Adventures on Beannacht

Thursday 30th April

One of the many ruins of forts protecting the entrance to Fort Liberte

Unfortunately on Wednesday Haiti picked up a blot on her report card, and the scene of the crimes against these fine specimens of humanity was Fort Liberte.

We got up early and left Labadie at first light to make the 18-mile motor-sail east to Fort Liberte to pick up a clearance to exit Haiti that would allow us to enter Dominican Republic on Thursday. The port of Fort Liberte is in an excellent hurricane hole, a deep wide bay with a narrow entrance channel, and the entrance is lined with the ruins of several forts. We arrived at noon just as the wind and waves were starting to pick up, and anchored off the UN’s expansive port complex. A UN skiff met us as we entered the bay to check that we were ok, and one of their officers ashore hailed us on the radio to establish our needs and then offered us the use of their landing ramp for our dinghy. Perhaps we should have read the signals.

The weekly banana boat arriving in Manzanillo to collect another shipment. We made a speedy getaway lest we get run over by the mamma.

Once the anchor was down the first task on the list was to drop the dinghy back in the water as we had stowed it on the bow for the passage. We’ve done this several times, but it’s not yet a slick operation mainly because our winches on the boat are undersized. We clip a spinnaker halyard onto the bow ring of the rib, hoist it in the air to lift the stern up over the lifelines and then gently drop it upside down on the bow. Removing it is the reverse process.

Kel's rope-burned hand after a fight with the halyard hoisting our dinghy

On this occasion I had taken the halyard back to one of our larger cockpit winches to get better leverage, and once of the stern was over the lifelines Kel went back to drop it in the water. At this moment she had a little brain fart and opened the clutch on the line without securing it on the smaller cabintop winch – a fart aided by my new technique of using the cockpit winch which didn’t have enough line wraps to be used for slipping.  Clutches are one-way breaks that allow us to let go of lines as we’re winching them in without the line slipping back. As she let the clutch go the line took off towards the mast burning its way thought Kel’s grip in the process. In a fit of insane bravery Kel closed her grip on the rope again to try and protect me – on the other end of the line holding the dinghy – and got a really bad burn across all four fingers of her left hand. A poor start to our afternoon.

ton first tuna, a Bonite, caught on our trolling line outside Monte Cristi, D.R.

We busted into some first aid boxes to ease Kel’s pain and check that her wounds were not fatal, before fixing a few snacks for lunch. Jokes gradually returned to our conversation after an appropriate time of mourning. It’s actually our first real injury on the boat so far, and we’re grateful it was a minor event, although deserved of much sympathy.

At 2pm I got into the dinghy and headed to shore with our ships papers and passports hoping to engineer a quick clearance and acquire exit documents. En route to the UN slip a few locals called me over to the town pier, a tall concrete monster that wasn’t really for landing a dinghy. I was met by a local ‘translator’ in a cowboy hat and a few officials. Taking one look at my dinghy rolling around in the swell the officials decided they did not need to visit our boat today, but did send me back to get Kel so that we could clear immigration ashore. I duly returned with my wife and we walked to the end of the pier where they assembled to look at the foreigners.

There were 14 people standing around us at this point. Two Haitian police officers, two UN police officers, two UN soldiers from the peace keeping naval base next door, four Haitian immigration officers, three young Haitians which included the Gareth Brooks wannabe, and the guy that held the keys to the compound that housed the pier. There was obvious tension between the UN and the locals who seemed to resent their presence, and some of the UN officials didn’t help themselves by openly talking about the locals in derogatory tones and posturing, but in the moment we couldn’t do anything about that.

The conversation started well, the Chief police officer for the area was very pleasant and began by taking our passports and noting our details. The UN police followed by duplicating everything the Haitian had recorded, although I never fully understood why. The UN soldiers took me aside a few times and warned that Fort Liberte was not particularly safe and that we should be careful sleeping on the boat tonight. Not something that was a big surprise as we’d both felt tinges of concern as we’d stood on the pier for these first few minutes and looked at the shoreline with its many small boats just a few hundred meters from us, but we would take the normal precautions like stowing any valuables out of sight and sleeping with one ear open.

