In which I unwittingly flush my underwear down the toilet

...yet another episode in the series "Please Protect Me From Myself"...

How does one flush underwear down the toilet without knowing it?

I'll tell you.

But to understand the story, you first have to understand my washing machine. I have the most brilliant washing machine ever.

5-gallon bucket.
Toilet plunger. (Clean, brand new, clearly labeled for Laundry Use ONLY!)
Add clothes, water, and detergent.
Plunge up and down while you memorize Scripture or read an interesting book.
30 minutes later, wring clothes out and remove to rinse water.
Rinse, squeeze out, and hang to dry.
Voila! Clean clothes!

Today I washed a load of clothes while I happily read my Kindle. Laundry used to be my most dreaded chore. I don't really know how to wash clothes by hand, and it inevitably took a long time, was very frustrating and backbreaking and boring to me, and hurt my hands. So this new system with the plunger and the bucket is a great relief.

I washed my clothes. I rinsed them. After rinsing them, my rinse water had turned quite black, but I shrugged my shoulders and said to myself, "That's life." I don't have the luxury of enough water or enough time to rinse my clothes until the water runs clear. I had a pile of little twisted logs of clothes that I had wrung out, and as usual, I disposed of the water in the toilet. But as it poured out, I saw a black pair of underwear slip over the rim of the bucket and disappear in the toilet bowl. My water had been too black to see it.

"Oh no!" I thought. "Now I'll have to go fishing for my underwear in the toilet bowl!"

But my dismay at this thought quickly amplified when it all flushed down, underwear and all. Now it was gone.

Ooops.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no!" I said, wringing my hands. "Now our toilet is going to be plugged."

I put on a pair of rubber gloves and dunked my hand in the toilet bowl, squeezed it down the hole at the bottom, and fished to see if maybe it was right there. It wasn't.

I pulled my hand back out and doused the glove in bleach. Hopeless.

At that point, I figured it was just a matter of waiting to see what happens. Would we have to find out the hard way whether our toilet was plugged or not? None of us knew how we would retrieve the underwear at that point. So all I could do was hope for the best. Couldn't call a plumber.

What else could I do?

I prayed.

"God, can you please see that pair of underwear safely all the way down to the septic tank?" I asked.

(Can you believe I asked God to look into the tubing of the toilet and the septic tank to watch over a piece of underwear, of all things?)

Do you think God smiles at requests like that?

But so far, he has answered, because all evening, the toilet has flushed just fine.

Bestowing Goods to Feed the Poor

"And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor...and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing." 1 Cor. 13:3

Being here in Haiti, I am struck by this verse. It is not the bestowing of goods that counts, but love. I believe we could accurately say that even God, if He had not love, could bestow all His goods to feed the poor (which would result in the immediate alleviation of all poverty, since God has infinite resources), and it would be worth nothing. In other words, it would be preferable to have a world with poverty and a God of love, than to have a world without a God of love and no poverty. Our grief in seeing poverty everywhere around us in Haiti should be outweighed by the rejoicing that we have and serve a God of love.

It is an eye-opening concept that I could continually give away to the poor all the way to my last possession, and it would be worth nothing if I had not agape; and it surprises me that anything but love could motivate me to do such a thing.

However, on the other hand, if love did motivate me to do this, then it would be worth something. Bestowing all my goods to feed the poor appears in a list of of quite the pinnacle of Christian activities.

• Speaking in tongues (vs 1)
• Prophesying (vs. 2)
• Understanding ally mysteries (vs. 2)
• Having all knowledge (vs. 2)
• Faith that can move mountains (vs. 2)
• Giving my body to be burned (vs. 3)

These things evoke a certain wide-eyed wonder in the world. They catch people's attention. One could say, "Whoa, he just foretold the future," or "Look at that! He prayed and that mountain moved." In the same awestruck (yet not comprehending) tone, someone could say, "Whoa! That guy just gave away all his goods to feed the poor. Wonder what he is going to eat now? Let's watch and see what becomes of him." It can be a tremendous, tremendous testimony when motivated out of love (just as it can be nothing when motivated otherwise).

What does love look like in the person who gives all his goods to feed the poor?

