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As soon as I sniff burning sugar in the morning air, we slam to a stop. Gargano slaps the men on the back and kisses the women on both cheeks.
Soon we are racing with his new friends through the cane toward a primitive-looking device: Two bulls, attached to a pole, walk in a circle, turning logs that act like rolling pins to extract a cloudy brown juice from freshly harvested sugarcane. Two young men prod the cattle with the blunt side of their machetes. Next to the ancient press is a small area, shaded by palm fronds and framed with wooden poles, that holds vats of bubbling, fermenting juice and a metal-clad copper still powered by an open fire.
The son pours some of the distillate into a bowl for us to taste. Gargano takes a sip, holds it in his mouth, then passes the bowl my way. But no one outside Haiti knows about it. Until he came to Haiti a few years ago, clairin was rarely even bottled. It was sold at small stores out of big plastic barrels for the equivalent of a couple of dollars a gallon, or at roadside stands, where it was often mixed with allegedly aphrodisiacal herbs and offered in small plastic cups for just a few cents.
He has since started working with distillers to sell their clairin in Europe and the United States. Nowadays Haiti is often seen as little more than a locus of tragedies, man-made and natural. Outside nations always seem to be sending food or troops or convening meeting after meeting of NGOs and U. But, having visited Haiti several times over the years for humanitarian projects, I, like Gargano, have fallen in love with the country.
