chapter 15c
(The Spokesman)
Moïse Berri
and the Reconstruction of the Haitian
Space Agency
by Jude Jarda
15c
The Spokesman
The military contingent lead by Lieutenant Salvatore Menendez is slowly setting up camp at the entrance of the Jacques-Roumain Bridge. Pyram Malvenu and Evans Ferjuste have been promoted from simple observers to aides-de-camp. They are now assisting Menendez as his devoted secretaries, personal interpreters and trusted counselors. The liberation of the famous hostage, his immediate arrest and the eradication of the Diabbaka Gang come first on the agenda sheet of the Uruguayan lieutenant. Menendez thought that the presence of the battle tanks would deter all forms of resistance from the thugs and the population trying to protect them, but to his great surprise, several hundred unconcerned residents of Mizerikod are now doing what seems to be a sit-in protest on the bridge's deck. The metallic structure is obstructed by an over-aged ambulance, a jumble of cardboard boxes and tires, used office furniture and a huge pile of empty rum barrels. Some of the demonstrators are waving banners and raising placards, claiming their rights over the total ownership of the land and also the topsoil and subsoil resources of the commune. Call-and-response songs calling for solidarity have already been composed, arranged and learned by heart. A group of highly emotional students, stirred up by a pair of drunken fishermen, have already promised to themselves that they were willing to die for the cause, even if they are not quite sure what that cause is all about. The Spokesman
All this looks like an uprising at the fetal stage, Lieutenant Menendez opines. By following the source of the human energy emanating from the center of the crowd, the UNPOL officer rapidly identifies the leader of the blooming insurrection. The head of the growing revolt is an old schmuck with no pants on, wielding a small megaphone painted with the official colors of the last carnival. The elder goes by the name of Elzéar Michelet. "He runs a gas station on Capois-la-Mort Boulevard," Pyram informs Menendez. The old man is walking sideways on top of the ambulance, making V's for victory with his fingers after every sentence he throws to the seemingly conquered assembly. The toothless senior is definitely the commanding general of the social movement. Information on that charismatic chief, who recently changed his name to Mackandal Redux, is quickly gathered and brought to the ears of the UNPOL officer. Like if owning a tool to amplify his voice was not enough, Elzéar Michelet also used a photocopy of the city's seal, cut off from a personal check that Gargarine, his right-hand man, stole from Leopold de Grâce, to print hundreds of localisation certificates and oil bonds, using Victor Gourdet's old printing press. According to Elzéar Michelet's extremely incoherent explanations, buying one of these oil bonds for ten bucks each gives to every single citizen of Mizerikod who can show a proof of residence, the right to collect a percentage of the profits that will be generated by the multiple oil drilling projects that are supposedly under way since morning.
“Where are the billions they've promised?” Elzéar vociferates, his fist raised and clenched to show his indignation. “It happened back in January 2010, my good friends, soldiers and allies. The secretive and supranational government, that is currently bossing the G8 like puppets, detonated a neutron bomb in the Gulf of Gônave. You might not have heard it, but you surely felt it! The force of that massive explosion was close to 500 billion megatons, I remind you. Add on top of it, the Planck Constant, divided by the number Pi; then multiply the sum by the Y vector, the X factor and the Higgs boson. What you get is a whale of a big boom! Like you all know, that infamous act of cowardice created a devastating and murderous earthquake. Is there anybody here that didn't lose someone close? The ultimate goal of these monsters was evidently to destroy the land of Dessalines and all the descendants of the Dahomey Kingdom. They eliminated many branches of our rich family tree, but they did not successfully uproot it. That's what Toussaint would say if he was a witness of all that crap. Confronted by the failure of that meticulously planned genocide, the maniacs came down here to finish the job on the spot, under the disguise of their useless and careless humanitarian relief organizations. Luckily for us, there were more cameras sent to spy on us than there were rescuers assigned to save us. The beasts promised us trillions from the East and from the West, medication for life, water from the South and food for everyone from the North; because in this century of abundance and over production, no human being should go to bed with an empty stomach. Correct me if I'm wrong, people of Mizerikod; stop me right there if I'm lying! I beg you to muzzle me, my dear friends and future martyrs, if you're not ready to hear the truth boiling in my bowels. Are you ready? Besides the hundreds of NGOs sucking our blood every day, repeating how much they love us and find us docile and always jolly, even when salt is spread on our open wounds, what have you concretely received from the so called friends of Haiti? The National Palace is still in ruins. Aaaaargh! Those braggarts have been talking about rebuilding the goddamn building for months; well they have done absolutely nothing, besides eating in fancy restaurants and talk about future plans and new ideas. What's the message these vampires want to communicate to us? Would the Romans tolerate Saint-Peter's Square in a state of devastation for such a long time? Would the Moscovites still sleep tight knowing the Kremlin was in rubble? No! The Americans would start a new war if the garbage wasn't picked on time in front of the White House; the French would bring the guillotine back in use if the grass on the Champs-Élysées turned yellow because of bad maintenance. An image is worth more words then they'll let you realize. The poorest nation of the Western Hemisphere. These please feel free to have sex with primates advocates must mention it every single time Haiti is mentioned on the news or in the papers. Is that normal? Is that crucial information for the public to know or a way to keep us in the dark and inject us with permanent shame? Tell me why these insensitive reptiles, these sons of the Wicked and daughters of the Tempter, never feel the need to remind the public about which nation is the poorest in the Southern, Northern or the Eastern hemisphere? Is it because of a lack of candidates? If our president doesn't have an official residence, why would a peasant like you and I deserve one? President Martelly was rushed to Florida to treat a pulmonary embolism, what does this say about our health system? The answer is quite simple. It's a way to tell insurance companies and tourists from all over the world to avoid us like herpes. When I was young and smart, agriculture flourished, agronomist was a respected profession all over the island. Today, cultivating the ground is seen as a crime against progress. They prefer to watch us beg for genetically modified and overpriced goods that are manufactured by robots in some foreign state. They've put in our heads that water should always be bought in a bottle even if we live on a river shore. Are we just laboratory rats that the multinational food processors use to test their poisonous products? Think about it. To all of you who ignore it, there is no indication or any clue about the existence of Mizerikod on Google Maps. The satellites only show a green and brownish square of the region.”