1. Love for God
God's love has so transformed this person that he says, "God, I trust you." When God asks him to give up something precious for the sake of a poor person who is going to consume it, perhaps ungratefully, and then still need more, he does not resent the fact, but looks with glowing love at the Savior, and cheerfully gives it up for Him who gave up His life for him. When God asks him to give again, he doesn't get tired of it, but trusts God as he further reduces his own possessions. And when God asks him to give up his last cent, his last thread (imagine if you had given up your house, but you had two sets of clothes, and then God asked you to give one set up), he still says, "Lord, I trust you," and commits the keeping of body and soul to his faithful Creator.

2. Love for the Poor
There is a kind of giving to the poor that demoralizes him, keeps him aware of the shame of his neediness, and perpetuates his poverty. Many books have been written and many great minds have bent themselves to figuring out this problem, but the answer is simply love. If the person who loves God goes on a mission by God to the poor person to give him something, then God's love in His servant will overflow and spill onto the poor person. The poor person will feel loved, cherished, valued, and treasured. The shame of his poverty will begin to be healed, not exacerbated. Love will win him and set him on his feet in a way that money never can.


How far am I from this level of agape love? I barely give to the poor, much less give sacrificially, much less give "all my goods." How much do I love? Do I trust God enough to go all the way through with something like this if He called me to it?

I do not think God calls everyone to give away all their possessions--but I do think that whether God ever calls us to do that or not, we ought to be ready and willing to lose all our worldly goods, and even our life, for His sake.

I claim that I would give up my life to God. I tell Him so in prayer. But what if He asked me to give up my computer? I cringe at the thought. If I would not be willing to give up my stuff, would I really be ready to give up my life?

And what does God want me to do tomorrow, and the next day, and in the coming week, with the vast poverty that surrounds me? Are my goods fully at His disposal? Do I fully love? Do I love Him? Do I love the poor?

Emilia's Donuts

Haitian Donut Stand. Photo credit: Emily Brown

When I first started going to the market, I noticed an old woman on the side of the road, frying donuts. People always say, "NEVER buy anything from street vendors!" But I decided to break the rules. I bought five donuts for 25 goudes, ate one, and shared the rest with friends. It was delicious! It tasted like the homemade donuts from the Betty Crocker cookbook. And we never got sick, so now, we pass by and stop to get a donut about twice a week.

Haitian Donuts. Photo Credit: Emily Brown

In a land where everything is expensive, this is quite an affordable treat. One donut = 5 goudes. That's about 12 cents.

Emilia with her bowl of dough
Photo Credit: Emily Brown

We have chatted with the woman who makes them. Her name is Emilia. She sits there with a big bowl of dough on one side and a pot of boiling oil on some coals in front of her. She uses her fingers to break off a section of dough, rolls it expertly between her hands into a log, makes it into a circle, and dips it in the oil. After frying it to the perfect golden brown crispness, she stacks it onto a metal platter, making a fragrant, steaming mound.

Just imagine--all she has to do is walk out her front door, light her coals, and sit in a chair by the street with her little donut operation. She fries up her whole batch of donuts, and in a few hours, when the last one sells, she goes home.

We talked about the contrast between what it would be like for her to set up her little donut stand on the sidewalk in New York. She would have to have a business license, insurance, health inspections, nutrition facts, ingredient labels, and who knows what other permits and paperwork and red tape. How much would she then have to charge for her 12-cent donuts? How much would this cut into her ability to make a living?

I'm not against regulations and structure. I think it's a good thing to keep food poisoning to a minimum.

But if a Haitian can make donuts on the side of the road, pulling the dough into pieces with her hands, not wearing gloves, and the Americans who enjoy the donuts don't get sick... perhaps we have too many regulations in place. Just thinking.

A rat in my room

Snap!

I heard the trap spring shut. And then--

Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!

What in the world? He didn't die! I thought to myself. He must be a big one. 

It was 2:30 in the morning, and I was in the shower. I had gone to bed hours earlier, but I was still lying there, too hot and sweaty to fall asleep. I didn't want to bother to get up, strike a match, light my lantern, and go solve the problem by dousing myself with cold water.

Then I heard it.

Munch, munch, munch.

The sounds of chewing brought my senses to full alert. That rat is back again, I thought. I'm going to set the trap. I had just bought a rat trap in Port-au-Prince, because I had been having problems with my little nightly visitor, but I hadn't had a chance to set it yet.

I got up and lit the lantern. Of course the rat silently fled, so I didn't get a sight of him. I looked around, and sure enough, there was a neat little bite taken out of one of my fruits.

