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It’s hard to imagine anything resembling winter here. I skipped it altogether this year.
The closest venture towards that moth-eaten semblance of feeling cold, that cob-webbed physical memory, is a nightly bucket shower beneath the stars, with blue tarpaulin cabins flapping about the semi-self-conscious, silent, black and white shapes. Since September I have not felt the cold. This is perhaps one reason why the Winter Olympics have seemed so far removed.
I have been on this island for six months, and at this field hospital in Fond Parisien for seven weeks camped on the front lawn of an orphanage 30 miles from Port au Prince. It houses around 280 patients and their family members and supports a sister refugee camp and a variety of local clinics. The dynamic of the camp and the needs of the people in it have changed a lot over the weeks: there are no more bus and helicopter loads of patients transferred in numerous times a day; patients are no longer dying from their injuries; pain is well managed. External fixators (scaffolding keeping broken bones fixed in place) are being removed, people are no longer bed-bound and in a few weeks we will receive and start fitting prosthetic limbs. Teams are providing physical therapy and psychosocial care – in short, we’re out of the acute phase of the disaster and the emphasis is now on rehabilitation.
The chalked lessons from the 12th of January are still on the blackboards; the date hangs there exerting a heaviness on the conscience, a strange spectre in the corner of our eyes as we work in the schoolrooms-cum-operating theatres, offices, supply rooms and pharmacies.
There was such abundant coverage of the earthquake and the ensuing tragedy that it has come to be something we accept and know only as tragic. I think this is a mistake. It’s impossible to maintain interest for longer than a short while in something that is purely a tragedy. And Haiti is a subject which has to keep generating interest. Wandering around the broken streets of Port au Prince is a surreal experience. The destruction is immense: almost everything will have to be rebuilt. A Chilean friend said to me it is as if the planet were developing an allergy to us.
To see people climbing over the rubble, clearing the debris, collecting bricks, one by one, stacking them up – just a single one weighty enough to break bones – and to imagine hundreds collapsing in on you sends an eerie shiver down my spine.
People were terrified when there were aftershocks in the weeks following the earthquake. Even in tents people injured themselves clamouring to get out. There was one while I was in the pharmacy with a few American doctors – the windows rattled and the ground shook briefly, everyone sprinted and stood outside looking helpless before turning round to a scene reminiscent of one from The Life of Brian; with twenty or so Haitians rolling around on the ground, nearly blue in the face with laughter at how terrified we all looked.
The Haitian people are so proud, so enchantingly, achingly stubborn. In a country so crippled by poverty there is some extra glimmer in their eyes and a musicality in their voices and their language, a faith that is so deep-rooted and certain, and so fundamental to everything – it is like nothing I have known.
The first week was completely exhausting; the day began at 7am and we didn’t eat or rest until 7pm. I would drink litres of water, and never see them again, not to be too descriptive. It culminated, as all good weeks do, in a Sunday.
The work schedule was similar but during the morning patients slowly made their way down from the wards to a clearing in the tents where benches had been assembled. Around nine o’clock the first sign I heard was the thump of a bass drum and the clattering of hi-hats and cymbals being shifted into place. Then there was a bass guitar, and finally an organ. When I got down to the clearing there were a few hundred people waiting for mass to start; patients and their families, medical staff, translators, children from the orphanage, people from the local community.
A voice crackled across the PA system, the crowd’s own voice quiet in comparison, chanting Creole prayers with this eyes-shut-tight brimming-over of belief in the midst of a sea of waving hands. People got up from the crowd and took the microphone, they would talk about what they had experienced, some had been trapped beneath their houses or in factories or offices for hours or days; they would lead a song and the band would join in with them. One woman in the camp made international headlines when she was pulled out of the wreckage after eight days. The congregation was singing: “Take me where you want to Lord / Even if I don’t want to go, / However you want / Even if I don’t want to / Take me where you want me Lord.”
We were all in tears of such happiness, wonder and sadness at these simple, humble but enormously heavy words. It was the first time that the full weight of what people had suffered hit home. The preacher’s voice began chanting, and people began wailing, the chant rose up, inciting the crowd, shrieking, until everyone was shouting: “Béni soit l’éternel! Béni soit l’éternel! Grace! Grace! Grace pour Haiti!” Exhausted, the chanting descended again into song, quieter this time. It was after midday when the ceremony drew to an end and people finally dispersed.
