Bill Fitzgerald
'They say that the truest beauty is in the harshest land and that God can be found there by those with open eyes'
-Alice Hoffman
The path down to La Klo is a long one. My sore little feet throb every few steps, slowly enveloped in the black dirt that runs hot and dry along the Haitian hillsides. The path is hard and beaten down from herds of cattle trekking to the fields of grass that grow lush and green in the spring. My hand is clenched in hers, brown and worn from cutting figs and zabokas. We walk along quietly, long curly roots erupting from either side of the path, giving rise to a beautiful array of mango and papaya.
The earth begins to dip and sag, the thin path slowly widening as we entered the valley. Hills skirt along my periphery, like giant green monsters, who have learned to snake along quietly in the intoxicating summer sun.
We leave the grassy foothills behind and now begin to walk along a flat, thin dirt road. The thrill and excitement of the Marche begins to grow within my little chest. Faces emerge from the distance, the warm humid morning drenching their loosely fitted white chemizes and teal skirts. Feral dogs run amid the crowds, clawing in excitement and hunger at bits of griot and chicken. The yells from the Marche's; storeowners screaming their reles about the quality of their banana peze, each store wafting a different aroma of the hot succulent plantains into crowds of noses, nostalgic for the sweet, starchy vegetable, but not a gourde to spend on such a treat.
Pails of water stretch far above me, carried by stern, sullen faces, and young lovers, shying away to the corners of the road, they trip awkwardly, grins spread easily across their faces, water moistening the brown dirt.
A Tap Tap bus rolls by, splattered with an oily ocean of turquoise, magenta, and cantaloupe along with a slew of creole,
Ki jan ou ye Maresele!
And she smiles at him, her teeth splotchy and beautiful. The air is moist and dewy, the sun far behind; bathing the hillsides.