I grabbed the trap, opened my food tote and pulled out the peanut butter. Too lazy to get a spoon or something, I used my finger and wiped some of it over the little bait spot. Then, without thinking, I put my finger in my mouth and licked the rest of the peanut butter off. Horror struck me as it dawned on me what I had just done. Good thing this was a brand-new trap, I thought. I had better never, ever, ever do that again.

I set the trap carefully and put it near the spot where the rat usually visited. Then, since I was already awake, I figured I might as well get in the shower.

That's why I was in the shower at 2:30 in the morning when the rat trap sprang.

I was drying myself off and I heard him thrashing around the room, giving vociferous cries and squeaks.

What in the world? I thought. He's going to get away with my trap!

I also wondered how Emily was doing. She is my roommate and has just arrived in Haiti. She must be freaking out, I thought. Alone in the dark with a wild, frenzied rat. I wish I was at least there in the room with her.

A knock came on the door. I heard Emily's voice. "The rat got caught," she said. "Yes, I heard," I replied. Well, at least she wasn't afraid to get out of bed and walk across the floor, I thought. Her voice sounded pretty calm, too. A new respect sprang up for my new missionary family member.

As soon as I could, I exited the shower and came back to my room to investigate. Everything was quiet. Was he gone or dead?

Photo Credit: Emily Brown

There he was, upside down, and quite dead.

Finally.

Photo Credit: Emily Brown

I put on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up the trap. Emily grabbed her camera and followed me out the front door. I posed for a couple of pictures and then gingerly opened the trap. The rat fell with a thud onto the ground. I picked him up by the tail and launched him over the wall as far as I could into the banana field.

There.

He was gone.

We did it.

And then we went back to bed and slept peacefully for the rest of the night.

Haitian Church

Finally! After being in Haiti all this time, I got to attend a Haitian church.

I piled into the van with the rest of the school-age kids from the creche. We drove into Montrouis and turned down the little side road where they sell the bread. Just past a pump where people were filling up dozens of buckets, we stopped the van and walked down a footpath to the church.

The church meets in a half-finished building. The concrete walls form a structure that promises to be beautiful, with arched windows and a high roof--only the windows aren't put in yet and there is no roof. The metal braces that form the rooflines are covered with a large tarp tha,t used to be a US billboard. The words "Emergency Services" and a huge phone number are visible. However, wind and/or exposure to the elements have ripped this tarp from some of its moorings, so it no longer goes over the whole roof but droops down in several places, allowing the sun to shine in. I kept looking up at the blue sky visible above me and marveling at the many different kinds of green leaves I could see--palm fronds, mango leaves, and many others I couldn't identify.

There were a number of wooden benches set up along the shadiest wall in the church, and as we piled in with our huge group of kids, people were very accommodating to make room for us. The church was full. People were dressed in their best, and each person carried his or her own Bible and songbook.

There was no electricity. The church had no instruments, but people sang in parts, and sang heartily and beautifully. The preacher had to compete with someone just outside the walls who was knocking stones together to break them into smaller pieces, and with a hog that was squealing loudly. I was pleased at being able to understand most of the main points of the sermon.

During the announcement time, a man got up and said a few things. A lady behind us stood up and stated her name and where she was from. Then the man made eye contact with me and gave an encouraging smile.

"I think they're asking all the first-time visitors to stand," I said to Shane (one of my fellow missionaries), who was sitting beside me.

We looked at each other, confused because we really didn't understand, and didn't want to do it wrong. What if it was something totally different? Then we would be standing up and making ourselves conspicuous. The man at the front repeated what he had said and gave another encouraging smile our way. I asked a woman sitting next to us, and she said we should stand, so up we stood.

Was that enough? Did they just want us to stand, or were we supposed to give a longer speech? Everyone seemed to be waiting expectantly.

"Bonjou," I said, a little weakly. What was I supposed to say?

"Bonjou," the entire congregation responded.

They still seemed to be waiting expectantly.

"Am I supposed to tell our names?" I asked the friendly lady next to us.

"Yes," she said, "And a little bit about you."

So in Creole, I told our names and said that we worked at the creche, and then sat down.

The church service in general was very organized and reverent and traditional. The people seemed very serious, except for one little boy in the front row who kept busting dance moves and then looking back at me to see if I was duly appreciating them. I smiled at him, and he would always give a huge smile back.

Afterward, several people greeted me, and it was good to connect with other members of the community.

