A Wedding in Haiti (23 page)

We all pile on the one bed, singing along as Piti plays hymn after hymn. Then—I don’t know what propels us—but Infancia and I both get up and begin dancing together, while the others look on. There’s life in the two old women yet!

Soliana and Tanessa are the first to break into the circle, then Mikaela. Soon all the females in the room have joined hands, and we are dancing on whatever available floor space we can find. The men sing to us, celebrating the female generations, from Rachel to Infancia, sunrise to sunset.

When the song is over, we pile onto the bed and cede the floor to the men: Charlie; and Tanessa’s husband, Jimmy; and Daddy, who must have heard us singing and crossed over to the party. Piti keeps playing his guitar, the women singing, the men holding hands and dancing. Something is in the air, we can feel it, humming inside us, outside us, as the rain keeps coming down.

Later in bed, Bill whispers in my ear, “Wow, that was . . . something.”

I, too, don’t know what to call what happened that night in Moustique. The Australian Aborigines believe there are invisible songlines holding the world together, lines that have to be sung afresh with each generation to keep the land and the people alive. That night in Moustique, we were singing and dancing them. Just shy of six months after the earthquake, we were putting Haiti back together again, however briefly, in our imaginations.

July 8—On the road to Port-au-Prince

An earthquake, a flood, a river gang, a fight

In the middle of the night, I wake up to a high-pitched humming. Next thing I know the roof of the small house is flapping like a loose wing that might fly off. I think of waking Bill. But just as suddenly as it came, whatever it was is gone.

We wake up early to a glorious, sunny morning. Outside, everyone is talking about the tremor last night. So that’s what it was: an earthquake! It seems these slight tremors are common, but now people can’t help wondering if, this time, the tremor will turn into a real earthquake.

We eat a hurried breakfast, eager to get on the road and face whatever we’re going to have to face. This time around, packing the pickup is quick and easy, as our load is gone. Mikaela, Bill, Piti, and I climb in and wave back to our hosts, who have come down to the road to say good-bye.

We haven’t gone far when we begin to experience the results of yesterday’s heavy rains. The road to the river is a mud slick, with water running in deepened ruts on either side. Bill is finding it hard to steer, as the pickup doesn’t have mud tires. At one point, he slides into a thick hedge of bayonet cacti, which luckily catches us and prevents us from plunging off the road and into a ditch. But as he puts the pickup in reverse, trying to extricate himself from the net of thorny branches, there’s a horrible tearing sound.

Bill gets out to inspect damage, and I can tell it’s not good news. It turns out the front fender has snapped loose, and the sideview mirror is bent at a weird angle. This is Bill’s relatively new pickup, which he debated buying, as he’s not a guy to get the latest model if the old one still works. I stop myself from trying to comfort him. (“Now you don’t have to worry about that first dent.”) I know how annoying comfort can be when all you want to do is vent.

With Piti’s help, Bill somehow manages to manipulate the mirror and the fender back in place—though periodically the fender swings loose, and we have to stop and secure it again.

We’re back on the road, holding our breaths whenever we come to a particularly muddy patch. I can see now that we should have waited to set out until later in the day when the mud would have had a chance to dry and harden. Another thing I shouldn’t bring up. But this time my nerves get the better of me. I try to mitigate the insult of suggesting an alternative by addressing my question to Piti in Spanish.

“What do you think, Piti?” I ask him. “Should we wait awhile?” We could just stop right here, hold an extended meditation session inside the pickup, while Bill naps.

“I am not worried about the road,” Piti replies, but before I can feel reassured, he adds, “What worries me is the river.”

It is amazing that, with my overactive imagination, I have not yet worked out what happens when a heavy rainstorm swells a river, actually a confluence of three rivers. But I make up for my oversight now by imagining the worst-case scenario: all of us carried away by the current, in a big, dented, silver casket. And nobody to take our picture.

“Piti says the river will be high,” I translate for Bill. No response. I’m about to repeat myself on the unlikely chance that he didn’t hear me. But as we round the last bend, there is no need to. Before us lies the river, a big, bloated beast. Piti’s intake of breath is audible. On the far bank, people have gathered, waiting for the river to go down before crossing.

Just as he must not have heard me, Bill must not have seen the river, because when he gets to the edge, he steps on the gas.

“What are you doing?” I scream as we lunge into the water. “Are you crazy?” What a time to ask!

“Calm down,” he snaps. “It’s shallow here.”

Mikaela and Piti are silent in the backseat. Who can blame them? I’m the one who’s crazy, fighting with a madman who has our lives in his hands.

