Besides the issue of my luggage not appearing, the Port-Au-Prince Airport was not the slightest bit as frightening as it was made out to be. The customs officer flirted and kept glancing where my eyes weren't and the only "hassling" I got were a couple of well put-together, uniformed taxi drivers politely asking if I need a ride. I was greeted by an older gentleman who carried a sign bearing my name and confirmed he had it right be first pulling out a business card from GLA - to which I nodded - then pointing to a rubber bracelet on his wrist with "God's Littlest Angels" written on it - to which I nodded - and we proceeded to the waiting vehicle where I was greeted by James, the driver, and an armed guard who would be accompanying us.
Of all the warnings I'd received, one that came to have definite merit was the condition of the roads. James, a resident of GLA, drove the off-roader like we were being chased through town by some villain in an epic third world car chase. Horns are used freely, lanes are crossed frequently, and accelerating and braking know nothing between naught and to the floor. Just outside the airport, traffic was thick and littered with Tap-Taps; independently owned taxis consisting of a pickup truck lined with two wooden or metal benches and covered by a colorfully painted, makeshift, wooden canopy. Even this area, considered a rich part of the country, is destitute. The streets were lined with hundreds of small cement structures home to industrious, practical, necessary and downright bizarre shops and businesses; most of which looked like they'd barely survived a bombing. Though beautiful in its ruggedness and vibrantly painted veneers, it wreaked of poverty unlike anything I'd seen before. There is still something beautiful about it though; not the hardships, but the ingenuity and the perseverance to survive.
Once we cleared the main city, traffic thinned out, but the roads were steep, windy, narrow and even more badly maintained. Though lined with pedestrians, merchants and a continuous length of stone and cement walls meant to protect the residences (this point proven by the coiled barbed wire and embedded shards of glass that rimmed them), we rarely dipped below what I would have guessed to be about 60 kmh and the ride was enough to knock your head off your shoulders. I LOVED it. The ride up actually reminded me of the winding streets of Beverly Hills, but in a post apocalyptic kind of way. In short, the 1 hour drive up left me with so much to take in, I hardly said a word. It was the details, like stray goats, women carrying large baskets on their heads and posters and adds pasted up on the many miles of cement walls bearing everything from hastily drawn out theatre and concert ads to glossy cellphone ads to a tribute to Bob Marley. The air here has the same sweet pungent smell of Africa and many of the people appeared quite modern which made them look quite odd in their surroundings.
But this was only the drive in...
from, not about
2 years ago