After the town goes to sleep and the moon rises high, and the lights are out and the cat curls up at the foot of my bed and I'm tucked in tight, every night I think about Haiti. I close my eyes and see the faces of the people I miss so much.. it feels like if I try hard enough I can hear their voices and feel the Caribbean sunshine on my skin. Some nights, I remember Sundays.
Every Sunday we got up early and took turns in the shower. If you were last [which it seemed I always was] you got a cold one. I picked out clothes, usually a dress, and some comfortable shoes. We walked down the hill in the morning sun to the guest house where Lani and Naomi would leave breakfast out on the table for us.. usually pancakes and fruit. We ate together as people strolled in and out, getting ready for church. Then we all piled in to the back of the flatbed truck and headed down the bumpy hill and out into the Sunday morning traffic of taptaps and pedestrians trying to get to church.
We would unload and make our way down the street to the church, jumping over mud puddles and dodging racing cars trying to get to the sidewalk. And there was always a cow next door tied to a tree that would be slaughtered for that week' meat on Monday morning. We would always comment on how it was his last day. Inside the gate of the church there were concrete benches where we would sit crammed up against one another and against strangers to try out best to sit in the shade. And even then we sweat, waiting for the first service to end so we could go inside and get a seat.
This is when Kessy would find me, after he got his shoes shined by the man cleaning shoes outside the gate. I would watch for him to get there, every Sunday. He would come and get me and kiss my cheek good morning [in true Haiti fashion], and we would go inside and find a seat. By the time service started, Kessy and I usually ended up in the middle of a bench packed to the absolute maximum with Haitian people in their finest clothes... all of us fanning ourselves vigorously and pouring sweat nonetheless.
We sang in Creole, with the words projected on a screen thank goodness. I did my best to sing along, but was always too enthralled by the strong voices around me singing fearlessly and unashamedly to our God. We would wave our hands high and declare "Mesi Jesi, Mesi Bondye" [Thank you Jesus, Thank you God]. Then we would sit and listen to a message in half French/half Creole. I stayed lost the majority of the time, but Kessy did his best to translate the highlights for me and at least direct me to what scripture we were talking about.
After church I would pull my hair up and wipe the sweat from my face and gather my things. Then we would leave the gates of the church and walk to the left, down the road a little ways before we caught a taptap. The first time I'll never forget... Kessy flagged down a taptap and it stopped for us. Everyone on the street was watching.. I was the only white girl in sight. We climbed in the back and everyone squeezed in to make room. People were on and off constantly, and I spent the majority of the ride with a kid I'd never seen before in my lap and Kessy's hand on my back keeping me from hitting it on bars when we went over bumps.
Upon exiting the taptap, I hit my head on the roof of it nearly every single time, no matter how many times Kessy warned me "watch your head!" We would get off and start the walk to his house. Down a gravel road, everyone watching as we passed by. It was almost unheard of for one white girl to be walking down the streets of Pernier. Kessy walked between me and the road, and held my hand most of the time to make sure I didn't fall, and would have never ever ever let anything bad happen to me.
We turned right and the gravel road turned into a trail of grownup weeds and rocks. Every Sunday we passed the same gaggle of geese resting in the grass beside the trail, and they never even acknowledged our presence. We passed between too-close-together houses and under clothes lines and through back yards until we came to his house. He would yell for his Mom to tell her we were there, and then [as is the Haitian way], he would go take a shower.
His mother would meet me on the porch with hugs and kisses, and tell me how happy she was I came. Then she would call his sisters and his cousin. Sabrina is a few years older than Kessy and I, and she would always come with hugs to tell me how pretty my dress was and to tell Kessy his clothes were ready for wearing... Sabrina was in charge of washing clothes. Florina, Kessy's cousin, would come to play with my hair, and once she taught me to put rollers in hers. And then she would disappear to the kitchen outside to make our lunch... Florina was in charge of the cooking. Chrismon would come to tell me hello.. she was 13 and shy. All the girls would take me by the hands and pull me inside, sit me down on the bed and talk and talk about my family and my life in America. I did my best in broken Creole.. I love them so much my heart could burst.
Kessy would come back from his shower and we would go next door to "ti chamn" ["little room"]. It was a one bedroom structure with 2 beds and suitcases for dressers. We would sit on the beds and talk about life, our hopes and dreams and fears and failures. And sometimes we would nap, in the burning hot room with little to no breeze, until I couldn't take the mosquitoes for one more second and then I would wake him and tell him we had to go outside because I was being eaten alive.
After a few hours his mother and Florina would bring us lunch... chicken and rice and plantain and sauce and salad. And we would pay his brother Manson to go down the road to the store and bring us Cokes to drink with it. It was the best Sunday lunch I have ever had.
After lunch I would say my goodbyes... the ladies would hug my neck and make me promise I would come back next Sunday. And I always promised. Then we would make our way back to the Guest House before dark. [it wasn't safe to be out after dark.] Kessy always takes a motorcycle to the guest house in the mornings. But the first time I refused... it was too dangerous I told him. So we took a taptap as far as it would take us, then another one as far as it would go, and then we had to walk the rest of the way. It took at least 45 minutes, and the walking was all uphill and dusty.
The next Sunday, I agreed to do a motorcycle if I could wear a helmet. The driver offered me a helmet that looked like it has been worn 12,000 times. I politely declined and decided to say a prayer for safety instead. Then I made the driver promise to take back roads so we weren't in traffic. It took 30 minutes to get home. After a few more Sundays, I gave in and decided it was okay to go the main route on the motorcycle... me sandwiched between the driver and Kessy who made a very conscious effort to ensure my purse was in his lap and my skirt was covering my knees. He took good care of me. And so it was, every Sunday.
Every Sunday, for months, I took taptaps and walked and sweat in the dust. I was gawked at and pointed at and talked about. And I was hugged and kissed on the face and in genuine fellowship with some of the most amazing ladies in the world. And I did it all with my best friend in the whole country of Haiti.
And these Sundays, half of them I work 12+ hrs, and the other half I sleep in and then drink my coffee and change clothes at least 3 times and drive the 5 minutes to church where I smile and nod at people I hardly recognize and sit two seats away from the people around me and I sing soft because we are self conscious of our off key voices and I only lift my hands halfway because I'm not sure what the people around me might think. And, sure, there are a few familiar faces and I love them so much, and I love my church and I love worshipping in my native language and fellowshiping with brothers and sisters here. But some days, I just miss my Sundays with Kessy.
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