Free Back of Beyond by David Yeadon Page B

his lap. You have to love the man. He’s the epitome of postcolonial pomposity but with a sly self-deprecating humor; his manicured pose matches his meticulous fingernails and carefully primped moustache on his honey-skinned face. He is a slice of history, a real-life Comedians character, still as frisky and gossip hungry as he was as Petit Pierre in Greene’s put-down of the notorious Duvalier era.
    Beyond the Oloffson’s shady gingerbread tracery, the streets were a tumult of shouting, laughing people. It was the first day of a two-day strike by the populace to protest the illegal imprisonment and torture of three electoral candidates by the current government of General Prosper Avril.
    Aubelin Jolicoeur continued. “You see, my dear sir—and I say ‘dear’ in all sincerity, for I feel that anyone who travels as freely as you do about our beautiful country either has the most nefarious of purposes or the dearest, most optimistic outlook on life. And you, sir,” he rubs the handle of his walking stick with long fingers and leans forward, smiling, “you undoubtedly fall into the latter category from the sparkle in your eyes and your enthusiasm as we discuss my unfortunate country.”
    All this slides out as smoothly as soft skin on a satin pillow. Aubelin pauses to sip his rum cocktail. (They’re still pretty good here. César, the barman, has been making them for over thirty years at the Oloffson and hasn’t lost his touch.) He pats his moustache with a neatly pressed handkerchief and begins again in his conspiratorial tone. “We have a Creole saying here in Haiti: ‘Deye mon, gen mon’—‘Behind the mountains, there are mountains.’” Another dramatic pause and flourish of the handkerchief. “One can interpret this on so many levels. Topographically—geographically—it is certainly true. Emotionally it suggests a somewhat pessimistic outlook, an expectation of disaster on the part of my countrymen. But most important—spiritually, philosophically—that is where the significance of this phrase becomes most pronounced. Everything here is so complicated.” He sighs a long sigh and gives a sad smile. “You see—the lines go back so far. When you think you’ve found the right answers you realize that you’ve merely been asking the wrong questions. Remember sir: Nothing in Haiti is what it appears to be!”
    For a moment Aubelin became utterly serious. I had heard of his reputation as the ears and eyes of whichever ruler happens to be in power and wondered if I was receiving some kind of subtle warning. But then his self-parody returned and he laughed—an infectious laugh. A man who tempered his truths with a finely honed blade of irony and humor. I couldn’t help chuckling with him, even as he ordered himself another rum punch and charged it to my bill.
     
     
    “Nothing is what it appears to be.” I’d heard a similar phrase from my friend Ed Duffy as we traveled the wilds of Inner Mongolia. But Aubelin Jolicoeur was right. It seemed to apply in Haiti as well, and there were two events in particular that revealed the contradictory spirit of this unusual country.
    The first occurred on my third or fourth day. I had driven into a small town, attracted by its rather prominent church. On closer inspection I realized the prominence was due more to its sheer size than any semblance of architectural refinement. Rusty tin roof, broken stucco and brick exterior, and gloomy mold-blue interior with a few sad plaster sculptures of saints and madonnas. Bit of a letdown.
    I had seen all I needed to see in a few minutes and was preparing to move on when I noticed a long line of people approaching down the street. They were all dressed smartly in gray-and-black suits and were walking very slowly to the beat of a drum. At the front of the line was a covered casket on wheels. Obviously it was a funeral.
    Great, I thought. Bits of local color in this otherwise dull place, and I pulled off to the side in the shadow