“Let's hope the crowd is fully aware that old dude is mentally ill.” Lieutenant Menendez whispers to Sergeant Pyram Malvenu.
“Most of his followers can't read or write,” Pyram answers. “The fact that Elzéar owns a megaphone and knows a few words you only hear on TV puts him right beside the great minds and scholars of this world.”
“Santa Maria, Madre de Dios! We must keep this agitator quiet before he starts a riot.”
“And how exactly will we do that, Lieutenant? The criminals you want to put behind bars and the ones I'd like to shoot are hiding in the midst of the good folks. I could surely live the rest of my life without a dagger jabbed between my shoulders.”
“God is great!” Elzéar Michelet proclaims. “His ways are unfathomable.”
“Amen!” a handful of pious people reply.
“Hallelujah!”
“Jesus loves you!” some start chanting.
“After allowing the Prince of Darkness to strike us, the Lord of Hosts sends us the oil and the lanthanides,” Elzéar Michelet continues. “We will never be called a poor country again. Dysprosium and europium sell for 3000 dollars a kilo on the global market. Papa Legba and the Voodoo spirits are standing strong behind us. Baron Samedi will lead us to victory and the Guédés will shield us from our enemies. Come to me; come get your ten dollars, three for twenty-five, unlimited oil bonds and property titles. I invite you all to climb on that ambulance. This is your podium for free speech. This is the stand where you can share your apprehensions and your complaints with each other and with the rulers of this town. Your questions deserve answers from the central government's representatives. Have no fear and rest assured, the television cameras are on their way. The presence of the media will protect us from these brutes who constantly keep us mute and uninformed.”
“Ayibobo!” some start shouting.
“Mackandal Redux for President!” a very optimistic carpenter yells, his right fist raised in the air à la 1968 Olympics.
While the good people of Mizerikod are fighting to get on top of the coveted ambulance, in a desperate attempt to grab their unique chance of expressing their opinion through a real and functional amplifying device, some unscrupulous entrepreneurs are taking advantage of the momentum to boost their businesses and promote their products. Ludovic realizes that by offering a free drink, the consumers are willing to pay the same cod patties three times the usual price. One regular customer even comes up with a hot tip; Ludovic should upgrade his service and the image of his enterprise buy adding a portable radio to his bike, and also by printing a logo on his plain brown bags. Djon Djon and Guito just got out of jail. They improvised themselves as general insurance brokers for the fictional Petit-Gôave Life Company. They gather information like civic addresses and the total value of their future client’s belongings. Djon Djon and Guito insist that even the one living in temporary shelters should declare everything they own to their firm if they want to be reimbursed. Djon Djon swears on a hard cover book that looks like a bible that everyone will eventually receive a quick and effective visit from the new founded enterprise.
Pastor Louis Éloïse reaches the top of the ambulance first and grasps the multicolored bull horn after a decent struggle with two employees of Lolita's dry cleaning shop. The protestant preacher takes the stand to warn the population against avidity and impulsiveness, but also against the Catholics, he calls brainwashed loyal servants of the Vatican mafia. He urges the citizens of Mizerikod to denounce the enemies within, the infiltrators, the Animists, the Fetishists, the Atheists and the illiterate Folklorists who want to deliver Haiti to Wal-Mart, Satan and Disney. Pastor Louis Éloïse also encourages the God-fearing men and women of Mizerikod to fight the temptation of spending their oil and rare earth money in shady places and gambling houses outside the city. Using the money that will spurt right out of the ground to buy forbidden pleasures will only precipitate the guilty soul closer to the borders of the gates of hell. Pastor Louis Éloïse finally reminds the true believers that the current tithe will be raised to sixteen per cent; a very good way to thank the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.
