Dechokaj 1

Dechokaj

January – February 1991

Delmas Highway

Tim maneuvers the Isuzu around the burning debris and makes the turn onto Delmas Highway. When they’re up to speed again Kevin asks, “Did you see that? Was that a burnt body?” Tim hits the brakes abruptly as a group of protestors step into the street, waving their arms, palms down, in a gesture to stop. Instead, he downshifts, hits the horn and accelerator, yanks the wheel to the left, and swerves into oncoming traffic to avoid the crowd. A large military-style truck barrels toward them, a handful of soldiers peeking around the truck cab with gun muzzles pointed vaguely in their direction.

Every vehicle suddenly hits their horn at once. It seems to Kevin that everyone is intentionally accelerating toward a head-on collision and he braces himself for impact. He hears the Trooper’s engine screaming above the din as Tim yanks the wheel hard to the right, then left again, just in time to avoid a head-on collision. Kevin slowly releases his grip on the dashboard and looks over at Tim, who puts his elbow out his window and calmly continues as if it’s just another morning on I-95.

Tim glances at Kevin, shifts again, and then continues, “I didn’t see a body, but I wouldn’t be surprised. They probably gave him the Pere LeBrun treatment”. After a pause he glances at Kevin, “Pere LeBrun means ‘Father Fire’. Did they cover that in your training?” Kevin shakes his head slowly, “I heard necklacing was happening, but not by that name…” Tim pauses and glances in the rear view mirror before continuing, “It’s like necklacing. But, those machetes…” He trails off before continuing, “The mob captures someone they think is on the other side.” He takes his hands off the wheel long enough to make air quotes, “They fill a tire with gasoline, put it over his head, and set it afire. Then they cut off his hands, so he can’t take the tire off before they light it.”

The highway narrows into two lanes and traffic slows. Tim casually negotiates another game of chicken, while everyone tries to nose their vehicle into the remaining lane. Taking advantage of the traffic jam, street urchins and vendors of every imaginable beverage and food walk between the cars offering great deals. Tim notices Kevin watching a young boy in a tattered Hooters t-shirt and one leather sandal. The boy walks along the line of vehicles, holding a cup at each window. No one pays him any mind. Tim says, “Best to get used to that. You’ll never have enough to make a difference. Besides, most of what’s in that cup will go right into the pocket of the orphanage gang who him.” Traffic begins to move before Kevin needs to act on this new perspective and the street vendors scatter.

Kevin’s window is still open as they drive uphill. The air is cooler, with less smoke and humidity. Tin-roof huts blend with concrete and then disappear. Street vendor carts are replaced by retail stores and a few restaurants; all closed and shuttered. He notes the shotgun armed civilians on roofs, but sees no military or police presence. Kevin asks, “Is this area more secure?” Tim doesn’t answer until he completes a left turn onto a street called Delmas-something, the road sign badly faded and illegible.

He points toward a two-story house with blackened doors and windows. “It depends. The guy who lived there was a Tonton Macoute back in the Duvalier days. And like they say, Once a Duvalierist. Always a Duvalierist.” Kevin looks into the blackened interior as Tim continues, “When the power went out the night of the coup, he and his family were thrown 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 uprooting. Like I said, lots of old scores being settled.”

Tim makes a few more quick turns onto unmarked streets in a neighborhood of one and two-story homes. Most are built like bunkers with steel bars in their windows. Many appear frozen in construction time, with partially built cinder block walls and rebar jutting in all directions. Except for bags of cement, all the building materials display markings that show they were imported from the US. Since there’s no official customs process in Haiti, it makes sense that construction would stop and start as bribery and black-market conditions allow. The owners likely 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. Tim hits the horn a few times and the gate slides open. An older Haitian man emerges from behind it. “Our caretaker”, Tim explains. “He used to be a police captain and has good connections with the security forces. His information has saved this family more than once.”

As they carefully pull through the gate Tim adds, “It’s all about who you know here in Haiti. Probably everywhere, but especially here. You can’t call 911 if the mob decides they want your house.” As the caretaker pulls the gate closed behind them Tim adds, “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.”