JACMEL, HAITI
An adventure for the fun-loving, not the foolhardy
The seaside town of Jacmel offers adventure, revelry and escape in turbulent Haiti.
BY TRENTON DANIEL AND NICHOLAS SPANGLER, Miami Herald
JACMEL, Haiti - The 15-seat plane bounces in the sky, above the tin shacks on the
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patchy mountainsides. The early-evening rain pelts the windows. The runway, just minutes away, often resembles a petting zoo. But our Caribintair flight, no more than 11 minutes from Port-au-Prince, arrives without incident or animal traffic at our weekend destination: Jacmel, Haiti.
Haitian friends told us to postpone our recreational trip. Too many kidnappings; too many killings, they said. Newsroom colleagues waged bets on our well-being.
Once again, Haiti is deemed off-limits to tourists. The U.S. State Department returned the country to its advisory list of no-go zones for Americans after a recent surge in gang warfare and political violence; it's a list that includes Iraq, the West Bank, and Sudan. The authorities have been unable to contain the unrest after Aristide's ouster last year.
What were we thinking?
The August trip came at an opportune time: between the kidnapping spree of late spring and early summer and the preelection violence feared this fall. The daily crush of downtown Port-au-Prince returned, the hours between dawn and dusk once again buzzing with activity.
Besides, we were heading to Jacmel, a southern seaside town called the Ibiza of the Caribbean, the Riviera of Haiti -- at least according to the tour guides. From Port-au-Prince, it's a brief flight or a two-hour drive through a traffic-heavy suburb and then the mountains.
Even the Haitian government is trying to make Jacmel a full-blown tourist destination, which means giving the city 24-hour electricity. But few tourists have yet to find this bittersweet treat.
To be sure, Haiti's no place for the squeamish traveler. Yet it offers adventure and spontaneity in a dramatic setting riven with conflict but colored by culture. Jacmel, a city of 15,000, is something of a wonder: a Haiti not immune to poverty but largely spared from violence. Plus, there's a beach.
ARTISTS' HAVEN
Jacmel is known for its artisans, artists, and filmmakers, some from the U.S. and Europe. One prominent filmmaker, Jorgen Leth -- Denmark's honorary consul -- keeps a home in Jacmel.
Thousands of residents and even some tourists underscored the town's interest in cinema when they attended a film festival in July. Carnival in February, when revelers don papier-mché masks and devils in disguise dance in the crowded streets, is a popular time for tourists to visit.
After we land in Jacmel on a Friday evening, a slender man directs us to a sedan parked near the runway. Our driver, Jackson Bien-Aime, asks for $20 for the 10-minute ride to town; we agree on $10.
When we reach the oceanfront hotel recommended by a fellow passenger on our flight, Bien-Aime entertains us with a list of things to do in his hometown. We are there for a little more than 24 hours and want to meet people, check out a waterfall, escape. One-legged, Bien-Aime leans against his crutch, and the suggestions come in this order.
Vodou
Beach
Bassin
Bleu, the waterfall outside Jacmel
Fort Ogé, an aging military fort
Market
artisans
Cockfight
Hospital
''-- what?''
''You can go to the hospital to help, if you can,'' Bien-Aime said matter-of-factly.
Oh, of course.
We press him to continue, and he does.
Prostitutes
''-- and risk AIDS, right?''
''No, not if you wear a condom.''
So we can volunteer in a hospital or hang out with good-time girls. We choose neither.
In a country where the idea of democracy sadly remains just that, the 32-room Cap LaMandou Hotel, which opened two years ago, is a most democratic institution. Each room enjoys a sweeping vista of a Caribbean inlet and, on the other side, the scrubby yet verdant mountainside.
LOTS OF MOONSHINE
After a complimentary breakfast of fresh juice, sugar-sweet coffee, bananas, and croissants on Saturday morning, we decide to venture downtown. Rides are offered -- for a price, of course.
In the hierarchy of getting around in status-obsessed Haiti -- with tt bf or SUV Land Crusier at the top and Tap-Tap pickup in the middle -- to be pied, or on foot, is decidedly at the bottom. It's certainly no place for blan, Creole for foreigners.
On foot it is. The idea is to ingest our surroundings, take in the dusty view blan typically see from behind the locked doors of a sturdy SUV.
Downtown Jacmel is much easier to navigate than the urban core of Port-au-Prince, as well as easier on the eye. The streets are less crowded, the threat of crime less palpable, and the colonial architecture fading but still intact.
During our stroll, we find a guide, Michel Jean, to take us to Bassin Bleu, the trio of quiet waterfalls about seven miles outside Jacmel. It's only reachable by horse or motorbike and it's too late in the day for a horseback excursion. Jean organizes the entire trip -- including three bikes and drivers -- for $50, though miscellaneous fees add up.
We fuel the bikes and speed out of town. The traffic jams of Port-au-Prince and Miami are far away. We feel light. It seems inevitable we'll hit a snag, and soon we get what Haitians call a ti pwoblem, understatement for ''little problem'': The Grand Riviere, a river 50-feet-plus wide, must be crossed. Michel hadn't mentioned this obstacle.
Our drivers decide to push their livelihoods through the caramel-colored, rapid water. We strip to our boxers and struggle forward on foot through the waist-high water.
We reach shore and dry in the sun. But the bikes don't work. The oil mixed with the water and must be replaced.
A bottle of moonshine or clarin makes the rounds -- the stuff never seems far away. Nick sips at first, to be polite, and more later, because it felt so good to be polite: warm and generous, a rare elation.
Once the oil is changed, we get the bikes humming and we're off. Nearly naked toddlers inch to the dirt path's edge. They wave and we wave back. Nick says bonswa, or good evening.
When we arrive at the entrance to the Bassin Bleu trail, a rocky, winding slope, we pick up more guides and proceed on foot.
Wherever we are, the moonshine follows. This one is a rumored sex enabler with the taste of anisette. ''For tonight,'' they said.
We slip into the water, which is cool and fresh. For about 30 minutes we jump off the falls.
It rains, and our drivers are eager to leave before a storm floods the road to Jacmel. As they push the speed of their bikes, Nick, flush with moonshine, sways and waves, flinging bonswas to passers-by.
We reach downtown Jacmel, sordid yet unscathed. Michel gets several musicians to play for us, and fetches Prestige beers.
We're properly intoxicated: Time to leave. So we hail a motorcycle taxi to get us to the hotel. Jackson Bien-Aime had phoned with details of a Vodou ceremony. The prospect is enticing, but sleep calls.
The next morning, as we wait for our flight, we're surrounded by a group of talkative missionaries. They wear Teva sandals and foot jewelry and they call California home. Blan like us, they're the closest thing to tourists.