Iron Market
It’s early afternoon and hot but the sun sets quickly this time of year, so there’s shade on the road side. Kevin meanders downhill, following the merchants in reverse as they make their way back up the mountain with mostly empty baskets on their heads. Eventually, he arrives at the Iron Market. A massive indoor/outdoor market that never sleeps. Kevin wanders around a bit, deflecting the half-hearted high ball offers of vendors who have 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 basically a small Toyota pickup truck (always a Toyota!) 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, blending with loas and other vodou symbols. Along with a few local beer, rum, and Heineken logos plastered over every rust spot or evidence of tender, fender-to-fender love.
Kevin’s heard that it’s possible to travel across the entire country by tap-tap, but there are larger camions (school buses painted with as much imagination as the tap-taps) for longer distance runs. The 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 $5 USD. Kevin notices the hand-stitched leather handle and matching scabbard. Kevin replies, “No, merci” after a bit too much hesitation. Before the man can make another lower offer, Kevin asks in his halting Creole, “Ki kote tap-tap Miragoane?” (Where is the tap-tap to Mirogoane?) His ridiculous accent seems to catch the old guy off guard and he points toward the nearest tap-tap. Kevin thanks him and approaches the loading area.
After joining the group waiting to depart (there are no lines, just a huddle of people jostling for a place when each tap-tap arrives), Kevin sees that there are already a dozen adults stuffed into the cab of this small truck, along with quite a few children. 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 asses 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 is, 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 really 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. Eventually, the novelty 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 an hour or so after dark. The tap-tap stops in front of the local police station as Kat had told him to expect. Kevin climbs over the other passengers, “Excuse”, “Pardon, moi!”, while holding tightly onto his backpack. If someone takes it, he’s never getting it back. 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.