I'm sitting with Givanson wrapped in a towel in my lap, trying to warm him enough to stop the shivers that started when we stepped out of the clear, blue saltwater ripples. I look up and see a Haitian man standing in front of me, watching. I must have been rubbing Givanson's arms for a while before I saw him.
He motions to his silver cannon camera and says, "Beautiful white, permit me take a photo?"
This question grabs my brain. Suddenly, I recognize that everything is strange in this moment. I'm sitting on a beach chair (the first one I have seen since I have been in Haiti), under touristy palm trees, in shorts and a sports bra (because I didn't bring a swimsuit), sharing expensive beach shade with wealthy Haitians from the Cap and American tourists (compliments of Sandra, the hospital administrator), and a Haitian man wants to take my picture.
I can't say, "No." Haitians of all ages have been more than gracious in letting me flash light into their faces.
I say, "Wi ou ka fe foto." (Yes you can take a picture) He clicks and shows me.
"Ou pale Kreol?" (You speak creole?)
"Ou m'kapab." (Yes, I can)
He asks me if I am a missionary. I respond that I am a medical volunteer in the Limbe hospital. He asks me where my Haitian child is from. In creole, I say, "He is not mine, I'm watching him for the day, but he lives at the hospital."
"Patsyon?" (Patient) he asks. I say, "No, an orphan."
He nods and says, "Do you love Haitians? I can see you do." I am a bit confused by the intent of his question. Hoping our conversation isn't headed in the direction of another marriage proposal, which would boost my total for the week to 5, I say, "I love Haiti."
He asks, "Are you adopting him?" I tell him no and I explain that he has a foster mother.
A Haitian woman comes up to him and says in creole, "It is almost 3, we need to leave." She looks at me and Givanson for a few seconds. I smile and then she smiles back.
I ask the man if he will also take a picture with my camera before he leaves. I am curious to see what he wanted to capture. He takes a picture and asks, "Could I have the pleasure of your name?"
"Sara," I say.
"Sara, eske m'ka fe foto ak ou?" (Sara, can I take a picture with you?)
"Wi" (yes)
I stand, he hands his camera to his companion and she clicks. That makes two pictures of me in a stranger's album.
