooling off some, but it was lovely to swim nonetheless.  I swam a few laps while Andrea dangled her legs in.  Afterwards, we stretched out luxuriously on the well-padded deck chairs and dried in the sun.

We planned to eat supper safely in the courtyard of the hotel restaurant, but we decided to make a final trek to the supermarket, if for no other reason than it would give us a chance to get outside the hotel once more.  

The pace of traffic and pedestrians and life on the street had slowed since the morning.  There were more people loitering, and less people selling, and overall things felt a bit more relaxed.  No doubt our own comfort with Rue Capois was also improving.

We bought more bread, cheese, and beer, as well as water, apples, cookies, and juice for the next day. 

Back at the hotel, remarkably, the ATM was lit up and appeared to be working.  I did the math in my head and calculated that if the Haitian departure tax was $10 US, it should work out to just over 800 Haitian gourdes.  I took out 1000 just in case. 

We ate the bread and cheese and drank the beers at the table in our room.  Then we went for our real dinner at the hotel restaurant.  We sat on the patio in the courtyard and each ordered an entrée salad, which true to Haitian stereotype took a really long time.

Adventures in the Caribbean: Arriving in Port-au-Prince, Haiti

This morning we were up before the sun and notebook-negotiating with a cabbie again.  The ride to the airport was quick, with little traffic on the roads yet.  By the time we got to the airport, the sun had risen. 

Aerolineas Mas is not defunct.  In fact, based on our observations, there seems to be enough business for both Tortug’ Air and Aerolineas Mas, as both had plenty of passengers.  And since then I’ve become aware of a third airline flying the same type of plane on the same route: Sunrise Air. 

We checked in without a problem, but here’s an important thing to know about traveling between Dominican Republic and Haiti: both countries charge entrance and exit taxes.  Mostly these taxes are included in international airline fees, but not on this route.  The tax amounts change, but they were: $10 entry and $20 exit tax for Dominican Republic; $10 entry and $55 exit tax for Haiti.  Not cheap, especially that Haiti departure tax!

We flew on a small, 19 passenger British Aerospace Jetstream, which was close to entirely full.  I got to sit right behind the cockpit and watch the pilots fly.  

The flight was less than an hour, and provided some beautiful views of the sea, the island, and especially Lago Enriquillo, Hispaniola’s biggest lake.

. . .

On the ground we went through customs with little incident.  The Port-au-Prince airport is not the nicest facility, but neither is it as bad as some travel reviews will lead you to believe. 

The friendliest people we encountered in Haiti were the man who met us at the airport and the driver of our van, who were different people, for some reason.  Neither spoke English or any version of French we could understand, but they knew where we needed to go, so that didn’t really matter.

By far the most memorable part of our visit to Port-au-Prince was the airport transfer.  I am not joking.  What we saw out the windows of our van as we passed by the largest slum in the Western Hemisphere, Cite Soleil, will always be with me: homes made haphazardly with seemingly random materials, sometimes on top of each other, almost all appearing to be in danger of falling.  They stretched in chaotic formation over a small hill, as far as I could see. 

Garbage was everywhere, but especially in the open sewage canals which ran between "neighborhoods."  Much to my astonishment, enormous blacks pigs roamed these canals, apparently eating the waste.  They were among the largest pigs I have ever seen, and I was surprised to see them, and even more surprised that they managed to survive in an environment in which people are surely starving.    

Meanwhile, around us, motorbikes, small cube vans and pickup trucks, 4x4s, and the occasional car made their way along, often, it seemed, paying more attention to their horns than which lane they were in.  The streets were crowded, although not jammed, and traffic moved more or less consistently, if not necessarily efficiently.  As far as traffic went, it was not significantly different than Santo Domingo, but there were fewer smaller vehicles, and significantly more 4x4s, presumably due to the condition of Haitian roads, especially outside of Port-au-Prince.  Also, there were tap taps. 

Of all the vehicles, the tap taps were by far the most interesting. Colourful in hand-painted ways reminiscent of Pakistani trucks, the tap taps are small Japanese-brand pickups, riding low under the weight of numerous bodies.  The cabs carry not only the driver, but a passenger or two or three, and, it appeared, a toll man or conductor of sorts as well.  The beds of the trucks have been enhanced with wooden walls and roof and benches, and carried anywhere from a couple to more than a dozen people.  I doubt there are any rules regarding how many people they can carry, and if there are any, I assume they are ignored.  Invariably, every possible inch of the exterior was painted in the brightest colors, and they all included a Christian message of some sort, whether a Bible verse reference or spiritual catchphrase.  Prospective passengers simply wave down the driver when needed and tap the roof or otherwise indicate when they need to get off.  How they know the routes I am not sure.   

The middle of the roads themselves were relatively clean and clear, and not even in especially bad condition by Canadian standards.  The countless pedestrians and huge amounts of garbage were largely confined to the sides of the roads, except when pedestrians tried crossing, which usually involved darting quickly to minimize honking and avoid being hit.  I never saw a vehicle slow down, let alone stop, for a pedestrian.  There were very few controlled intersections, and maybe only three that involved traffic lights, including one at which the traffic lights were not functioning.

Police were visible at several points on the trip, either in pickups or with motorbikes, but they were certainly ignoring what would be egregious and blatant traffic violations in Canada.