Excerpt from A Crime So Monstrous by E. Benjamin Skinner, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

On top of an adjacent tap-tap, a goat stood like a hood ornament. Our roof was piled several feet high with luggage, barrels, and people. Inside, everything was covered with ugly, 1970s green plaid wallpaper. The side windows bore American flags, and the rear window -- the place of honor on tap-­taps -- an elaborate handpainted portrayal of Moses parting the Red Sea with his staff, leading his people to freedom.

A few enterprising vendors managed to invade the bus. In a rare moment of thematic unity in an otherwise random scene, a buxom young woman in a low-cut V-neck T-shirt hawked long French baguettes, which she called "Moses sticks." The collector tucked a few gourdes between the hawker's breasts but, unimpressed, she quickly threw them back at him. A man outside the bus bellowed at her for monopolizing the lucrative indoor spot.

As dawn crept over the mountains, the area around the bus seemed to explode, as the sea of humanity around us became illuminated. The music switched from melodious gospel to ear-splitting hip-hop, and the bass tube beneath our seat crackled. The driver started the engine, and we pushed through the crowd toward the swirling slums of Carrefour. Another onboard hawker held aloft such drugstore items as ginseng and aspirin, and extolled their virtues at the top of his lungs, introducing each with a deadpan "Mes amis..."

After an hour, the air cooled as we drove up into the winding, lush mountains, past small terraced farms, the tap-tap careering dangerously close to 90-foot drop-offs. Modernity seemed to evaporate in the mountain air as naked children buzzed around shacks unconnected to any road, removed from any farmland.

Descending, the driver pumped the wheezing brakes as we hurtled toward the sea. The air became sticky as we arrived in Jacmel, a sleepy, fading tourist town on the ocean. Parts of Jacmel were charming -- like Old Havana or antediluvian New Orleans. Over the last decade, narco-­traffickers from Colombia had begun to launder their money through property here, providing sorely needed, if morally questionable, investment. But most of the town, like Port-au-Prince, was crumbling.

After a quick lunch of gamey pigeon, we filled our water bottles, and took scooters three miles to tiny Dumez, where we rented much more powerful motorized dirt bikes for the next leg of the journey. There were no helmets available and the forthcoming "road" -- better described as an extended gash of mud and jagged rocks -- was designed for nothing like wheels.

A few hundred meters along, a raging brown river consumed the road entirely. Serge and I -- along with three locals who had joined us -- raised our feet and plowed through, blindly hoping that it was no more than one or two feet deep. At one point, our bikes became stuck next to an already stalled tap-tap, precariously close to a ten-foot waterfall. Using the larger vehicle as a fulcrum, we pulled ourselves past.

As we passed the first small town, the road disintegrated into slush. Climbing higher, the views became spectacular, though difficult to enjoy as we bounced dangerously close to the cliff's edges. The shocks on the bikes were long dead, and my stomach, already savaged by giardia, felt as if it were being repeatedly uppercut into my throat. We ascended into the fog, which lent everything a soft, mystical quality. Mostly though, it made it impossible to see more than fifteen feet ahead. We slowed to 25 miles per hour, squeezing the brakes on the downhills and revving the throttle on the uphills.

Fortunately, the accident happened during the latter process, so I wasn't going fast. Serge had sped ahead, and in an attempt to catch up, I hit an inconveniently placed rock, toppled diagonally, and landed ungracefully on my side. My left foot broke the bike's fall, but my left hand was a bloody mess. Locals who saw the crash took immediate interest, but were more fascinated with a blanc all the way out here than with my health. No broken bones, so I kicked the front fender back into place, tucked the smashed rearview mirror in my pack, and rejoined Serge, who had stopped to relieve himself.

Copyright © 2008 by E. Benjamin Skinner