Mr. Saint-Saëns and Mrs. Larouche then come up to demand a fair distribution of the wealth. Orphans and children make up to sixty per cent of the local population. The two social workers are not asking for cash, but they think that a special committee, dedicated to the protection and good development of the youth of Mizerikod, should be created. Father Romuald gets his hands on the blow horn after pretending to suffer a sudden acute respiratory discomfort. The Catholic priest begins his speech by reminding all the members of the Reformed Church, the followers of Wycliff, Hus, the Devil, Calvin, Luther and Henry VIII Tudor, the serial killer, that the doors of the Real Church are still wide open. Father Romuald then provokes a small commotion, when he declares that an eighteenth century document in his possession makes the Roman Curie the sole owner of the land of Mizerikod and everything between Léôgane and Grand Saline, including the Momance River between Darbonne and the Caribbean Sea. Father Romuald says he highlighted, using a pink marker, numerous mistakes made on the original written communication, signed by the land-surveyor hired by Pierre Dominique Toussaint de Breda during the land reform of Saint-Domingue in the summer of 1799. Finally, even after receiving several death threats from two masked men brandishing pitchforks, the cleric tells the crowd that his grandfather was whiter than a feverish Pole, and that Haiti owned its independence much more to the diplomacy of the Capuchins than to the swords of the Black Generals. The Catholic priest understands that he has said enough, when his beadle comes to warn him about the twelve vandals en route to his church with bags of rocks and lit torches. One of them kept repeating that he was going to teach Joseph Ratzinger that there's no way he can visit Castro's Cuba and forget to pass by and say hello to capricious Haiti without any consequences.
Victor Gourdet jumps in the eye of the hurricane. The look in his eyes clearly communicates that he is a man on a mission. The respected journalist and editor of the local newspaper wants to report live on the turmoil shaking the city of Mizerikod.
“The point of view of the average villager will be heard!” he screams. That seems to be his slogan. Victor's back up team includes Rico Mars, the co-owner of the Kompa Lakay nightclub, and DJ Evasion. Rico seems to have landed the jobs of host and director of the news program; Evasion appears to be the man in charge of security, the cameraman and the sound engineer. The trio loads their media equipment in the ambulance and gets to work right away. The goal is to attract the attention of Capitol Hill, Universal Studios and Wall Street on Mizerikod's tragic destiny. That's why they're wearing t-shirts with the pictures of Obama and Iron Man, and also sporting baseball caps with the logo of the New York Stock Exchange.
“Haiti’s proven reserves of oil exceed by far those of the Arabic peninsula, Canada and Venezuela combined.” That is the astounding title of the short video Rico Mars uses to launch his news anchor career. Images of the civic unrest are uploaded on YouTube and Daily Motion in real time. Calls for help are sent to Wyclef Jeannelle Jean, Sean Justin Penn, William Jefferson Clinton Blythe III, Anderson Hays Cooper and Angelina Voight Miller Thornton Pitt Jolie. Mrs. Consuelo, owner of the most popular diner of the commune, is carefully selected for Rico's first live interview. Victor Gourdet chose the very popular restaurateur because she is the official caterer of his media team and smells like fried chicken, his favorite dish. Victor is convinced that her bubble gum pink dress and canary yellow shoes will have an important impact on the collective memory of the public, much like the Chernobyl incident. The slightly overweight woman is losing all her needed energy through her facial pores, waving her hand fan to cool herself down. She seems close to passing out because of the extreme heat and her fragile emotional state. During the interview, Mrs. Consuelo maintains that she is not requiring a special status or any preferential treatment, but the restaurant owner reminds Rico Mars and everyone listening that she is the one who discovered the oil first, way before the petrochemical experts. If there is an existing law that honors discoverers, Mrs. Consuelo says that she would really appreciate its immediate implementation. Before the black gold, there was the black smell. The regular clients of her joint kept complaining for months about that awful odor for which she constantly had to lie about. Let it be known that her business establishment will not move or close its doors, but in front of a nine digit compensation in American dollars, Mrs. Consuelo says that she will consider a frank discussion and maybe a quick signature.
Barber Fresnel Beltias and Isidore Mullet, from the Mullet Dot Org electronic store, work their way up to the camera by shoving off a great number of demonstrators headfirst from the top of the ambulance. Once in possession of the amplifying tool, Fresnel Beltias rapidly discloses the address of his open-air barbershop and spreads the word about the public spa project of his cousin, Childeric Beltias IV, in Croix-des-Bouquets. Isidore Mullet seizes the opportunity to advertise his computer boutique and quickly enumerates all the package deals and special offers for the upcoming months.
