Thursday

My friend Evelyne's elderly mother died on Sunday morning.  It has been a long, hard road for both Evelyne and her mother, and the last two years her mother was confined to bed and non-verbal.  The funeral was scheduled for Thursday at 3 pm in the cathedral.

I've traveled so much the past few years that I've actually been out of town every time a friend's loved one has died, so I hadn't yet been to a memorial service in Haiti.  I asked a co-worker about appropriate attire and she suggested white, or, barring that, black. I should wear heels if I had them, although after the funeral I would need to walk several blocks to the cemetery. I asked if I could wear my hat (I have a skin condition on my face which is aggravated by the sun). She said, “The big one?” Apparently my floppy Target hat is not fancy enough to wear to a funeral. A pillbox type, or even a big Easter-type hat would be fine, though.

I change and head out and see my friend Solencia just up the street. She's just left the office and is on her way to her home in Limbe. Instead of taking a taxi-moto to her bus stop she walks with me to the cathedral. We get to the cathedral and she waits there with me a bit since there's a delicious breeze coming through the large, open central doors. We don't see a casket, but Solencia says that funerals often start late. Eventually she leaves to catch her bus and I take a seat. Mass starts, but there is still no sign of a casket. After several minutes I think that perhaps the funeral was to be in the smaller chapel next door. I walk outside but the chapel is closed. Two young people standing by tell me that there are no funerals there today, but there is a funeral at the Sacre Coeur Church, “Lots of doctors and nurses were there.” I say I didn't know that that was the correct funeral (my friend's mother was a laundress). But then I remember that her daughter volunteered for the Red Cross. “Oh, yes, there were lots of Red Cross people there.” The Sacre Coeur is 17 blocks away and it's already nearly 3:30, so I go to hail a taxi-moto. I have to wait to cross the street since a marching band is passing by – Flag Day is this Saturday and the marching bands practice for weeks beforehand.

Flag Day 2011

I get to the Sacre Coeur and slip in the back. I listen attentively to the priest to see if he will say Evelyne's mother's name so that I will know that I am indeed in the right place. Nope, he just said, “Madame G--.” Oh, but then he adds, “And Madame T--, and Madame P--.” So, apparently this funeral is for three women, including my friend's mother.

At the end of the funeral I give my condolences to Evelyne's niece and also greet Michel, who works where I live and has helped with some of the arrangements. We follow the caskets out the door and stand at the entrance to the cemetery. He says he wants to wait to greet Evelyne. While waiting I see another friend – it turns out that Madame T- is his wife's great-aunt. Eventually Evelyne comes out of the cemetery and we express our condolences.

Michel hops on a moto and I start to walk back. The Sacre Coeur is near several street markets and I have a few things I want to see if I can find. Two blocks in I see someone selling nail polish. I ask if he has polish remover – check. I have no idea how much it should cost, so when he tells me 30 gourdes I say, “Isn't it always 20?” He says, “No, it was 25 but it's gone up.” He asks if I want to buy a lovely face powder. No, thanks, just the nail polish remover.

I go in further, looking for deodorant. After half a block a pre-teen boy sitting on a stoop with a woman who looks to be his mother calls out, “Foreigner!” I say, “Good afternoon.” He smiles, and his mother asks what I'm looking for. “Deodorant, but I don't see any here.” “The guy next to me has some.” The guy at the next stall looks to have only electronics, but apparently he has some deodorant in a box in the back. I see lots of no-name brands. The last one he pulls out is a tiny Avon, which I've at least heard of, so I buy it.

I go back to the main street, since I know that in a few blocks there will be a lot of peanut vendors. I meet one at 8 L and ask to try her peanuts. Bleh. I don't know what to say, so I say, “Another time,” and move on to 9 L where I'd gotten some good ones last week. Ah, there's the merchant I bought from last time. I try her peanuts, since I've not bought from her consistently and I don't yet trust the quality. (I'm looking for a new peanut seller since my last one – who never had a bad batch -- stopped selling months ago to take care of her sick husband.) The peanuts are okay today, so I buy some. She asks if I want the skin removed, which I did last week, since I was buying for some friends who were going to make peanut butter. I say no, since I've heard they stay fresh-tasting longer with the skins on and these are just for me.

