Port-au-Prince Diaries: Mist, Music, and Mild Insanity
the air clings like a wet t-shirt you can’t peel off. i just checked and it’s twenty-five degrees with this weird steamy pressure that makes your armpits revolt-it’s like the city’s sweating for you too. that’s *port-au-prince for you, baby: sticky, loud, and somehow oddly welcoming.
i’m staying in this warped little hostel tucked behind what i swear used to be a pharmacy-someone told me it was a bootleg electronics repair joint two decades ago, now it's all peeling paint and rumors. apparently, there's an old man who sleeps in the courtyard, and he knows every gig happening within miles. last night he pointed out a squat yellow building two streets over with drums bleeding through the walls. scored me a show.
“that place next to the bus stop? yeah man, but don’t trust the soup.”
“they started a dance hall on second street after midnight last time. got shut down by sunrise.”
“nah, stay outta bel-air unless you're ready to run.” -random dude selling used cds at marché en fer
the map here might help, but honestly, even google gets confused half the time. worth a shot though:
i heard the humidity breaks eighty percent today, so good luck with that makeup if you’re into that sort of thing - my sketchbook curled up like a dying fern. drinking coconut water straight from street vendors seems to keep the headache at bay, someone whose name i forgot swore by it after a botched attempt getting mango juice from a guy near place saint-pierre, which brings us to-
the neighbors smoke weed at sunset like clockwork. not subtle stuff either. one time a kid climbed onto our balcony without knocking and offered us plantains with a grin that terrified me more than thrilled me. oof.
you ever had grilled plantains while people scream-sing bolero outside your window? highly recommend.
skip cap-haïtien unless you're on deadline. caribbean beaches come cheaper elsewhere. if you get restless, petionville is a lazy afternoon away. not joking; traffic’s always apocalyptic but somehow tragicomic once you let go of punctuality.
“don’t walk alone after dos p.m. especially if you look like police drew you.”
stop into café mondo or whatever pretends to be left of it-they still roast beans from jacmel farms* behind rusty gates and serve weak espresso like liquid melancholy. i love it. sometimes the barista hums so loud i forget what continent we’re on.
someone told me that petionville has a hotel that calls itself boutique because it has a mirror in the bathroom. relations.
also turned out the toilet didn’t flush until we asked-“sanitation issue,” said the hostess pinching fake pearls.
need backup planning?
check yelp picks here.
see street venders or tourist warnings on tripadvisor
and totally questionable hostel options curated by other stressed-out backpackers here.
anyway… summer in january continues to mock me like only port-au-prince can.
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