
September to November in Haiti falls inside the Atlantic hurricane window, and travel plans are scaled around the possibility of heavy tropical rain, flooded coastal roads and market closures rather than a change in temperature.
Early November brings Fèt Gede — the Haitian Day of the Dead — when cemeteries and public squares fill with people wearing purple and black, families lay out offerings, and loud kompa bands often play through the night; that observance makes the first weekend of November feel different from the rest of the year.
Tap-taps — painted shared pickups — remain the default local intercity transport for many Haitians and are the most economical way to travel, while private vans and moto-taxis fill in where buses don’t go; expect mountain routes to take far longer than a map suggests because of narrow, repaired-by-hand stretches.
Cash in Haitian gourdes is king outside central Port-au-Prince, ATMs are patchy in smaller towns, and many marketplaces still price and haggle in cash only; both Haitian Creole and French will get you service, though Creole is the working language in street markets and rural areas.
People commonly open interactions with a verbal greeting — "Bonjou" or "Bonswa" — and a handshake; using titles and surnames at first is polite, and then a quick switch to first names is normal once rapport is established.
Religion is visibly layered here: Catholic processions, Protestant churches and household Vodou altars coexist, so you’ll see small offerings and vevé symbols in doorways as part of ordinary neighborhood life rather than something staged for tourists.
Street cooks keep frying marinad (salted fritters) and serving truck-stop plates of griot (fried pork) year-round, but autumn markets often display late-season root vegetables and small, tart mangoes arriving from local farms; shared plates at gatherings are common and refusing a small offering of food can be taken as blunt.
What you need to enter Haiti, for the passport you hold.





























