From Grand Rue to Rue du Quai: Fragments of a Fleeing Port-au-Prince!
, I published a photo. It wasn't Grand Rue. It was Rue du Quai. This multiple, fragmented crossroads, from which a thousand paths open towards the Port-au-Prince City Hall, towards the vanished Post Office, towards Croix-des-Bossales, towards Rue Bonne Foi, renamed Martelly Seide.
By La Rédaction · Port-au-Prince
· 3 min read · Updated 24 April 2026
Translated from French — AI-assisted and reviewed by the editorial team. The French version is authoritative. Read the original · About our translation policy
This multiple, fragmented crossroads, from which a thousand paths open towards the Port-au-Prince City Hall, towards the vanished Post Office, towards Croix-des-Bossales, towards Rue Bonne Foi, renamed Martelly Seide. A photograph of the BUH, frozen in time, reminds us that banks have always existed here, but they too have fled, just as we have fled the lower part of the city, escaping fatigue, misery, and fear towards the heights. But since evil follows us everywhere, we will eventually flee to the sky, where perhaps Jesus, Mary, or Joseph will finally give us some rest.
The Post Office had left its foundations. Transplanted to the corner of Capois and Nicolas streets, it was no longer what it was meant to be. More than a public service, it had been a symbol. I remember the stamps, the glue in a wooden jar, a sweet taste of childhood.
I recall the majestic staircase that invited us to ascend without knowing why. The City Hall seemed serious, worthy of interest. I didn't know what a local administration was,
but the image it projected made sense. Today, as an adult, a specialist in local authorities, I still wonder what to do with this knowledge when the city is dismembered and I am only trying to piece it back together to tell the youth what that Port-au-Prince once was. Croix-des-Bossales, a vibrant heart, a commercial chaos, the oldest, largest popular market in the country. Tucked between the port and the first warehouses, where the pulse of the plain once beat, between sea and cement. My mother had a business there. After her departure, in 1975, my aunt Léonie and my cousins learned their trade there, amidst the shouts, the cargo, the baskets, the mingled scents. I remember the large, insolent cars parked there,
the indecent luxury placed upon the mud. One day, I asked the Mayor why this mud always retained the same smell. He replied: « There are more weapons in Croix-des-Bossales than at the police station. » I never forgot the Gerit…
a tennis shoe, a pair of jeans, a piece of canvas: all the trash from the United States was dumped here, and we joyfully bought what others had discarded without a second thought. Rue Bonne Foi, booksellers' street, I often detoured to see Mesmin, especially on Saturdays. Topolino, Bobby Store on the corner… a childhood measured by printed paper. Tonight again, I want to walk along this street, now Rue Martelly Seide, I silently slip past the health center, head back towards the Cathedral: Jean-Marie Guilloux is still my landmark. I stop at Rue Courte.
The blue skirts of Mother Louise's girls are missing from my memory… I just bought a candle of that same blue. I will take it to Mont Carmel, as an offering. The
novena begins Monday, I begin my penance! Erzulie Dan Petro, lend me your black hen, I'm going to make the magic work! Afoutayi, Bila Bila!
Izadole! Yves Carmel Lafortune
July 4, 2025
I recall the majestic staircase that invited us to ascend without knowing why. The City Hall seemed serious, worthy of interest. I didn't know what a local administration was,
but the image it projected made sense. Today, as an adult, a specialist in local authorities, I still wonder what to do with this knowledge when the city is dismembered and I am only trying to piece it back together to tell the youth what that Port-au-Prince once was. Croix-des-Bossales, a vibrant heart, a commercial chaos, the oldest, largest popular market in the country. Tucked between the port and the first warehouses, where the pulse of the plain once beat, between sea and cement. My mother had a business there. After her departure, in 1975, my aunt Léonie and my cousins learned their trade there, amidst the shouts, the cargo, the baskets, the mingled scents. I remember the large, insolent cars parked there,
the indecent luxury placed upon the mud. One day, I asked the Mayor why this mud always retained the same smell. He replied: « There are more weapons in Croix-des-Bossales than at the police station. » I never forgot the Gerit…
a tennis shoe, a pair of jeans, a piece of canvas: all the trash from the United States was dumped here, and we joyfully bought what others had discarded without a second thought. Rue Bonne Foi, booksellers' street, I often detoured to see Mesmin, especially on Saturdays. Topolino, Bobby Store on the corner… a childhood measured by printed paper. Tonight again, I want to walk along this street, now Rue Martelly Seide, I silently slip past the health center, head back towards the Cathedral: Jean-Marie Guilloux is still my landmark. I stop at Rue Courte.
The blue skirts of Mother Louise's girls are missing from my memory… I just bought a candle of that same blue. I will take it to Mont Carmel, as an offering. The
novena begins Monday, I begin my penance! Erzulie Dan Petro, lend me your black hen, I'm going to make the magic work! Afoutayi, Bila Bila!
Izadole! Yves Carmel Lafortune
July 4, 2025
