Jacmel & Bassin Bleu
In Haiti distance is measured in time, not miles. Jacmel on the south coast is only sixty miles from Port-au-Prince, but a three-hour drive. The roads are normally as congested as a consumptive’s lungs, so it’s best to plan an early departure to avoid the hour or three when the Port-au-Prince traffic goes from slow to stationary.
The route to Jacmel wrestles through the sprawling Carrefour slum on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince. Ruined roads slow cars to a crawl behind water tankers that leak from their hindquarters like incontinent elephants, and brightly painted busses with I Love You God and Grace Bondieu splattered across their windscreens. Beyond the morning melée, the road follows the coast before turning inland and winding over the Massif de la Hotte, the mountain range that divides Haiti’s Tiburon Peninsula.
After cresting the ridge it plunges to the sea again, carving through unkempt villages and straggly pines. An unmarked turnoff a little before Jacmel leads across a bridge and abandons you on the other side. If you still have a signal, Google Maps will tell you precisely where you are, exactly where you are going, but offer no clues on how to get there. But if you can bear to be parted from technology for a moment, it is possible to find Bassin Bleu the old way by asking a local.
Tourism in Haiti endures somewhere between scarce and non-existent. Until recently you could count the foreign tourists on your fingers. Now they’re as scarce as foreskins at a bar mitzvah. Consequently, places like Bassin Bleu, which would be overcrowded on any other Caribbean island, are visited mostly by locals, or by foreigners living in Haiti. So, the guides, who sometimes wait fruitlessly for days without a customer, turn into a baying mob when one arrives.
Choose a guide quickly and the fussing will subside. Follow him along the forest path that winds upstream. At the end of the trail, there’s a knotted rope to assist you down the short rock face that leads to the pools.
Bassin Bleu nestles in a narrow gorge at the base of a small waterfall. It comprises a series of pools, the most popular of which is the highest: Bassin Clair. Despite its name, its water is a milky turquoise, but it is cool and inviting in the Haitian heat. Don your costume, leave your clothes on the steep stone sides of the pool and plunge into the refreshing water. There’s a rock in the middle that you can climb onto and have your lunch if you remembered to bring some.
When you’ve had enough, head down to Jacmel. If it’s a little late, best go to the Hotel Cyvadier just outside town where you can watch the sun subside over the Caribbean while clasping a large rum punch.
There’s no beach at the Cyvadier, so after breakfast the next morning head back to Jacmel to explore Haiti’s pearl. Start in the Rue du Commerce where you’ll find an eclectic mixture of art galleries and coffee shops that subsist in carefully restored remnants of the colonial era. The elegant buildings rub shoulders with crumbling facades supported by little more than the clasp of the creepers cloaking them. There’s Haitian art in the galleries for almost every taste, from Vodou sculptures to tourist tat.
The papier-mâché artists are clumped further down the road, towards the river. Cow heads, painted all the colors of the rainbow, hang on walls decorated with, wild-eyed pigs and snarling tigers. Imploring elephants, patchwork giraffes, and creatures that would make a unicorn feel ordinary clutter the floor. If you dare to peek into the storeroom at the back, you might find a fearsome demon resting in the arms of an enormous woman and her watermelon.
Up the road a little, the bright white walls and lime green shutters of the Hotel Mannoir Alexandra, dazzle in the morning sunshine. It was there that Hadriana Siloé took poison and became a zombie long before becoming a zombie was a thing.
The old Iron Market is in the center of town. It was a working market until 2010, when the earthquake snapped some of its supports. In the ten years since, the rust has claimed more of them and sections of the roof sag alarmingly over the street. There is a plan to restore the market, but in the meantime it is slowly collapsing into itself like the remnants of a burned-out candle. Bright silver cladding that surround the market imply an abandoned renovation. Now it is a hangout for vagrants and a depository for trash; a love found and lost
On a hot summer’s day, there are few things better than home-made ice cream to help forget the heat. And there’s only one place in Jacmel to find it.
The Vatican is not far from the iron market, sandwiched in the narrow space between two buildings, an alleyway converted to bar, restaurant and ice cream parlor. There’s no sign outside and during the day the interior is dark and uninviting. A faded pool table guards a cluster of dusty chairs and half-built furniture.
Venture inside and look for Reggie, the owner. You might find him on the first floor, keeping cool on an adjoining balcony. With a little encouragement, he’ll rise from his mattress like Lazarus, wearing little more than a loincloth around his ample waist. He’s proud of his ice cream and will be happy to fetch some for you. The Rum & Raisin is delicious, but don’t miss the Pineapple & Ginger. Sometimes food exceeds expectations only because the expectations weren’t very high to begin with. But Reggie’s ice cream is worth the journey.
Jacmel is a rough gem badly in need of polishing. It is a living metaphor for Haiti: warm, picturesque and laid-back, with a crumbling infrastructure that is almost beyond repair.
