chapter 16c
(The City)
Moïse Berri
and the Reconstruction of the Haitian
Space Agency
by Jude Jarda
16c
The City
The citizens of Mizerikod took to the streets to deliver a blunt message to the Minustah. They want immediate change and total control over their destiny starting right now. Many among them, major-league believers with lots of imagination, see warning signs of the Apocalypse, according to Saint-John, absolutely everywhere and in almost everything. To their highly credulous ears, the wind sounds like a familiar jazz instrument. To their ingenuous eyes, low cumulus clouds have the aspect and the shape of wrathful mounted soldiers. The most devout and zealous amongst them can even discern the silhouette of a giant snake, hiding behind a flash of lightning and rising up to the skies.
Career criminals who joined the animated crowd in order to remain indistinct know for sure the UNPOL officers will intervene only if they are provoked or fired upon. Hence, the plunder began.
The Jean-Michel-Basquiat Museum is still being raided and systematically destroyed by looters and ignorant defacers. The robbers take all the time needed to complete the destruction. They try to act naturally, smiling, talking and saluting each other as they proceed; some even whistle and hum children's lullabies while busy causing mayhem and ruining every single work of art at their reach. The thieves use screwdrivers, hammers, hatchets and even crowbars to steal rare naive paintings, historical artifacts, unique sculptures and other valuable objects from the walls and from the ground of the newly built edifice. Sworn enemies of the arts, culture and free education even made an attempt to set the Dany-Laferrière Library on fire, using recycled books and magazines. Two of their leaders maintain it is the best way to assert their right to be genuinely upset.
A very imprudent arsonist sets himself on fire when he steps on an open bottle of turpentine. The fool was composing a song to go along with the havoc while playing with wooden matches. A guy who owes him money is immediately accused of sorcery.
A fight breaks up on Place Edmond-Laforest; the belligerents are football fans arguing about the questionable talent of some key players figuring on the FIFA 100 prestigious list of legends.
Residents of Thomas-Madiou Avenue unite in self-defense against a bunch of delinquents armed with rustic slingshots and rocks. These depraved freebooters and rogue barefoot vagabonds want to pay a visit to an electronic boutique located on that particular street. They lie without blinking that it's only to see if the new Xbox console has finally arrived from the United States.
A meeting is being held on a pile of compost on the corner of René-Depestre and Horace-Pauléus-Sannon. The speaker questions the validity of the famous Oil Bonds of Mizerikod.
“Who the hell gave Elzéar Michelet the power and the right to print them anyway? That old man walks around with no pants on; is that a fashion statement or is he under the influence of some homemade drug? And most of all, as anyone seen that oil; is it real or is it pure fabrication from the mind of a mentally disturbed senior?”
A brick is thrown with force and a great deal of rage by the holder of a dozen of these so-called Mizerikod Oil Bonds. The block of baked clay hits the skeptic orator on the forehead, right in the third eye. The author of that brutal attack is sorry, but doesn't regret anything. He had already visualized his immediate future as a popular and eccentric Caribbean oil tycoon. The thought of being poor, unemployed and hungry again was just too much for him to bear.
The staff of the Jean-Metellus Hospital, located on Boisrond-Canal Road, is repeating the evacuation exercises and locking all the exits.
Goons with their faces painted in black and white try to take down a monument dedicated to Jean-Pierre Boyer on Place des Présidents. They reproach to the European sculptor, the aquiline nose of the statue.
Some eccentric crooks are parading in Victorian era costumes they pilfered from the Frankétienne Theater. Chairs from the Anthony-Phelps cinema are used by little rascals as sledges to descend the abrupt slope on Jean-Claude-Fignolé Avenue.
