Part 2 (Dezyèm): MISEDUCATION
Dechokaj
Delmas Highway
Tim maneuvers the Isuzu around the burning debris and cement blocks strewn across the asphalt. The obstacles behind them and traffic clearing ahead, Kevin turns to Tim as he shifts into higher gear, “Did you see that? Was that really a burnt body at the roundabout?” Tim hits the brakes abruptly as a small group of protestors step int the street and wave their arms, palms down, in a gesture to stop. Tim downshifts, hits the horn and accelerator, and yanks the wheel to the left, swerving into oncoming lane of traffic but avoiding the knot of protestors. A large military-style truck is barreling toward the Isuzu Trooper, a handful of soldiers peeking around the truck cab with gun muzzles pointed vaguely in their direction. Every vehicle suddenly hits their horns at once. Above the din, Kevin hears the valiant Isuzu’s screaming engine. Tim yanks the wheel hard to the right and then left again, just in time to get out of the oncoming traffic who seem to be intentionally accelerating toward a head-on collision. The Isuzu skids briefly before all four wheels find grip and Tim continues up the Delmas highway as if it’s just another morning on I-95.
As if they hadn’t been interrupted at all, Tim glances over at Kevin his facial expression asking, “You OK over there?” Kevin lets go of the arm rest and exhales slowly, “Good to go!”. Tim up shifts and continues, “I didn’t see it, but I wouldn’t be surprised. The mob probably gave him the Pere LeBrun treatment”. After a pause he glanced at Kevin, “Pere LeBrun means ‘Father Fire’. Did they cover that in your immersion classes?” Kevin slowly shakes his head, “Not by that name. Was he another Salesian priest like Aristide?”. Tim snorts, “Hardly!”, then seems to reconsider, “Well, perhaps indirectly…” and trails off. The pause is long enough that Kevin looks over at Tim to see if he’s noticed something dangerous. But then Tim glances at the rear view mirror before adding, “It’s like necklacing in South Africa. The mob captures someone they think is on the other side.” Tim takes his hands off the wheel long enough to make air quotes with his hands. “They fill a tire with gasoline, put it over his head, and set it afire. You’ve seen those machetes, right? They don’t carry those in case they need to open a coconut. If it was a Pere LeBrun, they cut the victims hands off so they can’t pull the tire from around their own neck.”
The highway turns into two narrow lanes (one each way) and Tim casually negotiates the game of chicken, while everyone tries to nose their vehicle into the remaining lanes. Kevin’s window is still open, and he notices that the air is cleaner without the scent of tire smoke, but also cooler and less humid. Taking advantage of the traffic jam, street urchins and vendors of every imaginable beverage and street food walk between the cars offering great deals. Tim notices that Kevin is watching a young boy in a tattered Hooters t-shirt and one leather sandal, hold a cup to the window of each vehicle. No one pays him any mind. Tim says, “Best to get used to that. You’ll never have enough coins to make a difference. Besides, most of what’s in that cup will go right into the pocket of whatever orphanage/gang owns the kid.” Traffic begins to move before Kevin needs to act on this new perspective, and the street vendors scatter to the sidewalks to avoid being road kill.
Concrete/rebar roofs begin to replace the tin roof and cement block structures of the downtown slums. Street vendor booths are replaced with retail stores, pharmacies, and even a few restaurants. They’re all closed now at midday, with iron bars and steel shutters covering the doors and windows. The streets are deserted and some of the stores have shotgun armed civilians on their roofs. There are more police visible now and less military presence, but Kevin’s orientation was clear that there’s no functional distinction.
Kevin asks, “Is it safer in this area?” Tim doesn’t answer until he completes a left turn in front of a screaming motorcyclist onto a street called Delma-something, the road sign badly faded and illegible. He points toward a two-story house with blackened doors and windows. “It depends. The man who lived in that house was a member of the Tonton Macoute secret police back in the Duvalier days. And like they say, “Once a Duvalierist. Always a Duvalierist.” Kevin looks into the blackened interior and the upside-down, burned-out Mercedes sedan as Tim continues, “When the power went out the night of the coup attempt, he and his family were thrown out into the street and their house was set afire. His wife and children were left alive, but were forced to watch him get Pere Lebrun. The term they’re using for all this is ‘dechokaj’. It means the uprooting. Like I said, lots of scores being settled.”
Tim makes a few more quick left/right turns onto unmarked streets in a neighborhood of one and two story, single-family homes, built with cement and rebar. Their windows are enclosed in reinforced steer bars and a few have steel storm shutters. Many appear frozen in construction time, with partially built cinder block walls growing on top of their cement roof/floors. All the building materials have logos and markings that show they were imported from the US, except for the bags of cement. Since there’s no official import/export process at the Haitian ports of entry, it makes sense that construction would stop/start as bribery and black-market conditions allow. Or the owners just ran out of money, or decided not to take in that extra family member from the provinces.
After a few more minutes, Tim slows in front of a large two-story house. It looks like a small fortress, surrounded by a wall of cement blocks, placed in a lattice pattern to allow visibility, but not access. The wall is topped with sharpened rebar and has a solid metal gate, wide enough to a vehicle to enter, when it slides open. Tim hits the horn a few times and the gate slides open. An older Haitian man emerges from behind the gate as it opens. “Our caretaker”, Time explains. “He used to be a police captain and has good connections with police and military. His information has saved this family a lot of unnecessary danger.”
As they carefully pull through the gate Tim adds, “It’s all about who you know here in Haiti. Probably everywhere, but especially here. Besides, it’s not like you can call 911 when the mob decides they want your house.” As the caretaker pulls the gate closed behind them, “It’s just a precaution. We’re here doing God’s work and the Haitians know it. That’s why those who stay out of politics and focus on spiritual matters have been left alone.”