Declaration

Today we crossed the border of La República Dominicana into La República de Haiti. An extensive border patrol was inoperative. Only a young, clean shaven soldier strapped with an
M-16 stood between former adversaries. Their boundary consisted of a shallow stream and a footbridge similar to the one that adjoins El Paso y Ciudad Juárez, excluding the overzealous presence. Five friends crossed the narrow overpass and immediately found ourselves facing a UN compound armed by an opposing soldier who torpidly canvassed the barren landscape from a watch tower as a patrol convoy spewed toxic fumes into the skyline.

Our journey began underneath an incandescent Caribbean sun, trekking through the small village of Anse-a-Pitre. I was the first to receive slight giggles, an Americano decked in a South African dashiki with a full blown nappy beard and sandals bringing forth the second coming. Roger, a creamy caramel,
jet black curly afro, Haitian-Columbian came in second place. Amongst the intricate glances what I distinctively noticed about Anse-a-Pitrens was their smile, even in the midst of struggle. There is no need for me to describe poverty. You know its wrath. There is a global stronghold on impoverished people. Death is inevitable when humanity is deprived critical necessities for survival. Though as long as you have access to running water, the rest of the world can fend for themselves, right? Don’t worry. Poverty is coming for you too. Greed cannot be satiated.

Even within the jowls of avarice, Haitians are proud descendants of Toussaint. Americanos need to explore the world. Television is merely a sedative for your soul. No one in Anse-a-Pitre was looting or running rampant in the streets. No one was strapped with divinity receiving a surfeit of virgins for their devotion. The closest we came to violence was two men engaged in a political debate, in which only ignorance in the art of rhetoric would be mistaken for aggression. There wasn’t the slightest sign of anarchy, only the festive rhythms of life unfurling around us. Vendors indulging in commerce. Mothers scrubbing soiled pantalones in the shallow stream. Children draped in Catholic school uniforms frolicking past fishermen immersed in siesta. Basketmen intertwining passion and purpose as petite women wielded machetes to cool our scorched lips with sweet coconut water. A police officer taking time out of his duty to Protéger et Servir, assisted Troy in skimming the jellied flesh off a coconut he was so eager to devour. We exchanged smiles with our Afro-Hispaniola kin by the shores of Isla de Montañas and when the Universe deemed our time up, we left.

We left our kin in occidental exile by the ocean side. After saying our good-byes, we trekked back across the footbridge, hopped into our air conditioned rental and headed back to the hotel without the slightest fear of water; of a grumbling belly; of a safe place to sleep. We left them, but they will never leave me. Anse-a-Pitre will remain. Haitians will remain. The children of Toussaint will remain.