Beautiful

I take the young boys on my own to the beach again Sunday. They are very happy they run in front of me. A neighborhood boy Alto comes I always see him. He is our neighbor and seems like family. We also seem to have a dog who follows us everywhere. There are two beaches before the main beach which yells beach party booze and music on Sunday. I wonder where these people come from and how many are from Jacmel. We go to the second rocky beach. We are the only ones there. C explains to me that he’s Haitian and he likes people, and he’s not American. I tell him wanting to me a loner on the beach is not an American thing, it’s a Fariha thing.

At night, G takes us to a café bar on the beach. He tells me a few days before his sisters are coming into town. He hasn’t seem them for two years. We sit under the little hut umbrellas. The brothers of his girlfriend tell me they are so happy to be with us and sad they cannot speak English. Everyone is so direct and expressive here. Even the Haitian language, Creole is it or not. One word says a lot and you either are or you aren’t. Love and like are the same, Good and cute are the same; pretty and beautiful are the same word as well.

I’ve realized adaptability here. Slowly my clothes start reducing in number. I notice that I no longer have all my tshirts and that I’m missing half. I start seeing them on the boys. I am glad they have been found I tell myself. Then my pants start getting random paint on them. My dictionaries don’t get returned. My pen supply is scarce. I shrug my shoulders. I planned on leaving all these items here with me so I guess I just left them faster. I will take a backpack back with me. I do not worry.