Then we went home. They kept piling children, children, and more children in the van, way more than on the way to church, because they had brought them in two loads, but now they wanted to take them home in one load. I said to Memen that Shane and I could walk home if she didn't think there was room for us. "I think we have room," she said. She kept directing traffic, cramming more and more people into this 12-passenger van, and finally succeeded in getting two seats open for Shane and I to sit. Then our laps were filled with children and she continued filling the rows ahead of us. When we finally took off, I counted. The van had 35 people in it. And then they turned on the heat. One of the girls was right next to the register, and sweat was rolling down her face. They didn't know how to work the switches to turn on the AC in the back, but after a general protest, they finally just turned it off altogether, which was a welcome relief.

All in all, it was a fun day! I hope I can go back! But maybe I'll make arrangements to walk home...

You're Not Allowed To Be Needy

Needy People (1) 

We went to the store in Saint Marc the other day, and while we were there, word went around that a vehicle with white people had just come up to the store. When we came out with our purchases, there were a ton of women with babies, all with their hands out, all demanding that we give them something.

It felt horrible to be so accosted, just because we were white and just because we were coming out of "the store." How could they understand how delicate our own financial situation was, how carefully we had to manage our own resources, and how fully each of us had to trust God for the food that we ate? To them we just looked like rich people, because we were driving a car and buying things with debit cards.

It also felt horrible to not give them anything when we knew they truly were hungry. If we had started giving anything out, we would have been mobbed, and our car would have been marked for next time as a car that gives things away, and so next time we would have been mobbed as soon as we drove up.

We drove away, and for the next few days, I was filled with a sense of the unpleasantness of it all. One side of me was preparing retorts that I wished I had had the presence of mind to say at the time, like, "Yeah, you have one baby to feed. Try providing for 180," or "Do you have any idea how many days in a row I have had to eat peanut butter and jelly?" The other side of me was grieved at the condition of the people, and I was frustrated by the knowledge that I really did not know how to deal with it in my own soul.

Overarching it all, though, was an annoyance that I had to deal with it at all. "Why can't they just go away and leave us alone?" I wondered. "Why do they have to come up and bother us?"

Needy People (2)

The kids have picked our front porch as their favorite place to play. They play there until it is time to go to bed, and the air is filled with shouts and laughter and the normal sounds of play. Balls and toy cars roll back and forth, and games of tag produce shrieks of excitement. Most of all, though, the kids just want to be near us. They want to be noticed. "Look! Look!" "Do you see?" "Watch this!" They crave attention. They want love. They want us.

Usually I am right in the thick of everything, with a crowd of kids around me, but one night, at the end of a particularly intense day, I just wanted to go away and be by myself. I hid in the house. Still, the noisy chatter echoing just through the doorway started to grate on my senses. I didn't really know what I wanted, but part of me seemed to be yearning and longing for something, and part of me wanted to cry, and part of me was restless and unable to enjoy reading or any other activity I could think of. I was accosted by thoughts like, "I never want to have children as long as I live," and "I can't wait to go home." Again, that annoyance came back to me. "Why can't they just go away and leave us alone?" I thought. "Can't they pick a different place to play?"

(I hate to admit to the world that I have experienced these awful thoughts, but there they are, in all their ugliness.)

You're Not Allowed to Be Needy!

I think the puzzling aspect in common between these two stories is that (1) I am usually abundantly generous and (2) I usually love children. Yet in these two cases, I experienced great annoyance that someone would presume on my generosity or my love of children and expect me to give it.

Is it human nature, or is it just me?--to discover that I am happy to give (of myself or my money), but only as long as you don't come across as too needy or too demanding.

"I'll give to you," I seem to say, "but only if you're not needy. You're not allowed to be needy. Once you start to be needy, I will begin to withdraw from you."

I will buy you lunch if you're my friend, and I won't even expect you to buy me lunch in return, but if there's any hint that you are going to sap my resources and suck me dry, I probably won't buy you lunch even once.

I will play with children and be a "big sister" with all my heart, but when I'm expected to be mom, um, that's an investment of time and energy that I shrink away from.

I will give you attention and show you love, but when you start to act like your world revolves around me, that's not okay, and I will run the other direction.

But God doesn't say to be a cheerful giver only to the ones who are "not needy."

