Little Poland

The copyright holder has denied Project Muse
permission to post the images for this issue online.

A rich black is a mulatto.
A poor mulatto is a black.
--Haitian proverb

"Are you believers? Then maybe I can help you." Joseph Luc eyed us suspiciously. "I'm a pastor in the Baptist Church, and Christians are supposed to help one another. But do you really believe in God?"

"One of us is Catholic, the other Anglican," I said. He echoed our reply under his breath, unconvinced. We were sitting in the lounge at the El Rancho Hotel in Port-au-Prince, on a steep hillside that was once the most fashionable neighborhood in all of Haiti.

"Reverend," I began, in the most devout tone I could muster, "we are believers, yes. But we need your help. Would you be willing to accompany us to Casales?"

"Since we all belong to the Christian family I could come with you, as a favor. I've done the same thing in the past for UN soldiers, and also for American religious groups. It wouldn't be easy for you to find anyone else who speaks English and can translate from Creole. Of course, I do need money for books. I'd like to set up my own Bible school one day, or even a seminary."

"How much might you need?"

"That's up to you. I throw myself on your generosity."

"Oh no, it's for you to say. It's difficult for us, in a foreign country so different from our own, to make a fair offer."

Without hesitation, Joseph named his price. "Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses."

We settled on fifty.

* * *

The Jeep was ready at dawn. Joseph arrived at the hotel clutching a duffel bag that contained his pajamas and a Bible. Around us the city was waking up, potholed roads straggling uphill and down, small fires burning at the crossroads, old women selling fruit out of tin bowls. I handed Joseph the keys to the Jeep.

"No, it's better if you drive," he said.

"I thought you said you had a driver's license." [Begin Page 14]

"I have a license, but I've never driven."

"OK, I'll drive. How do we get to Casales?"

"First we must go to a place called Cabaret. After that, I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? How are we supposed to find Casales?"

"We'll ask the peasants. They know everything, the peasants."

Joseph was sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat. I had offered it to him in the hope that he would navigate, and he had accepted at once. There were no road signs. My wife, Pia, sitting in the back, consulted the map. Joseph said nothing.

The traffic was atrocious. I opened the window, enjoying the wind in my face, the smells of the city. Joseph glared at me and demanded that the window be shut immediately. We were crawling through streets chockablock with vendors selling sugarcane in bite-sized chunks, donkeys, ancient cars with hissing radiators. The heat was suffocating.

"Have you ever been to Cabaret?" I asked Joseph.

"I've never set foot outside Port-au-Prince, except one time when I went to visit my mother."

"And what do you know about Casales?"

"Nothing at all. But don't worry, we'll get there."

* * *

The first thing you notice about Cabaret is the garbage. Rubbish rots in the mud left by the latest downpour, while a blazing sun melts the market's most quixotic commodity: ice. It's brought in early each morning in big blocks, and it must be consumed without delay--a fleeting luxury that dwindles while you watch. The ice vendor, usually a small boy, breaks his precious merchandise into cubes with a pick. The market used to be a warehouse made of corrugated iron, but now it overflows onto the street, bringing traffic to a halt. Peasants sell radishes and potatoes, as well as pigs, goats, and donkeys brought down from the hills. Bananas...