"I'm looking for Jackson" is my only response to any inquiry. All I know about Jackson is that he has one-arm and can speak English. It seems comical, but I have been told that he is the porter who will help me with my bags and point me out to the driver I've hired.
One man finally responds with a smile, "Yes, I know Jackson. This way."
I question him suspiciously. I don't trust his smile. I refuse to let him take my baggage cart and question him again. He responds, "Jackson is outside." I need to head that way anyhow so I pretend to follow. We get stopped by a guard who wants to see my baggage claim tags. I use this as an opportunity to find someone with a more trustworthy answer, "Do you know who Jackson is?" My new friend interrupts before the guard can respond, "I told you Jackson is outside."
At that moment, a new voice says behind me, "Are you looking for Jackson? I'm Jackson!"
I turn around to see a hand reach out to shake mine. I look at his other shoulder and my eyes follow down -- no arm. "Yes, you ARE Jackson!"
Jackson takes my cart and leads me to the parking lot. He instructs me to stand with my bags while he seeks the driver that I've hired. The Haitian heat is sweltering. I realize how ill-prepared I am when I see the other Haitians pull rags conveniently out of their own pockets to wipe their foreheads. Sweat is simply dripping off of me and I can only use the back of my hand.
An English-speaking cab driver tries to lure me away. I don't pay attention and eventually Jackson rejoins me to shoo him off. Jackson tells me to be patient while he still attempts to locate my driver. "No worries. I'm not going anywhere."
Jackson calls my host, Michael, and learns there was a breakdown in communication -- no driver is coming. He gives me the phone so that I can hear the instructions directly from Michael to get in a cab and not pay more than $30.
Jackson introduces me to a man with a covered pick-up truck. They begin to put my bags in the back which makes me a bit nervous at this rushed assumption.
"How much?" I ask. Jackson shrugs at me.
"How much?" I yell at the driver before he has any more control of my property.
"$40."
"No," I respond sternly.
The driver renegotiates, "$30."
"Okay, let's go."
We get into the truck and I hear Jackson tell something to driver about "Michel." "Good," I think. He's telling the driver to find Michael for me.
I'm lured through the dusty roads of Port au Prince. There is dust everywhere -- the kind that is created from rocks and stones. There are lots of school children in uniform out. I realize that they must have just been released. It's everyday life. And then I see a bustling tent city.
Port-au-Prince has an amazing amount of traffic. And I thought DC was bad!!! We stop at an intersection. The driver tells me, "It'll be okay." I think, "What will be okay?" All of the sudden a swarm of people come at us from the left. I remember reading travel advisories warning me to not ride in cars with the windows down. When I try to roll up the window, I realize this old pick up's electric window opener doesn't work anymore. Well, my driver doesn't seem nervous so I reassure myself that there shouldn't be anything to be nervous about. The crowd dances, cheers, and chants. They throw flyers through our open windows -- Oh!! Now I understand. Supporters of one of the presidential candidate's are marching through the street. I watch a truck go by filled with a booming voice over loud speakers. My driver explains that the candidate's name is Sweet Mickey. Apparently, he's a singer.
As we continue on our way, my driver finally points out that we have made it to the right street.
I say, "Ou est-ce que Michael?" (Where is Michael?)
"Michael?" He is puzzled by my inquiry.
"Qui est-ce que Michel?" (Who is Michel?) I wonder if I asked the question the wrong way so ask in a different format.
"Michel? Michael? Michel?" Oh no, I realize he has no idea what or who I want.
Quickly I yell out the window at a lady to my right who is sitting on the curb selling snacks, "Ou est-ce Michel?" She answers down the street and to the right.
My driver thanks her and we make our way further down the block. I explain to him, "En anglaise, 'Michael.' En francaise, 'Michel.'" He laughs at the clarification.
I pull the address out of my bag and we approach an opening door that has seen us coming.
"Welcome! I'm Michael!"
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