I have yet to really discuss some of the trials and tribulations of being a Peace Corps volunteer here in the
My absolute favorite day has to be Sunday, and sometimes, depending on what I do the day before, Saturday can be a close rival. Most times though I am out and about on Saturdays, but if I stay home I get sucked into the local routine of cleaning house and blaring music. I joke that my Saturdays seem to be a culture exchange day. My neighbor on one side blares oldies or Christian music, while on the other side the young men like to vibrate the neighborhood to dancehall reggae or socca. Then there is little ol’ me, right in the middle, with my little speakers I brought from home. I’m usually rockin’ out to some new indie/punk band, or have some old school 90’s rock that makes me miss home. Sometimes I give up and decide to just savor some of the tunes from next door rather than listen to my familiar music. I always like it best when my neighbor Stokes and his wife and daughter get into it and sing along and clap to “Under the Boardwalk”.
Ahh, but Sunday, yes, Sunday takes the cake on all days of the week. I spend most of the day at church, nearly 5 hours total, broken up into 2 services. It sounds like a lot, and it is. I’ve gotten use to it though, and I love seeing the familiar faces of the tiny congregation. I am always greeted with a warm smile and a hug from Mrs. Davis and Mamma (my host grandmother). From Auntie Joyce, I get a grab at my waist or a pinch of my tricep flab and her subsequent “Amber, you getting fat gyal”. My host mother Betty will smile and look me up and down, and like any mother will give an honest yet gentle critique of my Sunday attire. These days I get a compliment on a shirt or skirt or the like. In the beginning I was getting some chastisement for not ironing properly or not hand washing a certain skirt so those damn lint fuzzy things don’t cling to it. I’ve improved though. Then there are the kids who just give me the usual shy smile, yet when sitting behind me will take any opportunity to touch my hair or poke at my arm. The novelty of my white skin and blonde hair is wearing off as I am no longer a stranger to them anymore, but there are still a few who are slowly opening up to me, and now feel confident to touch me and get their curiosity filled.
Church services are at 10 am and 6:30 pm. Between those times I spend my day back at the Chapman’s home because Betty doesn’t think it’s right for me to not have a proper Sunday dinner, and even on days that I’ve had to bow out of hanging with them, she has sent me on my merry way with a plate full of food. It’s pretty much my second home over there. After we eat lunch I, along with little Avi, will do dishes and clean up the kitchen. I feel it’s the least I can do after she has just filled me to the gills with food. I then head downstairs to a spare room they open up for me and lay down to read/nap while the rest of the family does the same. I get up just in time to hang out on the balcony while one of the girls is getting her hair platted or braided and chat with Charles or the girls before heading back to church.
It doesn’t hit me till that evening service about how much I love Sundays and how much of my determination to see myself through this is due to these people. I think it hits me somewhere between the vibrant choruses sung to the beat of the tambourines, or during open devotion when some of the ladies go up to sing solo their favorite hymns. I always find myself closing my eyes and letting that cool, Caribbean night breeze brush across my face while their sounds give me a new sense of home and family. It is then that I take in the day and wish for Sunday again in the morning, but I know that it will come again, if only after another 6 days of character degrading harassment, lost patience and fried nerves.
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