Outing to The Citadel. Haiti
07 April 2015
OK, here’s the deal, says Rudolf, it’s about a forty five minute walk, or a $10 horse ride, who can ride a horse? We’re leaning on the back of a beat up pick-up truck, surrounded by hawkers, chancers, traders, and probably thieves, fortifying ourselves with a salami and cheese roll prior to the last leg of our outing to the Citadel. The Citadel is a man-made wonder of the world, a listed world heritage site, and is somewhere above us perched on top of a mountain hidden from where we are, in the visitors’ car park and reception area. This is as close as you can get by car, the rest is on foot, or we can go on horse-back.
We’re not kitted out, shoe wise, for hiking, but none of us can ride a horse, so we’re having a big think about this, when we learn that the horses will be led. Rudolf calls for a show of hands, walk or ride, we all vote to ride.
Getting to this point has involved a hair-raising drive along a cobbled track that has wound its way a few thousand feet out of the valley with our Haitian chauffeur miraculously avoiding an endless stream of pedestrians coming in the opposite direction, as he swerves the hairpin bends, just inches from the precipitous drop beside the track. The suspension has taken a tremendous pounding, and at times the engine feels as though it will never make the next incline, which happens just as we’re about to negotiate another hairpin. Willie, our Haitian guide for the day, and another guy along for the ride and riding in the back of the truck have jumped off and are placing rocks under the back wheels. We’re stopped at a rakish angle, just a few feet from a very long drop. I think we should get out of the truck, I said, as calmly as I could, just in case, and we hurriedly decant to a safer place which is basically not in the truck, which seemed to me that any moment it would be rolling off over the edge. However once devoid of passengers our chauffer manages to tease this beat up old truck into life again and on the next bit of flat track we get back aboard, it’s all just a little too exciting, but we’re back to the bone shaking ride to our destination, the visitor centre for the Citadel.
We make our way through the throngs of hustlers and hawkers to where the horses are tethered at the start of a steep cobbled path, which will lead us to the top. The horses look a tired bunch with ancient worn out saddles and uncomfortable wooded stirrups. Mine is being led by a young kid, who is maybe about twelve, and another boy, maybe fourteen, whose job is to whack the poor beast with a small stick should he start to slow up. The horse misses a stride now and again as it slips on the cobbled track, too close to the edge, for my liking, as it’s a fair drop on the downside of the hill we’re climbing. There’s nothing to hang onto either, just an iron man grip on the front edge of the saddle, as my leader goes into a trot every now and again to catch up to Jackie, Rudolf and Aliza. This often means we’re jostling with the down traffic, it’s actually a very busy day at the Citadel, taking us too close to the edge, as I see it, but the two kids I’m entrusting my life to, seem unperturbed, and upward we all trot, onwards and upward for about half an hour until finally we’re sat beneath this ancient fortress, towering hundreds of feet into a heavy sky listening to one of the guides telling us about the history of this menacing structure. Well, all except me, as I’m having what have become known as ‘bad ears day’, as my Meniere’s has kicked in that morning leaving me almost stone deaf, but you don’t need the words of a guide for the Citadel to make a big impression.
This is some statement of intent, and one of those structures, like Machu Pitchu, that leaves you wondering how on earth you could build this massive fortress, with ancient cannons that weigh hundreds of tons, and all the stone work that would have been hauled up that track we had just driven and ridden. Makes you think that King Henry, the King of the slave revolt was a bit paranoid of the French coming back to claim their island, but this fortress, had it been built on the coast would have been statement enough. Here on top of a mountain like this, with stupendous views in every direction, and cannons pointing through each quarter, no wonder the French decided to leave well enough alone.
We ambled from level to level, up unlit and slippery staircases lined with the detritus of past visitors who had discarded the litter of plastic bottles and food cartons in a surprisingly disrespectful way, considering the history of their island that they had seen fit to trek to, in their thousands. That surprised me, the number of Haitians that were sightseeing the Citadel, a constant stream of Haitians, young and old all along the route, most well dressed and often the ones going down had bought holiday hats at the top, or somewhere along the trail, from one of the countless ramshackle stalls that dotted our ascent.
Finally, we found ourselves at the very top of the fortress, a dizzying drop beyond the safety fence that surrounded the perimeter. This was obviously the bit of the fortress that never got finished, as work seemingly ceased when he died. I suppose it should have had that castellation sort of wall to top it off, or something, not just an unprotected 300ft drop. We posed for photos here, but at a prudent distance even from the modern fence, then it was back to playing Hop-along Cassidy for the ride back down.
Jackie, riding Red Rum, seemed to get ahead of us on the descent, which was a tad more uncomfortable than the ride up, and due to the fact that we’d had a sharp shower, was now a bit slippery for horse and my two trail hands. A half hour ride brought us back to the bustling, and slightly menacing hawkers and hustlers of the car park. I couldn’t see Jackie anywhere, lost in the crowd I thought, but the horse owner led me by the hand towards the car where I found Jackie sat in the sanctuary of the back seat. Jackie had given him a small tip for taking her there when she had arrived back ahead of us, and now he was waiting for another donation for bringing me to the car. That seems to be the way it is, every favour is expected to conjure up a gift of money, albeit small, that’s how poverty seems to shape their psyche.
It’s another bone shaking drive back down the twisting mountain road, all praying that our beat up pick up, come Limo for the day, has good brakes till we eventually make it to the village in the valley. Our chauffer has to bull doze his way through hordes of people clogging the streets, as though the whole of Haiti has come to visit for the day. No-one seems to pay any mind to the fact there’s a car coming through, but eventually we find the main road and speed off back to Picaroon, hopefully still anchored soundly and securely in Labadee bay.
To say it was enjoyable would be a bit wide of the mark; it was too fraught for it to be that, and a bit more than uncomfortable, in the truck, and on the horses. However, it was a pretty amazing ruin, in a spectacular setting, and I’m glad we made the effort, but had we had any inkling of the hassle and discomfort of getting there, I doubt we would have said, “yes Rudolf, that sounds like a great idea, see you at nine, tomorrow then”, file it under adventure.