PART: ESCAPE / ARRIVAL
Arrival
Caribbean Sea
Northwest of Port-au-Prince, Haiti
January, 1991
Eleven months before the Haitians at sea…
The dull whine of the jet engines increases in pitch as the aging Boeing 727 begins its approach to Port-au-Prince International Airport. Kevin instinctively tightens his seatbelt as a current of anxiety washes over him. Around him, Haitians stir and look at each other nervously, arranging their overstuffed suitcases and canvas bags and whispering to their children in Creole. Kevin doesn’t yet 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 the window as the morning sun falls across the turquoise Caribbean waters, deep green reefs and far ahead, the mountains of Haiti. As the plane descends, scrub vegetation becomes visible on the sand-colored ridges and white scars that claw their way up the cliffs. The plane banks sharply and the city of Port-au-Prince comes slowly into view ahead, sprawled across the horizon like a hazy stain.
The wing flaps begin to move, revealing streaking oil stains as they adjust. A loud thumping sound and whining of electric motors startles the passengers as the landing gear is lowers. 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 to swat at the plane, the turbulence pulling Kevin against his seatbelt and rattling open an overhead bin.
The aircraft continues its steep turning descent and the airport comes suddenly into view, its single landing strip surrounded by palm trees. The pilot clears his through 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”. As the plane comes out of its turn, the passengers can see what’s causing the fog to remain even as the runway is rushing up like a river. Thick columns of black smoke rise high into the air from all over the city.
The plane bounces down with engines screaming, bounces unsteadily into the air before it slams back down onto the runway. The rattling aircraft settles onto its landing gear and slows before taxiing off the runway and stopping 50 meters from the passenger terminal. The passengers are up on their feet now, elbowing each other as they drag their luggage down from the overhead bins. Others watch expectantly as a set of stairs is wheeled across the tarmac. As the passengers begin to disentangle themselves and their luggage, Kevin sees men in military uniforms with automatic weapons and sniper rifles posted on the roof of the airport terminal. They glance at the arriving airliner but seem much more interested in something happening on the other side of the airport 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 of sewage overwhelmed 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. Kevin looks around, but none of the Haitians seem to notice. Resisting the urge to pull his shirt up over his mouth and nose, he tries to breathe through his mouth. What is he inhaling?!
Soon enough though, the man behind him slams the back of Kevin’s knees with an oversized carry-on bag, and Kevin shuffles his way toward the exit, over-stuffed backpack banging against each seat. He steps out of the cabin into the blinding sun, making his way down the stairs, and waits amid the shoving, jostling crowd until he finds his giant steamer trunk/foot locker. As he drags it across the rough surface of the tarmac, the wind shifts. 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 passport control and customs. There is 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, where he sees dozens of uniformed soldiers armed with what look like Uzi submachine guns. Their attention isn’t on him or any of the new arrivals. They seem much more concerned about who is trying to get into the airport. Kevin sees a handful of young men handcuffed by the soldiers and led into a back room. Glancing up at the Departures board, he sees all the flights are shown as Cancelled. The Arrivals board shows the same. No one is getting in or out of Haiti by air. Not even from Cuba.
By some miracle (and what else can it be?), as Kevin emerges from the airport into the crowd of people looking for their friends and family, he sees a short, thin 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?” The man nods curtly, and without smiling or shaking his hand, reaches for Kevin’s backpack, “Yes, I’m Tim. Welcome to Haiti. Let’s get out of here!”