Flap your wings

There are hummingbirds here. But more on that later.

On Fridays I travel down the mountain by myself. From wings to the market. Market to a bus. A bus to the petionville market. I weave and wander through petionville. Past the blue church, left at the man who always squeezes my cheek. I go the long way around the mototaxi drivers that insist on blowing kisses at me and cat calling.

Take a left, avoid getting squashed by a bus or a wheelbarrow, by a motorcycle doing the same thing. Don't knock anything off of anyone's head. I pass through the flower market and by the vegetables and produce stands.

Green and lush as far as the eye can see, the air smells drinkable. Cilantro and thyme, rosemary and mint. It's my favorite part of Friday.

Where most of the time the air is filled with exhaust and the smell of flame. Of salt and heat. Of dirt and sweat and grime.

This dip around the corner, beyond the blue church and through the herb market. I try not to get run over as my senses are serenaded by clean and sweet Mother Earth.

Onto a tap tap and down Delmas, screaming thank you at the top of my lungs when we arrive at my stop, and then using my scantily clad, bossy creole to announce (authoritatively as I can muster), that thank you very much, I live here, and I know the ride only costs 10 gourde, so fork over that 90 gourde buddy, if you please, (please?)

But in all honesty, I'm starting to love the solitary commute. To dress and sweat like a Haitian. I sway my hips and I wrinkle my nose when we laugh. I laugh at everything that anyone thinks is funny. Ever. As a matter of fact, I feel confident I'm often laughing at myself.

Crowded into a tap tap, 18 strong, everyone's going somewhere.

People seem relaxed and at ease. It's friday, and even Haitians enjoy going home for the weekend. Smashed into my row, I gaze out at the mountains. Pink cheeked and grinning, 1/19 the minority. There's banter and chit chat. Someone says something funny and someone in the back screams something back. There's the shaking of hands and the clasping of shoulders. Someone else mutters something and the laughter is uproarious.

I throw my head back and laugh.

After all, it's funny.

And we are all alive.

When I get to St. Joes, I stop on the way down the alley and buy a beer from my woman.

Favoritism and routine are rampant in Haiti, and I'm finding this a natural fit.

I buy a beer (two), and sit out on the roof. Maybe I pick up a novel, maybe I'm just amazed that in spite of the breeze, I can't feel the air on my skin.

It's the third day of lent, there are hummingbirds, all around us.

And I just want to throw my head back

And laugh.