Photo by James Heil
Police in Port-au-Prince went out in force restoring order on Feb. 29, which began with rumors that Jean-Bertrand Aristide had fled the country.

On the Ground in Haiti
Part II: Aristide's Departure
by Carmen Gentile

Carmen Gentile, a Latin America correspondent for United Press International, spent two weeks in Haiti covering the fall of the Jean-Bertrand Aristide regime. What follows is the second installment in a three-part series about his front-row seat to political upheaval.

The last day of February: Early morning rumors regarding Aristide's pre-dawn flight began circulating among reporters and photographers like a virus.

The photographers — "shooters" we call them — were itching to hit the streets to capture the moment on film, if indeed Aristide had left. Would there be rejoicing? Tears? Sighs of relief? Would the Chimeres rip the city, and anyone seen celebrating, limb from limb? This is the stuff of great photography, the money shots, the Pulitzer winners.

Shooters were always the first to hit the streets, hoping to capture images of bodies left behind by the gunfights that kept most of us awake. They also knew that by mid-morning the bright Caribbean sun would wash the color out of any image. For them, the early bird snapped the best shots.

For reporters, the news didn't really begin until the living started talking, shouting, wailing or shooting. It's hard to interview a corpse and get a sense of the vibe on the streets.

But the rumor mill was picking up steam, prompting most reporters to venture out early as well, in hopes that the city's faint, morning pulse would provide clues as to whether Aristide flew the coop.

At 6:30 a.m., the streets were even more desolate than usual. Roadblocks and a gasoline shortage had kept most cars off the streets for days. Now, only 4x4s marked with signs reading "Presse Internationale" or "TV" steered slowly through the debris and smoldering piles of trash.

For safety reasons, eight shooters and I hit the streets that day in a two-car convoy. My driver and interpreter, Juste — a Rasta with waist-length dreadlocks — led us past the presidential palace, where nary a soul stirred. Gone were the Aristide supporters and the gun-slinging Chimeres. In their place, a few surly looking men milled around the plaza; none looked willing to talk.

A few blocks away, we came upon a group of young men piling trash onto a growing pyre. Moments before rounding the corner, I decided to call the US Embassy to see if they knew whether Aristide has left.

I tried desperately to pry the tiniest clue of Aristide's whereabouts from the Marine private on the other end of the phone. So much of my energy had gone into reading the timbre in his voice — that "could not comment" on Aristide's whereabouts — that I didn't see the swinging machete blade, and the arm attached to it, until both were practically in the car.

Our presence at the bonfire was apparently not appreciated. Juste deftly steered the SUV over a curb while the machete wielder tried to carve a hasty reminder into my arm not to enter his part of town. "I gotta go, someone's waving a machete at me," I told the Marine on the phone, not wanting to be rude.

Two blocks later and safely out of harm's way, my civility in the face of a rusty blade elicited deep-belly laughs from Juste and the shooters. My own ridiculousness had me doubled over too. Jest, I learned, is the best tension breaker, even when someone's trying to do you serious bodily harm.

Still, we hadn't nailed down whether Aristide had gone. Carloads of other shooters passed along reports out of London that he had fled. But what did London know that the media on the ground in Haiti didn't? From the sound of it, the rumor mill had spewed enough gossip in 20 minutes to reach clear across the Atlantic and back to Haiti before breakfast. We were feeding off our own whispers at that point.

By 7 a.m., still nothing was confirmed, but certainly something was up. Neighborhoods where press vehicles were once given free passage through Chimere-controlled roadblocks were now sealed tight. Standing in front of these heaps of rock and steel, the gunmen eyed us with contempt.

It was clear. We didn't need a statement from the Haitian government (not that there was a government) or the US State Department to confirm what we saw for ourselves. Aristide supporters who just hours ago pledged their lives to their president wore looks of betrayal and disappointment. He was gone. They knew it. Adding to their misery, they knew we were there to capture their reaction to his flight.

I listened for local radio news to give me the second source we needed to report that Aristide was no longer in power. Word finally came over the radio that Washington and the embassy in Port-au-Prince were confirming his departure.

Just a few blocks from the Chimere roadblocks, Haitians ran up and down the street celebrating Aristide's departure and mugging for the shooters' cameras. A day earlier, those same people were cowering in their homes, never even whispering a word against the president for fear of retribution.

Even though their tormentors were within earshot of their chants, a group of teenage boys popped champagne bottles they'd been saving for that day, no matter when it came. "Is he gone? Yes!" they yelled while running around the block, spilling their bubbly along the way.

Older Haitians who remember the days of the Duvalier dictatorships and other upheavals remained cautious in their optimism. "We're quite happy he's gone, don't get me wrong, but we're certain the Chimere will bear down on us," said 33-year-old Claire Roman while standing on her stoop watching the revelers go by. In the coming days, her prediction would come true.

For us in the media, it was time to see how the other side received the news now that people were openly celebrating Aristide's flight.

E-mail Carmen Gentile at cgentile at upi dot com.