Kevin follows as Tim maneuvers his way through the crowd, waving some sort of credential whenever someone steps aside too slowly. Kevin tries to seem friendly while avoiding eye contact and making sure not to hit anyone’s legs with his footlocker. Sidestepping a group of 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 the man steps aside and Kevin is a few yards away, he quietly asks what that meant. With a small smile Tim replies, “Crazy white guy”.
As they get free of the crowd clustered outside the airport, Tim leads Kevin quickly toward the parking area. They pass a pair of soldiers leaning against a large banyan tree with faded uniforms, dented green helmets, and very new looking Uzi’s. The soldiers watch closely as the Americans approach a red Isuzu Trooper. One pushes himself away from the tree, drops his cigarette, and walks toward the SUV while unslinging his Uzi.
A young Haitian boy emerges from between some nearby vehicles. He’s roughly ten or twelve years old and is dressed in tattered shorts, a faded Chicago Bulls t-shirt, and plastic flip flops. Tim hands him some money and says something in Creole. The boy beams a bright smile and replies with a phrase ending in “Merci!” 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’ll split it with the soldiers.”
Tim unlocks the Isuzu and pulls a tarp out of the cargo area. They load Kevin’s bags, cover them with the tarp, and climb quickly into the vehicle. Tim starts the engine and rolls down his window, “Gas is too expensive here to run the air conditioning”. As Tim weaves through the parking lot toward the airport exit, Kevin rolls down his passenger window and lets the humid air cool his skin. He asks, “How did you know I’d be on this flight? Did someone from my NGO reach you?” 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 parking lot and make a right turn onto a potholed access road. Kevin immediately thinks of a cattle chute used to slaughter beef. On the left is a chain-link fence protecting an industrial park. On the right is the perimeter wall around the airport, topped with 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. The crowd moves as 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 says they’ve taken control to prevent another coup attempt, but no one really trusts them. This crowd might be demonstrating against the military in support of Aristide. Or they might be trying to loot the industrial park.” He points to a laminated press pass on the dashboard, “Our radio station placard should keep them from getting too aggressive.”
Whenever a car gets too close to the demonstrators, they shout angrily and throw debris back at it. A bottle smashes into a windshield a few cars ahead and the crowd cheers. The drums beat louder and Kevin feels his heartbeat settling into the same rhythm; vision pulsing with the insistent beat. Traffic soon grinds to a halt and the Americans are surrounded in every direction, pinned motionless by a mass of humanity. Kevin reaches to roll up his window but Tim says 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 expression as the drums increase their tempo, Kevin looks ahead while avoiding eye contact with anyone in the crowd.
The noise is deafening. As the crowd presses closer, they see the two Americans and begin gesturing wildly and shouting, “Blan! Blan!” People start crowding around Kevin’s open passenger window, pointing and gesturing toward him. He’s startled but manages not to shrink back from them. It becomes impossible to avoid eye contact, with faces peering at him 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 accelerates slowly, careful to avoid any sudden movements.