Kevin follows as Tim maneuvers his way through the crowd, waving some sort of credential whenever someone stepped aside too slowly. Following Tim through the crowd, Kevin tries to seem friendly while avoiding eye contact. Sidestepping past a group of imposing, hard faced young Haitian men, Kevin has to stop abruptly when one steps in front of him, makes deliberate eye contact, and sneers, “Blan Fou”. After moving a few steps past the men, he quietly asks Tim what that meant. With a small smile, Tim replies, “Crazy white guy”.
As they make their way free of the crowd clustered around the Arrivals Lounge, Tim begins to walk more quickly away from the terminal. Crossing the street, they pass a pair of soldiers leaning against a large banyan tree. With faded uniforms, vintage looking dented green helmets, and very new looking Uzi’s, the soldiers watch closely as the Americans make their way into the parking area. Tim approaches a dusty, red Isuzu Trooper, an SUV model unfamiliar to Kevin. One of the soldiers pushes himself away from the tree, drops his cigarette, and walks toward the SUV while unslinging his Uzi.
About the same time, a young Haitian boy emerges from between some nearby vehicles. He is roughly 10 or 12 years old, dressed in a tattered pair of shorts, a faded Chicago Bulls t-shirt, and plastic flip flops. Tim hands him some money and says something to him in rapid Creole. The boy beams a bright white smile and replies something else Kevin can’t understand. (What was the point of those language tapes?) The soldier notices this exchange, slips his Uzi back onto his shoulder, and returns to his observation post under the tree. Tim glances at Kevin and says, “Always pay the tax for someone to keep an eye on your vehicle. That kid will split it with the soldiers.”
Tim unlocked the SUV and pulls a tarp out of the cargo area. They load Kevin’s bags, cover them with the tarp, and climbed quickly into the vehicle. Tim starts the engine and rolls down his window, “Gas is too expensive here to run the air conditioning”. As he weaves through the parking lot toward the airport exit, Kevin also rolls down his passenger window and lets the humid air cool his skin. “How did you know I would be on this flight? Did someone from my NGO reach you yesterday?” Tim looks at Kevin without expression before returning his eyes to the road, “International phone calls have been down since the military took control. If you weren’t on this flight, you weren’t coming.”
Airport Access Road
They finally work their way out of the airport parking lot and make a right turn onto a potholed access road. On the left is a chain-link fenced industrial park. On the right is the perimeter wall around the airport, a five-meter-high cement block wall topped with coiled barbed wire and shards of glass. Crowds of men, women, and children are on foot, moving in groups on the gravel shoulder and out into the street.
The atmosphere feels a bit like a party but with an undertone of anger. The crowd moves like lava down the street, chanting, with the throbbing beat of African-style hand drums and referee whistles. Kevin sees a few men with rebar studded clubs and machetes mixed into the crowd. Tim begins to slow the SUV, “These mobs are all over the city right now. The Army reports that they’ve taken control of the city to prevent another coup attempt, but no one really trusts them. They might be demonstrating against the military in support of Aristide. They might be trying to loot the industrial park.” He points to a laminated piece of paper on the dashboard, “Our radio station press pass should keep them from getting too aggressive. If they can read…”
Whenever a car gets too close to a group of demonstrators in the street, they begin gesturing angrily and throwing debris and chunks of pavement at the car. A bottle smashes into a windshield a few cars ahead and the crowd cheers loudly. The drums beat louder and Kevin feels his heartbeat settling into their same rhythm. Vision pulsing with the insistent beat. Traffic soon grinds to a halt and the Americans find themselves surrounded in every direction, pinned motionless by a mass of humanity. Kevin reaches the handle to roll up his window and Tim said very quietly, “Don’t. Do. That. If you roll up your window, they’ll take it as a sign of fear and disrespect.” Struggling to maintain a calm facial expression as the drums pick up their tempo, Kevin looks ahead while avoiding eye contact with anyone in the crowd.
The noise is deafening. As the crowd pressed closer, they see the two Americans, and begin gesturing wildly and shouting, “Blan! Blan!” People from the crowd start crowding around Kevin’s open passenger window, pointing and gesturing toward him. He is startled but manages not to shrink back from them. It becomes impossible to avoid eye contact, with faces peering into the car from all sides. Kevin adjusts the focus of his eyes so that he isn’t really looking at anything, his version of the thousand-yard stare. His lack of reaction seems to deescalate things and some of the people begin to grin widely, as if this is all just a good-natured prank. Kevin smiles back, laughing along, and nods his head as if to say, “Good one! You had me going there.” As the group moves on, a break opens in the traffic and Tim carefully accelerates ahead, careful to avoid any sudden movements.