In fact, he cautions against giving to the rich. He specially highlights the widow and orphan (society's neediest) for our attention. He doesn't offer caveats like "minister only to the deserving poor" or "love the ones who don't have Reactive Attachment Disorder."

So What Am I Supposed to Do?

Good question. I'm still asking Him for wisdom on that one.

But some answers have come.

Timothy Keller, in his book, Ministries of Mercy, traces the source and origin of poverty to the fall, and highlights the fact that all of us are needy. We ourselves are recipients of mercy. His insights into what the Bible says about the poor smote me to the heart and caused me to repent of my supercilious attitude towards the women in outside the store in Saint Marc. No more did I wish to have a ready retort for them. How can I show them mercy instead? If I have nothing to give, I can at least mirror Peter and John's approach ("Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee...") How can I impart the love of Jesus, even in this kind of encounter? (And how do I avoid the equally egregious pitfall of saying, "Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled," without giving them what is needful for the body?)

Unlimited Resources 

In withdrawing from those who are needy, I tend to excuse it as a survival mechanism or a self-defense technique, using language to myself like "parasite" or "sapped" or "burned out." I tell myself I "need space," I look at the benefits of "recharging," and I consider it isn't wrong to leave a person to God and not always consider myself God's answer to that person's need.

True, true.

But this kind of thinking reveals a perspective of limited resources. I only have so much money, time, energy, and reserve before I need to replenish.

What if I looked at everything from the perspective of unlimited resources?

God has unlimited resources. All of us are needy before Him. We are always crying, coming to Him, needing His aid. He never turns us away with an annoyed look and says, "No, you're too needy right now. You're not allowed to be needy." He has merciful, bountiful care for all of the needy people in the world at the same time. He never runs out of love, patience, attention, or wisdom to attend to our needs. He always has enough resources to provide the supplies we need, even when we are like little leeches on Him, sucking, sucking, sucking, and never giving back. He freely gives grace, finances, strength, and peace.

Do I, or do I not, have the mind of Christ?

Scripture says that I do.

Then my mind ought to be equally disposed give to the needy around me.

How does God give? Does He worry that He will run out? Does He question whether the person is worthy? (The answer would always be no, wouldn't it?) Does He look at how many times that same person has been needy in the past and has applied to him for aid? Does He experience a rising feeling of panic that He will never be able to get away from this needy person if He once starts to give?

No.

So how can I practically enter into accessing God's unlimited resources for the needy people around me?

For starters, I can recognize that I walk in obedience. For everything God has called me to do, I can expect Him to supply out of the bottomless aquifer. The women begging outside the store are perhaps outside my call to obedience, unless God specifically prompts me to give in a certain instance (which He has done before, and which I have heeded). In any case, I can expect God to provide for them with or without using me as a tool to give them something. I need not feel annoyed that they beg, but rather love them and feel compassion that circumstances have compelled them to resort to begging.

Secondly, I can confidently and fearlessly spend myself wherever God calls me to do so. I can offer myself a living sacrifice and go all the way down into death if need be, if God should so desire. I need not attempt to keep a "reserve store" of energy or love or funds, because I have discovered that as I draw from His supply, He constantly replenishes that supply as much and as often as needed. My supplies ran out long ago. Everything I have is from Him. The children who surround me every day are the calling that God has currently given me. If I look to Him for the love and kindness that I spend on them, I need not ever feel annoyed at their neediness or sense that I have run out of anything to give them.

Conclusion

The next time I am tempted to protest, "You're not allowed to be needy!" I can stop and reconsider, and change my story to, "I'm not allowed to be the judge of your neediness--I will obediently and cheerfully follow God into whatever He calls me to do for you."

The key is God's call. I could start looking around and seeing neediness all around me, and it would be overwhelming, even should the entire world try to invest in relieving the needs. The only variable on my end is obedience. I must look up, not around, and merely obey, not try to invent ways for myself to be heroic and save the world. God has already done everything needful to achieve that. I simply enter into His initiatives, and when that involves giving to the needy (which it frequently will), I can freely and bountifully do so because of His power working in me.

Haitian Improvisation

When I was in Spain, I thought it was incredibly innovative to discover that you could wash windows without paper towels. I hand never done it any other way, but the Spanish women used newspapers. "Ah!" I thought. "What a brilliant money-saver." But here in Haiti, I think the level of improvisation is deeper and more creative. When you do without something, you just find something else to make do for the task at hand.

For instance...

