Going to jail for what!?…

This post first published on Dec. 6, 2013…

Miami to Haiti on Air France. We have just touched down on the runway.

All the sudden, the jet lurches violently sideways. Brakes screaming. People screaming. I look out the window. Here’s an old fart pedaling a bicycle, right down the center line of the runway.

He’s not looking at us. Guess he figures it’s his country. Bike’s as old as he is. He’s got two hens tied to the handlebars, two more tied over a little rack behind his seat.

We pull up to the gate. Actually it’s a doorway.

Tons of people inside. The big difference between this and, say, an American airport… I can’t really spot any booths, desks, gates, officials, places where you’re supposed to stand, signs.

There are a bunch of guys walking around carrying Uzis, though. This is 1980 and Baby Doc Duvalier is still in power. We won’t see airports this gunned up for another 20 years.

I’ve booked a car. Now I’m not real sure who to ask. I go up to a guy. Machine gun, sidearm, boots, puffy pants. All he’s missing is the bandolier.

Rental cars? I ask.

No answer.

I keep looking. Finally a guy with a little notepad comes up, asks if I’m the guy who wanted the car.

Do I stand out in this crowd?

Minute later, I am waiting outside, bag over my shoulder, as this guy drives up in a VW that might have something like 300,000 miles on it. No way to tell. None of the stuff on the dashboard works. It’s leaning to one side, lotta rust. Not sure who’s been sleeping in here.

Hands me the keys.

I hop in, head downtown. One thing you figure out real quick when you’re driving in Port au Prince. Other drivers do whatever they frickin please. And the whole thing about watching out that you don’t hit somebody…? Ain’t no big thing.

Same with the people. They wanna step in front of you. Might be the most interesting thing that happened to em all day.

At least the window works. It’s 100 degrees. No breeze.

Houses made out of scrap lumber, roofing material, chunks of billboard. Amid all the poverty, incredible artwork. The houses, the cars, everything is painted.

I get to the hotel. Holiday Inn. Go to the bar. Nice wood, somber lighting, smooth jazz. Americans are tucked in here. I start talking with a guy who turns out to be a longtimer in these parts.

How was the flight, he asks. I tell him about the cyclist on the runway with the birds, how that was nothing compared to the crazy drive into town.

You rented a car?

At this, he is stunned. He points out he would never rent a car in this country for any reason.

Never.

I don’t wanna go to jail, he says, for running over a chicken.