Mountains and service

I had to take a break this afternoon. I've decided to 'run' down and up a mountain every day for an hour. Today led me down the dirt road that I live on and out onto a main stretch, paved in places. Windy, and bustling.

Have you ever been told more than 100 times in an hour that you're a white kid?

Toto, we're not in port-au-prince anymore.

Fermathe is about 30 minutes up the mountainside, at a leisurely 5216 feet, the air is thin, and rain drops splatter you through sunshine in the afternoons because you're in the cloud bank.

Stumbling down the hill, I tried to clear my mind, focusing only on the pronounced and rhythmic clod of my shoes on the pavement. Children are walking up and down the mountain all around en route to and from school. Men are ushering pigs across roads and dogs are sending me mixed signals as they wag their tales and bark at me.

Everyone who sees me stares. I'm starting to wish I could stare too. Wait, a white person, where?

They say a few words in greeting that I've learned. Hello, how are you, good afternoon, what's up ( my creole is so polite) and then I cringe as the inevitable string of conversation and laughter unfolds, and always- blanc.

Ahaha a white person.

Down the mountain. An unknown language. An unknown geography. An unknown culture.

The unknown. Why is it scary?

I have to go in God's faith that no one will hurt me. Unable to tell the difference in a threat and a joke, I march on, crossing my fingers, and knowing that I'd have a better chance of cartwheeling up this mountain than being able to outrun someone.

I march for a half hour, naturally concluding that 30 minutes down wil be thirty minutes back.

Oh no, you silly white girl. What about the 45 degree incline, and the thin oxygen? What about the tap taps whirling around curves so fast I don't think I need to shave my legs?

I press on. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what I'm doing.

But I can control my legs. I can climb a mountain.

I reach the turn off onto the dirt road. I sit down on the stone wall and pour water over my head. I'll just revel in my accomplishment and drink my water for a minute, and then I'll head back into the unknown.

As I will myself to stand, I hear a clicking of what I only imagine to be hooves of goats or some such.

Turning to to my right, a group of church women are walking up the mountain. Childrens' hands and bibles in tow, they chatter and scold. They're wearing high heels. And there are buckets of water balancing on their heads.

Well, fine.

' bon sua' 'bon sua'

'Sava?' 'Bien'

'Blanc'.