The fifteen watt megaphone keeps switching hands from one idealist to another on the ambulance's roof. Everybody wants to say something that needs amplification. People start elbowing each other, attitudes change and eye to eye contact soon becomes very tense and defying. Partisans of the Fanmi Lavalas Party remove their denim vests to show their t-shirts, revealing caricatures of Aristide and Madiba dressed as Batman and Robin. Partisans of Baby Doc proudly display their red and black armbands to the color of the old flag. A nonpartisan teacher raises his voice to remind everyone the importance of education and his love for his ex-wife, who stole his life savings and left him for a younger man. A math professor recommends more investment in the students and less in the executives and other bogus officials, who spend their time justifying their existence and salary in fancy reunions paid with the money originally destined to the children. The general manager of the soccer team is still waiting for the construction of his stadium and the delivery of the new equipment promised by the Ministry of Sports under President Préval. According to this former water and towel boy of the Haiti National Football Team, using the profits of the new oil industry to impress the other members of the Caribbean Football Union, building a brand new soccer field, buying flashy uniforms, a lot of fireworks and a private jet, is the only logical way to inaugurate the next season.
As time goes by and new topics are brought up, more people are climbing on the old ambulance, which is now dangerously tilting forward. Trying to grab the bull horn from its user becomes a very complicated task for the small, the short and the frail. Many get hurt by falling from the truck. The feeble and the weaker folks are pushed without any pity by the bulky ones. Among the citizens who want to be heard by any means, some start using menacing words with double meaning; and some begin to invoke mystical forces, supposedly capable of transforming anyone standing in their way into a toad or a donkey. Vagabonds growling like stray dogs let everybody know that they might be armed or that they will be later when it gets darker. They pretend to know important people and judo champions by the dozen. Delinquents who worship anarchy and chaos slowly proceed, with a grin on their faces, to build up barricades with tires and fragments of destroyed fences. These punks are either whistling or humming while they're working at it, like if they were preparing a surprise party for a good old friend; stockpiling metal sheets shaped like riot shields and stashing flammable liquids in strategic corners of the city.
The head of the housekeeping department at both the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and the Baptist Mission, a popular guy named Vidal Gascon, finally puts his hands on the highly desired voice amplification device. Vidal Gascon uses the loudspeaker to inform the crowd that his thyroid and pituitary glands stopped working recently, and that he needs a load of cash to pay for a much urgent and needed hysterectomy, due next month, in Santiago de Cuba.
“You'd need a womb transplant first, you stupid ape,” wails John Alphonse, a puny joiner known for being a big mouth with a natural propensity to run away from the fights that he starts; and also his tendency to call the police or ask a tribunal to settle the smallest annoyance or dispute.
“Who asked for your opinion, Johnny Boy?” asks Balthazar, a long time buddy of Vidal Gascon. “You should go take care of your groin itch and your butt rash with the right ointment instead of coming here to play scientist, Johnny Boy.”
“I'd like to be elsewhere, Tza Tza Bar, trust me, but your sister was busy giving a mouth massage to an old dirty pervert,” John Alphonse replies. “I'd go see your wife, but I was told her Adam's apple grew back after the surgery.”
“Come closer, Johnny Boy, so I can put my finger down your throat, you hairy stinky coyote. Nobody talks about my sister and live. I'm going to wash your tongue with moisturized soap, sulfuric acid and vinegar.”
“The situation is serious,” a farmer named Grimardin intervenes; a dude with huge biceps and a high pitch voice. “Nobody cares about your childish feuds, you stupid maggots. Give the megaphone to someone who makes sense, for the love of God, Vidal. I beg you.”
“I have many other topics to address,” Vidal Gascon protests. “I had a list. I can't find it right now, but I'm sure I had a list.”
“You never have anything rational to say, Vidal. There lies the main problem. Every time you open that big hole of yours, something dull or close to insanity comes out of it. Reincarnation might be real. Accept your ignorance and dream about coming back as a goat, a tulip or something clever and useful. For now, shut the hell up and give the microphone to someone without any serious mental issues.”
“Who do you think you are, Grimardin, you uneducated peasant? That ain't no mic!” Balthazar grumbles, defending his pal, Vidal. “We're not in the hills down here, you barnyard dweller. We don't have any sows and cows to tell us what to do. Here in town, we've got Wi-Fi, my friend. We benefit of both the freedoms of expression and movement. Are you following me?”
“I'll start by taking that expression right from your ugly face by hitting it repeatedly with my knuckles, and then I'll confiscate your liberty by locking you up inside your own body, plugged into a North Korean-made second hand respirator.”
“Find yourself a new steroids dealer, Grimardin; you don't scare anyone anymore down here. May I remind you that Vidal Gascon came back here from Trinidad with the WBA middleweight title?”
“You see, that is exactly what I'm talking about?” Grimardin explodes. “Have you ever seen a plastic boxing belt with Daffy Duck's picture on it, Balthazar? These soldiers from the United Nations are probably here to secure the region. Oil is a highly volatile matter. That's chemistry 101.”