We do make it through the shallows to a sandbar. To his credit, Bill is sane enough to stop, disembark, and assess the situation. We look out at the wider, deeper part of the river, swirling in currents, running swiftly downstream.

A crowd of young men who had been waiting at the far shore wade over to the sandbar. Each one is shouting some suggestion.

“Just ignore them,” Bill orders, like it’s that easy to ignore someone shouting in your face.

Piti confers with one of the quieter young men. It seems there is no other spot, upstream or downstream, suitable for crossing. “We can make it,” Bill keeps saying. But Piti insists on checking it out first. He strips down to his underwear and wades across the river, disappearing up to his shoulders, before his body reemerges on the other side. Not good news. He comes back and advises that really we should wait.

“Okay, twenty minutes,” Bill reluctantly agrees.

“Nothing is going to happen in twenty minutes.” I try to reason with him. “Come on, honey, it’s not even eight thirty.”

Bill looks at his watch. Unfortunately, several Christmases ago, I got him one of those atomic watches that sets itself via satellite, so Bill can never be wrong about what time it is. “It’s eight forty-three. And I’m not waiting more than twenty minutes.”

“Well I am. And so is Piti, and so is Mikaela.” What’s he going to do: leave the three of us stranded on a sandbar in northwest Haiti? “Honey, come on, please,” I try the gentle approach. “Why don’t we use the time to talk?”

“We can talk on the way to Port-au-Prince.” Then after a beat, “What do you want to talk about anyway?”

I’m trying to come up with an answer when I’m saved by the approach of a familiar figure, joining us on the sandbar. Wilson! He was headed to Bassin-Bleu to visit some relations. But now, he delays his journey to help us out. What did I say about saving by spending? We did a good turn by taking him home to Haiti. Now he is ready to pay us back by helping us get across the river, so we can eventually get home to the DR.

Wilson strips down to his underwear and gives Mikaela and me his dry clothes to hold in the cab. He and Piti wade into the waters to map out the shallowest route for the pickup to cross. Bill stands on the shore, periodically shouting suggestions.

Meanwhile, the river gang have grown bored watching them work. They crowd around the opened windows of the pickup where Mikaela and I are sitting, blocking all ventilation. We decide to climb out, in part to get some air, but also to move the guys away from the cab. They’ve been checking it out, looking for some loose valuable or small trinket they can snatch or demand as payment for their help.

As we’re standing around, one of them suddenly grabs at the water bottle Mikaela is holding. I face down the would-be petty thief, hands on my hips.
“C’est ma fille,”
I roar. “That’s my daughter.” I’ve turned into the lioness whose cub has just been messed with. And I’m accusing Bill of trying to get us all killed! This guy might be skinny, but he is several inches taller and at least thirty pounds heavier than I am. Interestingly, the other guys turn on this young man and shove him away. He’s broken some basic code of honor they all follow. You don’t mess with a girl in the presence of her mother.

But soon they’re back to hollering suggestions, pointing to the other side. A few of them pick up some stones from the sandbar, carry them across the river, and lay them down on the other bank. Are they planning to build a bridge? I shake my head and keep repeating, “Patience, patience,” just like the many
banques
in their country advise. Then, partly to show off, and partly to entertain them, Mikaela and I strike a yoga tree pose. A few of them try imitating us.

Another vehicle now comes barreling through the shallows and joins us on the sandbar. It’s a Jeep with a
CARE
logo on the side. Mikaela and I rush over, thinking it might be driven by someone who speaks English. No luck. The driver, a light-skinned Haitian, looks us both over. I can almost hear his thinking: Why are you two white women doing exercises on this sandbar? Over our shoulders, Bill is gesticulating to Piti and Wilson, who are midstream, gesticulating back. That must answer the driver’s question, because he nods at us, puts his foot to the pedal, and hurtles across the river, and up the other bank. This seals our fate. Bill has been proven right: if the Jeep made it, so will our pickup.

Bill hurries over to where Mikaela and I have resumed our tree poses. “Okay,” he says, “we’re off.” Piti and Wilson are already standing at different points in the river, semaphoring directions. But the river gang is not about to let us go. They press in on us, demanding payment.

Bill tells me to tell them that they must stay away from the truck. Once we’re in the water, he won’t be able to see where they are. They might trip or fall, and the truck could run them over.

I try my best to mime this homicide scenario, ending with putting my hands together in the gesture of pleading. They look at each other, as if deciding whether to obey the white man’s instructions. Okay, they nod. This might be their only chance of getting the tip they obviously feel they deserve.

“Everything off the floor in case the cab floods,” Bill commands, as he starts the engine. Oh dear. He would have to say that.

“How about our seat belts?” I ask, terrified.