This next installment in my Haiti experience is the start of my first visit as a naive young American business guy with an accounting degree that passed the CPA exam and who thought that I could rule the world. My first experience in Haiti was getting off the Air Haiti airplane at Port au Prince. When they opened the door, the overwhelming heat, humidity, and the overpowering smell of diesel fumes and body odor assaulted my nose. I thought, what the hell am I getting into? I was met at the airport by a “Christian” businessman who was a lot more hustler business guy than Christian, but he introduced me to my soon to be Haitian guy who knew everyone, and everyone liked him. He was related to Mario Theard, who was the cousin of Baby Doc, that I paid off in the last episode. Frantz Theard was a character, a likable scoundrel married to a lovely wife that graciously hosted us many times at their modest but comfortable home in Petionville.
My first night was at the Holiday Inn, across the street from the Presidential Palace (subsequently destroyed in an earthquake). This place was not your, “no, but I did spend the night at a Holiday Inn” type of place. It was walled in where doors and windows faced outside, and the walls were topped with mortared in shards of broken glass bottles that from a distance looked like colorful artwork. They were the last line of defense against anyone foolish enough to scale the walls. As Frantz was about to drop me off at the entrance, I a 12-13-year-old girl and her friends approached, they spoke in broken English, and for a quarter she would perform carnal services for me. After my initial shock and Frantz attempting to shew her away, I pulled out a $5 bill, gave it to her, and said, “Your day is done go home to your family.” Of course, she was probably going to her pimp and living on the street. I’ve never been to a place like this where human dignity could be bought for 25 cents!
Similarly, a few days later, as we rode in Frantz’s non-air-conditioned Honda down through the streets of the city. We stopped at a street corner to let a TAP-TAP (private colorful bus-like transportation) pass.
A young zombie-like man came alongside the car (I had the window down because there was no air conditioning, and proceeded to give a public showing of his private parts at my head level way to close to my face and indicated that was also for sale. I wanted to lose my griot right there. Welcome to Haiti, blanc!
After a meeting with Baby Doc and his underlings, to do a ceremonial signing of the mine lease at the Presidential Palace and drinking coffee out of little cups (thank God they were little since I don’t drink coffee). This stuff tasted like the Bunker “C” oil that we used in the generator at the mine with a little Louisiana hot sauce to boot. This stuff was awful, but we didn’t want to insult this brutal dictator’s hospitality.
Baby Doc was married to Michelle Duvalier, who was smoking hot and known for her lavish fashion spending sprees in Paris on the poor country’s dime. She was Imelda Marcos on steroids. Baby Doc looked like Baby Huey, and Bill Cosby’s Fat Albert all rolled into one with the intellect of an ameba. Michelle “married” him for what they could loot from the nation’s treasury and bribes.
It was on the American Embassy to schmooze with the diplomats and had my first meeting with the business Attaché Aubrey Hooks. He welcomed our venture into Haiti and gave us plenty of diplomatic double-speak to stroke our ever-increasing egos. The embassy, also a small fortress, across from the Palace. With a nearby Haitian Army barracks (the military were soldiers first and stayed as much as possible out of the politics and corruption). The last I saw of Baby Doc was in his high-speed Mercedes motorcade heading down the narrow two-lane road coming down from Petionville, running everyone off the road including Frantz and me. He always traveled fast so that no one had a chance to stop him and drag him out of the car and pummel him. The people hated but feared him.
Our next stop was M street in Washington, DC. We had a meeting with Over Seas Private Investment Corporation (OPIC) to procure political risk insurance to guard against losing our investment in case of the political instability of the host government. We were ushered into a room with two smartly dressed Harvard MBA Grad CPA ladies that were to interview me to see if we passed the smell test for financial stability and expertise in the mining field. The Mining part was easy enough; we had three generations of Waelti’s mining since the 1940s. The financial part was intense. I had to answer questions line by line on our financials and tax returns going back three years. Two hours later, I felt like I just had a financial colonoscopy, and they weren’t gentle. My marketing guy was with me and said, “Geez! That was like the Alamo, but you were still standing! After that, Ed and I got a cab to take us over to Blackies (the best steak house in DC) had a steak and some beers. We were watching TV when the news came across that Baby Doc Fled Haiti that morning (with Mario on board). We just about lost our steak, and subsequently, our political risk insurance was not in force, and we were hung out to dry. Days later, I got a call from Dean, from the only phone in Miragoâne, a community phone booth. There were no cell phones, and the Haitian phone service could be surpassed by two cans connected by a piece of string. (by the way, Bill Clinton, later scammed Tellico the Haitian telephone company for millions on back door deals way to go Clinton Foundation! Anyway, I heard gunshots in the background and feared that violence had reached the mine. As I could barely hear Dean, he said not to worry. We still had the local garrison of the army on our payroll and that two of them got into it, having a Quick Draw McGraw shoot out in the street, but it was over, and nobody got killed. When they ran out of ammo, they both went down to the little cantina and drank the afternoon away. Another day in the life of several fools to play off the old song from the ’60s.
Tales from Depression and Dealing with it. 