Cap-Haitien, Haiti: Feb. 9-11, 2008

PHOTO CAPTIONS: 1-2. The domed Catholic Church, which we could see from our hotel balcony, 3-5. Street scenes of Cap-Haitien, 6-7. Views from Hotel Mont Jolie, 8. A boy shimmying up a coconut palm, 9. Garbage piles up everywhere, 10. Boy Scouts ask the "blanc" to take their picture, 11-14. The four great religions in Haiti: Catholic, Baptist, Rastafarian and the Cell Phone, 15-16. Me at the Auberge du Picolet and Andre at the Roi Christophe, our two favorite hotel restaurants with free wi-fi.

Every city wants to be the "Paris" of their part of the world. Buenos Aires is called “The Paris of Latin America” and Cap-Haitien was once known as “The Paris of the Antilles.” But to me, it actually resembles New Orleans…after Hurricane Katrina.

The ride from the airport passes right through the slums. I kept expecting it to get better, but even the downtown area where the recommended mid-priced hotels are looked pretty rough. I knew without asking that Andre was concerned about our safety.

Since he’s more particular than I am, I let him check out the first hotel. He reported it to be noisy, dirty, small, and dark – for $60! Our taxi driver suggested the historic Roi Christophe where Napoleon’s sister once lived, complete with swimming pool and casino, which I knew to be over $100 a night. To stay on budget, I requested the Hotel Akennsa instead. This time I checked it out, passing a noisy generator and bar on the way up to the third floor. I was surprised to find the room quiet inside, with an ocean view, and a large lovely balcony right beside it. Andre negotiated 3 nights for $180 and we moved in.

Once we got acquainted, I actually started liking Cap-Haitien. If I squinted just right, I could imagine cobble-stoned streets instead of dirt, and fresh paint instead of crumbling walls. It must have been a beauty in its day. We walked down to the waterfront and once we got past the commercial port and the piles of garbage, there was a nice palm-lined malecón for strolling, with a luscious warm breeze off the ocean.

We found delicious meals and free wi-fi at two fancy hotels – the afore-mentioned Roi Christophe with its lush gardens and Spanish-style courtyards, and the elegant Auberge du Picolet which faces the ocean. The employees in both locations understand the meaning of the word “service,” which isn’t always the case in Haiti. And the food arrives in a timely fashion, rather than an hour-plus later, as in other places. Breakfast for two, consisting of Creole-style omelet, fruit plate, pancakes, fresh juice and coffee was $16, which seemed reasonable.

Cap-Haitien’s main plaza is huge and beautiful. The classic domed cathedral can be seen from our hotel balcony, which reminded me of the film “A Room with a View,” set in Florence, Italy. The population of O’Cap, as the Haitians call it, tops 100,000, making it the country’s second largest city. However, it felt a small town and I was happy to be walking everywhere again, even after dark.

It’s also a lot cleaner than the capitol. People still throw garbage everywhere and trashcans are hard to find. But every morning, the women sweep the streets, collecting the garbage into piles, which will be burnt at night.

The main reason most tourists come to Cap-Haitien is to visit the Citadel, a mountain fortress 20 kilometers to the south, and Sans Souci, its accompanying palace, both constructed for King Christophe in the early 1800s. We waited to go early Monday morning, to avoid the weekend crowd.

Port Salut, Haiti: Feb. 4-5

PHOTO CAPTIONS: 1. Sunset at Hotel du Village beach, 2. Arriving from Les Cayes by moto-taxi, 3. Every day is market day, 4. Digicel ads are everywhere. I wonder if they provide the roofs for huts like this, 5. Port Salut Beach, 6. I spotted this girl preparing eel, 7. After negotiating a price, the frying begins, 8. We also ordered a fish, fried bananas, and salad, 9. Having fun back at the hotel beach, 10-11. Carnival was celebrated during the day and at night, 12. Breakfast at the hotel, 13. Port Salut is still undiscovered by foreign tourists, 14. Outside Les Cayes at the rice fields, 15. A new friend asks to be photographed.

We planned on riding in a tap-tap from Les Cayes to Port Salut. But we got weird vibes from the other male passengers waiting in the back of the truck. When the driver told us he wouldn’t be leaving for another three hours, we took the hint and left. We decided to splurge on two motorcycle taxis for the hour-long ride. As it turns out, the ride was excellent, partly due to the Taiwanese-built road.

The scenery between Les Cayes and Port Salut is stunning. As we climbed the hills, I caught glimpses of the coast. Passing small villages, you see what everyday life in Haiti is like. Sadly, the trees have been cut down in many places, mostly to be made into charcoal for cooking, but it’s still possible to see how beautiful Haiti was and could be again.

