I tried to hide myself. I knew that Jelo was about to address his favourite subject: rice, beans, and oil. Above all, I didn’t want Paul to think that I had organized this. I was ashamed. But I couldn’t stop it.
After a few minutes, they returned. Jelo was beaming with satisfaction: he had succeeded where I had failed.
Paul explained that he would buy a sack of rice for Jelo and me. Jelo had told him that there was no rice to eat and that I was suffering. He had played upon Paul’s fondness for me. He talked about my recovery from a recent injury. I had fallen out of the mango tree and spent months in bed recovering. That was true. Jelo explained that I needed to eat to recover my strength. He said that we were poor and could not afford to buy rice. If Paul could just help out with a sack of rice and a container of oil, then I would be able to continue with the language exchanges. Otherwise, my participation was uncertain.
Jelo carried on with his old business as before. Each afternoon, he prepared plates of rice for the local poor. And he charged them as always. Nothing changed except the amount of rice that Jelo had to offer. There were more plates than usual. That meant that there was more money for Jelo. However, this time, Jelo didn’t need to use those profits to buy a marmite of rice. Instead, a week later, he nonchalantly raised the issue of my health once again with Paul.
“Monsieur Paul,” he began, with his brows furrowed in concern, “Ti bòs needs to eat well to keep up. We need more rice. The one we had is already gone.”
Paul was shocked. It made no sense that our little household could have finished twenty-five kilograms of rice in a week. The only answer that he could see was that all of the people who had taken to hanging around the courtyard were also benefiting from the windfall.
He tried to find a solution. “You are sharing it with everyone, then,” Paul said, touching only a part of the truth. Many people were eating the rice, but they were all paying, except for me, my brother, and Josué. “Oh boy … That’s good. I understand. The problem is that I really don’t have the means to feed all the poor in Haiti. And, when everyone understands that they can eat at Jelo’s courtyard for free, then they will all come. In fact, those who aren’t even poor or hungry will be the first in line. I will have spent everything I have and then I will just be another poor person in Haiti looking, like everybody else, for the next meal. Look — we’ll get another sack of rice and container of oil, but this time, you’ll have to economize better. Okay? Make it last.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Jelo agreed. He pretended to understand the problem. He was especially happy to hear that another sack of rice was coming before his clients would arrive hungry in a couple of hours.
Paul was not ready to let the subject drop. “Only one thing, Jelo. Why don’t you buy Haitian rice? Why is it you always buy American rice?”
Here was a problem. Jelo needed American rice for his plan to work. Haitian rice was better. It was more nutritious and much tastier. Haitians prefer their own rice by far. However, American rice is cheaper. Jelo could buy twice as much American rice with the same money. Also, American rice was more profitable. It puffed up when it was cooked. It took up twice as much space as Haitian rice that is more dense. In other words, Jelo was making more profit by feeding the local poor rice that was less nutritious. In reality, the spongy American rice provokes gas in the digestive system that, over time, can lead to hernias. Also, the high glucose content of American rice can lead to diabetes since it is a staple of the Haitian diet. None of these issues concerned Jelo. He was calculating how many plates of rice he could sell and the price of each.
“No, no, no, no!” Jelo insisted. Here, he had no answer. But it had to be American rice.
“I don’t understand. How can a Haitian peasant prefer American rice?”
Paul tried to lecture Jelo on the politics of dumping American rice and its effects on Haitian agriculture. Jelo was simply waiting for Paul to finish so that he could get his rice. He was uninterested in the American assault on his country’s rice industry.
Finally, in the face of an obstinate Jelo, Paul conceded. He would buy the American rice, but he asked that we economize.
This time, the rice lasted only a few days. The business was going well. Jelo was getting his stock for free and selling it at market rates. This was a perfect commercial enterprise. He cooked the rice himself, so there were no labour costs. He had a little basin where he could clean the plates between clients. The line kept moving. His pockets were as inflated as the American rice that he was serving.
The only problem was the source of rice. How to keep the rice flowing? In fact, the problem was resolved before Jelo had to face it. As Paul became more proficient in Creole, thanks to our language exchanges, he learned from the local people that they were paying for their rice at Jelo’s. So Paul put an end to the donations.
I saw the problem take form around me. Having a blan friend was going to be a problem. It was as though I was becoming an honorary blan, even though my skin couldn’t be much darker. I was guilty by association. When Paul and I had our language exchanges in the guest house, using the big blackboard, sometimes the workers lingered on the other side of the gallery to observe. They could see that we were deeply engaged in our work. It was clear that I was teaching him and he was teaching me. Even if I had been offering a service, they would have been jealous of my “luck.” But since this went both ways, with us teaching each other, it was difficult for them to place either Paul or me.
Everyone had come to the same conclusion:
Blan are rich.
I had a blan friend.
Friends share.
Therefore, I was rich.
Josué, who used to work with me at my uncle’s workshop, started visiting us in the courtyard to the point where he seemed to be living there. He would bring his furniture projects to work on them. Just hanging around meant that he would benefit in some ways from the presence of a blan. My brother James and others came by frequently. I didn’t hesitate to share with them whatever material things came my way. I would keep some juices in the clinic fridge, for instance. Sometimes, Paul and I bought pèpè clothes. When I returned, I said that everyone had the right to wear them. Of course, they did.
