La Boule
Kevin relaxes slightly and takes the opportunity to light a cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke downwind toward the soldier. The solder sniffs absently, but doesn’t take his attention from the road block. Kevin leans out his window a bit farther so he can see what has the soldier’s attention. From one of the shanty towns that spill down the embankment below the road, a crowd of women and children are being led at gunpoint, up the steep hill toward the road block. Kevin sees that the rest of the soldiers are split into two groups. One is taking cover behind the Pajero with guns pointed at the hill above the road block. The rest are still down in the shanty town, but have lined up about a dozen men in front of one of the plywood retaining walls. The men are on their knees, hands behind their heads, and a man in civilian clothes is going through all their pockets while the uniformed men keep their guns trained on the men’s backs.
As the women and children are herded onto the roadway, they begin pulling the tires aside and push them over the bank toward the shanty town. Then as the soldiers kick and beat them, the villagers push the bed of the burned-out truck bed aside, so that it is only blocking the lane nearest the steep cliff on Kevin’s right. Then the villagers are shoved and kicked back down the steep bank to the left of the road. The soldier nearest Kevin slowly turns and stares into his eyes, a smirk on his lips as if to ask, “Did you enjoy the show?” then waves Kevin ahead with the barrel of his Uzi.
Kevin carefully threads his Lada past the Pajero, then between some pavement chunks that are still strewn across the road surface, taking care not to get too close to the legs of the soldiers and taking extra, special care not to look down the bank on his left. Traffic is piling up in the downhill direction. Drivers are panicking at the scene they’ve also been watching, and many try to three-point their way back up the mountain. Kevin just lays on the horn of the Lada, keeps it in second gear and accelerates until the little Russian engine sounds like it will explode, causing the other drivers to slam on their brakes until he’s past. He shifts into third and drives as fast as his tires will allow up the mountain and to the house party that awaits.
For the next month, the days blur into a chaotic stream of rumors, fear, and boredom. The house party dwindles daily as the NGO’s, embassy non-essentials, and unarmed alphabet agencies get their tickets out of the hot zone. Most of the new wave of missionaries have long ago extracted, with only the oldest school remaining in their compounds. As a god-damn-independent (GDI, unaligned with church or state), Kevin has decided he’ll ride this out until the New Year. He hates Christmas and would rather spend it on a beach than in some white, icy hellscape. He’s getting pressure from back home to regain his senses and return ASAP, but Kevin is one of the only GDI’s remaining in Haiti. As his NGO network’s sole source of information about the coup’s aftermath, he keeps sending reports about human rights abuses that keep people asking for details, so he can go and ask more questions and repeat the process.
His radio engineer pass and brand-new GOH letters of recommendation and authorization to travel are worse than useless now. But his Haitian driver license is valid for nine more years. All the Aristide officials who signed anything are in hiding, already on a plane (helpfully provided by US Department of State/Defense/CIA), or down a hole in Fort Dimanche prison awaiting their fate. Kevin still has his shortwave radio, sets it up on the dining room table, and someone is scanning and shouting out updates whenever they catch a fragment of news. None of the local stations are on air, since journalists have been getting disappeared along with anyone who was ever elected to anything. But Tele-Joel is undeniable and before long it’s common knowledge that President Aristide has been arrested by whatever General is in charge now.
This news seems to break something in the house as news arrives. The shock wave is felt by everyone in Haiti who isn’t already celebrating their victory at the Presidential Palace. Every hour, a new wave of panic washes over Kevin and his friends until they settle into a sort of drinking game with each conflicting account of doom. “President Aristide was unharmed.” “Ayibobo! “He escaped!” “Oh, no. Titid was arrested in his private residence in the wee hours of the coup.” “Oh, but good news? Now the US is offering to negotiate Aristide’s release” “It’s a trap! The Americans were behind the coup.” “No, Bush and Carter say it’s a real deal.” “Oh, well then. I guess the good guys will win one?” “Never mind, they’re offering to send him to Africa or other place andeyo.”
After a few days of inactivity in the house and supplies running low, Kevin and the remaining Americans decide to make a run to Petionville for resupply. They’ll take the Lada because it’s so ridiculous that the military never considers it a threat. But the rest of the house is Haitian labor organizers and low-level Lavalas fugitives. They explain all the ways the American idea is a terrible plan, mostly because it will put them all at risk if it goes wrong. A healthy debate ensues until someone shouts everyone quiet. Voice of America is advising all Americans to stay inside and shelter in place. The Haitian military has started shooting people on sight. They’ve declared a 24 hour, blanket curfew in place for all of Port-au-Prince. No one is allowed in or out of city limits and the airport is now exclusively for military use. That ends the debate and discussion of rationing begins. Over drinks, of course.