Next to her is woman selling mangos, which is the last item on my list. She says they are Rosali mangos, 10 gourdes per pile. She wants to put them in the plastic bag that I already have, so I move the breakables aside and she loads them in. Her next customer helps hold the bag for me.

It's been a hot day, and I'm pretty thirsty, so I decide to stop by a juice shop. My favorite juice there is guava, but today they only have papaya and pineapple. I choose pineapple and ask them to hold the sugar – they usually add sugar even to that super-sweet fruit! The guy manning the counter says he hasn't seen me for awhile. I sit down in the air-conditioned loveliness and look up at the television, which is showing a documentary on meer cats dubbed into French. A little girl walks closer to the tv and stares. I love seeing behavior that crosses cultures like this – she's got her eyes wide and mouth open in typical childlike wonder.

I finish my pineapple juice, say good-bye to the guy at the counter, and leave for home. I tend to enjoy walking through the city – as long as I've already gotten it straight in my head that it is a public event. Moto- and car-taxis slow down and ask if I want a ride, and I now nearly-automatically give the correct head-and-hand-shake which means no. Street kids ask me for money or tell me they're hungry and I chat a little with them, giving them some crackers or peanuts if I've got some (today I do) or telling them “another time” to which they smile and say “okay.” Random people say hi, kids call out “foreigner” and smile when I greet them in response. If their parents are with them I get a smile and a greeting from them, too. If I ignore them because all of the attention is embarrassing, I miss the smiles. And if I ignore the young men – well, if I respond with a “thank you” when they tell me I'm beautiful, or say hello when they greet me, then they smile and say something funny, to which my best response is to laugh, and then everybody laughs, and all the time I've never once stopped walking. But if I forget and ignore them they can start yelling or get icky – this happened earlier today.

I get home and Madame Elias, the evening cook where I live, says she saw me at the cathedral. She had gone there for the funeral, too. She said she looked down for just a moment and then I was gone. She asked some people where I went (I was the only obviously-looking foreigner in the church) and they said out the side door. But she couldn't find me. I explained about the funeral having changed locations, and I was sorry I hadn't seen her, we could have gone there together.

I go up to my room to paint my toenails for the first time in years. I have worn toe rings ever since going to India in 1998, which, along with a monthly self-pedicure (sans polish) has always seemed to make my feet pretty enough. But now I take my toe rings off when traveling to rural villages or to trainings in other provinces, since in many places in Haiti it is not considered appropriate for Christian women to wear any rings except on the third or fourth finger of the hand or as an earring. I told this to my friend Chrissy last month, and said that my feet always look so bare to me without the toe rings. Well, on Tuesday I received a box of goodies from some friends in Arizona and Chrissy had slipped in four different nail polishes!

As I'm painting my toe nails “Pretty Petunia” I hear another marching band. Now, I've lived in several countries where the normal response to hearing any kind of commotion is to stop what you're doing and go look at whatever is happening. My North American self has tended to resist this – I'm either occupied with something else, or I don't want to gawk, or I think it won't be all that interesting anyway. But years on this has finally changed – I'm curious, I'm more relaxed, and I'm also more easily entertained. So instead of finishing my toes I go outside to watch the band. Here they come, marching proudly down the boulevard, everyone matching in white t-shirts and jeans. As they reach the curve of the street they pause and march in place while continuing to play. A girl about 6-years-old comes running up along the beach to see the band and starts dancing as soon as she gets up to them. Her bright pink shirt makes her easy to spot as a few seconds later she moves to stand in the midst of the band, imitating their movements as they continue to step in place. They start moving forward and she marches with them as they turn the corner out of sight.

Flag Day 2011