Fat Tuzeday

The Rebels have Cap Haitian, and they are puzzling through the plans for the thirty-third government of Haiti, once the Pearl of the Carribbean. It is also the last day of the big party prior to Lent, Fat Tuesday. But of course we do things differently now. There is no Lent, any more than there is much sacrifice on Ash Wednesday, and we may as well call it Fat Tuzeday, hip-hop, and party on through the week until it is time for some weekend excess. We have successfully de-coupled pleasure from consequence, which has also been true of our relations with Haiti.

There is no talk of the people taking to boats for the moment. Our government monitors that from the skies, acquiring images that show construction in the sea-side villages. Migration is the hot button that causes us to act. We are opposed to the migration of people to the Homeland. Things could change.

The people leading the rioting are called chimeres. When the Junta was running the country they were called “attaches.” Before that, they were Ton-ton Macoutes. They are all brothers.

The State Department is trying to sort it out, broker a deal on the cheap. I was a small part of a a similar effort in 1995. Port Au Prince today is teeming with loyalists and rebels, pressuring President Aristide to step aside. We were in town, with a host of media types, to encourage General Cedras and his fellow Junta members to get on the afternoon plane to anywhere except Miami.

I had the afternoon off, and found myself with a small party from the Embassy down at the docks. The air was heavy and still and the sky was gray. The white hull of the Coast Guard cutter was painted with the crimson slash that marked it as a ship of enforcement, not a ship of war.

We were on the docks to receive four hundred Haitians for what we were calling “repatriation.” These hardy people, men and women, had made it to sea but been intercepted. They spent some time in the camps at Guantanamo Bay. Then they were given new plastic pails, a towel, shower slippers and put back on the ship. This was the second largest group sent home to date, and the Embassy team was pretty spooled up.

“What about reprisal?” I asked. “Is the Junta going to punish them for leaving?”

“We are trying our best to prevent that,” said an earnest young man from USAID. But there is only so much we can guarantee.”

I looked at the line of hard looking men lounging against a shed beside the quay.

The Port Captain was a thug named Max. He had a thick neck and a formidable belly under a loose white shirt, worn untucked. He drove a brand new silver Jeep Cherokee. When the Coasties got the ladder down the steel flank of the ship he drove the car forward until the driver’s side window was only a few feet away. He wanted to look everyone in the eyes as they came down. He wanted to know who had fled, and who was home.

The Haitians disembarked, stoic and placid. They walked, one by one, down the ladder and passed in front of the imperturbable eyes of the Port Captain. They almost all were wearing white shirts and trousers and the contrast between the rich hue of their skin and the gleaming white of their clothing was interesting. They had nothing else, no jewelry or watches. Except one young man. He wore street clothes and there was gold on his neck and wrist. He looked different than most of the migrants. His eyes met mine and his eyes met Max. He sauntered by, the only returnee who displayed an attitude of anything but resignation.

The operation went smoothly and the ladder was pulled up only a couple hours after they arrived. Max turned the key on the Jeep, started the engine and drove off. The lounging men began to move toward the dock and I realized that my nation’s ship was moving away. I hurried to the embassy car and piled in the back. I did not want to be alone on that pier. One of them approached the car. He looked in at me through the open window, eyes as dead as a corpse and drew his right index finger across his throat.

Then he smiled., and it had no humor about it at all.

Copyright 2004 Vic Socotra