It seems insensitive to talk about shortages of creature comforts in Haiti when a swath of the population goes without food every day. And so most foreigners here keep to whispering about them, usually at night, when they're trying to unwind after a long and draining day staffing crammed medical clinics, shoveling rubble in the blistering sun, or hammering plywood structures used to frame orphanage bunk beds and other utilitarian creations.
During the past few weeks, that unwinding has taken the form of dropping by one of the only remaining hotels in town (which had a pool until it was mysteriously drained a few days ago) for a drink or three before bunking down in the guest houses and impromptu camp sites that are home to most of the relief volunteers to cycle through Jacmel.
The hotel, called Cap Lamandou, has been hosting a nightly scene of the international who's who in Jacmel for the past several weeks, a situation which noticeably overwhelmed staff and the kitchen (which often runs out of food by 8 p.m. and never varies from offering two or three menu choices). In spite of that, people have been cozying up to the bar in droves. And then the beer ran out.
Last week, rumblings reached Jacmel that the Port-au-Prince bottling plant and brewery that produces Prestige, Haiti's only beer, had sustained enough damage in the earthquake to seriously disrupt production. Worried, some savvier international aid workers who lived here before the quake began hoarding cases. I thought they were perhaps overreacting, but frankly can't blame them for hoarding anything here, where the availability of any product is in constant question (almost everything sold on the reliably empty store shelves in Jacmel comes from Port-au-Prince).
After a drive through Port-au-Prince on Friday, during which the damage to Brasserie Natoinale d'Haiti's plant was pointed out to me by our concerned driver, I decided to do a little more research. It turns out that about two thirds of the plant's 1,450 employees are out of work and the factory, which also produces water and milk, will likely be hobbled for the next couple of months.
Coincidentally or not, the scene this week at Cap Lamandu - where patrons are taught to order "un Prestige" rather than a beer - already seems much quieter. Word must have spread that even if you ask for Prestige, chances are high that you're going to get a napkin-wrapped can of Colt 45.