CAPTIVATING HAITI
Island rich in beauty, history
When we told people we were going to Haiti for family holidays last summer, we were inevitably met with barely disguised looks of shock and incomprehension. On more than one occasion we were greeted with a pause, followed by: “Did you say ‘Ta-hiti?’”
Perhaps understandable given the Caribbean nation’s history of political upheaval and natural disasters, the reaction, however, is both unfortunate and unfair. In our three weeks traversing Haiti with our sons, age 11 and 14, we discovered a fascinating island of white-sand beaches, safe and picturesque colonial-era cities, stunning hiking trails through mountain ranges, and warm and gracious people.
The only country borne of a slave revolution, Haiti has a rich history to explore, as well. As it works to lift itself from poverty and its reputation as a sub-par nation, recently reinforced by the ignorant comments of the U.S. president, vacationing there is a wonderful opportunity to enrich both country and traveller.
I travelled there with my parents as a 14-year-old, and left with memories of a poor but captivatingly beautiful place where locals shared the little they had and smiled often. I remembered, in particular, an older woman who made room on her lap so our family could squeeze onto an overcrowded bus. It was the type of experience we wanted to share with our sons.
Our voyage started in Port-auPrince, Haiti’s teeming capital of two million people. The rubble and tent cities of the 2010 earthquake are gone but poverty remains, evidenced by curbside vendors eking out a living selling fried plantain and plastic bags of drinking water, while skinny boys wearing rags wipe the dust from idling cars and beg for coins.
Leaving the home of friends Sonide and Nickel, we clambered into a crowded tap-tap, the often brightly painted covered pickup trucks used for public transit throughout Haiti. In the 30 C heat, it inched and honked its way through the traffic jams that plague Port-au-Prince for the 20-minute ride to the National Pantheon Museum downtown. The displays gave a succinct and brutal history of the arrival of first Spanish and then French colonists who used African slaves to harvest sugar and coffee and make it the richest colony in the world.
Napoleon Bonaparte sent 40,000 troops to quell the 13-year revolution, but the slave soldiers simply waited for the French to die of tropical diseases before defeating the weakened armies on the battlefield.
On Jan. 1, 1804, the new nation of Haiti was proclaimed. The museum also has a gallery featuring many of Haiti’s renowned painters, among the best in the Caribbean.
At the enormous Marché de Fer marketplace nearby, we wandered through aisles of wood carvings and metalwork sculptures cut from oil barrels hammered flat. Stalls were packed with spices and fresh produce, hair products and Voodoo ornaments, but business was slow. In three weeks we came across only two other white families, and few foreign tourists other than Americans and Canadians of Haitian descent.
Like most large cities in developing countries, Port-au-Prince has neighbourhoods that are best avoided.
But Haiti’s crime rate is much lower than in Dominican Republic or Jamaica, and crimes involving tourists are rare.
Moving on from the invigorating and exhausting clamour of the capital, we hired a driver and pickup truck to take us six hours north to the coastal city of Cap-Haïtien. (The trip can also be done in 30 minutes by plane.)
“The road is very bad,” a Haitian friend said as we were about to leave.
“I will pray for you.” Route Nationale 1 tracks the coast, running past beach resorts including a former Club Med that is now the all-inclusive Royal Decameron Indigo resort, hosting package tourists from Europe, Canada and the U.S.
The highway, which was mostly good, cut through fields of rice paddies and market villages, before it deteriorated into a potholed dirt road that switchbacked through the imposing Massif du Nord mountain range.
Once the richest city in the Caribbean, Cap-Haïtien is a pleasantly laid-back and weathered oasis reminiscent of New Orleans, with ornate balconies wrapping around the upper stories of pastel-coloured buildings. It’s calm enough we could let the boys wander on their own.
By ourselves, we explored deserted cliff-side forts littered with cannons overlooking the sea, built by the French 300 years ago. In Haiti, one often feels far off the beaten path.
Then we went for a dip in the Atlantic before heading to a beachfront restaurant for plates of fresh grilled fish with sauce, rice, cabbage and grilled plantain for about $10 each, washed down with Haiti’s excellent Prestige beer.
Nearby is the astounding Citadelle Henry, the largest fortress in the Americas, looming on a mountaintop 900 metres above sea level.
It took 20,000 men 14 years to build, soon after Haiti gained its independence.
A UNESCO World Heritage site and Haiti’s premier tourist destination, the fort features five-metre walls towering 20 storeys high, with 163 cannons that were never used, and sweeping views.
Far below are the sad ruins of King Henry Christophe’s grand Sans Souci Palace, once known as the Versailles of the Caribbean.
From Cap-Haïtien we took a dusty, bumpy ride south in the back of an open pickup truck with other Haitians, driving through the verdant plains and forests of the Central Plateau.
Navigating Haiti’s rural highways often took an act of faith. The driver went out of his way to escort us to our hotel, a kindness we experienced repeatedly.
To reach Jacmel on the south coast, we did a self-guided hike through the Massif de la Selle, where mountains stretch to the horizon, walking a well-worn route used by villagers, many balancing heavy bags of produce on their heads.
(Because it had proven successful, we asked our Haitian friend to pray for us before we left.)
We followed a ridge that plunged into steep valleys of green, farmers clinging to the hillsides to plant their crops in the rich red soil, looking up to smile and say “bonjou” as we passed.
At the top we passed through misty pine forests, sharing the path with the occasional herd of sheep.
We stayed in a rustic lodge in Parc National la Visite, sleeping under heavy blankets to ward off the chill.
The next day we hiked past farmers’ fields and houses built of concrete blocks or mud and thatch, down to the azure blue of the Caribbean Sea.
We opted for motorcycle taxis and a tap-tap ride when we ran out of steam.
In Jacmel, a seaside resort town famous for its artisans and raucous February Carnival, we visited the nearby Bassin Bleu, a series of three deep pools of luminous cobalt blue hidden deep in the forest, where the boys leaped from mini-cliffs beside the waterfalls, a trip highlight.
After two weeks of fairly arduous travel we were ready for rest, and lucked into a rustic beach house on the sea just east of Jacmel.
The final days lapsed into a beach existence of swimming, reading (a benefit of limited internet access meant our boys discovered the joy of books) and
eating grilled fish and lobster at restaurants featuring thatched roofs and sand floors.
We took surf lessons from the young men with dyed blond hair who run the Surf Haiti school, then rented boards so we could try the gentle waves ourselves.
On the way back to Port-auPrince, there wasn’t enough room for all of us on the tap-tap.
“Come,” a young Haitian woman with fashionably ripped jeans said to my youngest son.
“You can sit on my lap.”