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Our early days here in Jacmel has taught us to expect the unexpected. We’re still in the North American mindset – constantly asking the city officials and residents we meet about what time an event is likely to happen, what day, etc. In turn, we are constantly reminded that Haiti runs on island time.

Here, things happen when they happen.

So we weren’t surprised this morning to stumble across an outdoor church service that seemed more like a carnival event than a prayer gathering. We were winding our way through Jacmel’s ancient quarter, a small handful of streets with iconic rows of French Colonial buildings (think New Orleans) when we noticed that, for quite some time, we’d been walking along to a soundtrack. Following the crowd of voices over and around piles of rubble, we were led to a fenced park. There was no sign of grass, though, because it was crammed with people. On metal chairs, blankets and even rice sacks, hundreds had crammed themselves into the small yard to sing and chant and pray.

Eyes closed, many of them swayed to the music. When it ended and a particularly vehement female pastor began rhyming off Bible verses in Creole, they joined her in verse, growing louder with each one they repeated.

After the service, which was a bit overwhelming, we spent the rest of the day running around to set up interviews for the next several days.

After a long and hot afternoon we were walking down the street to our guest house, our clothing soaked through with sweat and our skin bearing more than one layer of grime, when we stumbled across another small wonder.

A few dozen people from the neighborhood had shut down the street to traffic and had gathered, on wooden benches and chairs, around a tin-roofed shack a few doors down from our house. In the middle of the crowd, there was a small plastic table covered with a rather ornate white table cloth. The sight of it reminded me instantly of the tables used at weddings for the signing of marriage licenses.

I began scanning the small cluster and the ring of street dwellers behind it for the bride.

That’s when I realized it there was no wedding. This was a funeral.

Indeed, everyone there was dressed in traditional blacks and whites, whether or not they were fortunate enough to have shoes.

In silence, the people mourned for about 15 minutes, a bystander told me. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, they quietly dispersed. A few minutes later there was no sign left at all that anything had happened.

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