The proprietor, who has been out at the pumps filling up motorcycles with small amounts of gas, comes in to find out what he can sell us. We shake our heads bashfully. We are not proving to be very good patrons of what Bassin-Bleu has to offer.
As we come out of the gas station store, I spot a truck parked across the street. Scrawled on the dusty cab in red graffiti, this message:
LIKA OBAMA
VOTE # 1
I recall the day in January when our new president was inaugurated. I happened to be visiting my parents in Santiago, and after watching the ceremony on cable TV, I ran down to the grocery store, still wearing my Sí Se Puede Obama T-shirt. Boys stocking shelves and cashiers ringing up purchases came forward to high-five me. Eight months later, reading Obama’s name on the side of a dirty truck in this desolate spot in Haiti, I feel a kindred surge of hope. Here, too, people are waiting for their miracle to happen.
To Moustique, Charlie’s house, a big-hearted welcome
It’s close to dark and we still have a ways to go. “The roads are very bad,” Piti says, apologetically, as if he were responsible.
How bad can a bad road get to best the worst we have already traveled? We soon find out. So far, we have at least been on discernible roads, and the rivers we’ve forded have been dry. But now we must cross Trois Rivières. From my long forgotten but suddenly resuscitating high school French I recall that trois means three. We will have to ford a river that’s a confluence of three?
Deftly, Piti navigates us over the shallow spots. (Over to the left! Straight ahead! No, no, no, over to the right some more!) The rest of us in the cab echo his instructions, as if our beleaguered driver, Bill, can’t comprehend Piti’s injunctions but needs a Greek chorus to enlighten him.
Once on the other side, we drive along a path the pickup helps widen. We are headed for Moustique, Piti explains, the name of the countryside where his family and his bride live. “Moustique, moustique.” Homero keeps repeating the word. He is almost sure moustique is the Kreyòl word for mosquito. Bill and I glance at each other, recalling a discussion in Vermont about whether to bring mosquito nets on our trip. Thank goodness we agreed it was a sensible measure given the widespread occurrence of malaria in rural Haiti.
Forty minutes later, we arrive at the house where we will be staying. To think that Piti and his brothers actually walked this distance earlier this afternoon! No wonder we waited over an hour for them to come. Now I know why they were mopping their foreheads and necks with facecloths as they entered Bassin-Bleu.
The house where we will spend the night belongs to Charlie, whose sister is married to Piti’s brother Jimmy, whom we just met. Piti’s own house is farther in, not accessible by road, so this is a more convenient spot for us to spend the night. It’s unclear if these arrangements were made beforehand or on the spot, as Piti disembarks first and pulls Charlie to one side. No matter. Charlie welcomes us as if his whole extended family has been preparing for days for our arrival.
Perhaps Charlie’s sense of hospitality comes from having worked several years in a resort in the Bahamas. That’s where he picked up a little English, heavily accented and disconcertingly British. The family seems relatively well-off. Though the house is small, four rooms, it is made of concrete with a zinc roof, in contrast to the mud-and-wattle constructions with thatched roofs we’ve seen along the way, which I actually find more beautiful.
Each room has a bed, the front room also accommodating a table with a paisley tablecloth, several chairs, and two cabinets with glasses and dishes. But where will they all sleep if we take the three beds they are offering us? I’ve counted four grown sisters, two with husbands (one of these being Piti’s brother Jimmy); two little girls and a toddler; as well as an old man with startling blue eyes whom Charlie introduces sweetly as “my daddy.”
“There is plenty of room,” Charlie assures us. I don’t inquire further, assuming the family will redistribute itself in surrounding houses. But when we wake up the next morning and go outside, we find everyone has slept on mats spread out under the trees. It’s not lost on any of us: the generosity of those who are willing to share the little they have. It goes through my mind again, the scene with the girl and the young man in Bassin-Bleu.
Before we settle in, Leonardo needs a ride home. Bill, cranky after a twelve-hour drive, shakes his head, no. It’s not far, Leonardo argues, which argument is used against him. If it’s not far, he can walk.
