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Port-Au-Prince Journal
The Rhapsody of Port-au-Prince’s Streets
By DAMIEN CAVE
Published: June 3, 2010
PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti — The gray Toyota Corolla edged closer to the center of the intersection, trying to sneak past the man with a limp, directing traffic in Jordanian Army fatigues, with a whistle and purple plastic wand.
James Estrin/The New York Times
Levy Azor, better known as Du Du, directing traffic in May at Borgela and Sans-Fil Streets. He works on his own, motivated by the need for order near his home.
But Du Du would have none of it. He pointed his baton behind him, then spun around to confront the violator. A sharp whistle. An angry stare. The threat of gridlock faded.
“I’m a professional,” Du Du said. “If I want to make traffic go or stop, I do it.”
That may not sound like much, but in Port-au-Prince after the earthquake, driving is a 10th ring of hell. Picture roads overrun with tents, rubble, pedestrians and peddlers; tap-tap taxis stopping suddenly, dump trucks coughing black exhaust, few stoplights, 99-degree heat, no air-conditioning, dust, beggars and angry drivers blaring horns.
Now imagine a symphony orchestra. Because that is exactly how Du Du (whose full name is Levy Azor) treats what the rest of us experience as chaos. No official entity has hired him. He is simply a freelancer with a passion for order. And at a time when Haiti’s government attracts mostly anger for its absence, Du Du — who works only for tips and refuses to join the police or military — has quickly become a symbol of hope; a whistle-blowing reminder of the creativity that blossoms in a stateless void.
His friends and neighbors say that in his 23 years of unsanctioned service, he has never been more appreciated. “He’s working for the country,” said Michelle Anthony, 38, as she watched him recently from a food stand a few feet away. “He is working for us.”
Not surprisingly, the earthquake nearly killed him. When the tremor hit around 5 p.m., Du Du was in his usual spot: the middle of Borgela and Sans-Fil Streets, a hilly hairpin intersection between downtown and the airport. A utility pole fell onto his legs as the buildings around him crumbled and the cars shook like toys.
Nearly five months later, the area has yet to recover. A 360-degree tour of Du Du’s intersection now runs past a row of tents, buckled homes, a trash heap and vendors in tilted shacks. His two-room apartment close by — where he lives alone, with a mattress on the floor and only a calendar on the teal wall — managed to survive.
But there have been other losses. Du Du, 43, is slower now, with his scarred legs. Many of his relatives are living in tents. Also, many of the drivers who used to give him larger tips of around 100 gourde ($2.50) no longer drive past.
Du Du’s bright mahogany eyes fade when he mentions them. “Maybe they’re dead,” he says. “Maybe they left the country.”
The traffic has changed too, he says. Drivers are more hot-tempered. There are fewer alternative routes because of the rubble and more trucks from nongovernmental organizations with utopian names, like World Vision.
Nonetheless, there is a rhythm and a style to Du Du that seems to work no matter what the circumstances. His purple wand — which is actually a plastic stake for horseshoes — usually leads, but his body and his whistle work right along with it.
On one recent afternoon, Du Du almost seemed to be dancing, as he waved, spun, whistled and bounced, moving a truck to take a right turn, guiding a station wagon forward, then skipping forward to stop traffic for a group of young girls returning from school in their navy-blue skirts.
One girl looked up, amazed, as though she had come face to face with a superhero.
Indeed, part of why Du Du matters to this city, and is almost universally known by its inhabitants, is because he brings joy to an unlikely location. Nearly every driver who passed during several recent traffic sessions smiled, seemingly thrilled to see that Du Du was there and in charge. Occasionally, people shouted — “Go, Du Du!” or “Great job!” — while one of every 20 or so drivers gave him a tip.
Du Du says he does not really do it for the money. In fact, when an older white man offered him an American quarter on his way through the intersection, Du Du waved it away, explaining later that the driver had been promising to give him a tip for months and offered the coin only because a reporter was watching.
He works on his own, he said, to preserve that measure of independence. Asked why he never became an official police officer or a soldier, given his collection of military fatigues, he said he had no interest in working for a government that does so little for its people.
“I’m just trying to make my own way,” he said. “I love my job.”
