Claudelle runs into the pharmacy, bringing with him a gust of outdoors to add to his breathless smile.
"Sara, Eske ou vle chute boule ak nou?" (Sara would you like to play soccer with us?) I look down at the white, oval shaped medicine I am counting into bags. Yes, I want to jump into their excited running, passing, and blocking, to be done counting 70 sets of 60 325mg fever fighters into tiny Ziploc bags. But I can't abandon the pharmacy, lines of patients, and stacks of prescriptions till 5pm. "M'ap vini pita" (Ill come later,) I told him. He left.
I look down at the pills. I have lost count, 55 sounds right, but maybe it is 54 or 45. Instead of recounting, I let my eyes loose focus till the discrete entities on the aquamarine tray become a white blur. Then I stop looking out of my eyes and I jump into the back of the white truck I was in last Saturday.
Givanson, a 6-year old generator capable of powering a large city for several days, hoped up on the bumper, straddled the door to the truck bed, and then lifted his other leg over and plopped into my lap. We were going to see the new mountain road in construction in the city nearby.
I felt him bounce up and down in my lap as the wheels popped in and out of the series of holes the village calls a road. I locked my arms around him, shivering at the thought of this tiny bundle of bounce falling. Soon, we were circling the outside of the mountain, griping the edge as we climbed. I looked out the side of the truck and gulped--the only ground next to the tire's edge was miles down, where rock crumbles that had fallen where no longer within my eyes' reach. We followed the road till we reached a large yellow caterpillar that was blocking the road. Our driver stopped the truck and we got out to walk. I stuck out--a white girl in black shorts and SLU tee-shirt. A woman balancing a basket of mangoes on her head turned and stared as I passed her. Farther up the mountain, a little boy hanging on to his mother's hand stopped, stared and said, "Blan" in a matter of fact tone.
One small girl gnawing on sugar cane pointed at me and said, "Ou gade kon administra" (You look like the UN).
When we reached the highest point, the end of the road, Claudelle whispered something in Creole to Shawn, the hospital director.
Shawn replied, "M' pa kone, demand li ou-sel." (I don't know, ask her yourself).
Smiling shyly, Claudelle walked closer to me and asked, "Ou voule fe kous kouri?" (You want to race?)
My legs started tingling before I had the chance to express my excitement "Wi mwen vle kouri ak ou anpil!" (Yes, I really want to run with you) I said.
Because I had been waking up every morning at 6am to run, and because the children didn't leave for school till 7am, I had earned the title, "Blan ki kouri kouri kouri" (White who runs runs runs). Later, Shawn told me that Claudelle had been talking for a week now about racing me. I had no idea.
We started out--me, Claudelle, Shawn, Givanson,and 2 other boys. After about half a mile of running down the mountain, Givanseon quit.
Two minutes after that, the hospital director told me, panting, "I'm done, it's all yours." Soon, Claudelle and I were the only two racing. We rushed down the mountain over rocks and past people carrying objects on their heads holding children in their arms. I felt like water must feel when it pours over the edge of an abyss to splash below--my body was surging forward and I was just along for the ride. I soon realized that people on the road were pointing and laughing. "Gade blan la!" It wasn't mockery--it was surprise.
One woman stopped, put down her basket, clapped her hands together, and said, "Kouri kouri kouri!" with a broad smile stretched from cheek to cheek.
Soon, we could see the truck in front of us and we both started sprinting to finish. Claudelle's hands touched the back of the truck before mine and he collapsed, leaning his body's weight on the truck rim as he panted for air. I got my water bottle out of the back, pated his back in congratulations, and handed it to him. He smiled but didn't say anything as he gulped water. When he handed my bottle back to me, I poured water into my mouth, letting some spill down my neck.
The week after the race, I found out from the other boys that Claudelle told the story of how he narrowly beat the American marathon runner several times at school that week.
Imagining the eager story teller with his dramatic motions, I smile.
Ever since that Saturday, Claudelle and I have been running buddies. Most mornings, I walk out of my room to run and Claudelle is standing outside waiting for me wearing his honest smile. We run together. He tells me about school and corrects my creole. He also likes to cheer us on, repeating little phrases over and over with each breath, "Sara ka kouri, Claudelle ka kouri." (Sara can run, Claudelle can run).
I return to the room and the paracetamol tablets, to guide 60 pills across the tray with a tongue depressor and pour them into a small ziploc bag.