Port Salut, population 10,000 has a few hotels. We chose Hotel du Village, which features 9 little cottages right on the beach. The clean, nicely decorated rooms are pretty basic with no hot water, no electricity during the day and no internet. A delightful French woman named Catherine owns the place. I liked how she embraces the Haitian culture and community. We saw her give donations to the Carnival processions, speak respectfully to her employees, and one morning she treated a young man’s wound. Originally, she came to Haiti as a volunteer nurse.

Our beach was right out of the tourist brochures, with white sand, warm sun, clear water, and very little garbage. Most of the time we were the only ones there. When we wanted company, we just walked 5-minutes away to the public beach. School was out for five days for Carnival, so the place was packed. The funny thing about Haitians, is most of them don’t swim and they’re terrified of the ocean. Unlike Americans, who spread out in the water, the Haitians tend to cram into one small area.

Until recently, Andre couldn’t swim and was terrified of sharks. I guess it comes from living in a country so poor that people risk their lives on overcrowded fishing boats, trying to make it to the U.S. Many end up drowning or being eaten by sharks. But since Andre met me, he’s learning how to swim. I predict he’ll actually be a strong swimmer once he gets lessons in Santa Cruz.

Our second day at the public beach, I was surprised to see several carloads of white people show up. They’re Americans from a group called Healing Hands for Haiti who do volunteer medical work, mostly with children. While Andre played soccer with their interpreter and local co-workers, I chatted with a clown named Paul. He entertains the kids with soap bubbles and Chinese juggling sticks, to warm them up for the doctors. Paul claimed that most Haitians are terrified of doctors because they only see them when they’re dying. Sure enough, before long, Paul was entertaining a group of curious kids who gathered to see the “blanc” or whites.

Andre and I could easily have stayed longer in Port Salut, but his cousin back in Les Cayes wanted us to spend her day off with her on Feb. 6th, the day before our flight back to Port-au-Prince. After the beautiful beaches in Port Salut, it was hard to get excited about Plage Jolie, but it was nice to spend more time with Andre’s new relatives. We invited them to fish dinners, which as always, took an hour or more to prepare, but were well worth the wait.

Andre’s New Brother Pargeau

PHOTO CAPTIONS: 1. The long lost brothers meet, 2. Andre and Pargeau with their cousin Ebrite, 3. Pargeau and his daughter Flore, 4. Andre's father Mendoza with a cousin, 5. Of everyone in the family, Pargeau says Andre resembles their father the most, 6. Andre's handwriting is exactly like his father's, 7. Mendoza in his security guard uniform, 8. The only pictures that Pargeau has with his father were taken at the funeral. This is Andre's paternal grandmother who he never met, 9. Half-sister Shuby lives in Quebec, 10. Half-sister Carline lives in Brooklyn, NY.

Les Cayes, Haiti, Feb. 3, 2008


We weren’t able to meet Andre’s new brother Pargeau in Port-au-Prince because Lesly, Andre’s brother-in-law, accidentally wrote his phone number incorrectly. But when we arrived at his new cousin Ermite’s house in Les Cayes on Jan. 31, the first thing she did was call Pargeau. Andre could hardly believe his luck – meeting his cousin in person and talking to his new brother by phone, all at the same time.

Pargeau couldn’t wait to meet Andre. He surprised us by showing up on Sunday morning, even though we assured him we’d be coming back to Port-au-Prince in a few days. Later he confessed he was afraid we might not be able to visit him in P-au-P because Andre’s mother obviously didn’t want him to meet his father’s family. Why else would she refuse to tell him his father’s name even 12 years after his death?

Pargeau, a single father, could only stay for one day. He’d left his 13-year-old daughter Flore with her godmother, then boarded the bus at 6 a.m. to make the five-hour journey down to Les Cayes.

It was an emotional moment when the two brothers met for the first time. They hugged and then stepped back to have a look. I couldn’t believe how much they resembled each other -- the exact same height, slim build, lips, hands, high cheekbones, and Pepsodent smiles. Pargeau is 45 years old, but like Andre, he looks much younger.

Even more surprising to me was how similar they are in personality and temperament -- like twins separated at birth. They’re both soft-spoken, refined and well-mannered, intelligent and educated, dainty eaters, and well groomed. In many ways, they seem old-fashioned, maybe because their grandparents raised them – Andre by his maternal grandparents and Pargeau by their paternal grandparents, the ones Andre never knew. We learned that they died just a few years ago, within months of each other.