One day, Josué saw a passport and a bank account book that Paul had helped me to get. Paul said that I should have a passport, because I never knew when it might be necessary. It took months to get the passport. We had to pay bribes. None of my friends had ever thought of opening a bank account. I hadn’t told anyone yet that I had a passport or a bank account, because I had just got them. I just left them in a buffet. I left the key in the drawer of the buffet so that people could use it as usual. Josué opened it to find the strange documents. He showed them to Jelo secretly. “Look, Jelo. Joegodson is a traitor. He has a passport and a bank account.”
Since neither of them could read, they might not have seen that there was almost nothing in the account. But they decided that I was leaving Haiti for Canada and taking a fortune with me. Josué told Jelo that he had seen me dress one day to go to the Canadian embassy to finalize my visa plans. He could, apparently, tell by the clothes that I was wearing where I was going and what I had in mind.
He also decided, upon my return, that the embassy had not accepted me. That was evident from the expression on my face. Jelo asked how he knew that I had gone to the embassy. Josué simply assured him that he was certain. Josué returned the documents to the buffet. But he kept it from me. They assumed that I had been keeping a secret from them. Now, it was their secret from me.
Jelo opened up to me about the gossip that was taking root. He recounted to me everything that Josué had told him about my secret plans to leave the country.
I started to worry. They were trying to understand these strange developments. What to do? How could I explain to Jelo that to have a passport was a human right? He was more likely to believe the gossip of Josué, that I had planned to emigrate without telling anyone. I explained to him that Paul had jus
t suggested they could be helpful in the future. If this was a secret, why would I have left them so visible? Jelo accepted my explanation. But he told me to be careful in relation to Josué, who would not have confined his gossip to the courtyard of the clinic. It was likely that the news was making the rounds of the neighbourhood. If people came to believe that I was wealthy and connected to wealth, then I could be kidnapped and held for ransom. When kidnappers don’t get the sum of money they ask for, they often kill the victim. It would be easier for them to kidnap me than the blan. And it would be easy to find the blan to demand the ransom that he couldn’t pay.
As usual, Jelo had carefully surveyed the situation with sharp and cynical eyes.
It was logical to keep Josué at a distance, as Jelo advised. On the other hand, maybe he would become more suspicious and even bitter. Maybe it would reinforce his assumptions. In that case, Jelo’s concern might become a reality. I thought that maybe it would be wiser to tell Josué the truth.
One morning, while speaking with Josué, I was secretly searching for a way of introducing the subject. But I just said, “Josué, I have a passport and bank account. Want to see?”
“Okay.”
I went to the buffet and returned with the documents. “See,” I said, handing them to him. “We poor don’t give any importance to these things. Some confuse a passport and a visa. But everyone should have a passport. For identification. It’s also important for everyone. We are living in this world, but we are excluded from even visiting it without a passport. Anyway, no one knows what the future will bring. Paul helped me get them. If you want, I could help you to get one too. I think it might be important.”
Josué replied, “Ah! Maybe you have another idea that you’re keeping from me. Maybe you are planning to leave Haiti.”
“You think that getting out of Haiti is as easy as entering it is for the blan? For the poor, their appearance is their visa. It can take you from Simon to Site Solèy, but that visa makes it difficult to travel further, even from Site Solèy to Delmas. The border between those worlds is already difficult to cross. To get out of Haiti is almost inconceivable when you can’t get out of the slums.”
“Maybe for you alone. But with a blan, you could do it.”
I asked him, “The documents that they ask for, do I have them already? How can Paul get them? Do you think he has a wand to give me a job, an apartment, a diploma, money?”
“If it’s hard for you, what about us? You’ve got a blan.”
“Maybe you don’t see that we’re in the same boat.”
Josué conceded, “Okay, maybe your idea about the passport is good.”
We left it there. “I will help you if you ask me. I’ll show you how to go about it.”
I was relieved. Maybe that would put an end to the gossip. Still, I knew that he remained bitter. Even though I offered to help him, he knew that he was excluded from this world of passports and bank accounts. And he was not happy that I was refusing to be excluded. In Creole, it’s called jalouzi, jealousy. It helps keep the border between the rich and poor in place.
The first obstacle to travelling outside of Haiti would be my immediate social circle. Josué, who had refused to support me in demanding decent working conditions at my uncle’s workshop, was now suspicious that I was going to leave the country to make a fortune just because I knew a blan. What luck! he assumed. He didn’t want me to improve things in Haiti and he didn’t want me to leave Haiti.