The Rhapsody of Port-au-Prince’s Streets
By DAMIEN CAVE
Published: June 3, 2010
PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti — The gray Toyota Corolla edged closer to the center of the intersection, trying to sneak past the man with a limp, directing traffic in Jordanian Army fatigues, with a whistle and purple plastic wand.
James Estrin/The New York Times
Levy Azor, better known as Du Du, directing traffic in May at Borgela and Sans-Fil Streets. He works on his own, motivated by the need for order near his home.
But Du Du would have none of it. He pointed his baton behind him, then spun around to confront the violator. A sharp whistle. An angry stare. The threat of gridlock faded.
“I’m a professional,” Du Du said. “If I want to make traffic go or stop, I do it.”
That may not sound like much, but in Port-au-Prince after the earthquake, driving is a 10th ring of hell. Picture roads overrun with tents, rubble, pedestrians and peddlers; tap-tap taxis stopping suddenly, dump trucks coughing black exhaust, few stoplights, 99-degree heat, no air-conditioning, dust, beggars and angry drivers blaring horns.
Now imagine a symphony orchestra. Because that is exactly how Du Du (whose full name is Levy Azor) treats what the rest of us experience as chaos. No official entity has hired him. He is simply a freelancer with a passion for order. And at a time when Haiti’s government attracts mostly anger for its absence, Du Du — who works only for tips and refuses to join the police or military — has quickly become a symbol of hope; a whistle-blowing reminder of the creativity that blossoms in a stateless void.
His friends and neighbors say that in his 23 years of unsanctioned service, he has never been more appreciated. “He’s working for the country,” said Michelle Anthony, 38, as she watched him recently from a food stand a few feet away. “He is working for us.”
Not surprisingly, the earthquake nearly killed him. When the tremor hit around 5 p.m., Du Du was in his usual spot: the middle of Borgela and Sans-Fil Streets, a hilly hairpin intersection between downtown and the airport. A utility pole fell onto his legs as the buildings around him crumbled and the cars shook like toys.
Nearly five months later, the area has yet to recover. A 360-degree tour of Du Du’s intersection now runs past a row of tents, buckled homes, a trash heap and vendors in tilted shacks. His two-room apartment close by — where he lives alone, with a mattress on the floor and only a calendar on the teal wall — managed to survive.
But there have been other losses. Du Du, 43, is slower now, with his scarred legs. Many of his relatives are living in tents. Also, many of the drivers who used to give him larger tips of around 100 gourde ($2.50) no longer drive past.
Du Du’s bright mahogany eyes fade when he mentions them. “Maybe they’re dead,” he says. “Maybe they left the country.”
The traffic has changed too, he says. Drivers are more hot-tempered. There are fewer alternative routes because of the rubble and more trucks from nongovernmental organizations with utopian names, like World Vision.
Nonetheless, there is a rhythm and a style to Du Du that seems to work no matter what the circumstances. His purple wand — which is actually a plastic stake for horseshoes — usually leads, but his body and his whistle work right along with it.
On one recent afternoon, Du Du almost seemed to be dancing, as he waved, spun, whistled and bounced, moving a truck to take a right turn, guiding a station wagon forward, then skipping forward to stop traffic for a group of young girls returning from school in their navy-blue skirts.
One girl looked up, amazed, as though she had come face to face with a superhero.
Indeed, part of why Du Du matters to this city, and is almost universally known by its inhabitants, is because he brings joy to an unlikely location. Nearly every driver who passed during several recent traffic sessions smiled, seemingly thrilled to see that Du Du was there and in charge. Occasionally, people shouted — “Go, Du Du!” or “Great job!” — while one of every 20 or so drivers gave him a tip.
Du Du says he does not really do it for the money. In fact, when an older white man offered him an American quarter on his way through the intersection, Du Du waved it away, explaining later that the driver had been promising to give him a tip for months and offered the coin only because a reporter was watching.
He works on his own, he said, to preserve that measure of independence. Asked why he never became an official police officer or a soldier, given his collection of military fatigues, he said he had no interest in working for a government that does so little for its people.
“I’m just trying to make my own way,” he said. “I love my job.”
