Our First Tap-tap Ride

December 8, 2008

Friday we dropped the Galloper—our vehicle—off at the mechanic finally after every application of the breaks (happens quite frequently in PaP traffic) resulted in squeaky complaint. Not wanting to wait for our car to one day go careening out of control, we found a nearby auto-shop and left it for a good look over, tune up and break check. Lets just say they have been thorough, and our little vehicle has been undergoing intensive work for the last 3 days. I fully expect to pick up a transformed machine, life breathed back in, ready to gallop off into the Port-au-Prince sunset when the work is done. But in the meantime, we walk.

The garage rendering us carless, we’ve been forced to get to know a different part of Haiti… either that or resign ourselves to being dependent shut-ins until we can re-connect with wheels. So in efforts to stay mobile, we had our first exposure to the Haitian tap-tap system. To access the pick-up taxi’s, we first have to walk 10 blocks to the main road from the guesthouse. And the simple act of walking in Port-au-Prince brings you up close and personal with life on the streets. The dust of the streets kicks up around the shoes, the smells of cooking, of urine, of dirt, of car fumes swirls in the air. There is no quickly passing by piles of trash. Instead, we pick our way over streams of dirty water, around men welding metal furniture, past women selling hygienic supplies, shoes and fried plantains. We follow dogs foraging for scraps, children playing alone with a rock while their parents busy themselves with tasks of the day or sit idly by waiting for something to happen. And with the mild exertion, sweat beads up on the brow baptizing our freshly-showered bodies with the first sweat of the day.

We didn’t have much of an “introduction to riding tap-taps.” There isn’t a manual or bus schedule. So, with an air of adventure, we hopped on one facing in the general direction of the school. Mashed together with people not operating under the social constraints of “personal space” we were off, bumping and lurching through the busy early morning traffic. I maintained a death-grip on the metal cage keeping us from being thrown from the truck-bed. After some initial outright stares at our presence in the truck, general friendly conversation and inquiries broke out. Everyone crammed into the tight space seemed to engage in conversation, as if we were sitting around a coffee-table in someone’s living room.

Of course the conversation kept us from hopping off the truck at our needed transfer place, and unfortunately, the tap-tap took us in exactly the opposite direction of the school. Not wanting to jump off prematurely, and confident we’d eventually come to a road we'd recognized, we tried to maintain cool. Patrick definitely goes with the flow better than I do; the highly acidic Haitian coffee I had with breakfast wasn’t taking too kindly to our early morning jostling and circuitous route to work. We eventually hopped off one truck at a familiar intersection, poured our coins into the outstretched palm of the driver and hopped on another truck pointed back toward the side of the city where CONASPEH is nestled. Our bearings were a little out of wack given the new perspective riding in the back of a truck allowed. Instead of looking ahead, we were forced to scan the businesses already passed, looking for something familiar, a clue to where we needed to turn, a glimpse of a familiar landmark. I did my best to swallow the emerging panic that we were possibly heading out to the countryside and becoming hopelessly lost. Apparently I didn’t mask my worries well enough. Several of our seatmates looked concerned and asked if we knew where we were going. We answered with where we WANTED to go. One woman’s eyes got wide. Clearly we weren’t close. But just when I was ready to succumb to the whimsy of the tap-tap driver, we recognized a filling station and the road that would eventually lead to the school. TAP TAP TAP we banged on the window. Its our stop. So once again we hopped off, and back onto a third truck after verifying it wasn’t planning on veering off course from the familiar road. We were found. And sure enough, we soon were deposited at the entry of the CONASPEH school, a good hour after we had left the guest house. Late, but happy with our accomplishment and being saved from complete disorientation, we wandered up the drive. Patrick Villier joked with us asking if we road a donkey to work. I think a donkey would have been easier. Hopefully next time we’ll be a little more assertive, and attentive, and ensure we are headed in the right direction. But in the true Haitian way, we adapted to our environment and emerged not so worse for the wear. Piti piti. Day by day we learn. I’ll be glad to reunite with the new-and-improved Galloper after its all said and done, but am ultimately thankful for the experience we were forced to navigate, one of many “firsts” checked off our list in our Haitian emersion. As with all new experiences here, it allowed us to experience a part of the daily routine for so many people. And that was worth getting lost for.