How difficult the struggle must have been for Jean-Jacques Dessalines! Not all the ex-slaves appreciated his plans for independence two hundred years ago. How much had changed since then? After the revolution, the great generals took the Haitian soil for themselves. Dessalines, however, could not accept the egoism of the generals, who looked down upon the ex-slaves. In their eyes, once victory had been assured, the slaves who had fought for their freedom had served their purpose. But, after independence, the former slaves were still crucially important in allowing the generals to amass fortunes and build their chateaus. As with most wars, the victims were the lowest ranks. The generals wait for the victory, gained by the blood of the soldiers. Then the generals claim the victory along with the riches that follow. When Dessalines proposed that all the ex-slaves share the new nation, that Haiti be divided among those who had fought for its independence, he was soon ambushed by the generals who had been waiting for their opportunity. Dessalines was killed by those who didn’t want to change the system. The ex-slaves had not finished liberating Haiti. They haven’t finished yet.
chapter ten
AFTER PAUL LEFT HAITI, things changed for me. I lost some friends who had become jealous of me. They were sure that I must be rich. The one thing that Paul was able to do was to pay for me to complete my secondary education. The following year, I went back to school. He paid for my uniforms, books, and tuition.
By February, a number of the students were questioning why we were getting an education in the liberal arts. We would be able to read and write French and have a foundation in the physical and social sciences. But since none of us had any connections, we could never use that knowledge to get a job. There were no jobs in Haiti for those without mentors in the upper class. We were from a class that the bourgeoisie detests. There were no jobs for us. What were we doing?
Anyway, I finished the year and then found myself just as I had been before it started, except now the local people were even more jealous. I continued to stay on the property with Jelo as before. I crafted some furniture to try to make some money. I was lucky to recuperate my costs.
One day in the autumn of 2008, I was being jostled along with other passengers in the back of a taptap on the bumpy road leading to downtown Port-au-Prince. One passenger stood out. He was a white-haired old man who carried himself with dignity. He seemed to be more affluent than the rest of us. He spoke. He said he was from Les Cayes. He had come to Port-au-Prince to deliver Bibles for a mission. In Petionville, thieves had stolen everything: the Bibles, his wallet with all his money, and even his glasses. Not only was he in an unfamiliar city, but he could see nothing and had no money to get back to Les Cayes. He told the passengers that he was at the end of his rope.
I decided that if I offered the man something it might inspire others to help also. I had seventy-five gourdes ($1.92 US). I gave fifty ($1.28 US) to the old man. It worked. The other passengers decided to contribute. Before long, everyone had given the near-blind old man something.
By the time the taptap arrived at Aviation, the driver stopped and came around to the back. He asked the old man why he was still there. The man had recounted to him his story way up in Petionville when he asked the driver to drop him off at Carrefour Aeroport. Since we were well past that stop, the taptap driver smelled a rat and said that he was going to take him to the commissariat of police.
Meanwhile, a woman embarked and was solicited to contribute by the old man’s story. She offered him fifty ($1.28 US) of her 250 gourdes ($6.41 US). But she would have to get change. So, she descended at the next stop, which was the commissariat, to get change for the old man.
The driver told the police that this passenger who had first said he was going to Carrefour Aeroport was now continuing to downtown Port-au-Prince and had paid nothing. He left the man with the police and carried on his route.
I decided to stay with the old man.
Inside the commissariat, I watched the old man transform himself. He asked the police if they had been soldiers in the now-disbanded Haitian army. They had been. He told them that he, too, was a veteran soldier. He energetically reproduced some old military manoeuvres to convince the police and to bond with them. It worked. He repeated the story of his theft in Petionville. He told the police that he was trying to get back to Les Cayes, but he could see almost nothing. The police decided to give him 100 gourdes, veterans to veteran.
Then he and I left the commissariat. The woman returned with change and gave 100 gourdes ($2.56 US) to the man. Before embarking on the next
taptap to continue on her way, she asked me for a favour. Would I take the poor old man downtown to where the buses left for the countryside to assure his safe departure for Les Cayes? I agreed to do that.
The old man and I took a taptap downtown. When we arrived, I wondered aloud about a group of buses, a distance away, that were in very rough shape. “I wonder if those buses are working?” I asked rhetorically. The man replied in the affirmative. I wondered, then, how he would know this without his glasses.
“I’ll be alright now,” he told me. “You carry on, young man. I’ll call you when I return home to Les Cayes to assure you that everything worked out alright.”
I told him my phone number. He didn’t write it down.
A taptap passed in front of us. I bid farewell and crossed the street to board it to carry on about my business. Once on the other side, however, I decided to hide behind some buses and watch the old man’s progress.
Well hidden, I saw the old man watch the taptap drive away. Then he changed his manner. His aimless stare that suggested blindness disappeared with the taptap that he thought was carrying me away. He looked all around until his eyes settled upon a young man crossing the street. Then, the blindness descended upon him just in time to stretch out a vulnerable arm and ask for help.
“Young man,” he said, “could you help me please find a taptap to Aviation. I have no money and I have lost my glasses.”
The young man, immediately concerned for the plight of the old fellow, slowed his pace and offered his arm.
Maybe it sounds like a simple — even amusing — little story. But it stayed with me. Soon after, another con artist, this time a beggar woman, fleeced me of all the money I had. I became depressed. Who can you trust? When liars and con artists preyed on the noblest of human instincts, on the generosity of kind people, what was the use of doing anything?
I was losing my will to go on in life at just the wrong moment.
Rocks in the Water, Rocks in the Sun: A Memoir from the Heart of Haiti Page 11
