Downtown, Iron Market
It’s late 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 really sleeps. Kevin wanders around for a while, deflecting the half-hearted high ball offers from vendors who’ve already sold their best wares.
A grizzled old Haitian man offers him a machete for the equivalent of five US dollars. He wonders if he could carry it as a tool instead of a weapon, but declines before the man can offer a lower price. 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.
He approaches the nearest tap-tap, a small Toyota pickup adorned with brightly painted images of Jesus, Kok Kalite, and Aristide. It’s gotten quite dark by now, and Kevin walks carefully through the loading area as the small trucks drive in every direction. Their headlights are off, since the drivers have convinced themselves that illuminated headlights reduce fuel efficiency. Kevin recalls Fritz explaining how dangerous it is to be a pedestrian around dawn and dusk. He also emphasized that Donkeys don’t have headlights and always get right of way. THAT is non-negotiable, especially for someone on a motorbike.
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 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 few 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. He 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.