ALLIGATORS IN THE PORT-A-POTTIES 1

Ima Righter

Brother Teecher

ENG 150

[due date]

In the case of a word like democracy, not only is there no agreed definition, but the attempt to
make one is resisted from all sides…Words of this kind are often used in a consciously dishonest
way. That is, the person who uses them has his own private definition, but allows his hearer to
think he means something quite different.
--George Orwell

Alligators in Port-a-Potties

Week One

It is a hot, dusty ride, but humid too, so we have to scrape the film off our bodies in the

showers at the end of the day. We jostle and bump in the open-air back of the truck like cattle,

or maybe sheep. None of us wants to be here. Well, one of us does. No more than nineteen, he

stands against the cab of the truck surveying our progress through the crowded streets of Cap

Haitien. One leg propped up in the corner against the side wall, a fat cigar in the corner of his

mouth, the dusty streets reflected in his gold-rimmed, mirrored sunglasses. He grips his M-16

with his right hand, the butt of the weapon on his hip, the barrel angled upward. Though his rifle

is locked and loaded, a plastic protective cap is snugly fit over the end of the muzzle. I smile at

this soldier of fortune searching for the enemy.

I am in Haiti as a peacekeeper, “ensuring democracy has a fighting chance to establish

roots and bloom.” I don’t know what that means. I do know the slow moving sludge of waste

clogs the river. I do know the same dog, or its brother, scrawny, knee high, scraps for food on

every street. I do know the black Suburbans and Range Rovers, owned by the mulattos on the
ALLIGATORS IN THE PORT-A-POTTIES 2

hill, bully their way through the streets. I do know the dark eyes of the Haitian children disturb

me.

Week Two

At mealtimes children and a few adults gather on the other side of the concertina wire

directly opposite the dining facility exit. (I have been trained to avoid saying “chow-hall,” or

“mess-hall.”) As each soldier exits the Haitians beg for scraps. Some soldiers offer smiles and

kind words; some duck their eyes and escape; some yell at the children to shut-up and go home.

Of course they are home.

I have been ordered not to hand out food. “Do not feed the Haitians.” But their hungry

eyes create an oppressive, or impressive, gauntlet of guilt. I break down. I toss an apple or two,

or even a carton of chocolate milk over the wire when I think no one is looking.

This wire that surrounds our camp causes a strange zoo-like effect. The effect works

both ways: do not feed the Haitians, stare at the funny Americans. I leave my tent for lunch and

notice four Haitians, adults, standing at the base of a guard tower watching the two soldiers up in

the loft. Nothing happens. The Haitians are there when I return a half hour later. They are there

when I leave for dinner five hours later. They are there when I return from the showers and lie

down in my cot for the night. Still. Staring. They are there in my sleep.

Week Three

Some of us venture outside the wire for a game of soccer. At first our audience consists

of a goat or two but within minutes a crowd of Haitians materializes to cheer and jeer at us.

“You good player!” they shout with the thumbs up sign. "You bad, stink!” they call holding

their noses.
ALLIGATORS IN THE PORT-A-POTTIES 3

The field consists of holes, hard-packed dirt, clumps of weedy grass, small roots and

stumps. I hit the ground and scrape my hip and thigh, and cut open my knee. Blood runs down

my shin and soaks into my white sock. We have been taught the dangers of open wounds or

sores in Haiti. "Sure hope this doesn’t get infected,” I say.

Week Four

Animals roam freely through camp. Our wire adequately discourages humans I suppose,

but it seems no amount of wire deters the goats, pigs, and chickens. The new commander arrives

and proclaims he will secure this camp so tightly, “not even chickens will be able to sneak in!”

Those of us who have been here awhile smile. Days later, and hundreds of man-hours and rolls

of wire later, animals still roam camp. The commander is wrong: the chickens don’t sneak in.

Week Five

We drive outside the wire and into the city to a monument celebrating the independence

of Haiti. The statues of the great Haitian freedom fighters remain in decent shape but trash and

debris litter the park’s unattended grounds. I stand up in the back of the truck to take a picture.

It doesn’t seem worth actually getting out of the truck. I snap a couple of pictures before

noticing a small, dark face of flesh peeking out from among the bronze feet of the heroic figures.

I don’t know why the little boy huddles there. I stare at him through the camera lens. Nothing

happens. He doesn’t say a word. Such big eyes. Fascinating.

The driver throws the truck in gear, “Let’s go!” he shouts. I stare at the little boy

between the bronze legs. “Wait. One more picture.”

Week Six

We have been ordered to load our two trucks and equipment onto a private cargo ship and

sail south to Port-au-Prince. We set sail as the sun is beginning to sink below the mountains. I
ALLIGATORS IN THE PORT-A-POTTIES 4

climb the tallest platform on the ship and stare at the receding harbor. There is a market near the

end of the pier, a couple hundred Haitians buying, selling, trading. A few young boys call out to

me and wave goodbye. I wave both hands over my head in reply. They yell something I don’t

understand. I climb up and balance on the second to the top rail of the platform, my knees

against the top rail. I stretch both hands over my head and call back, “See you later!”

