Part 2: 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 into the street, waving their arms, palms down, in a gesture to stop. Tim downshifts, hits the horn and accelerator, yanks the wheel to the left, and swerves into oncoming traffic to avoid 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, but Kevin can hear the Isuzu’s engine screaming above the din. Tim yanks the wheel hard to the right, then left again, just in time to avoid the oncoming traffic. It seems to Kevin that everyone is intentionally accelerating toward a head-on collision and braces himself for impact. But instead, Tim calmly navigates the Isuzu through the chaos and calmly continues on Delmas highway as if it’s just another morning on I-95.
Tim looks over at Kevin his facial expression asking, “You OK over there?” Kevin lets his fingers let go of the dashboard and exhales slowly, “Good to go!”. Tim up shifts and continues, “I didn’t see the body, but I wouldn’t be surprised. The mob 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 orientation?” 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’s Pere LeBrun, they cut the victims hands off so he can’t pull the tire from around his own neck.”
The highway narrows into two lanes and Tim casually negotiates another 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 Kevin watching a young boy in a tattered Hooters t-shirt and one leather sandal who holds 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 avoid being road kill.
Concrete and rebar begins to replace the tin and cement block structures of the downtown slums. Street vendor carts 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 street violence 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 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 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, wide enough for a vehicle to enter. 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”, Tim explains. “He used to be a police captain and has good connections with police and military. 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. 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.”