The American Airlines 737 approached the island of Haiti from out of the northwest at an altitude of 31,000 feet and began its initial descent through a clear tropical sky. Eden was blessed to have a window seat, and eagerly gazed at the expanse of emerald mountains below as the aircraft skirted the northern coast of the island. His breath caught in his throat and his pulse quickened. Photographs didn’t do the island justice. It was one of the most startlingly beautiful vistas he had ever seen.
Somewhere along the miles of beach far below Christopher Columbus first set foot in the New World, claiming the land for Spain and for the greater glory of God. The Italian-born adventurer caught Queen Isabella of Spain in an expansive mood just a few months before, on the same day she finally expelled the Muslim Moors from her Catholic country. He pitched his globetrotting scheme to her, and she took him up on it. Spain hungered for the spices of India, half a world away, and the only land route at the time was through the Muslim Middle East. Columbus boldly proposed to travel to the spice markets of the east by sailing west.
Thinking he had reached India, he called the local Taino natives “Indians” and the name stuck. The Tainos had migrated there from South America centuries before. The name they called themselves meant “the men of the good” and they called their island Ayiti, the land of high mountains. Columbus could have cared less, and called it Hispaniola, or “Little Spain.”
In the span of one year his expeditionary force enslaved all four million Tainos on the island, compelling them to mine for gold. Within the first decade of colonial rule, over three and a half million Tainos succumbed to overwork, systemized massacres, and a variety of barnyard diseases from which the Europeans had built an immunity, through centuries of domesticating their farm animals.
As the airliner banked to begin its final approach, Eden cinched his seatbelt and finished his coffee, all the while looking out the window. Details on the ground were becoming more distinct with each passing second. He had done a bit of reading about his new posting, and his head was spinning now from the rush of history that came flooding back to him, as they descended toward Toussaint L’Ouverture International Airport. It was over 500 years since Western man first set foot on the island, he mused, and it still hasn’t recovered from the shock.
In 1505, a Catholic priest took sympathy on the few miserable Tainos who were still alive, and lobbied Spain to send African slaves to maintain the island’s meager gold production. They were stronger and better workers, they were suited to the tropical climate, more receptive to Christianity, and fewer of them died of melancholy.
The gold mining continued with renewed vigor, and soon a new sugarcane industry was built with the imported labor. But for all the sweat and blood expended, it soon became clear that there just wasn’t all that much gold to be found in western Hispaniola. And Spain was mostly interested in gold.
They turned their attention to Mexico and South America, and as they did the French took a keen interest in the area’s agricultural potential. As Spain abandoned the western part of the island, the French moved in and started calling it Saint-Domingue, to distinguish it from Santo Domingo, the eastern part of the island that was still held by the Spanish.
The French brought in more African slaves, and over the course of 150 years they built little Saint-Domingue into the richest colony on earth, producing sugarcane, tobacco and half the world’s coffee. The place was a gold mine.
By the late 1700s there were over 500,000 slaves but only 20,000 whites and 40,000 mulattos, and democracy was in the air. The United States to the north had just won their independence from Protestant England. Catholic France, America’s ally and England’s enemy, was roiling with revolutionary fever, championing the ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity. But when their black slaves on their Caribbean plantation had the audacity to take the home country at their word, all hell broke loose in France’s prized colony.
Napoleon wanted to hold onto his colony any way he could. He was at war with Britain and Saint-Domingue was producing as much income for France as the entire thirteen colonies in North America had ever produced for the British. England lost their cash cow in the American Revolution, and it seemed that France was about to lose theirs. Napoleon knew that without the cash flow coming from Saint-Domingue, his dream of global empire was doomed.
The stewardess announced in French and then in English that everyone should fold up their trays and return their seats to the upright position. Eden complied and planted his feet firmly on the carpet, to brace himself in case they had a rough landing. He knew he was in God’s hands, but on the other hand flying always made him nervous. Still, he kept a look out his window, taking in every detail that he could. Now that he was seeing the beauty of the land for the first time, he almost regretted his research. It would have been wonderful just to see the island as a place of beauty, without the weight of its troubled past blanketing the verdant hillsides.
