The long ride to Cap-Haïtien
It is way past noon by the time we’re back at Charlie’s house to collect our baggage, change into our travel clothes, and be on our way. About twenty minutes into the bumpy ride, that wedding meal we all urged Eseline to eat comes back to haunt us all.
We stop hurriedly for her to scramble out and vomit. I dig out some alcohol from my overnight case, dab her forehead, then hold the little bottle under her nose. Once she feels a little better, we climb back in the pickup. But this will keep happening throughout the eight-hour trip from Charlie’s house to Cap-Haïtien, even when there can’t possibly be any food left in her stomach. Piti reminds us that Eseline has only ridden in a vehicle a handful of times, and then only as far as Gros Morne, an hour south of Bassin-Bleu.
In her condition, she can’t possibly handle a crying infant. Loude Sendjika is handed up front to me. Unfortunately, I can’t do much to soothe the hungry baby. I think back on all those lactating mothers in Moustique. This is the first of many losses both Eseline and Loude Sendjika will feel keenly in the weeks and months to come. I, too, would be bawling if I were them.
Part of the baby’s discomfort might well be the heat. She feels damp all over, and I’ve checked; it’s not urine. I take off her knit cap, which her parents have insisted she wear, and unbutton her long-sleeved jumpsuit. Underneath, her little torso is tightly wrapped in a white cloth with safety pins in back. What on earth is this for? To keep her insides from getting jostled on the road, Piti explains. This is my first encounter with that Biblical article of wear, swaddling clothes, what Jesus was supposedly wrapped in when he was born and taken on a mad scramble out of Bethlehem by his terrified parents. Trotting on a donkey through a desert must be akin to riding in a pickup on the back roads of Haiti.
Bewildered as to what to do for the unhappy baby, I start singing her every lullaby sung to me as a child. A few incorporate the name of the baby being sung to. In order not to throw off the rhythm of the lyrics with the polysyllabic name, Loude Sendjika, I improvise the sobriquet, “Ludy,” and it sticks. We all start calling her Ludy, including later Eseline and Piti. Ludy quiets down and smiles up at me, her round face so clearly Piti’s.
Soon, her eyelids start to droop. Every time we go over a pothole or ford a river, I worry that she will wake up. But Ludy sleeps on. Her poor mother is not faring as well, gagging in the back seat. We can’t keep stopping, or we will never make it to Cap-Haïtien before midnight. Instead, we rearrange ourselves, giving her one of the back windows, so she can hang her head out and vomit when she needs to. Pablo and Eli and Homero decide to ride in the flatbed, preferring the dust to the risk of being vomited upon. After a while, the weary Eseline lies down on her husband’s lap and tries to sleep off her vertigo.
We stop at the gas station where we met up with Pablo and say our good-byes. From here Pablo will take a motorcycle-taxi to his front door, his hanging bag in one hand. He’ll be wearing his beautiful suit again on Sunday, when he will make a formal proposal to his girlfriend’s family for her hand in marriage. We’ve teased him that he will have to arrange for two marriages, one in Haiti, and one for his friends in the Dominican Republic. “We’re getting too old to do this kind of trip again,” Bill says half-jokingly.
We fill up with gas, and I encourage Eseline to take a walk around the station to try to shake off her dizziness. Piti remembers that there is a pill one can take. Of course: Dramamine! I usually pack it in my overnight case, but I forgot to include it among my cautionary supplies. Maybe there is a drugstore nearby?
Piti inquires and is told that if we turn around and head away from our destination, toward Gonaïves, we’ll run into a drugstore. But Bill vetoes the plan. It could be a saga of several hours trying to connect with Western medicine here in the middle of rural Haiti.
Night falls, arrival in Cap-Haïtien
Everyone is back inside the pickup: Homero in the copilot seat I’ve ceded to him, as he has done yeoman’s service, riding in the flatbed for hours. Eseline, Piti, Eli, Ludy, and I are wedged in the backseat, alternating one forward, one back, to accommodate everyone. It’s uncomfortable but a lot better than the public transport that Piti didn’t want to subject his baby or wife to. We do have air-conditioning, and we are four instead of forty, packed in tight quarters.
