The Local Market
I’m surprised when my sister brings home refrigerated vegetables from the supermarket when there are such good fresh ones at a better price from the local market. My sister is obsessed with germs — that’s the problem. The market is teeming with them, or so she imagines, while supermarket vegetables are kept far from the flies and dust behind their envelope of cellophane. But since the earthquake and the collapse of the Caribbean Market, everyone knows it’s risky to enter the supermarkets that weren’t built according to earthquake standards, whereas there’s no risk at all in an outdoor market. After the first week, everyone carefully avoided any covered structures. But in no time, those who had a certain level of buying power, since prices went up instead of falling, started flocking back to the supermarkets. Every neighborhood is defined by its supermarket. If you don’t see one near you, it’s because you’re not in the right part of town. For us, it’s the Eagle Market. Since the Caribbean Market collapsed, the neighborhood stores have recovered some their customers. Even the little outdoor market, where the vegetables are laid out on a jute sack on the ground, shared in the influx of buyers. We go there in the evening, just before the vendors start putting away their produce, to get the best prices. Everyone bargains hard at that market, while in the supermarket, they are happy to pay the price on the package, no questions asked. The customers obey the strong and crush the weak and hope to balance their budget that way. It’s very important not to be seen by a co-worker from the office when you go to the outdoor market where the flies land gaily on the meat (don’t forget to boil it hard). The technique is simple: you stay in your car until you’ve spotted the product you want. When there aren’t many people around, usually just before nightfall, when the women start bundling up their vegetables, you spring from your car and pounce on that sack of yams you’ve had your eye on for the last hour. Often you’re not the only one who has spotted a good deal. Sometimes you find yourself face-to-face with the one person you were hoping not to meet. In that case, you’ll have to share that sack of yams. My sister told me that story. Ever since, she and the woman have been going to the market together.
The Debate
We shouldn’t leave things (and here I mean the apocalyptic decor) too long in the state they’re in. People will end up getting used to it, and they will stop being surprised by what they see. Some will want to live in the safer part of a ruined house if they’re sure there won’t be any more tremors. Plants will start growing here and there, and life will pick up where it left off. The strength that helped the population overcome great misfortune can lead it to accept anything. Those people who revealed themselves to be exceptional in the most difficult times can be quite awkward in ordinary life. Sometimes we need to leave room for those who are able to take charge of organizing daily life without getting bogged down in ideological discourse. Leave the way free for people who have a sense of ordinary time and who refuse to remain on the alert constantly. It’s better to make plans when you’re not being pushed and pulled every which way. After a great period of excitement that makes you feel you’re experiencing something unique every day, now we need people whose lamps stay lit all through the night. They’re working to design the world in which we will live. That’s not always a good thing. What isn’t? Leaving your future in the hands of total strangers. We got used to being the planet’s center of attention too quickly. Where are the cameras now? Elsewhere, for there are other nations who have been waiting to warm themselves by that artificial fire.
I Was There
I know a man in New York who so much wanted to be in Haiti at the time of the earthquake that he started telling everyone he was there. Finally, he admitted that he was actually in Florida. Strangely, he was ashamed not to have been there as the shadow of death lay across the country. He even imagined himself buried in the ruins. Do we need to remind him that those who died desired only to live? They don’t want his presence at their side. They’d prefer it if he remained in the world of the living. You don’t become Haitian by dying. Another man I met in Tallahassee would have liked to have been in Port-au-Prince for historical reasons. He believed something important happened there. The breath of history. And he missed it. A historical moment that, in his personal mythology, was as major as January 1, 1804. A founding moment that should produce a new Haitian discourse. People are going to examine that issue from every angle in the decades to come. Politicians, intellectuals, and demagogues won’t miss an opportunity to drop an “I was there” into the conversation. But being there did not make a better citizen out of anyone. Some guy who had always lived overseas and who happened to be in Port-au-Prince that afternoon will escape that horrible label of “diaspora”; suddenly he will achieve nobility. He becomes an “I was there.” Whereas someone who always lived in Haiti and wasn’t in the country that day will lose a little of his national luster. He might even be outdistanced by the traveler from another country who barely escaped death. These days, more than life, death defines our sense of belonging.
The Tire
The “little mechanic” (little because he’s poor) came to fix my brother-in-law’s car this morning at 6:30. He’s a frequent visitor because my brother-in-law, like many citizens of Port-au-Prince, has a passionate relationship with his mechanic. They see each other at least once a week — two or three times a day during a crisis. I have a friend who leaves his car with his mechanic and takes it back only when he really needs it — his way of paying him. My brother-in-law doesn’t go that far. Their relationship is based on tires. A good tire (forget your criteria) can last at least a week. A bad one, not even a day. Before the earthquake, the “little mechanic” (actually, he’s tall and thin) came by every morning to inspect the tire. Any number of times, my sister, who has a practical side, offered to pay for a new tire with her own money (often it’s the right front wheel) just so she wouldn’t have to see the “little mechanic” every morning, but my brother-in-law, who treasures this ritual as much as his Nouvelliste every evening or his morning cup of coffee, always turned down my sister’s offer. Sitting on the gallery, every morning I am treated to the same scene. There’s a knock at the gate. My brother-in-law goes to open it. The “little mechanic” enters. They make small talk about the intensity level of things in the public sphere — in other words, my brother-in-law wants to know if there was gunfire last night in the poorer parts of town. Then they move on to more serious issues: a meticulous inspection of the air pressure of the four tires. The “little mechanic” carefully examines each tire, then lingers on the right front. Will it survive the day? The answer is often negative, but hope springs eternal. My brother-in-law asks him to proceed, then goes back to the dining room for a second cup of coffee. This morning, it took longer than usual. The “little mechanic” was happy to find everyone safe and sound, and the house still habitable. The wall collapsed, but the “little mechanic” thinks his brother can fix it today. My brother-in-law figured it was a good deal, but just as he was about to agree to the terms, we heard an awful scream from deep inside the house. My sister’s cry of protest: she would not accept seeing the mechanic and his stone-mason brother every morning for the rest of her life. The “little mechanic” burst out laughing. Even my brother-in-law managed a smile. The deal was postponed. For the “little mechanic,” January 12 was no catastrophe. His family came through the earthquake unscathed, though their house is in ruins. “Nobody’s dead. Material losses aren’t what matters,” he added with a half smile. “We’re all still alive, and that’s what counts, right, madame?” He looked to my mother. “Hallelujah!” she cried happily. The “little mechanic” can always count on a cup of coffee here because he is, above all, a good Christian in my mother’s eyes. Social classes don’t exist for her; she judges people only according to the quality of their faith. And now she’s exhorting him (her hands clasped in prayer and her face turned heavenward) to maintain his faith in Jesus, the greatest architect of all, who would never leave a Christian family in adversity without offering his help. Chatting away, the “little mechanic” has stepped up the pace, since my brother-in-law has to get to his school, even if it is in ruins like most of the houses in the Pacot neighborhood. He removes the tire and replaces it with a new one. As she goes past, my sister taps me on the arm, her signal that the new tire is a “customer.” That’s our code, and it means the tire has been used several times on the same car, and is about to give up the ghost. She recognized it right away.