That evening, I walked past a tent where a woman was singing, “Dieu nous a quitté les chaussures…” It was sung with such joy and faith, such beauty and sadness…
I dare say the hospital is a happy place. There have been over 1,000 patients here now. There are lots of grinning, cheeky children running about, playing with kites, or footballs, clubs are organised with games and painting and drawing every day. Conditions are comfortable, there is regular, good food and there’s a lot of laughter. Haitian people (particularly the matron-esque women) have the most incredible capacity to look terrifyingly stern and unforgiving one minute and then morph their faces into a huge, warm grin the next.
I don’t want to create a glossy or false image of Haiti’s suffering, but Haiti has suffered in so many aspects of its existence and will almost certainly continue to suffer. Things had been relatively stable and conditions were slowly improving in Haiti before the earthquake – now everything has to start again from scratch. A friend here told me that Haitians don’t really think about the long term, but live from day to day and moment to moment, and I can understand it, because I think if you were to examine the past and then try and plan too far into the future for Haiti, you would just sort of grind to a halt in despair. The country will undoubtedly continue to suffer. There is a tremendous beauty to Haiti, and it is in part a beauty that is born out of sadness.
So I hope things will keep going from day to day here. There are amazing people working both here and back home and all over, raising money, sending volunteers, sending supplies and resources; there is a huge need for so many things. Yet I think the most important way to help is to stay interested in Haiti, find out information and keep up to date about what is going on. Tragedy is something that can be too easily forgotten or pushed aside.
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I was recently outraged by the word ´Religion´ and its impossible emptiness. A feeling reminiscent of one of those strange but tantalising moments where you tangle your cerebral wires into un-recognising something which is so obvious and familiar by uttering it again and again.
Religion here is indeed a strange and incredible phenomenon. A jubilant, effervescent presence, coursing through the veins of the country. It is the adhesive keeping a nation together. Even the non-religious know that God is as alive as any man. He wakes us with Our Father singing out of the radio, and we sing Him Hymns in return as he puts us to bed at night. He casts His gaze to evening horizons, and heavenly purples and blues and greys and oranges and pinks in the burnt sky adore their celestial architect. As clear and as unquestioned as the clang of church bells pulling fastidious, tidy feet towards salvation.
Lord I am not worthy to receive you,
But only say the word, and I shall be healed.
Every morning, every meeting, every inkling of an intention is blessèd and dedicated. Every holy action and every holy consequence prayed for with an eyes-shut-tight brimming-over of belief. Every bus and every business. Every police station is emblazoned with His words.
Words of prayer tumbling like nursery rhymes which we cannot-and-must-not forget. So familiar and instantaneous it is as though they were bottled up in a vast reservoir, and all that was needed was the tiniest turning of a tap to send them spilling out in liquid worship.
Lord I am not worthy to receive you,
But tongues. Do tongues not so love to twist? And lips mishape and mispronounce? And don´t tell me that fingers won´t rat-tat-tat and slip out of their little finger-cuffs. Or that hands won´t wander in different directions once in a while?
Lord I am not worthy to receive you,
And then to hear a congregation united in such humble dedication, it is to expect a natural melody: a song of life! A rejoicing in the hands and in the heart and in the voice – a sonorous richness, a weaving and a balancing act finely poised between treble and bass, that is, the natural variance of the human voice! And what strikes me instead when I listen is a flatness and a lifelessness. A vibration of the air. Agitated molecules in an empty recital of the rehearsed. A dullness, a weighty emptiness. And so instead of sounding like LIFE, the words resound like shadows.
Lord I am not worthy…
But only say the word…
Their murmur is low and mysterious, rhythm-less, prosody has died. Without pitch, without melody.
Only say the word…
The words when they are born are spindly and spidery. Making me shiver.
Lord I am not worthy to receive you
And as I walk home from the church I am followed down the street by His mercenaries and their heavy words of which I am unworthy and the lo-fi crackling of the preacher in His microphone on His wheels, crawling over the broken streets. His broken streets. And he cries,
“Cristo! Cristo! Cristo! Jesucristo, viene! Viene Cristo! Viene Salvación! Salvanos Jesucristo!”
And he follows me down the street to my door. Driving incrementally faster than I walk, his or His voice gets louder in my ears. Weighty words now.
“… Sangre … . . . . Tentación…! . . .. .. . .. Muerte! Salvanos!”
Blood! Temptation! Death! Save us!
And these words have been so well used and contorted by the politically unscrupulous and the comfortable messengers and the bloodhounds and the bastards over the years. There is no doubt that things have changed, perhaps we have lost the fear, perhaps we begin to appreciate the nature of our nature, but too many things are empty, grandiose and recited. We are uncomfortably numb in His houses.