As the shadows lengthen and night falls, the road grows pitch-black. This is precisely what we were trying to avoid by wanting to leave right after the wedding. Piti remembers every major pothole, every washout, every impediment on the road and calmly alerts Bill to be on the lookout. I serve the opposite function, a kind of gaspometer, gasping every time we drop a foot into a pothole; or a fuel truck comes barreling around the bend, squeezing us off the road; or we swerve to avoid a washout and almost run over a child walking on the shoulder.
The road starts getting crowded—more and more buses, trucks, some cars; houses line either side. A sign with an arrow confirms that ahead lies Cap-Haïtien. By now, it is eight o’clock, totally dark, and I mean dark. This is not the urban night of a developed country with street lamps, neon signs, lit-up buildings that turn night into day. Except for a few pockets privileged with power, the road is dark, and the people are dark, and hard to spot walking on the shoulders. The gaspometer is stuck on gasp.
Finally, we arrive in Okap, as the Haitians have affectionately nicknamed their second-largest city. The streets are narrower, the houses closer, and there are more lights. What we are looking for is Hôtel Les Jardins de l’Océan, recommended by Madison, and located “in the Carenage just past the end of the Boulevard de Mer.” Foolishly, we figure these directions are enough. After all, we met up with Pablo at “the gas station on the road to Ennery” and with Piti “in Bassin-Bleu.”
But twenty minutes later, we are still twisting and turning in the boxlike grid of unmarked city streets. Where on earth is the Hôtel Les Jardins de l’Océan? The pedestrians we ask look thoughtful, as if pondering a philosophical question, finally shaking their heads. But at last, we find a young man who knows exactly where the hotel is and offers to ride with us so we don’t get lost again.
Even without knowing the city, we can tell when we’ve reached the Boulevard de Mer, and not just because it runs by the sea. Hotels, awash in lights, flanked by waving palms, line the street. Not quite Graham Greene, but there is a different feel to this area. I’m reminded of that moment in The Great Gatsby, when Nick wonders out loud what is so very special about Daisy’s low, thrilling voice, and Gatsby responds, “Her voice is full of money.”
Okap has known the thrill of being “full of money.” Back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Cap-Français, as it was known then, was the wealthy capital of the wealthiest colony in the world. But the city has also known its share of tragedies: having been destroyed three times by fire, in 1734, 1798, and 1802, then razed to the ground by an earthquake in 1842. Sic transit gloria mundi.
But tonight, exhausted and hungry, we’re all ready for a little gloria mundi. According to Madison, the Hôtel Les Jardins de l’Océan is owned and run by a French woman, Myrième, and her chef son. “The restaurant is quite good,” Madison mentioned in one e-mail. Back in Vermont, I didn’t think much about this culinary tip. But now, it glows like the promise of paradise after a long stay in purgatory.
The hotel is not right on the boulevard but up a dark, twisting side street. We turn into a parking area at the base of a steep outdoor staircase leading up to the large house, built into the hill. One by one, we emerge from the pickup, a dirty, ragamuffin group. By the time we are all out of the cab, two porters have descended the steps to unload our gear and show us where to park.
We ascend to the lobby, single file, like weary mountain climbers. Past the entryway, we find ourselves in a large room, the restaurant at the far end with a terrace view of the ocean. Sitting at a long table like a spider at the center of her web is a large white woman with cropped gray hair. Not much can escape her notice: traffic in a
ny direction must go by her post: to the restaurant ahead, to the kitchen behind her, to a staircase on her left leading up to the guest rooms. On the table beside her are three cell phones, a calculator, a record book in which she has been finishing up the accounts for the day, and a fat glass of something that might be alcoholic. Madame Myrième, I presume.