The day’s events then evolved into a multiple good cop bad cop storyline. Chief of police (good) continued to be very helpful and curious as to our arrival in his town. Deputy chief (bad) not so warm. Immigration lady one (good) polite, smiling and pleasant. Immigration lady two (bad) upset that she was born with a full beard and tash and was overheard by Kel to say “don’t tell that to the whites” and was often found with a frown on her face, stubble twitching accordingly. Immigration man one (bad) walked around the circle adding little comments (in Creole/French of course, which I must say I have developed something of an ear for) that questioned our documents or our intentions. Immigration man two (good) who for now was in the background but will play a starring role later. And of course Gareth Brooks (scam artist) and his two young stooges who seemed somewhat out of place, but tagged along for the ride unchallenged.

Stu proudly displaying our sewing handywork - a homemade D.R. courtesy flag

So we’re transported to the immigration office to complete our paperwork. It’s a small simple building with no lighting and one table in a office to which we’re shown in. The immigration ladies get busy with date stamps and exit papers while Gareth Brooks begins to probe about how much we had to pay in Cap Haitien for immigration fees. Kel working in her excellent French is dodging the question adeptly, and Gareth segways into a conversation about his Canadian friend Roger (read child sponsor with good motives and poor information) who sends him money whenever he needs it, and shows us some Venezuelan currency that he would like us to change into US dollars if we could.

Finally the story moves to its conclusion. Kel is handed back our passports with exit documents, but is then asked to pay the immigration fee, an as yet undecided amount that is taking shape through whispers and non-verbals around the room. We have a quick mumble in inperceptable English and decide that we’re not prepared to pay a bribe, we haven’t had to yet on the journey and think that it’s the best policy – one bribe leads to another, and one cruiser paying bribes leads to more cruisers being bribed. Our decision is that we will resist and if necessary stay on the boat without clearing immigration and move on in the morning. International law allows you to take shelter from weather as long as you stay on the boat and don’t go ashore.

Gareth keeps up his line of enquiry on the Cap Haitien fee while Frida Callo, good immigration lady and bad immigration man discuss possible fees. $50 each… $50 total… $20 each… Kel just keeps her head and asks politely to see documentation that outlines a fee structure and evidence that a receipt will be issued for our payment, which of course it wouldn’t. After about 15 minutes of dead ends, during which bad cop arrives to insist that we have to pay the fee and bad immigration choruses that we will be arrested if we don’t have our papers when we leave the office, we hand back our exit papers and walk out.

Arriving in Luperon after five days of early morning commutes across D.R. and Haiti.

We smile to good cop who gives us directions back to the dinghy and say goodbye. We’re then are chased down by bad cop who asks to see our papers, funny how this little racket operates. The 11-member chorus in this musical stand on the porch of the immigration office adding their refrains of ‘arrest them’ and ‘they’re fugitives’. Kel explains to bad cop that we were not prepared to pay a fee that was openly cooked up in the heads of the immigration officials and that would not be documented in any way. Bad cop says we must have our paperwork. Kel says that international law allows us to take shelter on the boat and that we will not be returning to land. Bad cop protests and insists we cough up some dollars.

And in a final moment of very intense and only comedic after the fact drama Kel says to bad cop, who is standing on a kerb towering over us, ‘you’re robbing us’. Bad cop is stiff as a board, both fists clenched, arms tense and by his side, eyes bulging from his scull. “What did you say to me? What did you say to me?” Kel momentarily doubted her French, the verb for robbed is very similar to the verb for raped, but stood her ground. She then continued to state her case as she had before, but bad cop was summonsed by good cop from his truck and left the scene.

A moment later good immigration man stepped up much like Babyface at the conclusion to Busgy Malone to win the hearts of the audience with one final act of ultimate good – although I’m second-guessing my memory now that I’m more acquainted with the myth of redemptive violence theory, I think Babyface wields a baseball bat? He is called to the truck by good cop and then walks over to us to inform us that we’re free to go.

Our security guard protecting our dinghy while we had dinner ashore in Manzanillo, Dominican Republic.

We walk back to the dinghy rehashing the scene together and feeling ultimately happy to have resisted a bribe, and sad for Haiti as this was a sour end to what has been a wonderful two weeks. Gareth Brooks followed us to the dinghy warning that we were illegal and are scheduled for arrest, but after a quick chat with the UN to inform them of the afternoon’s events we jump back onto Beannacht and set sail for D.R. Without exit papers, and motoring into 10 foot seas at the mouth of the entrance to the bay, we made the 2 hour passage to a sheltered anchorage north of Manzanillo and had a nice warm soapy wash in the cockpit before heading to bed. Immigration in Mazanillo would await the next morning, and we’d learn if our gamble had paid off, or whether we were simply exchanging one bribe for another.