By Michael P Mayko, STAFF WRITER

Published: 01:27 p.m., Tuesday, February 9, 2010

CAP-HAITIEN, HAITI -- Liam Pigott is a 72-retired real estate broker and appraiser from Canada who believes he has found paradise here.

"I can live here on $400 a month," says the retiree, "and that covers everything."

Except running water. The two-room apartment he shares with his girlfriend, Yolene Mondesire, has none. So they buy bottled water from street vendors.

And no bathroom. He has what would be akin to a porta potty on his balcony.

And no television. He travels to the Hotel du Roi Christophe, about a 15-minute walk through crowded, poverty-ridden streets, to watch 20-minute bursts of CNN Headline News before the channel disappears for an hour or so.

And sporadic electricity. "Our meter broke down three weeks ago," he said. "They promise they will repair it."

Outside the electrical line running to his apartment is a tangle of wires pulling in every direction.

"People climb up the pole and hook into it," he says kindly avoiding the word stealing. "Some of them get electrocuted."

Pigott, who dresses in Hawaiian-type shirts, first sailed to Haiti from Canada in 1994. He began staying here for five months at a time in 1996 to avoid the cold Canadian winters.

"I like the weather. I like the people. I like the predictability of life," he says.

Some days are not so predicable. Things turned dicey for him in February 2004 when the Revolutionary Artibonite Resistance Front seized the Cap-Haitien airport, killing security guards and police as Pigott and others tried to flee on a Miami-bound plane.

"It was terrible," he recalls. "You had to run crunch-down to avoid being shot. Airport police had locked the doors and were changing into their civilian clothes to avoid being recognized."

Several didn't complete the life saving change of clothes.

"The rebels burned down the airport and the jail," he said recalling his escape.
When things settled down he came back. He has a house in nearby Labadee as well as the two-room apartment that he rents for $200 a year in Cap-Haitien.

On a hot, humid December afternoon, Pigott and Mondesire offer a walking tour of downtown Cap-Haitien. In front of nearly every street is a flea market buzzing with hundreds of people. Nearly every home is in need of repairs (Liam's tin roof occasionally drips water during a heavy rain).

Robes, sport jackets and dresses hang from nails banged into the side of buildings.

"They come in bales from Miami," Pigott said of the clothes. "People bid on portions of the bales and then resell them."

He proudly displays a polyester Hawaiian type shirt.

"I got three of these for 20 Haitian dollars (about $2.50)," he said. "I wouldn't know where to buy a new pair of pants or shirt,"

He spots a woman who frequently makes the rounds. Her outstretched arms are filled with belts.

"That's the belt woman," he said.

But clothes aren't the only thing for sale. A heavy set woman sits in a lawn chair behind a blanket filled with prescription glasses.

"I can buy a designer frame for $1.50," Pigott says. "When I go to Canada I get the lenses."

Another man has a wheel barrow filled with health and beauty aids as well as prescription drugs. Pick through the dust covered pile and there's everything from body wash to toothpaste and Amoxicillin to Viagra.

"I can buy 10 tablets of penicillin for $1.20," Pigott said. "It works just as well as what you might spend $20 on."

But the house outside which the wheel barrow rests is missing most of its second-floor front yet still houses a family.

"As you can see," Pigott says, "there are no housing inspectors in Haiti."

Nor is there a functioning highway department.

All but one road in this Haiti's second largest city is in need of pothole filling or, better yet, asphalt paving. Sludge shoveled out of the storm sewers and piles of garbage soon to be burned block intersections and travel lanes.

Along the street, Pigott points to something called a Tap-Tap. These are converted vans, pick-up trucks and sports utility vehicles mostly in auto auctions and shipped from the U.S. Many are colorfully painted with religious slogans and lined with benches or wooden planks. Hanging on the rear are two teenage boys. Their job is to tap on the roof twice for the vehicle to stop and pick up or let off passengers. The passengers sit crunched inside, children atop their siblings' or parents' lap.

These, along with motor scooters and taxis, most of which look like the losing entrant in a Demolition Derby, are privately owned and provide most of the public transportation in the city.

On one street is a truck from Connecticut still bearing the New Britain Heating and Cooling lettering on the front. On another street sits a refurbished WCBS-TV Channel 2 news truck from New York.

Pigott points out a wooden door blocking the entrance to an alley between two buildings.

"That's the public rest room," he says.

A woman walks out. Second later she is followed by another woman who throws a pot of urine onto the street.

"Guys go anywhere," he says. "Usually against poles."

Finally, Pigott reaches the market, a former factory building whose inside has been gutted. It spans nearly two football fields and is lined wall-to-wall with merchants selling virtually everything -- live chickens, butchered chickens, electronic equipment, furniture, charcoal and charcoal cooking pots, clothes, shoes.

"Everything you need is here," he said.

And the flies ambling across uncovered, uncooked meat?

"Just make sure you wash it good," he said.