Call it Being Thrifty
Back in the early eighties, whilst serving in our glorious United States Coast Guard, I had the good fortune to visit Haiti on a few occasions – Port au Prince more specifically.
Back in those days, Port au Prince was dangerous; not as
dangerous as it became after the 1991 coup and flight of Jean Bertrand Aristide, but dangerous nonetheless. The Tonton Macoute were a thuggish group of characters who terrorized and extorted citizen and visitor alike. Their history goes back to the days of François “Papa Doc” Duvalier and his son, Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier.
One day two friends and I hired a cab operated by two awesome Haitian dudes, Max (the brains)
and Jean (the muscle). Their services for an entire day cost us but $10.00 U.S. The first place we hit was the Barbancourt Rhum Factory up in the rainforest. It was a beautiful drive. I recounted the drive in this post back in March of 2006.
After we returned from the rum factory (drunk) we took a break at the ship. While there, we loaded up our cab drivers with food, drink, and other sundries they could use and would appreciate more than anyone on our boat: pocket knives, silverware, old shoes, razors, glasses, plates, etc.
After we stuffed ourselves, we debarked the ship and found our trusty cabbies dutifully waiting
for us. Jean snapped the picture at left of me, George (aka Shithead), and Travis on the pier. Being young and stupid, we asked Max to take us to a bar where we could find chicks, rum, and music.
And off we went. There were a few cabs followed carrying 12 or so of our compatriots. We drove through Port au Prince proper and veered off along the south coast of the Gulf of Gonaive. It was a tropical paradise. Palm trees, beautiful white sand beaches and nice hotels abounded. But…we were interested in none of that.
The cabs pulled up to a place called the Copacabana. It was dead – No cars, no people, no sound. We got out and started walking with our cabbies toward the front door. When we were nearly
there, the front door opened a few inches. A young woman looked out, slammed the door, and started squealing in French. The music started up two or three seconds after we stepped in, and working girls flowed into the main room from a variety of directions. The atmosphere was dark and tropical. It was indoor-outdoor, with lots of vines and trees and such. Rum wasn’t sold by the glass – it was sold by the bottle – so we ordered a few bottles and drank. And smoked. And danced with whores.
After about an hour or so of drinking and smoking, an attractive Dominican whore approached and spoke to me in Spanish:
“Hola. Como se llama? (Hi. What’s your name?)
“Carlos, y usted?” (Carlos, and you?)
[don’t remember her name]
“Quieres ir a mi cuarto” (Do you want to do go my room?)
“Porque?” (Why?)
“Para hacer el amor.” (To make love)
“Ah. Entiendo. Vamos” (Ah. I understand. Let’s go)
And so we got up and walked out. The distance between the main building and the little chain of small rooms was short. The walk was beautiful with all the tropical foliage and such. The sun tried in vain to light the area, but only a few rays shone through.
We got to her room after a short walk and perpetrated an international affair.
When we were done she told me she usually charged $25, which was ridiculous. I told her that she’d mentioned nothing about money. She said she though I knew she was a working girl. I told her I didn’t (I lied). She tried to make me feel sorry for her by showing me pictures of her family from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. I didn’t. Kids in their early twenties are inherently selfish.
She asked if I had anything to pay with.
“Ah! Sí. Tengo un cobijo!” (Ah! Yes. I have a blanket!)
And so we walked to the cab. I asked Jean to open the trunk, which he did.
I then extracted one U.S. government wool blanket and presented it to my date for payment in full for services rendered.
I called it international aid.
Back in those days, Port au Prince was dangerous; not as
dangerous as it became after the 1991 coup and flight of Jean Bertrand Aristide, but dangerous nonetheless. The Tonton Macoute were a thuggish group of characters who terrorized and extorted citizen and visitor alike. Their history goes back to the days of François “Papa Doc” Duvalier and his son, Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier.One day two friends and I hired a cab operated by two awesome Haitian dudes, Max (the brains)
and Jean (the muscle). Their services for an entire day cost us but $10.00 U.S. The first place we hit was the Barbancourt Rhum Factory up in the rainforest. It was a beautiful drive. I recounted the drive in this post back in March of 2006.After we returned from the rum factory (drunk) we took a break at the ship. While there, we loaded up our cab drivers with food, drink, and other sundries they could use and would appreciate more than anyone on our boat: pocket knives, silverware, old shoes, razors, glasses, plates, etc.
After we stuffed ourselves, we debarked the ship and found our trusty cabbies dutifully waiting
for us. Jean snapped the picture at left of me, George (aka Shithead), and Travis on the pier. Being young and stupid, we asked Max to take us to a bar where we could find chicks, rum, and music.And off we went. There were a few cabs followed carrying 12 or so of our compatriots. We drove through Port au Prince proper and veered off along the south coast of the Gulf of Gonaive. It was a tropical paradise. Palm trees, beautiful white sand beaches and nice hotels abounded. But…we were interested in none of that.
The cabs pulled up to a place called the Copacabana. It was dead – No cars, no people, no sound. We got out and started walking with our cabbies toward the front door. When we were nearly
there, the front door opened a few inches. A young woman looked out, slammed the door, and started squealing in French. The music started up two or three seconds after we stepped in, and working girls flowed into the main room from a variety of directions. The atmosphere was dark and tropical. It was indoor-outdoor, with lots of vines and trees and such. Rum wasn’t sold by the glass – it was sold by the bottle – so we ordered a few bottles and drank. And smoked. And danced with whores.After about an hour or so of drinking and smoking, an attractive Dominican whore approached and spoke to me in Spanish:
“Hola. Como se llama? (Hi. What’s your name?)
“Carlos, y usted?” (Carlos, and you?)
[don’t remember her name]
“Quieres ir a mi cuarto” (Do you want to do go my room?)
“Porque?” (Why?)
“Para hacer el amor.” (To make love)
“Ah. Entiendo. Vamos” (Ah. I understand. Let’s go)
And so we got up and walked out. The distance between the main building and the little chain of small rooms was short. The walk was beautiful with all the tropical foliage and such. The sun tried in vain to light the area, but only a few rays shone through.
We got to her room after a short walk and perpetrated an international affair.
When we were done she told me she usually charged $25, which was ridiculous. I told her that she’d mentioned nothing about money. She said she though I knew she was a working girl. I told her I didn’t (I lied). She tried to make me feel sorry for her by showing me pictures of her family from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. I didn’t. Kids in their early twenties are inherently selfish.
She asked if I had anything to pay with.
“Ah! Sí. Tengo un cobijo!” (Ah! Yes. I have a blanket!)
And so we walked to the cab. I asked Jean to open the trunk, which he did.
I then extracted one U.S. government wool blanket and presented it to my date for payment in full for services rendered.
I called it international aid.