“We can tell that you are not from around here, Mr. Country Boy. The United Nations troops came here to recapture the escaped prisoners and arrest the gang leaders once and for all.”
“They're in Mizerikod to liberate one of their own,” John Alphonse reveals. “The Diabbakas abducted the President of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation this morning. You didn't know that, did you? That very powerful man knows a lot of compromising stuff on the people who exploit us, steal the international funds raised for Haiti and hide it in Switzerland.”
“They want to drain our oil and shovel up the rare earth, period!” Vidal Gascon asserts. “Why do you think all the banks are closed, today? Tanks, boats and a helicopter, to put a bunch of disorganized miscreants behind bars and free a corrupted senior executive? There is a limit to blindness, my good and poorly educated friends. As the official representative of the people of Mizerikod and chief negotiator; later in due time, we'll talk about my expectations as to my net hourly wage and final salary including the bonus later…”
The treasurer of the fishermen's union gets his hands on the available blow horn, shortly after the airborne expulsion of Vidal Gascon from the ambulance's roof. The infuriated individual starts by attacking the government on every social ill affecting the Republic of Haiti, then focuses on the overfishing problem affecting the bay area. The fuming man quickly proposes a vote to topple President Martelly tomorrow at dawn. With a big smirk on his face, John Alphonse tells the angered financial officer of the fishermen's union that he drifted away from the subject of the reunion; that is to say, the oil windfall that could possibly earn Haiti some respect and put the nation back on the map. Seven grumpy seamen immediately jump on John Alphonse to teach him a serious anatomy lesson. The arrogant joiner successively gets a taste of the Birman sledgehammer, the Mexican clothesline, the Senegalese bear grip and the Alabama style body slam. The brutes hand back the small and flimsy man to his relatives, two minutes and thirty seconds later, semiconscious and fold in three. Agitated with irregular spasms, a fragile John Alphonse keeps repeating mechanically: “Who hit me, what just happened and why does my mouth taste like salt?” The employees of the waste collection conjointly deduce, being witnesses of that regrettable incident, that one must be bearing arms or master karate to be able to express any personal ideas in this failed nation. Soon after, a dozen enraged construction workers show up, asking for explanations to the fishermen's union spokesman. They were told by a highly traumatized wife that one of their joiners needed chest compressions to regain consciousness after a very uneven altercation.
“Tell us how many fishing boats we must burn to obtain justice?” a carpenter declares, spinning his hammer like Thor Odinson.
“How many minutes can you stay under water without oxygen?” a trumpet player who has absolutely nothing to do with the ongoing conflict answers.
“They're going to dig up the corpses out of the cemetery to pump up the oil!” a housekeeper from the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation screams.
Most people take a pause to think about what this hothead just shouted. But they waste no time caring, because the man is drooling and seems possessed by an evil spirit. The general discord rapidly resumes, when everybody remembers that Agénor, that's his name, spends twelve hours a day manipulating bottles and cans marked with a skull, a cross and a lengthy list of warnings against inhalation. Everybody knows that Agénor never wears a mask, latex gloves or any other protection while working. That moment of surprise gives Gargarine the chance to seize the megaphone and bring it back to the real leader of the public protest.
“I want my billion!”
Those are the first words that come out of Elzéar Michelet's mouth, happy to recuperate his propaganda tool.
“That's right, you've heard me. We are asking for one hundred million in compensation for the damages caused by General Charles Victoire Emmanuel Leclerc's expedition in 1802; a hundred and fifty millions to reimburse the overpaid debt, imposed to us by King Charles Philippe de Bourbon in 1825; we want another hundred million from President James Buchanan Junior, for the theft of our territory in 1858. Yes, you've heard me, Navassa Island belongs to us! Add a hundred and fifty from President Grover Cleveland, for refusing to protect us against the new European weapons, in 1883, even after our proposition to cede Môle Saint-Nicolas and Tortuga to the United States. What were the people of Haiti supposed to do against these new steel battleships, submarines and machine guns, with our pickets, machetes and scythes? I demand an extra hundred million to Emperor Frederic Guillaume Victor Albert of Hohenzollern for the Luders incident in 1897. One must be an ostrich or suffer a serious lack of good faith to deny that the Germans took total control of Haiti after that diplomatic humiliation. Woodrow Wilson owes us two hundred and fifty million dollars for the disaster engendered by the illegal occupation of our country before and after the Stock Market Crash of 1929, and one hundred million more for looting our gold reserve from the safe of the Central Bank in the face of the newly created League of Nations. What have they done for us during the nineteen years of their imposed presence on our territory, besides draining all of our physical and intellectual resources like blood sucking leeches? Who is responsible for the destruction of the vetiver industry that was the economic pride of our country? Who ordered the killing of our domestic pigs and replaced them with canned ham filled with deadly preservatives? I have an answer for you: Washington! Each one of us has the right to its own billion from the Federal Bank of America. I say, one citizen! one vote! one personal oil well! one billion dollar in your checking account!”
