Department of Sud, Highway 1 toward Cayes
Jè drives the station’s small Geo sport-utility vehicle on the main highway south. Highway 1 is really just a two-lane road with one lane of asphalt shared in each direction. Kevin doesn’t have a driver’s license or any documentation other than his US passport, which is not much help in this environment. He also has a tattered letter of introduction from some long-ago disgraced Haitian government official to a vague list of acronyms that represent the major Baptist, Assemblies of God, and Mormon churches in the Department of Sud region, along with the whole splintered collection of sects recognized by the Haiti’s Department of Cults. The document is useful for getting past an illiterate cop/soldier/zenglendo shake-down at one of the random trash piles smoldering in front of every burned-out police station. But not much else.
Kevin is crumbling up the greasy wrapper from the pork grio he just grabbed at the gas station/bodega when Jè topped off the Geo. They ride together quietly, as Jè downshifts calmly and avoids a donkey that’s just wandering into traffic. A few pedestrians scatter and cough dramatically as Jè gets the Geo back on asphalt with an impressive rooster tail of dust fanning out behind them. Jè puts his arm out the driver’s side window and gives a wiggling hand signal, a sort of “sorry, not sorry” acknowledgement that usually turns any affront into a shared moment of levity. Then they’re back on their on-road/off-road journey at a breath-taking speed of 50 km/hr, the small SUV’s suspension groaning and bucking at each pothole, as Jè casually steers through each sudden jerk of the wheel as the Geo forges ahead.
After another hour or so, Jè slows at an intersection where a dirt and gravel trail leads north. A hand-painted symbol of a mountain peak is the only indicator of destination. He looks at Kevin uncertainly, “Now what?”. Kevin says, “Well, first chance to see if our friends are expecting us.” He pulls himself up and out of the passenger side of the Geo and walks over to a few young Haitian men, who regard him impassively as he approaches.
Jè can’t hear the exchange, but he sees Kevin gesturing with a lot of elaborate hand waving and head bobbing. He sees the largest of the men start smiling and then all of them, including Kevin, are laughing and pointing up the hill. Kevin shakes hands with them, hands out a couple packs of Marlboro Reds and climbs back into the Geo. After closing the door, he turns to Jè and points ahead, “Onward and upward!” Jè puts the SUV back in gear and starts driving slowly away from the checkpoint. “I still can’t believe you talked Tim into letting you out of your cage, without really being able to speak Kreyòl. How did you pull that off?”
As they make their way uphill, Kevin breaths in the fresher, cooler air, lights a local cigarette (those Marlboros are useless for anything other than barter, as far as he’s concerned) and exhales out the window before replying, “Well, I finally realized that I can’t play poker because my face is so expressive. Since I can’t talk in English without using my hands, I just pantomimed and Creole-ished my case to the Haitian on-air talent, and then convinced them to go tell Tim that I am fully capable of leaving the nest.” Jè starts to laugh, “And let me guess, they went along with it?” Kevin starts laughing too, “Oh, of course! It was amazing. Since Tim won’t speak with me directly, he had to take their word for it. How else would I have been able to convince them?”
“This is why we all say you’re Haitian-American!”, Jè barks, “You’re just as crafty as us, but you’re so obviously American.” He pantomimes a six-gun with his gear-shift hand and says in an exaggerated John Wayne drawl, “Howdy there, partner!” Kevin turns and replies in his best Deniro accent, “You talking to me?!” Now that Jè has watched Kevin’s entire VHS library of three films, he starts singing in his best falsetto, “Roxanne! You don’t have to put on the red light!”.
They’re roaring with laughter now, and Jè is having a bit of trouble keeping the Geo in the middle of the single dirt lane. “And I forgot!”, Jè burst out, “Tim still doesn’t know that the staff speak English better than the Americans!” Kevin leans back in his seat, “None of the missionaries seem to connect those dots. Every Haitian in Port has better English than their Creole. The blan congratulate themselves for losing their Texan accents while speaking elementary school Creole. Meanwhile, I’m actually communicating without learning the language ‘properly’. But that’s perfect. What they don’t know can’t hurt us!”
A few hours later, the sun is beginning to set behind the mountain ranges, the shadows of the valleys melting into its last lingering rays. Kevin’s glad they didn’t try to bring along more batteries. The SUV is straining on the steep incline; it’s four little tires spinning frantically and causing Kevin to look nervously over the steep cliff on his right. There are no guardrails, so when he can’t see the road anymore he calls out, “Attencion!” and Jè carefully edges away from the cliff toward the sheer wall on his side of the road. Eventually the road turns into a narrow trail with so many blind switch-backs that Jè stops and looks at Kevin, “Hey blan, can you walk ahead to make sure I’m not about to have a head-on collision with a donkey or something?”. Kevin laughs, “No problem. I’m American, not French!” He gets out and starts walking ahead of Jè until the roadway widens again, then climbs back into the Geo.