Dios y Trujillo
The slogan so well-known to the people. Engrained on their television screens and soldered inside their radio sets and sewn into their newspapers for thirty-one years.
Lord I am not worthy.
And then Dynamism. Then Action! Even a single, insignificant true action. It can be seen through a magnifying glass to burn away our shadows and lift our heavy, palsied eye lids.
Lord I am not worthy.
Darling, if only we were daring enough to do.
…am not worthy
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I am in the taller, or workshop; tucked away in the corner. It is our break, after a morning of games, which has left me feeling content but exhausted, and so I have retreated in this small way, into the lime green painted, wooden chair, covered with thin, patchy, cardboard-like upholstery. It creaks and groans under the burden of a weight other than its own. It is slightly inclined and feels fine compared with the solid down-to-business workshop chairs, with their rusted frames and wooden panels. The word ´histoire´ is scratched into the right arm rest of the chair, and it disorients me to see a French word in the midst of so much Spanish now being filed away in my head.
On the plastic chair next to me, Alex has taken his seat. He is about a foot shorter than I am, with dark brown Dominican skin, the colour of burnt chestnut, and that frizzy, wild black hair, so typical of a Dominican. It is cut short, and kept tame, in line, equally so typical of a Dominican. His eyes are brown, and his right eyelid hangs slightly lower in a sort of squint, while his left is fully open. He is attentive.
His eyes move searchingly from side to side and his head sways slightly. He is silent, as am I. We are both silent. We are listening.
For these precious minutes we have sealed off our ears and filled them with classical music, a piece of piano music I do not know. The original intent of this exercise had been to find some relaxing music for an afternoon music session, though the idea of this being any sort of work has long since evaporated. As he is seated, I go to place a headphone in Alex`s right ear, but he points and indicates that he cannot hear with it. He holds it to his left. So, we are listening.
And I watch Alex as he listens. I am very fond of him. Always full of beans and jumpy, with a grin that boasts a nearly full set of slightly skewed, white teeth. Now he is very still. We listen for minutes without moving, except for hs gentle swaying, sweeping back and forth, with the ebbs and flows of the melody.
“Me gusta”, he says “It pleases me”, and takes the headphone away from his ear. “Puedes escuchar más, si quieres”, I say, “You can listen more, if you wish” . He replaces the earphone and is still again.
Across the room, there stands our small wrinkled, artificial Christmas tree. A rather sad affair for both Lisa and myself, who are used to larger and realer evergreens, with their needles making a mess of the floor, sticking under bare feet, and the smell of their sap, oozing from the freshly cut trunk, and the German Christmas traditions; the Weinachtspyramide, spinning to infinity with its miniature figures in vertigo, and the spindly, handsome shadows that the candle flames cast on the ceiling as the wooden framework spins around and around; the feeling of approaching Christmas feasts and perhaps the promise of crunching snow underfoot…
Ours is not such a tree, and outside it is no less than 30 degrees. This year will be a far cry from what we are both used to, and Christmas feels against the natural order of things. The tree is scantily clad, with only a few triste decorations hanging from its plastic branches and, as a gesture of optimism, or perhaps sarcasm, a Santa hat sits where the star should be.
No matter, the tree and indeed the Christmas spirit are of little overall importance. There is the beauty of sharing such a moment of communion with Alex, and our rejoicing in the perfect music. It brings enough happiness.
Tata sits drawing squiggles and circles at the table, the jerking rhythmical movements of her head and arms flow like a ballet in the stillness and the calm of the music.
The clarity of notes played on the piano, and my ability to recognise and visualise them, in harmony, to pick out counter melodies and understand different parts moving at the same time is something I have often found to be sharpest at moments of prolonged stress, when I find myself nervous, ticcy, strangely always more down the right side of my body, or face. Sometimes irrepressible movements or desires to move which vary in duration and persistence, sometimes for days and weeks.
They have always been a nuisance and only recently have I become aware of something like a hyperactive, hyperaware musicality and often creativity that accompanies them. I had always been loathed to admit to them, but with the years, have grown not to mind them so much anymore. They are generally milder than they used to be. But now the music is clear like distilled ice, and my body too, is at rest.
I hear the flow, the progression of the music. My ears decipher its key. It is set in C sharp major. Seamlessly, the piano skips down ladders of scales and arpeggios, from its treble to the deeper, tenor ranges.
