Read A Wedding in Haiti for Free Online

customers.
    A large man appears in a ripped T-shirt and cutoffs, a bandana around his head. He has the build of a football player and an impressive keychain, which marks him as an important man around town. Someone who owns things that have to be kept under lock and key. It takes him a while to locate the key that will open the hotel door. Not a good sign. When was the last time there was a guest in this town? It turns out that the restaurant is not presently operating, but the owner can provide a meal if we’d like one. As for water and electricity, unfortunately, the generator for the city has been broken for months.
    We pick our way through the trash heaped in the hallways inside. Even in the waning light, the tour confirms our suspicion: every room is filthy, the beds unmade, a coating of dust everywhere. The closed-up rooms are like saunas without air conditioning, ventilation, or fans.
    But even if we decide to stay here—because what other options are there?—where would we put our vehicle overnight? The hotel has no secure parking area. “I’m not leaving the pickup out here,” Bill declares, shaking his head at me as if I’ve suggested any such thing. I can guess what he’s thinking. If he leaves the pickup on the street, by tomorrow its disassembled parts will be part of Jean Jonas’s inventory.
    As we are conferring outside about what to do, Piti appears, walking briskly down the road that leads into town, flanked by two young men who turn out to be his brothers, Jimmy and Willy. They might as well be angels coming from on high, we are so pleased to see them. Piti rushes toward us, his arms spread in welcome, his face radiant. We hug him, we hug his brothers.
    “Little Piti is getting married!” we half-tease, half-congratulate him. He grins from ear to ear, and the years fall away. For the moment, the problem with accommodations is forgotten.
    When he hears our predicament, Piti explains that his family will put us up. All along, this has been his plan. As for a meal, there is also food. “But we are poor,” Piti adds apologetically. “There is not much food. But there is food.” We decide to visit a supermarket before we leave town and buy some supplies to contribute to the meal. This turns out to be harder than we think. There seems to be no supermarket in Bassin-Bleu, and the market is not opened at this hour. But an onlooker points to the station. There is a minimarket inside. We walk over to check it out.
    It is interesting to consider what consumer food products have found their way to this remote corner of Haiti: ten bottles of Del Monte ketchup, half a dozen big boxes of cornflakes, four cans of Pringles, some cartons of fruit juices, five jars of mayonnaise, a stack of evaporated milk cans, and some jars with red lids whose beige contents might be peanut butter. There is also a whole top shelf of wine bottles and hard liquor. In short, nothing to make a supper out of, although we could just clean out the alcohol and the chips and make a wedding rehearsal bash out of it! But that wouldn’t work. As devout evangelicals, Piti and his family will not touch alcohol.
    The proprietor, who has been out at the pumps filling up motorcycles with small amounts of gas, comes in to find out what he can sell us. We shake our heads bashfully. We are not proving to be very good patrons of what Bassin-Bleu has to offer.
    As we come out of the gas station store, I spot a truck parked across the street. Scrawled on the dusty cab in red graffiti, this message:
LIKA OBAMA
VOTE # 1
    I recall the day in January when our new president was inaugurated. I happened to be visiting my parents in Santiago, and after watching the ceremony on cable TV, I ran down to the grocery store, still wearing my Sí Se Puede Obama T-shirt. Boys stocking shelves and cashiers ringing up purchases came forward to high-five me. Eight months later, reading Obama’s name on the side of a dirty truck in this desolate spot in Haiti, I feel