When Napoleon’s expeditionary forces lost Saint-Domingue in 1804, the freemen renamed their new country Haiti to honor the Tainos’ original name for the land. The Tainos had been enslaved and decimated by the white man just as they had been. The former black slaves were rightly proud of what they accomplished. They had thrown off a mighty global power commanded by one of the greatest generals of all time, and formed the first black republic in the history of the world.
While imperial France was debating its next move, thousands of Haitian freemen poured into New Orleans to help the locals fight the French there, making matters worse for imperial France. With Haiti lost, Napoleon no longer had the funds to control his vast holdings on the American continent. Plus, he sorely needed cash to fight the English. President Thomas Jefferson’s Louisiana Purchase from France instantly doubled the size of the United States. Many of the free Haitians who had come to New Orleans stayed there and became free Americans.
Although their native Haiti had been liberated, the tiny country’s struggle had only just begun. And even though Haitian freemen helped defeat the French in Louisiana, America refused to recognize their newly independent black neighbors to the south – doing so might give their own slaves some dangerous ideas.
As the new Haitian government was trying to get its bearings, the few white landowners who remained were secretly lobbying France to retake their former colony. But France had a better idea. In 1825, it sent a dozen warships bristling with 500 cannon and extorted a “reparations” debt of 150 million francs – ten times the selling price of the Louisiana Purchase.
To prevent their re-enslavement, Haiti took on the obligation, even though paying it off would cripple their economy for nearly a century. The tiny populace of white and mulatto landowners was largely unaffected; it was the free workingman who was doomed to decades of poverty by paying taxes to service the debt. The elite who cut the deal with France had seen to that.
As the flaps came down and the nose came up, the 737 glided over a rusty carpet of corrugated tin roofs. Citie Soliel was the only real slum in Haiti, but the international press always went out of its way to feature it in their stories. Eden watched the hovels pass under the wing, less than a thousand feet below him and a world away.
And the rest of the world wondered why Haiti was so poor, he thought to himself as the wheels touched down. All they had to do was ask France. Or any Haitian.
The engines reversed to brake the plane, and it shuddered and bucked until it finally settled down to a leisurely taxi speed. As they turned toward the terminal, Eden could see that a kompa band and a throng of people had assembled to welcome the arrivals. The cordiality of people never failed to humble him.
The jetliner rolled to a delicate stop. As the engines shut down, a ground crew wheeled a rollaway staircase up to the side door, and chocked the wheels as the bumper pressed tight against the plane’s aluminum skin. Just beyond the base of the stairs was the end of a long, spotless red carpet.
The throng of cheering locals had been waiting for more than an hour, and now that the plane had finally arrived they clapped and swayed to the kompa music. The crowd was enthusiastic and a sense of hope filled the air. They waved homemade signs and banners written in French Creole, welcoming the new arrivals to their island home.
A motorcade of three G550 Mercedes SUVs, the center one a stretch limousine, was flanked by a squad of Haitian Police on BMW motorcycles. The convoy rolled up to the other end of the red carpet and stopped. The police got off their bikes and formed a perimeter around the buffed black limos. A burly member of the Haitian Secret Service got out of the front passenger seat of the stretch limo and stood ready by the back door, scanning the crowd and the assembled media for any sign of trouble.
Other agents got out of the front and rear limousines, glancing around and assessing the situation. When they were assured that everything was in order, the lead agent nodded to the one standing ready at the president’s limo. He opened the back door and snapped to attention.
President René Préval emerged from the back of the stretch G550, and a rousing cheer went up from the crowd. A distinguished gentleman in his sixties, President Préval smiled and waved to his citizens as he stood at the foot of the red carpet. Behind him, Monsieur Delatour, his Minister of Tourism, stepped out of the limo, a lean muscular man in his forties.