F… C sharp, G sharp, A sharp, C natural. It holds the major seventh in rapture; so simple and so elegant, and it drip feeds poignant romantic melody into my tired body. Each progression makes perfect sense, and the middle builds and swells, moving between B and E major chords in the bass with the left hand, and gently hammering shimmering Bs in octaves, then G sharps, with the right.
With a deft key change we fall to C sharp minor, then on to G sharp major and hit the turning point on a brilliant, bright A major, as the bass descends once more down the scale and hovers, deciding eventually to settle on the G sharp. But the composer is elusive, and the progression returns but instead of the A, the piano sings out a triumphant F natural from the rich bass, and dangles a C sharp major inversion over it, quickly evolving into a sweet F sharp minor. The name of the composer is unknown to me, but I am at that moment, at his feet. Then, finally we are home, as soft as landing on a silk drape, we float back to the opening motif, ritardando, slowing; clumsy suspended notes over the final tonic as the music resolves and hangs in conclusion.
The piece is superb. But it is rendered a sublime masterpiece by the transient respite and tranquility it offers.
The hardest thing about working and living here is that there is almost no time at all for such moments. Such moments are vital, they are more precious than anything, and as I sit entranced, Alex says once more “Me gusta”, gets up and leaves silently.
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Yesterday, Sunday, was my rest day.
I woke at about 6.30, the usual start time of a working day – my brain has been quick to learn and enforce it – but after a moment of panic and confusion, I wallowed in the wonderful realisation that today, no one would ask anything of me at all. I turned over the stuffy pillow and felt the cool side embrace my face as I landed on it. I waited for the brick wall of sleep to hit me.
The power had gone out. I could tell because the ceiling fan, spinning above my head was buzzing gently, a noise which means its running off the solar power reserves it accrues during the day. I became aware of a choir of dogs that had started outside, their every bark inviting another and another to join until it was a veritable cacophony. Just like a solo, lead violin might propose a motif to the rest of the orchestra; the sweeping strings, resonant brass and crashing percussion would come thundering back in response. It seemed to me that these canine virtuosos were composing a symphony. My veil of somnolent drowsiness lifted and the noise proved, now that I was aware of it, a fairly impenetrable barrier back to sleep.
R was shouting downstairs.
The dogs grew tired of their recital and things quieted down again. Or I eventually zoned out and sleep simply overcame the din. Either way, I wasn´t awake again until around 10. I had planned to make the 90-minute journey to Bocachica, in the East of the city, out past Las Americas airport, where I first arrived in Santo Domingo only a few, both momentary and eternal, weeks ago. This small outskirt town is built around an idyllic stretch of white sand with warm crystal turquoise water and is frequented by tourists and locals alike. It is awash with picnicking families sitting on plastic chairs at plastic tables under beer-endorsed parasols, and snack sellers, charging tourists who are universally labelled ´Americanos´ at least double what anyone would pay anywhere else. A number of all-inclusive resorts face out on the beautiful Caribbean sea and smile at Venezuela and its South American friends somewhere across the water. The beach bars and shacks blare out Bachata music and couples dance together, following eachother`s flowing movements with natural intuition and innately choreographed steps.
After a modest breakfast and owing to the extortionate price of beach food (25 pounds for a plate of Spaghetti Bolognese if they really hit you) I decided would eat lunch in El Ara and leave in the early afternoon. I would eat in the other ´hogar´ or house, the one I don´t work in. When I arrived at the table for food, the others had started eating. Indeed, R had finished.
R is not wheelchair bound, he only really ever uses one to get around on longer journeys or excursions. His legs are thin and his knees nobbly and swollen. He does not use them very much. Walking is done for the greater part by way of his arms and upper body; dragging, lifting or pulling himself along. As a result of years of such a daily physical regime, R has an incredible amount of force. He was a young boy when he first came to the community, and is now in his late 20s. R is at most times incredibly kind, gentle and affectionate towards everybody; he has bright eyes, a toothy grin, and a wicked laugh. He can however become extremely violent, and is, in such moments, as much a victim of them as anyone else.
As I sat at the table, I passed my plate across and watched hungrily as it was heaped with a mix of rice and fried banana, chicken and sauce and delicious fresh avocado. R swung his big eyes over to the assistant sitting next to him who had done the cooking, C. He picked up his plate and pushed it forward, asking for more. C had, I think, already told him that there was none, and did so again. R took a second to consider this, during which other conversations continued. He picked up his plate, and tapping it, shoved it again at the assistant. C shoved the plate back and told him again there was no more.