“Will someone explain to me, what this old dude is talking about?” a confused grocer, supported by a pair or artisanal crutches, complains. “Woodrow Wilson… wasn't that the guy who played Woody in Cheers, the psycho in Natural Born Killers?”
“Shut up, crippled man!” a tailor named Rudy shouts. “Elzéar is trying to give us all a very important history lesson.”
“They want to put us in prison to teach us a lesson?” a hard of hearing postal officer asks, boiling. “I'm not going anywhere. I've been poor all my life. There's no way I'm giving this oil back. I prefer to set myself ablaze right here and right now.”
“You want us to start a fire?” yells an arsonist who'd love to do his thing in public, this time with peer approval.
“Petrodollars or death!” a masked Anarchist thunders.
“Fair trade or you'll get nothing but fire, tires and blood!” his partisans shout in unison.
Victor Gourdet jumps in the eye of the hurricane. The look in his eyes clearly communicates that he is a man on a mission. The respected journalist and editor of the local newspaper wants to report live on the turmoil shaking the city of Mizerikod.
“The point of view of the average villager will be heard!” he screams. That seems to be his slogan. Victor's back up team includes Rico Mars, the co-owner of the Kompa Lakay nightclub, and DJ Evasion. Rico seems to have landed the jobs of host and director of the news program; Evasion appears to be the man in charge of security, the cameraman and the sound engineer. The trio loads their media equipment in the ambulance and gets to work right away. The goal is to attract the attention of Capitol Hill, Universal Studios and Wall Street on Mizerikod's tragic destiny. That's why they're wearing t-shirts with the pictures of Obama and Iron Man, and also sporting baseball caps with the logo of the New York Stock Exchange.
“Haiti’s proven reserves of oil exceed by far those of the Arabic peninsula, Canada and Venezuela combined.” That is the astounding title of the short video Rico Mars uses to launch his news anchor career. Images of the civic unrest are uploaded on YouTube and Daily Motion in real time. Calls for help are sent to Wyclef Jeannelle Jean, Sean Justin Penn, William Jefferson Clinton Blythe III, Anderson Hays Cooper and Angelina Voight Miller Thornton Pitt Jolie. Mrs. Consuelo, owner of the most popular diner of the commune, is carefully selected for Rico's first live interview. Victor Gourdet chose the very popular restaurateur because she is the official caterer of his media team and smells like fried chicken, his favorite dish. Victor is convinced that her bubble gum pink dress and canary yellow shoes will have an important impact on the collective memory of the public, much like the Chernobyl incident. The slightly overweight woman is losing all her needed energy through her facial pores, waving her hand fan to cool herself down. She seems close to passing out because of the extreme heat and her fragile emotional state. During the interview, Mrs. Consuelo maintains that she is not requiring a special status or any preferential treatment, but the restaurant owner reminds Rico Mars and everyone listening that she is the one who discovered the oil first, way before the petrochemical experts. If there is an existing law that honors discoverers, Mrs. Consuelo says that she would really appreciate its immediate implementation. Before the black gold, there was the black smell. The regular clients of her joint kept complaining for months about that awful odor for which she constantly had to lie about. Let it be known that her business establishment will not move or close its doors, but in front of a nine digit compensation in American dollars, Mrs. Consuelo says that she will consider a frank discussion and maybe a quick signature.
Barber Fresnel Beltias and Isidore Mullet, from the Mullet Dot Org electronic store, work their way up to the camera by shoving off a great number of demonstrators headfirst from the top of the ambulance. Once in possession of the amplifying tool, Fresnel Beltias rapidly discloses the address of his open-air barbershop and spreads the word about the public spa project of his cousin, Childeric Beltias IV, in Croix-des-Bouquets. Isidore Mullet seizes the opportunity to advertise his computer boutique and quickly enumerates all the package deals and special offers for the upcoming months.
The fifteen watt megaphone keeps switching hands from one idealist to another on the ambulance's roof. Everybody wants to say something that needs amplification. People start elbowing each other, attitudes change and eye to eye contact soon becomes very tense and defying. Partisans of the Fanmi Lavalas Party remove their denim vests to show their t-shirts, revealing caricatures of Aristide and Madiba dressed as Batman and Robin. Partisans of Baby Doc proudly display their red and black armbands to the color of the old flag. A nonpartisan teacher raises his voice to remind everyone the importance of education and his love for his ex-wife, who stole his life savings and left him for a younger man. A math professor recommends more investment in the students and less in the executives and other bogus officials, who spend their time justifying their existence and salary in fancy reunions paid with the money originally destined to the children. The general manager of the soccer team is still waiting for the construction of his stadium and the delivery of the new equipment promised by the Ministry of Sports under President Préval. According to this former water and towel boy of the Haiti National Football Team, using the profits of the new oil industry to impress the other members of the Caribbean Football Union, building a brand new soccer field, buying flashy uniforms, a lot of fireworks and a private jet, is the only logical way to inaugurate the next season.