For Andre, meeting Pargeau and Ermite opened up a whole new side of his family. Although Andre has two brothers on his mother’s side, for Pargeau, Andre is the only brother he knows. Supposedly, their father claimed before dying that he had 10 children with 10 women. But Pageau only knows of Andre and two half sisters, one in Brooklyn and one in Quebec. He gave us their phone numbers and we left messages via computer phone. We’ll try again when we get to the D.R.

Pargeau said that his conception was an accident. His dad was only 19 and his mom even younger, so his grandparents stepped in. His grandfather named him and put his own name on the birth certificate. Pargeau knows his mother who still lives in their village outside Jeremie, Haiti, but never lived with her.

Pargeau claims that Andre was not an accident because his parents were together for a couple of years and truly in love. Andre’s mother was 23 when he was born, his father 10 years older. According to his mother, his father abandoned her once she got pregnant. According to Pargeau, Maude’s wealthy parents caused the breakup because they didn’t approve of poor Mendoza.

Andre may never know the truth. His mother won’t talk about it, although she seemed to enjoy the slideshow of Andre meeting his new family and seeing copies of the photos Pageau shared with us. His aunt Luz says that she knew Mendoza, but could never say anything to Andre for fear of Maude’s wrath. She claims that Maude never got over her first love, which is why the subject is so painful for her. I think Maude was curious herself, but doesn’t want her husband to find out about Andre’s discovery.

And Andre’s father will never be able to tell him anything. He won’t be able to give him a hug, tell him he’s sorry, nothing. I’m sure he would have been proud of how well Andre turned out, whether he supported the pregnancy at the time or not. Andre is really sad he couldn’t have met his father alive. But at least now he knows his complete name, Carlos Mendoza Delille, and has seen photos of him. Another weird coincidence: When I turned over one of the photos I saw Mendoza’s handwriting, and it is exactly the same as Andre’s.

Carnival in Les Cayes, Haiti: Feb. 1, 2008

The dusty streets of Les Cayes were filled with glittery children in carnival costumes. We followed several, asking to take their pictures, before two little ones invited us to the festivities at their school.

Ecole Sainte Marie is a private Catholic school for girls. It was bustling with energy and excitement when we arrived. We knew better than to start photographing right away, and looked for someone in charge. The teacher took us to the director, a stern looking nun, with the archetypal ruler in hand. They decided it was no problem at all for us to photograph and videotape – for a donation of 500 gourde, about $13 U.S.

Always willing to do my part to promote education in the third world, I quickly agreed. Stepping out of the office and into the courtyard, cameras in hand, I was immediately swarmed by dozens of little cuties, all begging to be photographed. After taking a bunch of wild pictures of girls fighting each for my attention, I tried to limit them to three at a time. That just created more chaos, as they shoved and shouted, all wanting to be photographed first.

The carnival program mainly consisted of a DJ blasting compas music, while the little girls bumped and grinded seductively. I kept expecting Mother Ratched to put an end to the mayhem, but the most intervention I saw was a teacher pulling down a sexy dancer’s too-short skirt. From an American perspective, I felt slightly uncomfortable with such little girls imitating MTV-style dancers. But I guess it’s cultural. Young Mexican teens often look like hookers to me, with their tight revealing clothes, spike heels, and heavy make-up, so what do I know?

After a few hours of fighting off carnival revelers, Andre and I went to the office to thank the director and say good-bye. No way! They were not letting us off that easy. The real program was just beginning. To hold our interest, the first teacher we met bustled off and started organizing the performers. Several groups of girls from different classrooms, each in matching outfits, lined up around the courtyard. The DJ blasted some more music and the performers danced. The highlight was a choreographed finale by the oldest girls, very impressive indeed.

At that point, we were finally able to break away, but not before exchanging email addresses and phone numbers with the head teacher and promising to send copies of all the photos.

Andre’s Cousin Ermite in Les Cayes: Jan. 31, 2008

Andre’s Cousin Ermite cried when she hugged Andre for the first time. As of a week ago, she didn’t even know he existed. Her Uncle Pierre only had one child, a grown son in Port-au-Prince – or so the family thought – until Pierre confessed on his deathbed to having 10 kids.

“Well you know those soldiers,” said Lesly, Andre’s brother-in-law, who coincidentally is from the same village and knows the family of Andre’s birthfather. “Every few years they were sent to another military base in another part of the country and…well, things happened.” After a little detective work, Lesly put the two cousins in touch by phone on Tuesday. “Hi Cousin,” said Andre, grinning broadly. Despite a large extended family on his mother’s side, he’d never met anyone on his father’s side.

