Tequila Minsky
At 7:30 a.m. my walking partner, Inggy Petersen and I are dropped off
by a taxi (and a series of heated negotiations) at a crossroads in the
hills high above Port-au-Prince near Furcy. The newly graded fork to the
right leads to the "Massif de la Selle" (Big Saddle Mountain Range). Two
days
later we would be at the sea on Haiti’s southern coast. I am ecstatic
commencing the walk that many a Haitian had told me they had always wanted
to do.
©2001 Tequila Minsky tminsky@ix.netcom.com
Photos: Tequila Minsky
We have not walked far when we are halted by huge Caterpillar earth
moving
equipment chomping into the mountainside, grading for what will turn this
path into a vehicular road. With the peasants we wait for a break so we
can walk the narrow rocky ledge of this construction zone and then really
begin the trek.
It’s all uphill from here.
In the morning cool air, women traveling this hard baked, dusty footpath,
stop and gossip, some with donkey in tow, and then continue on. Sunshine
floods the path. A lone remaining tree storing
feed high away from hungry ground animals is the only break in the eyescape.
This path is the foot highway connecting mountain villages for "machann"
(market women), bringing produce to Kenskoff, supplying the vegetable
needs of the capital, and providing access to the cities. The
intermittent stream of
foot travelers pass both ways. A Sunday-dressed family has 2 hours of
walking before they can catch a bus to Port-au-Prince’s uphill suburb of
Petionville.
Descending into a valley, waves of terraced mountainside grow carrots,
leaks, and cabbage. Golden paths of red earth snake to the few scattered
settlements. As we walk I wonder how these peasants, so remote, meet their
water and supply needs.
This entire path is scheduled for transformation to a car road. A lot of
dynamite, I’m thinking. Once accessible by road, what changes will take place?
Haiti’s women carry the economy on their heads with such panache it's
easy not to recognize how heavy these bundles are and the skill it takes to
travel miles by foot. Over 50% of Haitian women are market women. A troupe
of three women walk toward us, each with over 60 pounds of produce on her
head. They pause as one woman leans her bundle of yams against the eroded
mountainside to relieve the weight. As she falters in her effort to upright
the load, her two friends both heavily weighted themselves, Inggy rushes to
successfully assist in the rebalance.
The day heats up; there is no relief from the sun. Trees have long found
their way into fueling someone’s cooking. The eroded mountainside
provides four square feet of shade which I duck into. Load laden women zoom
pass on their way to a small village market.
The path becomes rockier and steeper and we pass a courtyard and grounds
defined by stone fences, a terrain remarkably different from any other I’ve
seen in Haiti. This uphill rock path is endless! I sit gasping. Market
women stop in concern. "Maybe it's her heart," one machann comments in
Kreyòl (the most common way of calling the Haitian language). Maybe
I’m out of shape, I’m thinking. It is here at this moment
that the Haitian proverb comes to life, "Dèyè mòn gen mòn" (Beyond
every mountain there is another mountain). No crisis, they pass us by.
The up mountain end of this walk is Seguin, a village crossroads, over
5,000 feet in elevation. We look forward to a bed & breakfast there
with promises of a hot shower and other amenities.
Finally the rocky up-path spills onto a plain. The women at the top
are used to seeing bedraggled hikers and keep offering to carry our packs, a
way to earn some money. Admittedly, I had not outfitted my sneaked feet
properly; I feel every rock in the terrain.
A man with a horse overhears our exchanges with the enterprising women and
understands my predicament. "Come on," he pipes up and hoists me onto his
wooden saddle pack horse. Inggy is heartier.
He tells me his name is Jean-Claude and works as an agricultural assistant
for international organizations and his family lives in Seguin. Eating
fresh bananas we’ve bought from a woman selling on the path we then enter a
mirage--a pine forest. Trees in a treeless country. We are surrounded by
coolness and the essence of pine needles covering the ground. Spiked cactus
is growing amidst the pines. A mystical portal? We
are totally unprepared for this gift.
Word spread to the bed & breakfast, Auberge de la Visite, before our
arrival. Gerald, the onsite manager, greets us on the path and points
the direction to the hotel. I’m shivering in tee-shirt and shorts,
the temperature has dropped as the altitude rose.
Our hike is half complete. 4:30 p m, it's time to rest and recover.
Tomorrow will be downhill. A friend’s name in the guest book surprises me;
he preceded us just months before. The bed is a great comfort.
At the crack of dawn, coffee being made, I roll into the diffuse morning
light, the mountain air; the sun fighting its way through the mist, horses
pasturing on the grounds--available for rent; what peace. Once the fog
is burned off, the flood of sun glints everywhere, the main building glows.
Cement tombstone graves sit amidst out-croppings of karst, sculptural rock
shapes from dissolved limestone. This surreal rock garden has me gasping in
wonderment. The locals call this "krase dan" (breaking teeth). Both Inggy
and I have never seen anything like this in Haiti. We should have allowed another
day of exploring the pine forest and limestone caves that we had so quickly
walked past the day before.
We are off for an early start. Gerald guides us for a fee to the trail head
through these croppings, walking along with children on their way to school
and women getting water. This takes us through the village of Seguin, a
cluster of eight buildings.
There’s a lot of activity, it's market day. We’re happy to see people
registering to vote for an upcoming election. An instant camera photo and
receiving a laminated registration card is part of the process.
On this remote mountain plateau we still pass schoolchildren during recess,
and a collective farm work group, a "konbit", who pose for a photo. We
pass a rare settlement. Mountains are in all directions.
What goes up must come down.
Our path becomes increasingly steep, Haitians run down. I tread gingerly,
step by unsteady step. The people's route, this steep mountain path, is
speedy for those using momentum. It's snail paced for the wary.
Yesterday’s aerobic uphill now contrasts with this downhill challenge to
thighs and toes. A hiking boot is necessary for this rocky descent; I
curse my sneakers.
Distance in Haiti is measured by time and the reports from Haitians on how
far it is to the bottom are unreliable. No matter where we are we are told
"it’s one hour from here". We walk for hours and at each inquiry the
response is the same, one hour. If only!
A local woman helps us find the only food along the way, Haitian
grapefruit, shadek. We buy 6 from a local. The peasants bring
wicker cane chairs for us to sit while they machete peel and slice the shadek. The
juice streams down our face and arms, we're too hungry and tired to show
manners. After, they bring a bucket of water and a towel to wash.
When the endless rocky decline eases, we're at the village of Jean-Noel, a
cluster of homes, a school, a church in construction on a packed rock road.
People nod, speak and even walk with us for a bit. Children gather in their
yard to watch those crazy foreigners who find recreation in walking. There
are no vehicles, no traffic.
There are another few miles down, a river to cross, another village, to
get to public transportation; the sun is sinking as we press on. Peridot,
the eastern most "tap-tap" point along the southern coast which traffics
into Jacmel is our end point.
A pick up truck/tap-tap having just discharged passengers from Jacmel sits
in Peridot’s center and we gladly climb in. We're tired yet elated, it's
almost dark. We wait for the tap-tap to fill; a teacher, a market woman
with bags, students, a worker stashing his tool behind the seats. I
practice my Kreyòl with the fellow who sits next to me. The bench-seating
fills up, we think. People sit on each others laps, it fills some more.
It’s dark.
After dropping off and picking up more in Marigot we're off riding along
the coast, the unseen sea to one side, the open back tap-tap refreshes us
in the night air. We’re driving to Jacmel, the city where we will spend the
night, totally fulfilled. We relish our hiking achievement, the
incredibly memorable encounters and vistas we have just experienced and the
absolute glory that it is over.
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