The Haitian Secret Service quickly formed a perimeter around the two men as the president waited patiently for the aircraft to empty out. The people he had come to greet would be deplaning last.
Dozens of Haitian citizens and tourists descended the staircase, getting their first taste of the warm, humid air. It rained that morning, and the tarmac had only just been dried by the sun. As each of them stepped off the stairs, the airport personnel waiting for them politely but firmly directed them toward the international terminal. Although the band played a welcoming tune, it was clear that the red carpet hadn’t been rolled out for them.
The stream of passengers dwindled to a halt and as the last of them came down the stairs, a sense of anticipation rose in the crowd. They all looked up toward the open door and the band wrapped up the tune they were playing. Everyone waited, holding their signs and their banners and their musical instruments.
Bishop Adrian Lomani emerged from the passenger cabin with a group of five priests. Eden was among them. At the sight of the clergy the crowd came to life, cheering and waving their signs as the band launched into a rousing tune.
Lomani and his priests waved hello and descended the aluminum staircase. They were pleasantly stunned by the enthusiastic reception. As they came down the steps, Préval and Delatour approached them on the red carpet and the Secret Service formed a moving perimeter to flank them.
The bishop was the first one off the staircase. He led his priests along the red carpet to meet Préval and Minister halfway. As Préval and Lomani neared each other, their smiles widened as they reached out to shake each other’s hand. The moment their hands clasped together, the crowd erupted in a new round of cheers, accompanied by a grand flourish from the kompa band and a flurry of photographer’s flashes.
“Mr. President, it is an honor,” Bishop Lomani enthused, and President Préval nodded his head. “The honor is mine, your Excellency.”
The two men were genuinely glad to see each other, which was a refreshing change of pace for the President. There were so many times in the course of his duties when meeting with someone was simply that – a duty, and not a pleasure. He was thankful that Lomani and his priests had come to Haiti. The Church had long suffered from a checkered reputation on the island, and though much of it was deserved it was time to turn the page. This new enterprise had all the makings of a bona fide fresh start, and President Préval dearly wanted to see it succeed.
“We are eager to begin, Mr. President,” Lomani told Préval.
“And we are thrilled to have you,” Préval assured him, and then he gestured to the man standing at his side. “Our Minister of Tourism, Monsieur Delatour, has arranged a lovely place for your orphanage, one of our grandest old citadels in the northern highlands, far from the busy capitol. We hope it will garner good luck.”
Lomani shook hands with Delatour. “Thank you, Monsieur Minister,” he said with a smile.
“You’re welcome, your Excellency.”
The bishop turned to his associates and motioned for Eden to step forward. “President Préval, Monsieur Minister,” Lomani said, “May I introduce Father Jean Paul Eden, from the archdiocese of New Orleans.”
Eden bowed to President Préval. The President offered his hand, and Eden shook it. “I’m honored, Mr. President,” Eden said.
“Welcome to Haiti, Father Eden. It’s a pleasure to have you.”
Eden bowed once again, and turned to Delatour as Lomani busied himself introducing the other priests to President Préval. Eden shook the Minister’s hand and bowed his head.
“Monsieur Minister, a pleasure.”
“You’re the one who requested a tour?” Delatour asked the priest.
Eden nodded. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Monsieur...”
Nothing registered on Delatour’s placid, neutral demeanor, and nothing whatsoever escaped his attention. Every nuance and inflection of each person’s voice, every gesture and glance and expression, was duly recorded, digested, and filed away in his mind. Reading people was his job, and he did it exceedingly well. Evaluating what he read was a high art, something that verged on voodoo.
As he chatted with the priest, President Préval’s cell phone rang. Préval smiled at Lomani and the priests that the bishop was introducing him to, and turned away to take the call.
“Monsieur La Croix,” he said, greeting the caller in a quiet voice and then listening intently to what he had to say.
“Yes,” Préval told him, and then La Croix said something that surprised him.
“She is?” Préval replied, and glanced at Eden. The young priest was smiling and conversing with Minister Delatour, absently fiddling with the crucifix on his rosary.