Fingernail clippers

Dishrag

Rolling pin

Table 

Mop bucket

 

Baby wipes

Ironing board

No picture available: Tin can full of water sitting on the ground next to a bar of soap =

Handwashing station

Cereal Bowl

Math manipulatives

CD scratch repair kit (works!)

Strep Throat Cure (chew one whole every so often) (works!)

And then there are the things that have a proper use, and they're donated from America, and the Haitian has no idea of what they are or what they're for, so they come up with another use for them.

Clothes drying rack

And then there is another category: Things that Haitians have and use all the time that the American wouldn't know or understand without being told, like our charcoal grill range. 

Returning a Water Bottle

I had forgotten about this story until I was catching up in my journal and it came back to mind. Incidentally, this happened the same day as my Moto Ride Through Port-au-Prince. 

I was thirsty and hot. I paid the moto driver and then asked one of the nearby street vendors for a water bottle. It cost me 25 gourdes, and I asked if they had another one. They didn’t, but they went to get one from another vendor.

While they were gone, I opened the one I had. I tore off the plastic shrink wrap and opened the cap. The cap opened without ripping away from the little ring that is supposed to stay below the plastic lip at the bottom part of the lip of the bottle, and I thought, “Oh great. This is one of those bottles that they warned me about.” Joanne’s interpreter, Dony, had warned me that sometimes they took these bottles and refilled with them with different water which wasn’t safe to drink. When the vendor came back with another water bottle, I noticed that it was filled to a different level than the one I had. Without removing the shrink wrap, I twisted the cap slightly. I could see that it, too, was going to be able to unscrew without punching off the little safety ring. “Yep,” I thought. “These are bogus…not from the factory that the label says.” I had already paid for the second bottle, too, and I asked for my money back for both of them. I explained quite nicely and calmly that this bottle looked like it had been opened before, and I couldn’t drink that water, because it would make me sick. It made me sad to do it, because I was extremely thirsty, and I really, really wanted water, but I couldn’t drink water that was going to make me sick.

The guy gave me my money back for the second bottle, but not for the first. The reason for this, which I didn’t understand at the time, was that I had removed the plastic shrink wrap from the first bottle, and everyone had seen me do it. I could barely understand the Creole spoken around me, but I could gather bits and pieces of phrases here and there. I asked again, calmly and a bit beseechingly, for him to give me my money back. A crowd of people gathered around, and they all started speaking loudly with each other in Creole. One man came, as it were, to my defense, and I thought for a minute that I was going to get my money back. 25 gourdes is about 60 cents, so it wasn’t a huge deal, but I thought it was perfectly reasonable to expect to return something that showed obvious signs of being opened before and refilled. The man seemed to be demanding that the vendor return my money back to me. However, several people stepped in and said something I didn’t understand, which I afterward surmised must have been them reporting that they saw me take the plastic shrink wrap off, which, in their minds, meant that it certainly had not been opened before I touched it. The man shrugged his shoulders and disappeared into the crowd.

Another man shouldered his way forward, picked up the water bottle, and set it down with a decisive thump on the top of the cooler. “Take this bottle, and go away,” he said.

In that instant, something in the back of my mind told me that I ought to take his advice, go away, and just drop it. However, I didn’t obey my instincts.

“No, I want my money back,” I said, still calm, unruffled, and unafraid. “I can’t drink that water. It will make me sick.”

“Then take it and throw it away,” he said in exasperation. “You’ve lost it.”

That didn’t make any sense to me. Why had I lost it? Only afterward did I realize that in their minds, the presence or absence of the plastic shrink wrap (which I had taken off myself) formed the definition of “opened before,” while to me, it was the plastic cap itself, and the water level, and the whole aspect of this bottle being a “re-bottled” water. We were talking about two different things, and I didn’t know it, and they didn’t bother to understand my point of view. “No, I want my money back,” I repeated. I stood there, almost like a Haitian approaches an American, with my hand out, standing there without speaking.

More conversation ensued, more heated discussion in Creole by all the bystanders. Another person commanded me to take the bottle and go away. The voice in my head told me I’d better listen. I sighed. “Okay,” I agreed. I picked up the bottle and walked away.

Later, motivated by my extreme thirst, I drank the water. It didn’t ever make me sick.

