Part 3: REBELLION
Protect and Serve
Mirogoane, Police Station
Kevin’s quite anxious about approaching the police station, despite his measured bravado with Ashley. He’s starting to question this whole plan. But he can’t lose his nerve now. When does the last tap-tap return to Carrefour each night? And where would he go anyway? He tries to remember yesterday’s headline from Le Nouvelliste. Which side is the US on? Which side are these cops on? Which side is he on? Shouldn’t he know that?
But none of that really matters here in the pitch dark with nothing but a generator and single bulb illuminating four pairs of dark glasses and matching gun barrels. An endless supply of contradictory rumors have everyone confused. “Lavalas has been taken over by communists” and “Macoutes sleeper agents are popping up in churches” or “the Pope has sent troops!” However, an American is always an American and not to be trifled with, even in this dust speck of tropical paradise. Those creepy Macoute cops don’t know what he is either, but they know where the blan live. Time to do the brilliant, ballsy, bullshit thing. Kevin starts to hum, “Take it to the limit, one more time…”
He straightens his back, fumbles around with his backpack, digs a pack of smokes out of his pocket, drops them, picks them up, pats all his pockets for a box of matches, finds them, uses three to get a flame and then accidentally lets it burn out. No reaction from the cops. So he makes a show of sighing in frustration, lights the cigarette again, drags it deep to get a good coal going and mutters “Once more God, if you’re still there.” Then he adjusts his crotch situation and slowly walks toward the door and the flickering sunglasses and gun metal waiting inside. When he’s a few meters away from the police station he calls, “Tout sanble kay blan?” There’s no reaction from the cops. He’s about to take his first step inside when he hears a female voice call out, “Hey blan!” He turns and sees Ashley with her permanently ironic grin, “Glad you could make it. You’re not in Kansas anymore!”
Ashley’s house
It’s very late or early the next morning. Kevin, Ashley, and Matt are lounging on bamboo mats atop the house’s flat roof, looking up at the stars, and sharing war stories. They work for NGO Education, a faith-adjacent non-profit that supports the education of young women. Haiti doesn’t have a public school system and every family must pay for private education. Tuition for girls is usually the expense that a family cuts, so NGO Education has built a network of schools for girls throughout Haiti This seems harmless enough and is great for fund-raising but teaching a young woman to read and write is a revolutionary act.
Over rum, cane sugar, and coconut cocktails, Ashley and Matt explain expansively that Education NGO isn’t aligned with any organized political or religious groups. Many of its staff in Haiti are American but the boots-on-the-ground are a band of UN misfits. Kevin asks, “But who funds you? It’s not like there are grants out there for any of this.” Ashley laughs, “Well, we’re ecumenical enough to coordinate with any faith-based mobilization.” Matt snorts and interjects, “Yeah, mate. But also feminist enough to make the Yank fundajelicals uneasy and vague enough to confuse the US Embassy.” Kevin grins mischievously, “Yeah, I’ve seen how much the missionaries and alphabet agencies love when someone goes off script.” Ashley exclaims, “Exactly! They can’t even conceptualize our motives.” Matt adds, “Ask forgiveness later, maybe” works in a failed state like this one. With so many rival clans and warlords, a truly impartial back channel to the US can be helpful to everyone.”
Kevin had connected with Matt and Ashley at one of the crazy house parties that spring up whenever the right combo of hippy/outlaw/NGO/left-wing types find themselves together with not much better to do after the lights go out. This two-story house with secure courtyard can easily sleep a dozen Americans or a small Haitian village. They’re on permanent assignment and will be in country for another year or five, depending on funding. They jokingly refer to this house as the Miragoane Stronghold. It’s rent costs a fraction of the up-scale apartments that the missionary wives keep recommending.
Ashley has been in Haiti long enough to absorb the local blend of French, African, and American culture. She’s perfected the Gaelic shrug and buys all her clothes at the local market. While most blan women seem uncomfortable in their “missionary dresses”, Ashley moves and blends in comfortably with her Haitian style of dress.