As time goes by and new topics are brought up, more people are climbing on the old ambulance, which is now dangerously tilting forward. Trying to grab the bull horn from its user becomes a very complicated task for the small, the short and the frail. Many get hurt by falling from the truck. The feeble and the weaker folks are pushed without any pity by the bulky ones. Among the citizens who want to be heard by any means, some start using menacing words with double meaning; and some begin to invoke mystical forces, supposedly capable of transforming anyone standing in their way into a toad or a donkey. Vagabonds growling like stray dogs let everybody know that they might be armed or that they will be later when it gets darker. They pretend to know important people and judo champions by the dozen. Delinquents who worship anarchy and chaos slowly proceed, with a grin on their faces, to build up barricades with tires and fragments of destroyed fences. These punks are either whistling or humming while they're working at it, like if they were preparing a surprise party for a good old friend; stockpiling metal sheets shaped like riot shields and stashing flammable liquids in strategic corners of the city.
The head of the housekeeping department at both the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and the Baptist Mission, a popular guy named Vidal Gascon, finally puts his hands on the highly desired voice amplification device. Vidal Gascon uses the loudspeaker to inform the crowd that his thyroid and pituitary glands stopped working recently, and that he needs a load of cash to pay for a much urgent and needed hysterectomy, due next month, in Santiago de Cuba.
“You'd need a womb transplant first, you stupid ape,” wails John Alphonse, a puny joiner known for being a big mouth with a natural propensity to run away from the fights that he starts; and also his tendency to call the police or ask a tribunal to settle the smallest annoyance or dispute.
“Who asked for your opinion, Johnny Boy?” asks Balthazar, a long time buddy of Vidal Gascon. “You should go take care of your groin itch and your butt rash with the right ointment instead of coming here to play scientist, Johnny Boy.”
“I'd like to be elsewhere, Tza Tza Bar, trust me, but your sister was busy giving a mouth massage to an old dirty pervert,” John Alphonse replies. “I'd go see your wife, but I was told her Adam's apple grew back after the surgery.”
“Come closer, Johnny Boy, so I can put my finger down your throat, you hairy stinky coyote. Nobody talks about my sister and live. I'm going to wash your tongue with moisturized soap, sulfuric acid and vinegar.”
“The situation is serious,” a farmer named Grimardin intervenes; a dude with huge biceps and a high pitch voice. “Nobody cares about your childish feuds, you stupid maggots. Give the megaphone to someone who makes sense, for the love of God, Vidal. I beg you.”
“I have many other topics to address,” Vidal Gascon protests. “I had a list. I can't find it right now, but I'm sure I had a list.”
“You never have anything rational to say, Vidal. There lies the main problem. Every time you open that big hole of yours, something dull or close to insanity comes out of it. Reincarnation might be real. Accept your ignorance and dream about coming back as a goat, a tulip or something clever and useful. For now, shut the hell up and give the microphone to someone without any serious mental issues.”
“Who do you think you are, Grimardin, you uneducated peasant? That ain't no mic!” Balthazar grumbles, defending his pal, Vidal. “We're not in the hills down here, you barnyard dweller. We don't have any sows and cows to tell us what to do. Here in town, we've got Wi-Fi, my friend. We benefit of both the freedoms of expression and movement. Are you following me?”
“I'll start by taking that expression right from your ugly face by hitting it repeatedly with my knuckles, and then I'll confiscate your liberty by locking you up inside your own body, plugged into a North Korean-made second hand respirator.”
“Find yourself a new steroids dealer, Grimardin; you don't scare anyone anymore down here. May I remind you that Vidal Gascon came back here from Trinidad with the WBA middleweight title?”
“You see, that is exactly what I'm talking about?” Grimardin explodes. “Have you ever seen a plastic boxing belt with Daffy Duck's picture on it, Balthazar? These soldiers from the United Nations are probably here to secure the region. Oil is a highly volatile matter. That's chemistry 101.”
“We can tell that you are not from around here, Mr. Country Boy. The United Nations troops came here to recapture the escaped prisoners and arrest the gang leaders once and for all.”
“They're in Mizerikod to liberate one of their own,” John Alphonse reveals. “The Diabbakas abducted the President of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation this morning. You didn't know that, did you? That very powerful man knows a lot of compromising stuff on the people who exploit us, steal the international funds raised for Haiti and hide it in Switzerland.”
