Last night I met some of my Haitian journalist friends for beers at a new-ish restaurant/bar spot in PetionVille, the neighborhood in Port-au-Prince where I’m staying with my family. When we were through plotting our weekend excursion and ready to head out, my friend found me a ride with someone he knew at the restaurant who lives just past me.
Nobody ever taught me to not take rides from strangers, and my instincts about doing so have never served me wrong. But that’s irrelevant.
My new friend and impromptu chauffeur was also giving a lift to a woman who had been drowning any possible Ash Wednesday resolutions with fury at the bar. She had natural-looking but not natural blond hair, and the kind of plumpness that occurs when you spend the majority of your life close enough to a Burger King to eat it multiple times a week but not so close that it ever cycles out of your favorite foods list. When our driver introduced us, she lunged for my hand to shake it with a smile so big and unwarranted that I pulled my hand back a little prematurely, or maybe she held it a little too long.
I’ve seen those smiles before. It was the same smile that the woman in the group of badly-sunburnt Midwesterners wearing matching shirts shone on me in line for airport security when I was flying out of Port-au-Prince last time when she asked, “and what group are YOU here with?” It was the smile that instantly evaporated and turned into a slightly horrified grimace when I replied, “I’m not with a group.”
Sure enough, the Burger Queen soon revealed she was a missionary with the Methodist church. “Oh yeah? That’s interesting,” I said. “What’s your mission?”
Slurring her words, she cheerily told me her job is to be the beach head for incoming Methodists to Haiti, helping them with the logistics of renting cars, finding lodging, and organizing outings for them in town. I asked if she showed them the way to the bars as well. She said no, that was her own personal mission.
We pulled up to her residence and she poured out of the car. She said goodbye, then swayed and struggled with the gate. The driver said he’d wait for her to get inside, but she insisted that he go on. When she realized he wasn’t going to leave her there until she got inside, the gate magically opened. I turned around as we pulled away, half expecting to see her sprint across the street to another bar to continue her repentance to God — which isn’t to say that she didn’t.
I for one, am touched that there are people so kind and devout in their servitude to God that they would drink his blood all night on Ash Wednesday to better help His poor children of Haiti.