Iron Market
It’s afternoon and hot but the sun sets quickly this time of year and the roadside is shaded. Kevin meanders downhill, following the merchants in reverse as they make their way back up the mountain with empty baskets on their heads. He arrives at the Iron Market, a massive indoor/outdoor market that never sleeps. Kevin wanders around for a while, deflecting the half-hearted high ball offers from vendors who’ve already sold their best wares. Eventually he finds a chaotic scrum of the infamous tap-taps pointed in a generally westerly direction, waiting for the last chicken, goat, or small child to be attached to the sides or roof of the vehicle.
Kevin takes out his beat up Pentax 35mm camera and snaps a few shots of the scene. Each tap-tap is almost always a small Toyota pickup truck with a camper shell on its bed. Unremarkable, until the eye finally takes in the mobile art exhibit on each. Always bright, primary colors. Without question, some scantily clad and buxom women. Usually, Jesus and Kok Kalite and Aristide and every Catholic Saint who ever tried to help the poor or wayward. Or a more modern theme with animals and mythical creatures blended with loas and vodou symbols. Along with a few local beer, rum, and Heineken logos plastered over every rust spot and dent.
Kevin’s heard that it’s possible to travel across the entire country by tap-tap. But for the long distance routes, there are large camion/school buses with even more elaborate decorations. The small tap-taps basically do round-trip runs that get them back home each night. Their drivers are every bit as aggressive as Manhattan taxi drivers and for extra fun, they refuse to turn their headlights on until it is pitch-black outside. The drivers have all convinced themselves that illuminated headlights reduce fuel efficiency, so it’s incredibly dangerous to be a pedestrian around dawn and dusk. Donkeys always get right of way. THAT is non-negotiable.
It’s late afternoon but the market is still packed. Just before Kevin gets clear of the merchants and is about to head toward the waiting tap-taps, a grizzled old Haitian man offers him a machete for the equivalent of five USD. Kevin looks closely at the hand-stitched leather scabbard and hesitates but replies, “No, merci”. Before the man can make another lower offer, Kevin asks in his halting Creole, “Ki kote tap-tap Miragoane?” His ridiculous accent seems to catch the old guy off guard, who just points toward the nearest tap-tap. Kevin thanks him and approaches the loading area.
After joining the jostling group near the first tap-tap in line, Kevin sees that a dozen adults and small children are already stuffed inside. A couple teenage boys are also hanging onto hand rails on the outside of the cab. Kevin accepts the situation, wedges himself into the elbows and thighs until he has a spot on the wooden bench inside. Many of the people in the tap-tap have been performing manual labor all day, so the air is pungent with a mix of body odor, garlic, and the fried pork that many have brought along as a snack. The good news; no matter how bad the driver, Kevin cannot be thrown free of the truck in an accident. “Safety First!”, as he was taught.
Only in country a few months, Kevin is already accustomed to stares from Haitians. To be fair, it’s very uncommon for an American to travel by tap-tap so he can’t blame the locals for being surprised to see him. There’s an uncomfortable silence as the tap-tap starts moving, while a couple dozen eyes stare at him. The facial expressions range from impassive to slightly annoyed. Finally, Kevin clears his throat and with an apologetic grin says, “Sake pase?” That seems to do the trick and smiles break out among the group. He hears the word blan more than fou and his fellow passengers seem to be having quite a bit of fun at his expense. That’s OK. He’d rather be a source of comedy than anger, so he smiles and nods along. His novelty soon wears off and the passengers settle into the ride, swaying against each other without apology.
Kevin can’t see much from his seat well inside the cab. Under his breath, he mutters, “Note to self. Be the last person into a tap-tap, not the first.” They stop occasionally when a passenger slaps the roof of the cab. But for every person who gets off another always seems to get on. Kevin loses track of time but they finally arrive in Miragoane a few hours after dark. The tap-tap stops in front of the local police station as Ashley told him to expect. Kevin climbs over the other passengers, “Excuse” “Pardon, moi!”, while holding tightly onto his backpack. Kevin makes his way out of the vehicle in front of the police station, and tries to get his bearings while elaborately and luxuriously stretching his back and neck. That wooden bench seat was not built for comfort.