Led around for a string

Portia and Paige trembled with excitement. A trip to town! But despite their elation, they wondered nervously how they would travel from the farm where they lived to the shabby, bustling city. Would Jonny drive them? Fr. Marc? Would they (gulp) have to find a motorcycle? But they both knew, despite the transportation obstacle, getting to town was a must. They had a mission and that mission was………. to find some string.

At 10:00am a sweating Haitian youth rushed into the quad where Portia and Paige sat reading (A Heart Breaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers and My Friend Leonard by James Fry respectively), legs crossed, minds elsewhere.

“Vit. Pócia. Pe-a ap rele’w” (Translation: Hurry. Po-see-a. The father is calling you.)

“Li ale?” (Translation: He’s leaving?)

“Wi!” (Translation: Yes!)

“Di pe-a n’ap vini!!” (Translation: Tell the father we are coming!!)

The two girls ran to their rooms, threw their things into their bags and raced to the entrance of the farm. Weeee!! Everyone piled into the vehicle and the green and cream-colored SUV (built and outfitted especially for hot, third world countries) bumped down the rutted road toward town. First stop: an orphanage called FOCSED (just say it out loud).
Everyone, Fr. Marc, Directors Bertony and Eddie, Paige and Portia, one artisan named Sammy and two kids spilled out of the car like clowns. The amiable director of FOCSED, Junot DesRivaux, also a policeman, showed everyone around and introduced the 19 orphans, the youngest of which entertained everyone by bouncing off of cement walls, skidding across the floor next to the railing-less stairway (hearts in throats), and kicking Sammy the Artisan (much laughter).

Fr. Marc entered an office to “discuss things.” Portia tried awkwardly to make conversation with the mother/cook/babysitter/teacher figure. Paige played hide and seek with a child who, in the States, would most likely (and perhaps wrongly) be labeled ADHD. An hour later, they left. Next stop: La Madonne.At La Madonne, Paige and Portia patiently braved the excessively slow satellite Internet access, squeezed some money out of the financial office, grabbed Sammy the Artisan and departed the front gates West, in the direction of La Cayenne. Before even attempting to locate string, the girls need to fuel their bodies with papaille-au-lait (papaya milkshakes) and chicken BBQ sandwiches.

The unlikely trio trooped through the streets of Cayes together, Paige towering over Portia, Sammy trudging alongside the two “blan-yo,” (whities) complaining the whole time of the heat. Soon they arrived at La Cayenne and entered the dark, windy restaurant – dark because Haitian store-owners do not illuminate their establishments with rows of fluorescent lights, a-la-their American counterparts, and windy because La Cayenne has industrial-sized fans in the corners.

Without much ado, the odd threesome selected a table and ordered their meals. Before too long, the waitress set before them one of the greatest treats available in both the developed and undeveloped world: Papaya milkshakes – thick with crushed ice and fresh milk, colored a vibrant Easter-egg orange by the fresh, blended papaya.

Portia and Paige felt rejuvenated and Sammy beamed, sang to himself – delighted that two girls would buy him lunch and a lunch of papaille-au-lait and sandwich poulet at that. They paid and left La Cayenne behind, onto the next destination, the public market.

The three walked on the side of the street, dodging swirly, brown puddles, unrecognizable blobs, and parked cars, Sammy in front guiding them and Portia and Paige behind, looking this way and that, diverted by the colorful, bustling streets and terrified by erratic motorcyclists who turn left onto streets by driving onto the wrong side of the new road and then quickly crossing over to the right side without warning.

“Pistach! Gen pistach! ” (Translation: Peanuts, I have peanuts!”)

“Mab-yo! Mab-yo! Youn sak mab-yo pou 30 dollar!” (Translation: Marbles, marbles, one sack of marbles for ~$4.00US)

“Cheri, ou beswen youn bel chemis! Gade sa, sa bel pou’w! Ou vle?” (Translation: Deary, you need a beautiful shirt! Look at this, this is perfect for you. You want it?)

Paige and Portia were bombarded left and right by vendors. Sammy, on the other hand, passed unscathed, much akin to the way he and other Haitians cross over busy streets: perfectly, calmly. They looked at thick, nylon string, thin nylon string hanging on the walls of a very American-looking hardware store. They moved on, looking at shoestrings, boot and sneaker length, flat, rectangular and spherical, dark and light. They looked at electrical wire (promptly rejected). They inspected threads (too thin). Finally, a large sweating woman reached into her basket of toys and pulled out a roll of black yarn.

Sammy extracted a small wooden cross from his pocket and inspected the drilled hole at the top, looking to see if the yarn would, in fact, feed through that space. Paige nodded emphatically.

“Wi,” Said Portia.

They forked over a few hundred faded, ripped, greasy Haitian gourdes. Now Sammy and the other artisans had the string they needed to make little, crafty rosaries. Mission complete! The girls wiped their brows with handkerchiefs. Sammy complained of heat again. They began the trek back to La Madonne.

On the return journey, Portia and Paige, walking side by side, became diverted by an in-depth conversation on fashion and shopping. When Sammy asked Portia is she had 5 gourdes, she handed them over distractedly, not missing a beat in the dialogue. The next thing they knew, Sammy had fallen behind, was missing. Paige looked around. Portia called out, “Sammy?” Suddenly, from the right side of the street, a motorcycle took off, crossing in front of them, knocking Paige back on her heels a bit. The girls whipped their heads around.

There was Sammy, seated on the back of a motor-taxi, grinning and waving as the vehicle hastened away from the two shocked Americans. “Tooooo hoooootttttttttt!!!!” The young Haitian artisan cried out, as the taxi driver sped toward La Madonne and out of sight.

(to read another version of the story, go to Paige's page).