A Wedding in Haiti (7 page)

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 to 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.

The cry goes out that we have arrived. Men and women stop what they are doing—carrying firewood, making fires, cooking, ironing, braiding hair, sweeping, preparing coffee—to look at us. A pack of children, always the best alarm, like geese in a barnyard, race down the side hills but brake to a stop ahead of us. It’s as if
we
are the wedding party.

Piti comes bounding out from the back of Eseline’s house in a white T-shirt to greet us. It’s already eight thirty, and he is not even dressed. The wedding is obviously delayed, though Piti assures us that as soon as the pastors arrive, it will begin. There is no sign of the bride’s family, and Eseline herself is off at a neighbor’s house being dressed.

Piti calls a diminutive older couple to come forward. His mother and father, he says, introducing them to us. I embrace the thin, kerchiefed woman, whom I’ve been imagining for years praying for her son in a far-off land.

From the introductions that follow, I know that Piti’s father has at least one other wife present, though I don’t know if this is a subsequent wife, an ex-wife, or both wives are current. There are many sisters and brothers, half brothers and sisters. It’s difficult to keep everyone straight, especially when we don’t speak Kreyòl.

Piti disappears to get dressed, and Pablo and Charlie wander off to visit with friends. Eli and Homero and Bill and I are left with the rest of the mostly female guests, none of whom speaks Spanish or English. We glance around, not wanting to be too obtrusive, though, of course, that’s impossible. Every person with whom we make eye contact offers us his or her seat, cleaning off the spots they have vacated with facecloths, which seem to be what is used here for handkerchiefs. I respond to every look or nod with a smile like a dignitary’s wife at a function, whose only role is to look friendly.

Several of the children are openly curious, pointing to one or another of us: Bill with his silly hat, Eli with his red hair, me with the fancy outfit and impractical sandals. One little boy stares with big, astonished eyes. When I approach him, using my rudimentary French, to pronounce myself
votre amie
(“your friend”—at least I think that’s what I said), he bursts into tears and runs to the safety of his mother’s lap. “He’s probably never seen a white person before,” Bill guesses.

I’m intrigued by the motley dress of the gathering, which actually seems right in keeping with our own group’s varied wear. Many of the women are in housedresses; some in what look like summer nightgowns. One of Piti’s sisters wears a flashy shirt blazoned with a huge motorcycle and a straw hat with four plastic leaves pinned in front. Another woman has on a bright pink dress and a tiny evening purse of faux leopard skin. The female dress code seems to be to wear the best you’ve got, including some favorite accessory: a straw hat, a handbag, a beaded necklace. In contrast, most of the men are casually dressed in T-shirts, pants, and cutoffs, except for the two suits, status symbols for sure.

While we, the women, and some older men sit, waiting, many of the young men crowd around a card table placed smack in the center of the path to the house. A domino game has been going on since we arrived. The players, who are sitting down, rotate with those standing, with no break in the playing. In fact, the game will continue throughout the wedding, the only concession being that the table will be moved out of the way to a shady spot under a mango tree.

Eseline’s house seems to be the center hub, with paths like spokes leading off to other family houses. Down one of those paths, a woman approaches, bearing a small table on her head. The sunken top of the table is actually a canister with refreshments, which I assume will be served at the wedding. But, in fact, this turns out to be the cash bar: warm sodas, two boxes of cigarettes, penny candy, and a large jug filled with a drink no one buys, perhaps a home brew for nonevangelicals.

As for complimentary wedding refreshments, a woman comes out of Eseline’s house with a laundry basket full of chunks of bread, which she forks out to anyone who approaches. Her red T-shirt reads
ANGEL,
a halo above and a wing on either end of the word. Another woman in a housedress with a kerchief tied around her head pours coffee from a white kettle, then washes the used and soon-to-be-recycled cups in a plastic basin. Mostly men and elderly women avail themselves of their services. The few young women who approach do so shyly, murmuring apologetically as if embarrassed to be enjoying other women’s hard work when they themselves are fit, able, and female.

Meanwhile Piti’s plump baby is brought out for us to meet. Loude Sendjika, I’m told, when I ask for her name. Perhaps affected by the same terror of white skin as the little boy, she starts bawling the minute she is laid in my arms. It could also be that I’m holding her in the nursing position but have nothing to offer her. A young woman lifts her from my arms and starts nursing her. Throughout the long wait and ensuing ceremony, Loude Sendjika is handed around to whatever lactating female is close by, a great way for moms to help out the indisposed bride.

Where is the pastor?

It’s already after nine, and the pastor has still not arrived. Piti comes from the back of the house to check on us. The worried look in his eyes has intensified. We learn why the wedding wasn’t in Bassin-Bleu. The pastor refused to marry the couple inside a church, because, with a four-month-old, Piti and his girlfriend had obviously had relations. Instead he consented to perform the ceremony at the bride’s house. But maybe he has changed his mind?