This was too good an opportunity to let pass. We delayed our plans to travel north, and decided to go to Les Cayes right away instead, to meet Ermite in person. Andre and I had stopped off in the small colonial town on the southern coast of Haiti last year on our way back from Ile-a-Vache, romantic Cow Island. I fell in love with the colorful, photogenic, laid-back town. Some of my favorite pictures of Haiti were taken in Les Cayes.

On Thursday, Andre went to visit a friend on the far side of Port-au-Prince. Meanwhile, I had a luxurious four hours to myself with free wi-fi in a hotel restaurant. After catching up on email, I expected to buy round-trip flights online with a credit card. What was I thinking? I couldn’t even find a website for any of the local airlines. It’s not that Les Cayes is that far away; it’s just because of the condition of the roads that even a short distance seems like a long journey.

Andre arrived later than expected, covered in dust and complaining about public transportation in his country. Mostly they use small pick-up trucks, converted to “tap-taps,” with benches on either side that extend out the back, covered with lifted camper shells. The passengers pack in and spill over onto the back bumper and sides. On longer trips, passengers ride on top of buses. The other day I spied some laborers playing cards on top of a loaded truck on their way home from work.

We walked down the main drag, Rue Delmas, to Voyages Travel. Posters of India and Nepal lined the walls, which made me wonder if Haitians really travel to Asia or did the owner just like free posters. There was one customer ahead of us, and three employees, but only one actually working. The others were watching a soccer match on a portable TV. When it was our turn, the agent had to manually redial the number again and again. Even when it wasn’t busy, no one answered. Finally she reached someone, only to learn that all flights from Port-au-Prince to Les Cayes was fully booked for the next three days.

“Let’s take the bus down and fly back,” I suggested to Andre, anxious to get out of Port-au-Prince after a week.

“What’s the emergency? Let’s just go to Cap-Haitien and forget about Les Cayes,” he said. At that moment, the dread of a 5-hour bus ride over bumpy roads, packed in with squabbling Haitians, outweighed the excitement of meeting his cousin. I refused to give up so easily. As a white female, I can always get the front seat next to the driver. Normally, I don’t like special treatment, but to make Andre happy, I’ll do it.

Sure enough, the next morning we arrived at the bus station and quickly negotiated a front row seat – where we waited for several hours while the ticket-taker gathered passengers. As a seasoned traveler in Haiti, I expected nothing less. Kicking off my shoes, I settled down to enjoy the show: a non-stop parade of buses colorfully painted with pop stars and religious images; school kids in uniform walking hand-in-hand; cock handlers carrying their prized fighters underarm, the heads of the roosters covered by little cloth bags; vendors balancing baskets of toiletries, cookies, crackers, coconut sweets, wash clothes, bandanas, and sodas on their heads; and the occasional fight breaking out over vehicles blocking each other.

The ride to Les Cayes is beautiful, traveling along the northern coast, across the mountains, and finishing on the southern coast. For me, it’s never a dull moment, and the cool breeze feels great. I put my feet up on the dash, camera ready, bouncing along to Haitian compas music. Last year, we flew to Les Cayes and bussed back. This time we’re doing the opposite. I’m also looking forward to the flight, with its view of small islands and turquoise sea.

When Ermite arrived and ran in to hug her cousin for the first time, I felt like crying too. Ermite and her husband Bodelais couldn’t be nicer. Their two-year-old son Dave, on the other hand, was terrified to enter the room with Andre and me at first, but little by little he warmed up. I couldn’t take many pictures because the light was dull, but at least Les Cayes has 24-hour electricity – a luxury I haven’t experienced in a while – so we weren’t using candles and kerosene lanterns as we do in P-au-P.

Ermite shared her wedding snapshots and some nice pictures of her graduation from police academy in 2003. She’s standing next to Andre’s half-brother Pargaud, her favorite cousin. He resembles Andre slightly, as does Ermite. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have any photos of Andre’s father or their grandparents, but Pargaud should when we visit him in P-au-P.

Lesly accidentally wrote the phone number down wrong, so we couldn’t reach Andre’s brother before we left P-au-P. Ermite called him while we were there and the two brothers spoke for the first time. Now Pargaud’s anxiously awaiting Jan. 7 when Andre and I return to the capitol. We’ll definitely stay a couple of days, so the two brothers can get acquainted. Of anyone still living, Pargaud knows the most about Andre’s birthfather. He was born when their dad was very young and raised by their grandparents. When Pierre died, Pargaud inherited all his documents and photos. Hopefully, Andre will get to see some of them.

Andre told me once that he’d always dreamed of hugging his father. He wanted to believe that maybe it wasn’t true; maybe he was still alive. Even though he missed his chance with Pierre, at least now he knows a cousin and will soon meet a brother.