I start up the mountain with the older boys, happy to keep their excited pace. Givanson, the 6-year old, would hurry up the mountain with us, except it he has a tendency to skip around, ignoring danger, so the Shawn holds his back pack and walks him up slowly.
Soon, we are ahead of the rest of the group and I am transpiring through my clothes. Every once in a while, we stop for a little bit and make sure we could still see them behind us. Finally, we reach the top of the mountain. We sit in the grass and rocks and wait for the rest of the group. In 30 minutes, we start to hear Givanson's voice. He is singing about something as he scurries up the mountain in front of Shawn.
When he gets to us, he runs up to me, and grabs my hand. "Sara," he says, "Nou se de kabrit." (We are two goats) I turn to Shawn for an explanation. He says, "I told Givanson he is a little goat (ti kabrit) and you are a big goat (gran kabrit) because you both run fast and you both scamper up mountains happily."
Givanson loves this.
I start to feel bad that I left Shawn to guide Givanson up the entire mountain, so I say, "Givanson, m'ap desann mon ak ou" (Givanson, I will go down the mountain with you.)
Shawn smiles. "Are you sure?"
I nod and we start down. I realize, contrary to what the rest of our group thinks, descending the mountain is much harder than climbing it. It seems steeper on the way down, I struggle to maintain my footing, as my arm starts twitching from the weight of Givanson's body as he skips around, hanging on my right hand. Givanson and I start sliding on the pebbles splattered over the path down the mountain. I hold on to any tree branches, or tall grass I can find to slow our descent
"Givanson," I say, "Si ou komanse tombe, chita konsa" (If you start to fall, just sit back like this) as I put my palms behind my hips, and sit on the rocks to show him. He nods, but I don't think he is paying attention.
He starts singing as he continues to skip, "Sara se yon kabrit, mwen se yon kabrit, nou se de kabrit" (Sara is a goat, I am a goat, we are two goats.) He likes his song so much that he starts giggling. Soon, he is telling a story about two goats on a mountain in creole, but he is talking too quickly and interjecting too many "click", "swoosh", "vroom" and "plap" sounds for me to understand the plot.
The mountain gets steeper, and my heart rate climbs because I don't see any grass (which is much easier to climb down than shifty pebbles) and I see ravines on either side of Givanson and me. Givanson is singing again, enjoying the immunity from worry of a child who does not yet have images of danger stored in his brain.
Suddenly,for no aparant reason, Givanson jumps. He jerks me and I loose my footing, letting go of his hand so he doesn't fall with me. I am falling down the mountain, sliding on my legs and bottom, scratching my skin on rocks, trying to grab onto anything that could slow my plummet. Givanson is running after me, saying, "Sara ou ap tombe" (you are falling).
Finally, I grab a bush with my left hand, and stop seated. I feel nothing for a few seconds and then every part of my body sings it's pain to me in chorus. Givanson slides up behind me and stops, grabbing the same bush that I am holding. He stares down at me with a serious expression for a few seconds, then he starts giggling--the spitty giggle of a happy child. Suppressing his laugh, he tells me, "Sara, ou te tombe nan kaka bef!" (Sara you have fallen in cow poo!) Then he resumes his laughter, letting his head fall back as his knees weaken with the weight of hilarity.
I look down. For a second, I want to cry, but Givanson's splutter of laughter prevents any tears from forming. I start laughing too. Soon, I can't breath. .
When we get home, I shower and go to dinner. Givanson is sitting, stuffing fried plantain into his mouth. When I sit down across from him, he smiles at me and sings, "Sara te tombe nan kaka bef" in a quiet voice. Then, he looks to gauge my reaction. I feel my cheeks twinge pink, and I smile.
He takes my smile as permission to announce to the entire table, "Sara te tombe nan kaka bef jodia!" (Sara fell into cow poo today). Everyone looks at me. I smile and shrug. I can't tell whether people are laughing at me or at the joy with which Givanson made his announcement.
Soon, he finishes his food, and he jumps up to share the news with the other table. Then, he scampers into the kitchen and sings to the ladies who cooked our dinner, "Sara te tombe, sara te tombe, nan kaka bef." He can hardly breath, he is laughing so hard. The more he shares the news, the more interesting his presentation becomes. By the end of the night, he has a song, a dance, and a clumsy reenactment for his performance. I would be embarrassed, but the situation is miles beyond embarrassment.