Madame’s sharp blue eyes look us over. Hoteliers must develop an instinct about who will or won’t be trouble, especially in tricky, remote areas of the world. But Madame can’t figure out our story and that has to be worrisome. Are we harmless missionaries? Aid workers? Are we running contraband? What is our connection to the young Haitians? The darling baby? Are Bill and I a childless couple looking to adopt the child? Is the young redheaded man our son? And if so, why would we want a baby? And who the hell is Homero?
The porters have finished bringing up our assortment of dusty luggage. It looks like we mean to move in for a while: three suitcases, several backpacks, a large cooler, an enormous cardboard box with our mosquito nets and other supplies spilling out of the top, two wedding cakes, an opened bottle of cheap champagne, and a plastic bag with a dirty diaper that has been doubling as Eseline’s barf bag. Is there a trashcan where we can throw it out?
But the unforgivable affront to this French woman is that I should speak to her in English. Does she have any vacancies? She does not speak anglais, she tells me in français, shaking her head emphatically. So I switch to Spanish. Another adamant head shake. No Spanish either. “Votre ami, Madison Smartt Bell,” I say in desperation, playing my last card. Again Madame Myrième shakes her head. She does not know anyone by that name.
Once again, Homero comes to the rescue. Some years ago, he was sent to France on a three month coffee-analysis course. Although it’s now a little rusty, he used to be fluent in French. He pronounces Madison’s name so it sounds French. Madame’s face opens up. She repeats Madison’s name so it sounds even more French. Of course, she has rooms for us.
Madame directs one of the porters to show us what’s available for our approval. Is she kidding? Clean rooms with bathrooms and hot water, electricity, a ceiling fan, an air conditioner, cable television, and a French chef down in the dining room. Of course, we’ll take them! Bill hands over his VISA—Madame will accept credit cards from the English-speaking world: eighty-five dollars per room, continental breakfast included. We follow our porter with his fistful of keys, each one attached to a wooden bar with the room number carved in it. On the second landing, Bill and I pick two side-by-side rooms, so that Piti and Eseline can be next door. We’ll be able to help with the baby as well as with any instructions on using the facilities in their room. Given the way they’ve been glancing around, big-eyed, I have a feeling that neither has ever worked the buttons on an air conditioner or cruised the channels on a cable television with a remote control.
We agree to all meet down at the restaurant ASAP, as the porter has informed us that it closes at nine, fifteen minutes from now. Bill quickly showers and heads downstairs to the restaurant. I’ve told him to order for me. I really don’t care what it is, as long as it’s vegetarian and preceded by a glass of wine. A tall glass of white wine. As I’m undressing, I realize what I’ve been smelling on my clothes: champagne from the baptism Bill gave the whole congregation in trying to uncork the bottle. Another reason Madame might have been looking askance at me: I reeked of alcohol.
Once I’ve turned the shower off, I hear the baby crying next door. Poor Eseline, I think, needing to relax and recuperate. The crying goes on and on, finally turning that corner from the wailing of hunger to the shrieks of rage. I dress and hurry over—the door is unlocked—to find the baby on top of the bed all alone. Just then, Piti comes running into the room. It turns out that down on the main floor, Madame heard the baby crying—I said she didn’t miss anything—and went over to the dining area to inform the parents.
“Piti, you left the baby alone?” I’m ready to give him a parental lecture, but I look at his round, worried face and think, Give the poor guy a break. He has already had a hard day, including scoldings from six predicators and a pastor. Besides, he is a new father, having just met his baby daughter a couple of weeks ago. What does he know about raising kids? Even Eseline, who has a four-month lead on child-rearing, thought it was okay to leave Loude Sendjika alone, with no pillows barricading her in the center of the bed and with the door closed, so they couldn’t even hear her crying.
Piti and I go down to the restaurant together, the baby in my arms. Madame looks up, and I can see it in her eyes: she still hasn’t figured out our story. But then, I haven’t figured out hers either. How did a middle-aged French woman end up in Cap-Haïtien with her son, the chef?
For now, she has closed the record book and has a fresh drink before her. Maybe she has had a long day herself.
“Bonsoir, Madame,” I say. She nods in reply as I pass by.
