I had a date with Emerson tonight, Fond des Blancs style. We met at the cyber cafe at the library. Sat on uncomfortable folding chairs while he checked 2 weeks worth of email. Listened to old Sweet Micky songs on his laptop (now the current president). Got kicked out because it was closing time. Had a problem getting the motorbike started so I stayed with my flashlight while he walked the moto to the top of the incline and started it while he coasted toward me. I put the laptop bag around his neck and hopped on the back.
We drove to the kafou mache (Carrefour marche, or market crossroad, the center of the village). Lots of people around as market day is tomorrow. Some people with blue tarps, sleeping in their stalls, to get an early start in the morning. There are a few food stalls open there at night, and there’s a solar street light, so it’s a congregating place.
We went to see what Orlange was cooking. Two large pots of oil on a charcoal brazier, one cooking chicken, the other banann peze (friend plantains). Did she have any akra? “Wi, genyen” she replied. The shredded taro root with spices, deep fried in little fingers is my favourite. While waiting, Emerson got caught up with a friend, and then we visited a nearby iglou (cooler) to see what was on offer for drinks. At the next little table, I spied some “tiwose”, a very sweet klaren (cane sugar alcohol) drink. We bought a small cup.
We settled at a bench in the dark behind the stalls to eat our chicken, banann peze, akra, and pikliz (a spicy coleslaw). We gathered a cloud of dogs, waiting for tossed-off bones. Emerson cracked his with his teeth and gave the pieces to those closest to him. I kept mine whole and made sure to toss it to the dog that was standing on the outside looking in. When we finished, I noticed Ti Nwe, Emerson’s sister’s dog, who had walked down to the market looking for a little something to eat, which he does every night. Ti Nwe must be the fattest dog in Fond des Blancs. Also the only one I know that will shake a paw, except when he’s distracted by bones or other morsels. He used to growl at me, but now he wags his tail. He’s a granmoun, an old man, fat and going gray. I apologized to him for not saving him a bone.
The conversation is always interesting. Politics, religion, agriculture. Emerson is a good cultural coach, though I realize he gives only one perspective and often times he is biased. I try to balance what he tells me with what I experience and hear from others. He loves teaching Kreyol proverbs. I never get them right. I can understand the words and translate them literally, but they almost never mean what I think they mean. Many times I’m left shaking my head. I’m in that state a lot, now that I think of it.
Date night ends with a full belly and a ride to the hospital gate, but not inside because the moto makes too much noise. I walk through, tripping in the dark and greeting the night security guards.
