The Place(s) to be on Sunday
Sunday we crossed the river to catch a service that marked the last day of a week-long revival at a little church. We had been hearing the music late into the nights all week, and we made it over to see the grand finale. Judging by the sound that reached the guest house, I was picturing a pretty big church. However, it was a little one room building with a tin roof supported by 2×4’s. Half the walls were mud, half were palm fronds, and the floor was the dirt. I discovered that it was the generator, two really big speakers, and the voices of the people that accounted for the ability to project such sound across the river.
They were celebrating the birthday of the church, and several Haitian pastors who now live in Florida were there to encourage them. Lots of singing, praising, and celebrating a witch doctor who accepted Christ this week. As I have become accustomed to, when the pastor asks if there are any visitors, I got a lot of looks from people waiting for me to go to the front and introduce myself. This time, however, Christophe didn’t accompany me to the front. I thought patting him on the back on my way up would signal him to come up, but when I made it to the front he was still sitting in the back. I was slightly relieved when the pastor, a guy who lives in Florida, greeted me in English. However, he followed this by saying “you know Creole, right?” and handing me the mic. I did my best to explain where I came from, why I was here, and how I have been learning a lot about water and life. After saying a word of encouragement in English, I handed over the mic and expected it to be translated, but I guess the pastor wasn’t in translating mode and kind of left me hanging, but oh well.
Sunday afternoon Christophe took me to a kindergarten graduation. He had been invited by the director, and apparently it was the place to be. There were probably 300+ people packed into a large 1-room school. Being the blan, I was escorted to a seat near the front despite the fact that we arrived really late. Later I traded places with a lady standing along the wall, a decision which I’m glad I made but which I began to regret once we started approaching the 4-hour mark. The whole production was extremely disorganized and way too long, but what made it all worth it was watching the final act of the “cultural” portion of the presentation. This consisted of about 20 kindergartners dressed in colorful outfits doing the bachata in a line. A few had amazing hip-bumps while many were lucky to do a little hop and change directions every once in awhile. A lady standing close to me caught me dancing in place and tried to explain something about dancing the Haitian compa. I didn’t want to argue with her, but I know what side of the island the dance really came from.
