Arrival 1

Arrival

January 1991

Caribbean Sea
Northwest of Port-au-Prince, Haiti

Eleven months before Henri, Jocelyn, and baby Espwa set out on their voyage…

The whine of jet engines increases in pitch, as the aging Boeing 727 begins its approach to Port-au-Prince International Airport. Kevin instinctively tightens his seat belt as a current of anxiety washes through him. Around him, Haitians stir and look at each other nervously, arranging their wicker bags and whispering to their children in Creole. Kevin doesn’t speak much Creole, but he understands body language. He’s the only white passenger on this flight but seems connected to the Haitians by a thread of fear. No one knows what to expect when they land, but everyone expects the worst.

Kevin looks back out his window and watches the morning sun fall across the reefs below. As the plane descends, scrub vegetation becomes visible on the ridges that claw their way up steep mountain sides. A slight change of heading and the city of Port-au-Prince comes into view, sprawled across the horizon like a hazy stain. The wing flaps begin to move, revealing oily stains as they adjust. A loud thumping sound startles the passengers as the landing gear is lowered. The plane passes over the island of La Gonave, low enough to reveal the drying fishing nets, buoys, and colorful boats pulled up onto shore. An updraft of wind rushes up and swats at the plane, the turbulence pulling Kevin against his seat belt and rattling open an overhead bin.

The pilot clears his throat into the intercom and makes an announcement in French. After a brief pause, he repeats in accented English, “On behalf of Haiti Trans Air, welcome to Port-au-Prince, Haiti. The temperature on the ground is 95 degrees Fahrenheit. We hope you enjoy your stay”. The plane continues its descent and the airport comes into view through the haze, its single landing strip surrounded by palm trees. As the plane banks into its final approach, Kevin sees thick columns of black smoke rising into the air from all over the city.

The plane touches down with engines screaming and bounces unsteadily into the air, before slamming back onto the runway. The rattling aircraft settles back onto its landing gear and slows, before taxiing to a stop fifty yards from the passenger terminal. The passengers are up on their feet now, elbowing each other as they disentangle themselves and drag their luggage down from the overhead bins. Others watch expectantly as a set of stairs is wheeled across the tarmac. Kevin sees men in military uniforms with automatic weapons and sniper rifles posted atop the airport terminal. They glance at the arriving airliner but seem much more interested in what’s happening on the other side of the building.

A flight attendant opens the door and a gust of hot, fetid air rushes into the cabin. Kevin barely notices the heat though, as the smell overwhelms his senses. Sewage, rotting vegetation, brackish sea air, and exhaust fumes, but mostly sewage. He grew up in a farming community and can instantly smell the difference between pig, chicken, and cow manure. But this is something else entirely. When visiting New York City last summer, he walked outside after an afternoon thunderstorm and that was the worst thing he’d ever smelled until now. Resisting the urge to pull his shirt up over his nose, Kevin breathes through his mouth instead.

In the aisle behind him, a man slams into the back of Kevin’s knees with an oversized carry-on suitcase. Kevin shuffles his way toward the exit, his own backpack thudding against each seat. The sunlight temporarily blinds him as he steps out of the cabin. He makes his way down the stairs and waits with the jostling crowd until he finds his foot locker. The wind shifts as he drags it across the rough surface of the tarmac. He no longer notices the smell of sewage, as his eyes water from the acrid scent of burning rubber.

Kevin makes his way into the shaded entrance of the airport terminal and follows the crowd toward Immigration and Customs. There’s no air conditioning and his shirt is instantly drenched in sweat. He prepares his bags for inspection before realizing that no one is very interested in his passport or what he’s bringing into the country. Walking slowly, he leaves the secured area and heads toward the Arrivals Lounge. A dozen soldiers shove through the crowd and lead a few handcuffed young men into a back room. Glancing up at the Departures board, Kevin sees that all flights have been cancelled. The Arrivals board shows the same. No one is getting in or out of Haiti by air. Not even from Cuba.

Kevin emerges from the airport into the crowd that are waiting for friends and family. He looks around and sees a short white man with thick glasses, gray streaked black hair, and a large mustache. They make eye contact and as the only white people in sight, approach each other. As he gets closer, Kevin sees the man is holding a piece of paper with his name on it. “Tim?” he asks. The man nods curtly and without smiling or shaking hands, reaches for Kevin’s backpack, “Yes, I’m Tim. Welcome to Haiti. Let’s get out of here!”