On Going to the Beach

For NGO workers here, Haiti is a land of contradictions.  On Saturday evening, I found myself in a palatial house, sipping wine in a hot tub while discussing the cost of renting latrines for a number of camps ($20,000 USD per day for one organization).  

On Sunday, my friend Maite and I were determined to go to the beach.  While the coast is only about 5km away from my house, access to a safe beach takes about two and a half hours.  I drove and Maite navigated.  We got out of the city and took a long road along the coast at the foothills of a range that used to be covered by trees.  The hunt for wood for charcoal is such that even bushes are scarce.

We found the beach club we were looking for without incident.  Once we drove through the gates, we passed manicured lawns and flamboyant trees.  We paid $20 to get in.  The place had the feel of a mediocre family apart-hotel in Florida: unglamorous but well-organized.  Everywhere around me, I heard Brazilian peacekeepers speaking Portuguese.  Off to the side, a capoeira workshop was being conducted.  It was bizarre.

Maite and I passed the pool area and made a bee-line for the beach.  It was narrow, sandy, and dotted with coconut frond shelters.  The entire place was crawling with roving packs of UN soldiers on break.  It was bizarre.  Did I say that already?  I've never see so many dogtags in my life.  The only thing that differentiated them was cut of their swim wear.

The water was turquoise, calm, and pleasant.  I was about to comment that it reminded me of the waters of the Caribbean until I realized I was in the Caribbean.  Heh.  I enjoyed the much-needed break from the bustle of Port-au-Prince.  At the same time, it was also weird to be completely surrounded by reminders that while I might be in the Caribbean, it's a doppleganger Caribbean where the beaches are crawling with soldiers.

Bizarre.