The yelling boys attract attention. More people crowd the end of the pier. They all wave

and holler up at me. I can’t understand a word they are saying. I stand straighter and raise my

fists above my head in reply. From this distance they all look like they’re smiling. One of my

teammates calls out to me, “What are you, king or something?” I stare down at the Haitians.

Irony almost pulls me overboard.

Week Seven

Midnight. We wait just inside the main gate to our complex for the rest of our patrol to

arrive. The little boy looks eight or nine years old. He wears rags and a worn out pair of flip-

flops. His foot oozes yellow from an old, deep cut. He sits on the pavement crying, attempting

to explain his plight to the gate guards. But they speak only English and he only Haitian Creole.

Finally an interpreter is found. The boy’s foot was cut by a man after the boy refused to do some

illegal favor for him. The boy has nowhere to go. The soldiers look at each other. This is not

the kind of peacekeeping they have been trained for.

She rides in a vehicle returning from the city. A private first class. She leans out as the

truck drives by. “Wait right there,” she tells the boy.

Five minutes later she runs up, carrying a bag. The soldiers step back. She kneels beside

the boy, and though she speaks only English the interpreter is no longer needed. From the bag

she pulls out a pair of white socks, the kind all soldiers wear during physical training, and a new
ALLIGATORS IN THE PORT-A-POTTIES 5

pair of flip-flops. From somewhere a military ambulance arrives. The medic cleans and dresses

the boy’s wound, and injects him with antibiotic. The woman helps the boy carefully slide on

his new socks and flip-flops.

Next from the bag a T-shirt appears, white, plain, and then a pair of gray p.t. shorts.

Quickly the smiling boy changes clothes. The bag also contains two military ration meals

(MRE’s), gum, and a bottle of drinking water. A Red Cross truck arrives outside the gate. The

guards wave it through. The young boy hugs the woman and is helped in the Red Cross vehicle.

The truck passes back through the gate headed for a safe haven for children.

The woman watches the vehicle pull away then with a tear but not a word she walks back

into the darkness. There is awkward silence for a few moments. Then the soldiers wonder when

the rest of the troops will show up for street patrol duty.

Week Eight

There is not enough for us to do here. Rumor has it we will be leaving soon. I can’t wait

to use a real toilet again. The toilet facilities here in Port-au-Prince are no better than the ones in

Cap Haitien. In Cap Haitien all the toilets were lined up side by side, a never-ending wall of

yellow and blue-green port-a-potties that seemed to line the entire camp. I remember.

I walked back from the showers alone. The scene before me surreal. The Haitian moon

rose sickly yellow, barely cresting the palm trees and crumbling shacks at the edge of the field.

The moon was not quite full, its odd shape increasing the illusion before me. To reach the field

my eyes had to cross the concertina wire surrounding camp. Immediately inside the wire stood a

guard tower where two soldiers lounged against the rails. I could see the red glow of their

cigarettes and hear their muffled voices. Past the tower and the wire, under the intense white of

the security lights, a pair of cows and a family of goats stared back at me. I stopped walking.
ALLIGATORS IN THE PORT-A-POTTIES 6

Past the cows and the goats, in the middle of the field three Haitian men gathered. The

men sat themselves in what appeared to be cheap, white, plastic, patio chairs, like from a

department store. The men talked and laughed, sitting in the middle of a field at night,

surrounded by goats and cows, with two soldiers watching them from a guard tower. It seemed

strangely natural.

Past the men, across the field, the power of the security lights barely reached the

crumbling huts. I looked at the moon again. I returned to my tent.

I awoke during the night. After fighting the urge as long as I could, I climbed out of my

cot and stumbled to the latrines. With dread in my heart I approached the endless row of port-a-

potties. They were dark, smelly, and at night mysteriously frightening. In the daytime, when I

could see, it was different. But at night I had to force myself to choose a door and step in.

Perhaps I heard too many stories growing-up, or believed too many anyway. Or perhaps

I allowed myself to be irrationally influenced by the unusual circumstances. Or perhaps I

searched for enemies that didn’t exist. Regardless of the reason, and no matter how dumb it

sounds now, every time I had to sit down on that toilet seat over that bottomless, black hole I

grew nervous—ready to jump up and run the instant whatever lived down there decided to bite.

Comments
+Nice tone and style—good use of diction, punctuation, and imagery to create a certain other
worldliness that is engaging.
+ Some amazing, though-provoking questions are posed here: what was/is the purpose of these
soldiers? Do they help the locals at all? How is the solider changed by his experience?
-Perhaps too many questions unspoken; there are moments where it seems like you are really
going share your thoughts, but then you move to the next image and I’m not sure readers will
know what just happened or what they are supposed to think or feel. Try to more directly
comment/speculate on your thoughts and feelings at the time; don’t assume because these
moments are significant to you that readers will understand why. Take a look at Annie Dillard
and see how she weaves commentary in with her descriptions and events.