“Come on, honey,” I intervene.
Come on, honey, nothing. Leonardo has been totally useless as a guide. What’s more, he’s now doubling his charge—an extra hundred dollars, and he wants door-to-door service.
One of our vaudeville acts ensues. The boy hasn’t seen his family in two years, I point out. (“He’s not a boy!”) He’s too tired to walk. (“So am I, and I’m the one who’s been driving all day!”) So, I’ll drive him. (“It’s not that far.”) Even if it’s not far, Leonardo has to carry a suitcase and a box full of spaghetti for his mother. This poignant detail doesn’t seem to affect Bill the way it does me. But then, the plight of small farmers doesn’t make me want to join their struggle by buying a coffee farm. The Leonardo impasse finally ends with a settlement: I’ll stay with Bill, unpacking our things, and Homero and Eli will drive Leonardo home in the pickup.
It’s a moment in the trip I will hate missing. Leonardo running out of the pickup, surprising his auntie sitting outside their front door. Homero recounts the cries of joy, the tearful embraces, the exclamations over the box of spaghetti. Bill listens, penitent, if defensive. “He might be poor, but he’s still a spoiled brat.” It may be, but even if it is spoiling, certain things—not counting my jewelry—seem a shame to withhold.
While Homero and Eli are off delivering Leonardo, our host Charlie shows us around. The outhouse is down a path, bordered by small bushes to which half a dozen scrawny goats are tied. Every time you head for the facilities, you set off a round of bleating, so everyone is apprised of all your movements, including the ones your bowels make. The bathroom is literally a place to bathe, a structure with a thatched roof and four sides covered in tarp. You lift a flap and enter. Inside there is a big basin and a small container for throwing water over yourself. As for the water itself, Charlie holds up a hand. “It is coming.”
A little while later a sister and the two young nieces appear, carrying buckets from the river, which we know from having forded it earlier is a distance away.
The other hut behind the house is the kitchen, a small dark room, blackened from the charcoal fires inside. Above the door on a wooden plank someone has written a series of numbers. It turns out to be the cell phone of a fifth sister who is working in Florida, the mother of the two girls. I ask for their names.
Soliana shyly whispers hers. “Rica,” the older, bolder one pipes up. She has a megawatt smile that makes you smile just to look at her.
“Rica means ‘rich’ in Spanish,” I tell her. When Piti translates, Rica keeps smiling the same blinding smile as if this is no news to her. It occurs to me that with a number of uncles working in Spanish-speaking Dominican Republic, her lucky name was picked for a reason.
Tomorrow’s plans, to bed at last
Night has fallen, and Piti and his brother Willy are due home. They will take shortcut paths where the pickup cannot go. It is a dark, moonless night, but Piti claims he could find his way blindfolded, as he has been walking these hills since he was a boy.
Before he leaves, we discuss plans for tomorrow. The wedding is supposed to take place at the unlikely hour of eight thirty in the morning. But this is actually a good thing, as our party will have to leave right after the ceremony. Tomorrow is Thursday. Unless we get to Cap-Haïtien tomorrow night, nine hours from where the wedding will take place, we will have a hard time making it to the border in one day before the gates close on Friday at five o’clock.
“We are coming with you,” Piti decides on the spot. By we, he means his bride, Eseline, and their four
-month-old baby girl.
“Piti, it’s your wedding!” I try to reason with him. “Don’t you want to stay and be with your family and other guests?”
Piti shakes his head. “There is the problem with money. I have used all the money.”
Bill and I have already sent Piti some money for his wedding present, but now we offer him some additional funds so he can stay for a few more weeks. Afterward, he can return with his family by bus or however it is one gets to the border from here.
But that is the problem, Piti explains. Why, he wants to go with us. The journey is long and rough. The ride in the air-conditioned cab of our pickup, even though crowded, will be so much easier on the young baby and on Eseline, who has never traveled far in a vehicle.