R´s eyebrows furrowed, and he spoke louder this time, cutting through the other conversations and tapping his plate more forcibly with a large, muscular finger. While we were still waiting for people to finish, R slipped off his chair and pulled himself along towards the kitchen. C was up and beat him to it, blocking the door and raising his voice as well now.
R put his hand up to his mouth and bit it hard. It is a hand covered in marks and scars. It bled, and he shouted at C who stood still, looking at him. R grabbed C by the shirt and tore at his belt, which broke. C had recently lost a gold chain and 4 shirts to such cajoling and this seemed to be a final frustrating straw. He shoved R back who sprawled with his hands behind him, and then walked into the kitchen, shutting the metal gate which separates the two spaces. R pressed up against the bars and took off his own belt and, folding it, began to whip at the door, and at C.
The rest of us still sat relatively calmly at the table, waiting for everyone to finish eating, quietly observant. Another assistant was warning R to calm down but R would not. He kept lunging and pushing his arm through the bars, biting his hand violently.`R, calm down or you know that we will have to inject you´. I had heard that R is sometimes given a sedative, so that he cannot hurt others or himself when he becomes violent. He had, during one outburst, destroyed the wardrobe in his room with his bare fists. Though I had not yet seen him so violent, I had seen him in the post-injection state: one of stuporous incapacity, where the beginnings of thoughts and movements seem to crawl towards fruition, but are blocked out.
Still R would not calm down and C came back out from the kitchen equally enraged and frustrated and the two bellowed at each other. R hit at him with powerful fists which C pushed back. He howled and bit himself again before launching at the assistant with furious eyes and open mouth, trying to clamp teeth around his wrist.
Then C did something which shocked me a lot, but that anyone might have done without hesitation had they been in his place, fatigued by months of exhausting long days, overcome with frustration at this irrational situation and the lack of any sort of time or possibility to just retreat into private space and calm down. He kicked him in the face.
Another assistant got up and came to intervene, but R was still wildly lunging and shouting, biting his bloodied hand, now raising fists and spilling threats at the new assistant. He calmly warned R to be extremely careful. In no uncertain terms this meant the injection. The injection was indeed where we were headed.
We found ourselves a short while later flat on the floor. R was pinned on his back, under C. I came across to hold his left arm, and held his head down on a pillow, so he could not force it up and bite at C´s face or hands. Another assistant held his right. We leaned on with full weight, and still R would wriggle free at times or else manage a lunge with open mouth and chomping teeth. Our bodies trembled statically with the opposing forces. We three held him like so for some time, waiting for someone to arrive with the injection. R´s face was glimmering with sweat, my t-shirt was soaked, and as I held his forehead it was slippery and it was impossible to tell whose sweat was on whose body. Veins bulged on the brink of explosion on R´s neck and you could feel the anger and the pain pulsating through him.
He would scream and shout and still we waited for the assistant. Eventually he came, and a sort of automatic protocol run down took place, where everyone seemed, with regret and fatigue, to know their role. The recent arrival now steadied R´s head on the pillow and spoke to him. He had known R for years, and was able to calm him enough so that he lay still. This assistant steadied R´s face with his leg, blocking him from seeing the needle go into his left shoulder. The rest of us still held on.
He screamed, but knew there was nothing to be done. His pupils flew about wildly from side to side as if he had just come off a play-park roundabout. A minute or two later we climbed off wearily. R pulled himself up and went again towards C, but was blocked from him by the newly arrived assistant. He pummelled his giant fist into his fleshy palm but the assistant passed this off lightly, lowering himself to eye level and putting his hands on R´s face said “He´s got two fists too you know, you can´t fight him”.
About 20 minutes went by, and R became quieter. The rage which had so consumed him seemed to become hazy and confused. He moved towards different people or raised his fist towards them. You, then you, then you, then me. He sat an arm´s length from C now, oblivious of him, enraged by someone else.
He sat on the sofa next to the assistant who had been last to arrive, and when would begin to lean forward or raise a menacing finger, his neighbour would lean across his bulky frame and ease it gently back to the sofa. His raised finger would hang in the air like that of a politician considering the next line of his speech to an expectant crowd, but the words would desert him. His mouth hung slightly open, eyes glassy. There was still some distant remnant of anger there but he was unable to transmit it. His movements were sluggish and lazy. He raised his finger to his mouth and began to suck it. He didn´t speak anymore.