Henri Christophe Park becomes the hot spot for rituals. Practitioners abandon themselves to all sorts of mystical ceremonies. A group of topless women keep jiggling to the hypnotizing rhythm of the conga drums played by testosterone filled adolescent males. Exhibitionism is rampant. Most participants are dressed in white. Some of them are heading down to the cemetery, reciting incantations, dancing and spinning around recklessly. Three Barons march amongst them, ceremonious and even extravagant in their gestures, but still relatively quiet. Baron Samedi, Baron Cimetière and Baron Lacroix form a perfect triangle. Those who walk up to its center instantly fall into a trance. They become agitated and extremely rowdy. Maman Brigitte pours rum down their throat. She then rubs their sweaty bodies with pepper. A houngan priest explains to a frightened and uninitiated man that those people are simply celebrating the triumph of life over death, a custom dating back many centuries.
The sound of the drums coming from the Faustin-Soulouque Canal is reminiscent to the noise made by thunder. It brings joy to some and anguish to others.
A pubescent toughie officially declares the street corner of Émile-Ollivier and Gérard-Étienne his own personal territory; anyone who wants to do business there will have to pay him a three dollar tax from now on. His mother shows up with a broom and a belt before the end of his speech. She reminds him in public that she is still accountable for all his foolishness.
A coterie of raucous ravagers chased down by a military squadron suddenly crosses Nissage-Saget Avenue, yelling and screaming out of fear. They tell everyone that the United Nations tried to kill them. They get rid of the red and blue bandana that tell their allegiance to an organized gang and scramble behind the Benoît-Batraville Garden bushes, where they disperse. One of them cannot fight his desire to show off. He stops by a group of attractive chicks and starts detailing the incident. His crew went up to the police roadblock on Route Nationale #2 to bug and harass the UNPOL a little bit, just for the kick of it. A loaded multicolored bus showed up, packed with sweaty voyagers, poultry and a skinny goat. The driver begged the Nepalese sub-officer in charge to let them pass. One of his passengers was pregnant and experiencing preeclampsia symptoms. A female police agent pretending to be a former midwife in her native Crimea used a mercury sphygmomanometer to measure the woman's blood pressure. The peace officer declared that she had never seen results that high. The Nepalese corporal remained impassive; the orders from his superiors having precedence over human life: nobody was aloud past his security checkpoint. The tone turned up a notch. French was flushed down the toilet and replaced by hand and finger signs as the common diplomatic language. Stone throwing and verbal menace quickly became acceptable means of expression. The driver of the splashy coach stepped on the gas pedal and forced the roadblock, hitting two cops in the process. The Nepalese sub-officer did not appreciate the move. He ordered his men to pull out the heavy artillery to have these impolite lawbreakers neutralized instantly.
Career criminals who joined the animated crowd in order to remain indistinct know for sure the UNPOL officers will intervene only if they are provoked or fired upon. Hence, the plunder began.
The Jean-Michel-Basquiat Museum is still being raided and systematically destroyed by looters and ignorant defacers. The robbers take all the time needed to complete the destruction. They try to act naturally, smiling, talking and saluting each other as they proceed; some even whistle and hum children's lullabies while busy causing mayhem and ruining every single work of art at their reach. The thieves use screwdrivers, hammers, hatchets and even crowbars to steal rare naive paintings, historical artifacts, unique sculptures and other valuable objects from the walls and from the ground of the newly built edifice. Sworn enemies of the arts, culture and free education even made an attempt to set the Dany-Laferrière Library on fire, using recycled books and magazines. Two of their leaders maintain it is the best way to assert their right to be genuinely upset.
A very imprudent arsonist sets himself on fire when he steps on an open bottle of turpentine. The fool was composing a song to go along with the havoc while playing with wooden matches. A guy who owes him money is immediately accused of sorcery.
A fight breaks up on Place Edmond-Laforest; the belligerents are football fans arguing about the questionable talent of some key players figuring on the FIFA 100 prestigious list of legends.
Residents of Thomas-Madiou Avenue unite in self-defense against a bunch of delinquents armed with rustic slingshots and rocks. These depraved freebooters and rogue barefoot vagabonds want to pay a visit to an electronic boutique located on that particular street. They lie without blinking that it's only to see if the new Xbox console has finally arrived from the United States.
A meeting is being held on a pile of compost on the corner of René-Depestre and Horace-Pauléus-Sannon. The speaker questions the validity of the famous Oil Bonds of Mizerikod.