Why wine was invented
Everyone in our party is already seated at the table and served with drinks, tinkling with ice. I find my spot beside Eseline, who seems baffled by the amount of dinnerware and silverware before her. She follows my lead in everything but ordering. She’s no vegetarian, and she must be starving. Homero translates the menu for all of us. The dishes sound very French: lamb with prunes on a bed of couscous; rabbit in a burgundy sauce; grouper with a puree of potatoes and a garnish of mango; a crepe topped with vegetables sautéed in butter, the sole vegetarian option.
Piti orders the goat and looks over at Eseline, no doubt thinking she will follow suit. But Eseline insists on the grouper, a surprising choice, given that grouper is a saltwater fish, and she has lived all her life in a landlocked area of rural Haiti. Even Piti questions her. Is she sure she wants the fish? Eseline nods, without hesitation. Maybe, she once ate fish when she visited Gros Morne, or she has heard of it and would like to taste it. A food associated with travel, excitement, a world beyond her life in Moustique. I recall arriving in New York City as a ten-year-old and feeling that way about grilled-cheese sandwiches and apple pie à la mode. This is what TV families ate. My husband would say that, as a vegetarian, my culinary tastes have not advanced much since then.
Part of my frustration with not speaking Kreyòl is that I can’t talk with Eseline about all that is happening to her. (Just as I’ll never know Madame’s story for lack of French.) What does Eseline think of this place? Why did she order the grouper? What is she feeling? She has been stony-faced all day, uttering only a handful of words, mostly in a whisper, directed solely at Piti. More troubling, she seems disinterested in her beautiful baby. Recalling the parting scene with her sister and the long carsick ride, I imagine Eseline is still in shock. So many drastic changes have come her way in the last twenty-four hours.
But she perks up when the fish arrives. A quick study, she easily negotiates both fork and knife, eating up the uncharacteristically (for French cuisine) large portions on her plate. The table falls silent, everyone busily, happily eating away. Periodically, Bill and Homero break the silence, exclaiming over their wonderful dishes.
After finishing our main course, Eseline and I forego dessert and head upstairs, leaving the men behind. Our eyelids have been drooping, and Ludy is fast asleep in my arms. Outside her door, I wait for Eseline to unlock it before I hand her the baby. But instead, she takes her baby and hands me the keys. Suddenly, it strikes me: Eseline probably has never had to unlock a door before. Once she is safe inside her room, I go next door to mine and after a quick brush of the teeth and splash of water on my face, I hit the bed. I fall asleep instantly—that deep, profound sleep of childhood, before the worries set in, when you waded into bed and soon were in over your head.
Some time later (an hour, fifteen minutes?), I hear Bill enter the room, or at least I think it’s Bill. (I once read an unbelievable tabloid story about a woman who sued a man for making love to her “under the pretense of being her husband.” He had stolen into her bed one night as she slept so soundly that she claimed s
he could not tell the difference. After this night in Haiti, I can believe this woman’s story.) So deep and restful is my sleep that I forget about tomorrow’s border crossing, the mosquito bites that might bring on malaria, the coffee we drank that was made with water that might not have been brought to a boil or boiled long enough.
In my humble, culinarily compromised estimation, this soporific, lightening-of-the-load effect is why wine was invented. I can just imagine what Madame Myrième and her chef son would think of my opinion.
August 21, going home
Breakfast at Hôtel Les Jardins de L’Océan
I love waking up by the sea. The ocean is so much like the waters of sleep that the day ebbs into your dreams before your eyes are even open.
First, you smell it: a salty, nostril-flaring smell as if the earth itself is giving off perspiration. Then, you hear it: a lapping sound on the shore, the tinkling of rigging hitting against the masts of small boats. The sky outside the high window seems to have soaked up the ocean’s deeper, dreamier blue.
Only one cloud stains the dreamy blue sky of my day: we will have to cross the border in a few hours, and no matter what Piti keeps saying, I don’t think the guards will take our word that Eseline is his wife, and Ludy, his baby. And besides, wives and children still need their own documents. If it were not so, all poor men with visas to wealthier countries would be polygamists.