The scene reminded me eerily of A Clockwork Orange. To see this unstoppable violence swell over R and consume him, and to see him carried away by it. Like seeing a violent wave crashing over someone swimming in the shallows, sending them tumbling and turning and spinning. There was, almost from the onset of that sequence of events, no way of stopping it. Like trying to hold back an ocean with your hands.
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Yesterday, I felt an urge. It was to drink coconut milk.
In the El Arca workshop, we have been working with the shells of coconuts, for the past weeks. Chipping away the rough brown hair from the exterior and then sanding them down, to create vast reserves to later make jewelery and other delights from.
A short while ago, it also became a goal of mine for this year, that I should purge, and drain at least 150 coconuts of their juicy flesh and milk in the time that I am here. I feel this is not an unrealistic goal, but does require me to pull my metaphorical socks up on the consumption part. The cocos themselves cost about 50p each, a not-insubstantial amount when you consider the quantity Im gunning for, and in fact this could prove to be a considerable investment in the Dominican economy. I should say the Haitian economy really, because the coconut-selling market, along with that of sugar cane, is mainly run by Haitians (the government reckons there´s some 50,000 Haitians living illegally in the DR.) They sell from the back of pick up trucks, and can usually be found on most major-ish streets in the capital.
At 4 pm on this Tuesday afternoon, I had already worked for nearly 10 hours, and was pretty resolute by now that nothing short of quadriplegia was going to stop me.
So, belligerently determined I set off from El Arca, and walked up Las Carreras, through the Herrera neighbourhood and along our cracked and dirty street. Past heaps of rubbish which sit and build steadily until eventually some thankless person either cleans them up, or shifts the stinking collection to another street.
Along past still ever curious eyes of school children and neighbours and up the hill over the speed bumps which are mounted so high that cars have to crawl and still scrape over them. Broken and bumpy tarmac, until the peculiar, impotent looking police station, with an ever-present couple of policemen carrying shotguns carelessly slung over one shoulder, who stand guard outside. I am convinced it is because they can´t all fit inside.
Pushing past the eager advances of a waiting line of moto-taxi drivers fixing their bikes, on the corner of Avenida Mexico, I turn left onto the Avenida itself and stroll up against the traffic. The traffic is a veritable jamboree of battered and broken ´caros´ – semi taxis which drive up and down the same road; seatbelt-less, windows down, music blaring and unacquainted with interior furnishings, they are rammed with usually 7 or so passengers who hold breath and clench all cheeks having paid only 15 pesos (30p) for the journey. Most caros have huge cracks in the front windscreen but the driver usually only half pays attention to the road, more often he is scouring the pavements for passengers. To see them, they bare a comic resemblance to one of those long-suffering cartoon characters, encased in a tomb of bandages and plaster up to the eyebrows after some Acme weight run-in or a cliff related fall, although I have, so far, never seen them actually hit anything.
Alongside the caros there are the moto-taxis, bicycles (who are perhaps the most improbable lunatics on the roads) and of course there are pedestrians. All compete for space in the three lanes on the two lane road. I put my hand out to cross in front of one of the slow-moving caros and step out – the pedestrian is king of these roads until he gets hit. I make it over with the confident swagger of the local who is to all other locals a tourist, and walk up the other side, with the flowing traffic. The pavement is perhaps the more perilous option, and I skip over pot-holes and craters, and stretch around parked cars or bins and delivery crates.
The road curves upwards, and with a backward glance I can see over La Mexico and the Eastern outskirts of the city to the distant green hills, which I had failed to notice before. At 4.30pm they look almost dusty with the sun, which is beginning to contemplate setting, and it glares like an angry eye on those who admire the view too long. The dust is not only apparent. As cars pass they whip up dusty smokey clouds and I emerge like a pantomime villain. The smell of petrol is thick and omnipresent. The road stretches on past the Adventist church on the left and the school where yet more school children cast their glances on this strange white man, in his mis-matched shorts, t-shirt and sandles combination.
Then past the bakery, of which I only become aware when the hot, yeasty, salty smell of bread rises over the hot dust and choking carbon, and fills the unexpectant passer-by with such an olfactory orgy that I stop for a moment and bathe in it. When I pull myself away and onwards, it lingers and teases me up the street until it is washed away again and I am left with the heat and the smell of putrid puddles and the decaying plastic and oil.
I turn right at the top of the hill and reach my target, the pick up and the black Haitian with his skin black like the personification of the night and his smile that is like pearly teeth hanging in a shadow.
The cocos cost 20 pesos, and I buy two.
