Day 34

I worked, while everyone else went to Playita beach. (in translation, that’s “little beach” beach, so Spanish-speaking readers please bear with me).

At the soccer game tonight the Haitians returned to play – the first time since the fight. And the first thing the Italians did was say they couldn’t play. Fulvio, the older Italian who had lost his temper so badly in the fight, told them they couldn’t play unless they paid him to hire someone to mow the field. He had asked me for money for the same reason earlier. I gave him 100 pesos. A week later the field looked like a bad haircut, or else the person cutting it had been shooing away one of the donkeys that lived nearby – there was evidence of some cutting, but there where obvious patches of tall grass that it would be hard to understand how they were missed.

It was hard for me to tell what was going on. It was obvious that they were arguing, and it was obvious that Fulvio was playing the boss roll. But I had no idea what was being said, and I had no idea of the history involved, other than the recent fight. I asked Cyril what was going on, and he said the Italians were causing trouble, and did I want to play with the Haitians on a side field? I said sure, but things finally got patched up, and the game started – the Italians, with me, against the Haitians, with Cyril. Ugh.

After the initial spasms of intensity on both sides in order to establish national pride, the game settled down and was pretty enjoyable. I always like the feeling of running down the field with people yelling at me in languages I don’t understand – that’s freedom, my friend. It’s also fun when the Italians tell me something – they obviously know I don’t understand, but they continue to talk to me as if I get every word. I think they know I don’t, but need to get it out, and we both seem to feel better afterwards.