AN ODE TO THE OLOFFSON HOTEL
INSIDE THE WALLED CITY
Dizzing lore has conditioned us to fear Haiti. From images of riots, savage earthquakes, gang violence and of course the occult flash of voodoo, people tend to skip this country as a tourist destination, for the most part. Now, considering the current insanity, we wouldn't advise anyone to pitch a tent on it's proximities, but these voyages were done under calmer moons when the danger was still present but hidden behind cloaks of curiosity.
The Hotel Oloffson stands as a lone magnificent gingerbread house tucked behind trees and propped up by a marvellously refreshing pool below. Around the entire ground level is a balcony that serves as a restaurant spill-over for those days when the climate is conducive to al-fresco dining. Inside is a small welcoming bar, behind an art gallery of sorts promoting local paintings, and above are the rooms arranged in tidy comparments with names on the door of the most famous inhabitants to have graced these shores.
Nostalgia hunters flock here in droves. Setting aside a few precious days to bathe in the sweet tristesse emanating from the walls. Surrounding the entire compound is a wall most armies would struggle to breach, so the sense of security is fairly well established. Outside lies a chaotic mix of motorbike taxi's, beggars, street children and small shops. If you're death-wish loving, then please ask the guard to open the gate but send your loved ones a goodbye message before you do.
These houses are poems in wooden form. They hold memories close to their spintered white painted core. Ghosts and ephemeral shapes have long walked these hallways, trying to recreate a moment in time that comforted them. Celebrities and politicians the world over have hidden behind the canopy of privacy, far from a telephoto lens, free to roam and do as they please without the constant barrage of intrusion. I fear those days have long gone, with even the apparent safety of the hotel not trumping the dire situation outside.
There is a certain form of magic waking up at the Oloffson, peeking out at the trees with sunlight filtering through in shimmering pockets, to walk on the creaking floor down to the restaurant and order a strong coffee as the world awakes. To hear the birdsong and gaze haphazardly at the neighboring table to peek at your comrades. Launch into random conversations with Red Cross workers, backup singers to Tony Bennett, missionaries on a mission, yes they all stay at the Olofsson. It is like the United Nations of international escapees. Everyone is a stranger, and in that knowledge we all feel familiar bonds.
The rooms are simple and welcoming, your shoulders feel a sudden reduction in stress upon entering. The noises from outside are far gone in this miraculous cocoon. A book, a cold drink, a rocking chair, and you have your afternoon planned.
A dip in the pool, a ceremonious sundowner at the beautiful bar talking to a host of interesting anomalies, the friendly service crew dressed in starch white and beaming smiles, the guard saluting as you request the gates to be opened and the potential catastrophe of the outside world to penetrate your skin with a remembrance of things past, a knowledge of the absolute fear of mortality, the taste of blood, before tailgating it to Petionville in bullet proof cars (or in our case on the back of motorbike taxi's), to attempt a local meal at a fancy restaurant where ex-pats and Aid workers drum the table with slight boredom but continue on in this world of contrasts due to the high salaries and emergency bonuses that they may never have the chance to use should things turn even more sour.
The Oloffson is a temple to the art of rumination. A hotel for writers and poets. A hotel for the sensitive souls to forget the influencer world exists. A hotel to escape from escaping. A hotel where the small walls have created a bizarre eden where time stands still and washes us of all sins.
FOLLOW THE HOTEL OLOFFSON