Later, of course, we will understand why Piti was so insistent on going with us. Years ago, we helped him acquire his passport, so he can travel easily back and forth. All he has to do is purchase a visa. But Eseline is another story. She has no passport, and since the marriage license won’t be issued until two weeks after the wedding, no proof that she is married to Piti. But Bill and I are Americans, people of means. We will figure out a way to cross his family. Piti does not say any of this to us now. In fact, when I question him about documents for his wife and child, he assures me that all these arrangements can be made at the border.
I decide to follow the then current policy of the US military toward gays: Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Piti has made these crossings multiple times. He must know this plan can work; surely he wouldn’t be exposing his young wife and child to danger and trauma. The less I know about these transactions, the better off we all will be, since, as people have often told me—starting with my mother, when I was a naughty child and would try to lie my way out of a punishment—my face betrays me.
But what about Eseline? “Shouldn’t you talk this over with her first?” I say, sticking up for the female’s right to decide.
“Tomorrow she is my wife and must do what I say,” Piti explains, matter-of-factly.
“Piti!” How could the sweet boy I fell in love with years ago utter such a sexist comment? “You must talk it over with Eseline,” I insist. Piti gives me a perfunctory yes-mom nod. I have a feeling the talk will not be the kind of conversation I am thinking of.
After we say our farewells, our group sits down at the table in the front room. No dinner seems forthcoming, so we unpack what’s left of our snacks by the light of two candles. As we uncork the wine, our host appears bearing a pot of steaming rice, followed by Jimmy with a bowl of bean sauce, or so we think, though there’s not a bean in sight. Charlie returns with a third pot of spicy goat’s meat swimming in gravy, which Bill claims is the most delicious goat he has ever tasted.
I don’t bother to ask how many times he has tasted goat, but it’s definitely not a staple of our Vermont diet, which tends to be primarily vegetarian in deference to me. I try a mouthful of the rice, avoiding the brown sauce, as I’m not sure what’s in it. Dessert is some Hershey’s Kisses that were lying around in our kitchen in Vermont since last Halloween. I was about to throw them out, but Bill intervened. “Save them for the trip. They might come in handy.” Indeed, in this part of Haiti, where nothing is thrown away, they taste delicious. “The best stale Hershey’s Kisses I’ve ever tasted,” Bill jokes.
Soon after our meal, we brush our teeth under a spangle of stars and dive under our mosquito nets: Homero in one bed, Eli and Pablo in another, and Bill and I in the third one. The night is comfortably cool since we’re up high above the dry basin where Bassin-Bleu lies. Remembering that hot, dirty hotel, I feel doubly grateful.
I fall asleep, wondering if Piti has made it home. What has Eseline said about their sudden departure tomorrow? According to Piti, Eseline has only traveled as far as Gros Morne, a little south of Bassin-Bleu. Again, from my high school French, I know gros means big, but I don’t recognize morne. Maybe something to do with mourning? It is precisely what I imagine Eseline is feeling as she receives the news that tomorrow she and her baby will be borne away by a new husband, who doesn’t even bother to discuss his plans with her beforehand.
August 20, a long wedding day & night
Preparations
I wake up to one of the pleasures I remember from childhood: sleeping under a mosquito net like a princess or some other precious being who needs to be veiled from the world.
For a while in my half sleep I’ve been hearing a rhythmic sound, not the patter of rain or anything mechanical. A human rhythm. I peek out the door and see one of Charlie’s sisters sweeping the dirt yard with a broom made of straw. It hasn’t rained in months; the ground is hard and dry, a grayish color. She sweeps away the fallen leaves, smoothes out any clumps. By the time she is finished, the yard is a tidy, uniform pale gray, except for one embarrassing darker spot where I, unwilling to walk all the way to the outhouse in the middle of the night, peed just outside the door. I recall a lecture given by Woody Tasch, author of Slow Money, in which he claimed that there are two kinds of people in this world: “those who shit in drinking water and those who don’t.” I’ve now added a third kind: people who pee in other people’s front yard.