“They want to drain our oil and shovel up the rare earth, period!” Vidal Gascon asserts. “Why do you think all the banks are closed, today? Tanks, boats and a helicopter, to put a bunch of disorganized miscreants behind bars and free a corrupted senior executive? There is a limit to blindness, my good and poorly educated friends. As the official representative of the people of Mizerikod and chief negotiator; later in due time, we'll talk about my expectations as to my net hourly wage and final salary including the bonus later…”
The treasurer of the fishermen's union gets his hands on the available blow horn, shortly after the airborne expulsion of Vidal Gascon from the ambulance's roof. The infuriated individual starts by attacking the government on every social ill affecting the Republic of Haiti, then focuses on the overfishing problem affecting the bay area. The fuming man quickly proposes a vote to topple President Martelly tomorrow at dawn. With a big smirk on his face, John Alphonse tells the angered financial officer of the fishermen's union that he drifted away from the subject of the reunion; that is to say, the oil windfall that could possibly earn Haiti some respect and put the nation back on the map. Seven grumpy seamen immediately jump on John Alphonse to teach him a serious anatomy lesson. The arrogant joiner successively gets a taste of the Birman sledgehammer, the Mexican clothesline, the Senegalese bear grip and the Alabama style body slam. The brutes hand back the small and flimsy man to his relatives, two minutes and thirty seconds later, semiconscious and fold in three. Agitated with irregular spasms, a fragile John Alphonse keeps repeating mechanically: “Who hit me, what just happened and why does my mouth taste like salt?” The employees of the waste collection conjointly deduce, being witnesses of that regrettable incident, that one must be bearing arms or master karate to be able to express any personal ideas in this failed nation. Soon after, a dozen enraged construction workers show up, asking for explanations to the fishermen's union spokesman. They were told by a highly traumatized wife that one of their joiners needed chest compressions to regain consciousness after a very uneven altercation.
“Tell us how many fishing boats we must burn to obtain justice?” a carpenter declares, spinning his hammer like Thor Odinson.
“How many minutes can you stay under water without oxygen?” a trumpet player who has absolutely nothing to do with the ongoing conflict answers.
“They're going to dig up the corpses out of the cemetery to pump up the oil!” a housekeeper from the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation screams.
Most people take a pause to think about what this hothead just shouted. But they waste no time caring, because the man is drooling and seems possessed by an evil spirit. The general discord rapidly resumes, when everybody remembers that Agénor, that's his name, spends twelve hours a day manipulating bottles and cans marked with a skull, a cross and a lengthy list of warnings against inhalation. Everybody knows that Agénor never wears a mask, latex gloves or any other protection while working. That moment of surprise gives Gargarine the chance to seize the megaphone and bring it back to the real leader of the public protest.
“I want my billion!”
Those are the first words that come out of Elzéar Michelet's mouth, happy to recuperate his propaganda tool.
“That's right, you've heard me. We are asking for one hundred million in compensation for the damages caused by General Charles Victoire Emmanuel Leclerc's expedition in 1802; a hundred and fifty millions to reimburse the overpaid debt, imposed to us by King Charles Philippe de Bourbon in 1825; we want another hundred million from President James Buchanan Junior, for the theft of our territory in 1858. Yes, you've heard me, Navassa Island belongs to us! Add a hundred and fifty from President Grover Cleveland, for refusing to protect us against the new European weapons, in 1883, even after our proposition to cede Môle Saint-Nicolas and Tortuga to the United States. What were the people of Haiti supposed to do against these new steel battleships, submarines and machine guns, with our pickets, machetes and scythes? I demand an extra hundred million to Emperor Frederic Guillaume Victor Albert of Hohenzollern for the Luders incident in 1897. One must be an ostrich or suffer a serious lack of good faith to deny that the Germans took total control of Haiti after that diplomatic humiliation. Woodrow Wilson owes us two hundred and fifty million dollars for the disaster engendered by the illegal occupation of our country before and after the Stock Market Crash of 1929, and one hundred million more for looting our gold reserve from the safe of the Central Bank in the face of the newly created League of Nations. What have they done for us during the nineteen years of their imposed presence on our territory, besides draining all of our physical and intellectual resources like blood sucking leeches? Who is responsible for the destruction of the vetiver industry that was the economic pride of our country? Who ordered the killing of our domestic pigs and replaced them with canned ham filled with deadly preservatives? I have an answer for you: Washington! Each one of us has the right to its own billion from the Federal Bank of America. I say, one citizen! one vote! one personal oil well! one billion dollar in your checking account!”
“Will someone explain to me, what this old dude is talking about?” a confused grocer, supported by a pair or artisanal crutches, complains. “Woodrow Wilson… wasn't that the guy who played Woody in Cheers, the psycho in Natural Born Killers?”
“Shut up, crippled man!” a tailor named Rudy shouts. “Elzéar is trying to give us all a very important history lesson.”
“They want to put us in prison to teach us a lesson?” a hard of hearing postal officer asks, boiling. “I'm not going anywhere. I've been poor all my life. There's no way I'm giving this oil back. I prefer to set myself ablaze right here and right now.”
“You want us to start a fire?” yells an arsonist who'd love to do his thing in public, this time with peer approval.
“Petrodollars or death!” a masked Anarchist thunders.
“Fair trade or you'll get nothing but fire, tires and blood!” his partisans shout in unison.
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