We Will Have Our Backs to the Sea

Last night I saw another face of Haiti, the really filthy rich one. I have to say, I feel a bit dirty spending time with the enemy, but I'm here to try to understand Haiti and that means all sides of it. After watching a new friend of mine sing jazz on the patio of a Petionville club, we headed up the mountain in someone's enormous white pickup truck, to a techno festival. Basically as close to a rave as you can get in Haiti. First of all, I am amazed I made there in the first place. The guy who drove Kenya and I there took these mountain roads at 80 miles an hour. I buckled my seat belt and relaxed my body, preparing myself to survive in case we hurled off the mountain. (A thing about Port-au-Prince: poor people live in the centre-ville, on the low lands. Petionville looks down over Port-au-Prince from the mountains, and even wealthier people live in mansions in the hills above the city. Basically, elevation=wealth). When we finally rolled up, alive, I was surprised by all the light skinned people with popped collars and stiletto heels. Are these all foreigners, I asked? No, these are the mulatres, the mixed race people of Haiti that have controlled wealth since the time of independence. These are all Haitians? Really? Again, I fell into the cliche of thinking that being Haitian meant being dark. Anyway, yes, nice cars, expensive tickets, swank drinks, a DJ from Miami. Luckily for me some guys here think pretty girls shouldn't have to pay for anything. Not really my scene too much, and I asked one of the people I was with if they were happy there, with the beat of the music shaking bones. No, not really, he said. Why are you here? Because it's another world, he said. Because its not down there. This place had absolutely nothing in common with the women selling mangos and hairbrushes on the sidewalk. There were no thin children with distended stomachs and outstretched hands. Women dressed like hookers and men wore pointy shoes. Lights flashed, drinks were spilled. That drink cost 250 gourdes, (about 6 American dollars), the same that my friends in the camp make in a day at a Cash for Work program. Who are all these people? They are young Haitian elite, educated in America, run businesses and drive SUVs. I met a young man who works for the electoral committee, another who owns several apartment buildings. I finally see what people having been telling me, the money and light skin are inextricable here, for reasons that are both immediate and centuries old. Amazingly, I made it home too, again preparing for death in a white pickup truck. I ended up having to slap the fucker who drove me home in order to get out of the car. Apparently when men buy you drinks they think they are buying you.

Suffice to say, what the fuck was I doing there? That place was so contrary to my values, to my project. But maybe it's something I just don't want to see. It hurts to witness such flamboyant excess in a place where people don't have regular access to potable water, but who am I to judge? If we had been in Miami and not Port-au-Prince, that place would have been more or less normal. And it's not like the US is a bastion of economic equality. Excess like that isn't thought of as excess in the United States, who am I to judge people who can afford it to have a little bit of a metropolitan life? I guess what made me so uncomfortable is that I doubt there is any dialogue or mutual understanding between these people inhaling cocaine and dancing till dawn and my friends in camp. The people in the hills hate the people in the city, and the people in the city hate the people in the hills. All I know is that if a second revolution comes while i'm here (an unlikely occurrence) I know which side I will be fighting on if they'll have me and our backs will be to the sea.