“Who the hell gave Elzéar Michelet the power and the right to print them anyway? That old man walks around with no pants on; is that a fashion statement or is he under the influence of some homemade drug? And most of all, as anyone seen that oil; is it real or is it pure fabrication from the mind of a mentally disturbed senior?”
A brick is thrown with force and a great deal of rage by the holder of a dozen of these so-called Mizerikod Oil Bonds. The block of baked clay hits the skeptic orator on the forehead, right in the third eye. The author of that brutal attack is sorry, but doesn't regret anything. He had already visualized his immediate future as a popular and eccentric Caribbean oil tycoon. The thought of being poor, unemployed and hungry again was just too much for him to bear.
The staff of the Jean-Metellus Hospital, located on Boisrond-Canal Road, is repeating the evacuation exercises and locking all the exits.
Goons with their faces painted in black and white try to take down a monument dedicated to Jean-Pierre Boyer on Place des Présidents. They reproach to the European sculptor, the aquiline nose of the statue.
Some eccentric crooks are parading in Victorian era costumes they pilfered from the Frankétienne Theater. Chairs from the Anthony-Phelps cinema are used by little rascals as sledges to descend the abrupt slope on Jean-Claude-Fignolé Avenue.
Henri Christophe Park becomes the hot spot for rituals. Practitioners abandon themselves to all sorts of mystical ceremonies. A group of topless women keep jiggling to the hypnotizing rhythm of the conga drums played by testosterone filled adolescent males. Exhibitionism is rampant. Most participants are dressed in white. Some of them are heading down to the cemetery, reciting incantations, dancing and spinning around recklessly. Three Barons march amongst them, ceremonious and even extravagant in their gestures, but still relatively quiet. Baron Samedi, Baron Cimetière and Baron Lacroix form a perfect triangle. Those who walk up to its center instantly fall into a trance. They become agitated and extremely rowdy. Maman Brigitte pours rum down their throat. She then rubs their sweaty bodies with pepper. A houngan priest explains to a frightened and uninitiated man that those people are simply celebrating the triumph of life over death, a custom dating back many centuries.
The sound of the drums coming from the Faustin-Soulouque Canal is reminiscent to the noise made by thunder. It brings joy to some and anguish to others.
A pubescent toughie officially declares the street corner of Émile-Ollivier and Gérard-Étienne his own personal territory; anyone who wants to do business there will have to pay him a three dollar tax from now on. His mother shows up with a broom and a belt before the end of his speech. She reminds him in public that she is still accountable for all his foolishness.
A coterie of raucous ravagers chased down by a military squadron suddenly crosses Nissage-Saget Avenue, yelling and screaming out of fear. They tell everyone that the United Nations tried to kill them. They get rid of the red and blue bandana that tell their allegiance to an organized gang and scramble behind the Benoît-Batraville Garden bushes, where they disperse. One of them cannot fight his desire to show off. He stops by a group of attractive chicks and starts detailing the incident. His crew went up to the police roadblock on Route Nationale #2 to bug and harass the UNPOL a little bit, just for the kick of it. A loaded multicolored bus showed up, packed with sweaty voyagers, poultry and a skinny goat. The driver begged the Nepalese sub-officer in charge to let them pass. One of his passengers was pregnant and experiencing preeclampsia symptoms. A female police agent pretending to be a former midwife in her native Crimea used a mercury sphygmomanometer to measure the woman's blood pressure. The peace officer declared that she had never seen results that high. The Nepalese corporal remained impassive; the orders from his superiors having precedence over human life: nobody was aloud past his security checkpoint. The tone turned up a notch. French was flushed down the toilet and replaced by hand and finger signs as the common diplomatic language. Stone throwing and verbal menace quickly became acceptable means of expression. The driver of the splashy coach stepped on the gas pedal and forced the roadblock, hitting two cops in the process. The Nepalese sub-officer did not appreciate the move. He ordered his men to pull out the heavy artillery to have these impolite lawbreakers neutralized instantly.
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