Freedom of Opinion (part one)

"In the West we cling to the past like limpets. In Haiti the present is the axis of all life. As in Africa, past and future are but distant measures of the present, and memories are as meaningless as promises."
- Wade Davis (1985), The Serpent and the Rainbow

Mother, as the Mexican Ambassador, was invited to a party honoring one of Haiti's leading thinkers, a renowned intellectual, writer, historian, professor and activist, at the US-Ambassador's Residence. In the world of diplomacy, an ambassador's residence functions as a home as well as a private public place for international relations. I was Mother's plus one. The Ambassador was a kind host who threw great parties. So did the French. So did Mexico. Haitian parties were the best.

The official driver, a local Haitian man in his seventies who had worked for the Mexican Embassy for decades, took us there. The parking lot was large enough to fit a lot of security personnel (military), their many vehicles, as well as the cars of guests and their drivers. Most of the foreign cars were near-too-big for the small half-island roads. It made no sense to me that the United Nations private taxis were so monumental. Shouldn't the MINUSTAH (MIssion des Nations Unies pour la STAbilizacion en Haiti) of all players be sensitive to the country's geography? Well, the Mexican SUV was jut as big. I know Germain was proud of the red-wine-colored carrosserie. He took meticulous care of it. He drove like the devil to get us out of danger when violence broke out in downtown Port-au-Prince. Shots being fired around us, he slammed on the gas while I crouched in the back between the seats, and he got us the hell outa there. Nobody knew the roads better than him.

One late night, I was driving around with one of my Haitian friends after partying until the clubs, bars and restaurants had all closed. The Petion-Ville Plaza was quiet but for the few brave souls who refused to go to bed, like my friend and me. So we'd roam around town or cruise around the hills just for fun. It must have been around 4 in the morning. Parked in the middle of the plaza was the Mexican limousine with Germain leaning gleefully out of the driver's window talking to someone. I smiled and waved at him though I'm not sure he saw me. In a few hours, hang-over fumes would hang in the air as my mom stepped in to be chauffeured to work. She'd complained about the strong smell of old alcohol to me before. Now I knew where it came from. With only a couple of hours of sleep in the car and blood-shot eyes, Germain would kindly step up to another work day. Neither Mother nor I ever said anything to him about it, nor to anyone else. We loved and respected him.

Petion-Ville, Ayiti in June

I had noticed at other events, that the local chauffeurs would hang out together and, maybe, chat while they waited. But they would not interact with the officials around them, except to follow up on an official request, of course.

Inside, the American Residence was charmingly candle-lit for the hot, humid and salty Haitian night. Like a cozy fire burning just right and welcoming you to relax. What is your high du jour, dear guest, this evening? Cocktails, maybe? Beer or wine? Champaigne and cigarettes? 

Mother and I shook many, many hands during the greeting rituals. Diplomats love to shake hands and have other inter-planetary gestures, signs of peace and truce and hope and negotiation. And signs of conflict, too. 

Once, at a Mexican Independence Day celebration at the first Official Mexican Residence before it burned down. . . I must say, Mexico isn't the only magical, witchy vibing country out there. Haiti's voodoo vibe, its fateful power is inescapable. Mother, of course, threw a huge party with food, drink, music and dancing. A live Haitian Latino band entertained and enchanted all guests. Only, the American and the Cuban Ambassadors were supposed to never face each other, as diplomatic relations between their respective countries had frozen. Mother invited both men, of course, both friends. And they came and had a good time like everyone else. But the powers that be, kept them apart. I'd been chatting with the Cuban statesman at one of the long tables draped in white cloth and decorated with themed lanterns that were lit by candles. I was trying to show off by smoking a cigar. It tasted horrible. Hovering gently above our end of the table, hung a white candle-lit paper dove. To my surprise, the American Ambassador approached and joined us at the table. He took a seat opposite and slightly diagonal from the Cuban Ambassador. Yes, everybody is friends in Mexico, I thought. But what would happen next? A face-off? Or better yet, reconciliation! How poetic, I mused. The white dove is a symbol of peace, after all. But suddenly, before an exchange between the two men could even take place, the paper dove above our heads started on fire. Flabbergasted, all of us stared up in a strange state of fascination. The dove literally burned to the ground as it flew down in flames to the middle of the table between the two men. Then it was splashed with random drinks. No phoenix rose from the wet ashes. Each man took a separate way. Indeed, diplomatic relations between the US and Cuba were not restored that night in Haitian Mexico.

At the American party, a rasta stood out to me immediately with his long dreadlocks and casual dress. He was the son of the guest of honor, the Haitian intellectual. We hit it off right away diving into a deep existential conversation. Both of us were the children of public players on the complex Haitian political stage. Both of us had been raised Christian but were seeking alternative lifestyles. I loved listening to Bob Marley, but knew nothing of Rastafari. He was kind enough to describe its meaning to me, and to tell me about the way he lived as a rasta. Unsurprisingly, his father and my mother were caught up in converstaion, too. 

After a while and a few drinks, we decided to take a break from the party and go out for a roll around the hills. If our parents noticed, they took a risk by letting us go, I realize now. Or, they genuinely thought nothing of it as well. Nobody forbade our exit nor said anything. We got into his old casual car and told security we'd be right back. They opened the gate for us. I noticed wierd looks, but played it cool like always. The first man in charge had become a good friend of our family. I called him Falcon. He was a former marine and had overseen tough missions in his lifetime. Now, he was a high-ranking diplomat. He collected military items. I gave him my Swiss Army knife from bootcamp, which was slighty bent at the tip. He gave me a red German fountain pen like I had used in school growing up. We talked a lot. I felt safe and a touch self-conscious. Falcon was the head of security. Surely everything would be fine.

Rasta and I took off, found a cool spot, and got caught up in the awesome conversation we had begun at the party. Time flies when you're having fun. We were solving all sorts of philosophical problems. I felt jealous that he had a normal car to drive freely, while I depended on a chauffeur. Eventually, I would resort to walking in order to affirm my independence. Most Haitians walk or use public transportation, busses called taptap, scooters, or the back of a truck. I tried it all. 

to be continued