Woke up at 6 a.m. and got up immediately. Mum opened the back door at 6.10 a.m. I immediately went to check on Mama Irma, who said she had slept well.
At 6:30 a.m., Jeanette arrives. She has to go back to Hato for work. Last time we met, we talked about her job: KLM is a clean airline; they change the pillowcases in Curaçao. Corendon doesn’t do this; they only do it in Amsterdam. Yuck!
It’s Sunday, so it’s time for church at 7:30 a.m. I take some money with me for the collection; I still have some old 5-guilder coins, which I’m sure the priest will know what to do with.
What wonderful singing, it’s a shame I can’t always hear which song they’re singing from the missal. Often I realise too late, sometimes I peek at the page my neighbour is reading in her missal.
At the end of the service, people come forward: a boy celebrating his birthday, a man and a woman who have been married for so many years, and another lady, whom I don’t recognise, probably also celebrating her birthday.
Kayotshi, Anthy’s brother who passed away in February, is also in the church.
I don’t see Stella. Stella, who, with her confused mind, often sent me the same answer five times to a WhatsApp message. Mem tells me that her son has come from the Netherlands to help. I’ll look for her tomorrow or Tuesday.
After mass, Mama Irma’s neighbour comes by with a friend. We chat for a while. The joke about Jan comes up again, who, after years in Curaçao, mispronounces Tera Cora, putting the emphasis on Te and Co… Teeeera Coooora… Mama Irma laughs, she and I have made that joke many times.
Connie drops by on her way back from the cattery. I make a salad and we chat happily, she about her scary adventure climbing out of her bedroom window because the door lock was jammed. And how skilfully – and fearfully – she did it. Later it turns out that there was another window in the room through which she could have escaped more easily, according to Prash. Tunnel vision, just like me when I came back from Switzerland… just keep going and don’t think…
Also about Loek, whom she knows from her past here on the island. About her trip to Italy, about the long drive back (that has to be different next year).
When Connie goes home, I go back to sit with Mama Irma. Mama Irma is asleep and wakes up with a memory: Michael Wawoe, yes, that’s right, the one who often cooked “kabritu stoba” at Indra’s house, stabbed Thelma with a sharp object at school when they were children. She screamed. When the ‘soer’ arrived, Michael said that Thelma had stabbed him. Michael was sent away and Thelma had to stay at school as punishment. When she didn’t come home, Mama became worried. She went to school to see what was going on. Thelma told her mother what had happened. Mama Irma became so angry that she told the ‘soor’ the truth, took Thelma home immediately, and left the “soor” stunned.
After this story, I ask Mam Irma if she would like something to drink. ‘No, mas akiratu,’ she says, or ‘mañan,’ or ‘warda un tiki.’
We also sing a song from the bapor frances:
Nos ta bai Hulanda den bapor franses
Su master ta di oro
Bandera hulandes
Ponchi riba ponchi
Hende riba hende
Sombré ku sinta pretu
Hulanda nos ta bai
Mama and I have sung this many times and we always laugh out loud…
Suddenly, Zaira appears in the doorway. Zaira, who had a bout of delirium last August and still has difficulty speaking, coordinating her movements and more.
We chat about her therapy at the Verriet clinic. I tell her I’m going swimming and spontaneously ask if she wants to come. Mem says swimming would be good for her too. She wants to come tomorrow, Monday. I wonder if that will work out.
I go to Habitat without Zaire. As I drive there, it starts to rain heavily. But ten minutes later, it’s over. It’s a lovely to swim. I swim my ten laps, lie down on a beach chair and bump into Angelina. She has passed her exams. ‘I passed, I passed,’ she shouts at me. When I was there in February, I saw her more often; she only works on Sundays. That’s when I heard that she was taking her A-Level exams, at MIL, and that it would be touch and go, if she passed at all. I told her that I know Pamela, the deputy headmistress at MIL.
Back home, I sit with Mem, who is very tired, until 8 p.m.. Then Mem closes the door. He wants to go to bed early.