The rest of the family is still lying on mats under a tree in the backyard. Our own stirring wakes them, and preparations begin. The wedding will start at eight thirty, but since Bill and I are the official godparents, Piti wants us there at seven thirty. To get there, we will have to drive about twenty minutes, park the pickup on the side of the road, and hike in to the bride’s family’s house. Given those directions, I briefly consider wearing the same practical black jeans and I LOVE MY BARRIO T-shirt from yesterday, instead of the fancy outfit I packed when I thought this was going to be a church wedding—a long, flouncy, pale yellow skirt and jacket, a black camisole with lace edging, and impractical black sandals.
But Piti is getting married, and I’m going to his wedding in style! There is no mirror, but when I come out of the house all gussied up, I can see myself reflected in my hosts’ eyes. I must look as strange as the proverbial British colonial in his starched white suit and safari hat sitting down to tea in the middle of the jungle.
Perhaps because there is no mirror—or none we can see—the men shave each other. Meanwhile, Piti’s sister-in-law, Tanessa, irons her husband’s white shirt on the bedding still lying under the shade tree. She uses a contraption I’ve never seen before: a heavy, hinged iron with hot coals in the inside compartment. I’m as intrigued by her iron as she is by my outfit. When she offers to iron my wrinkly skirt, I shake my head. I’m going to a wedding in rural Haiti, after all, not to high tea in a British colony.
It’s already seven fifteen! Quickly, our group grabs a breakfast of cereal and evaporated milk, along with some of the mangoes from yesterday’s stop. We’re ready to roll! But our hosts insist on serving us breakfast: the leftovers from last night—a pot of rice, a bowl of brown bean juice, a small bowl of goat’s meat. Only Pablo seems to have enough appetite for a whole second breakfast.
On the drive over, Bill again notes how, unlike the Dominican countryside, we don’t see any mounds of trash on the road. It seems nothing is thrown away here in Moustique. I recall seeing the lid of one of the evaporated milk cans I opened being used by the two young girls to cut off a piece of rope for washing the morning dishes. That cut piece was unraveled, the strands bunched together for a scrubber. Meanwhile, the rest of the rope was threaded through a hole in the door of the kitchen to serve as a handle.
We finally pull over under one of those precious commodities in Haiti, a tree with shade. The horrible erosion we’ve read about is borne out by the brown hillsides everywhere we turn. We can see why. Here and there, fires smolder, trees being burned for charcoal, which provides 80 percent of the energy used in the country. What else are the people to do? Truly one of those environmental and social-justice conundrums; what should come first: the eradication of poverty or the forestation of the land that might allow for agriculture so that hunger can begin t
o be eradicated? I am hungry. Give me something. The chant starts up in my head.
To Eseline’s house we go
Now the fun part starts for the lady in the long, flouncy skirt and dressy sandals. She keeps tripping over the skirt; the sandals don’t give her purchase on the steep, rocky hillsides that go down and up as if imitating a rollercoaster. My beloved, in a floppy hat to guard his fair complexion, is having his own difficulties negotiating the rough terrain.
Pablo comes to my rescue, offering me his arm. He looks dashingly handsome in the tan suit that was in the hanging bag yesterday. The two of us could be headed for a wedding in Cape Cod. It’s amazing he doesn’t trip, given the shoes he is wearing with long, pointy toes, a style which is all the rage in the DR. Eli and Homero are much more casually dressed in jeans and khaki pants respectively, both with white shirts, in deference to the wedding, I suppose. Charlie has donned a striped shirt with a crest of a lion rampant above his right breast, very British, maybe from his time in the Bahamas. Bringing up the rear is a young Haitian man on a mule, dressed in a pale yellow suit, the same color as my skirt. “He, too, works in la République,” Pablo points out. How can he tell? Anyone who can afford a suit has gotten out.
The hike is long and strenuous. Finally, after forty-five minutes, we descend into a clearing with half a dozen small houses arrayed around each other. The most prominent turns out to be Eseline’s house, its mud walls a pale cream, the blue windows outlined in orange, the thatched roof peaked like the curl on top of a baby’s head. A long awning of palm branches extends from the front door. It looks like an impromptu structure, perhaps put up for the wedding, so guests don’t have to stand in the hot sun.