But after that, whenever I walked by those vendors, someone would make a comment about a water bottle and 25 gourdes, and the whole crowd would burst out laughing. The first time it happened, I apologized humbly in my broken Creole for my role in that whole drama, but that caused another burst of laughter. It was somewhat intimidating to walk by there after that, because I felt that I had unwittingly made enemies, simply because I didn’t understand.

Aside: It’s interesting how one comes to understand things here. Having gone through this experience, I understand that it’s not quite as simple a matter as it is in America to make a return of a simple item. There is no such rule as “the customer is always right.” There is no allowance made for the defectiveness of an item being grounds for a return. Now I understand—but if some seasoned missionary had tried to tell me as much (which no one ever did, because there are so many of these things, no one could possibly keep track of them all to tell the newcomers), I would have believed it, but I wouldn’t have understood.

Things you will need in Haiti

These are a few items that the newcomer might not think of. Some of them will apply to everyone, but not others, depending on what kind of place you live in. They are available for purchase in Haiti, unless noted otherwise.

Buckets. You will probably need more than one of these. A bucket is not just a bucket. It is a hand washing station, a shower, a water-drawing tool, a trash can, a storage container, a mop bucket, a measurement tool, and so much more.

A hand pump for water. Clean water comes in large blue Culligan jugs. If you don't want to lift and pour these heavy jugs for every glass of water you drink, this plastic, relatively cheap pump is a helpful solution.

Rope/String. The first thing you'll need it for is lowering your bucket into the cistern to draw water. But there will be many other random unexpected uses for it, like holding your broken crib rails up, rigging a system to mount your mosquito net when you don't have a hook in the ceiling, or tying strings to the balloons (that you brought from the US) at your child's birthday party.

A propane/gas stove. Because it works whether you have power or not.

A hand-held fan. Nicer than fanning yourself with your Bible during church.

To be continued as I think of more items. Feel free to suggest other things in the comments!

Moto ride through Port Au Prince

I'm bouncing along on the back of the moto, passing scenes that are repeatedly different, exotic, and unforgettable. We ride on the dirt roads for a little while, where last night's rain created huge puddles that we creep through and still get splashed anyway. We pass pigs feeding on piles of garbage, lots of tiny little houses made of mud or corrugated tin, and a tiny little brown puppy trying rip the last few crumbs of food out of a bit of foil packaging. We mount to the top of a hill and see all of Port-au-Prince stretching out before us, and the distant mountains towering over all.

Eventually we make it on to the paved roads, where houses are built of cinder blocks without facade and people are bringing their things to market and men are making kissy-lips at me when I pass.

I have realized that my initial impression that there were no stores in Haiti was wrong--it's just that I didn't know where to look. Suddenly it dawned on me that the store is the street. Instead of aisles, sidewalks. Instead of parking your car and walking in, you just drive down the street until you see what you want, stop the car, roll down the window, ask for what you want, hand over the money, and drive on. We bought diapers out of a wheelbarrow in this way the other day. It's like a huge drive-through. Each person has about as much for sale as one can carry on his or her head, and each person has a different kind of product.

I called the moto because all I wanted to do was get some money at an ATM. At home, this would be a 15-minute affair. Pop out to the nearest bank, card in, money out, remove card, go home. Not so in Haiti. I'm discovering that everything takes longer here. Not just a little longer, but prohibitively longer.

The nearest bank is across town, and traffic is heavy. We weave in and out of the traffic, going through roundabouts at a perpendicular angle to the direction the cars are traveling. My knees pass inches away from  moving dump truck tires and car bumpers and the ubiquitous tap-taps. My driver honks his horn at pedestrians who weave in and out, trying to cross the street or hop onto a tap-tap. I see one man running along with a slow-moving car, wiping it down with a rag in exchange for a few goudes.

Half an hour later, we arrive at the bank and I dismount. I scan the outside of the bank. No ATM. I check the other wall. No ATM there, either. So... maybe it's inside? But there's a line of about 100 people stretching out the door. What in the world? I go up to the front of the line and poke my head in to ask the security guard if there's an ATM inside and if I can go inside to use it without waiting in line. He says there is none, and says, "56."

"56?" I repeat with a blank look on my face.

"56," he repeats. "Five, six."

"Five, six," I echo, still clueless.

"56 Delmas," he says. That sounds like an address. I go hop back on the moto and repeat that to the driver. He nods and we take off.

At 56 Delmas we stop at a different bank. I get off and scope this one out. Still no ATM. I ask the guard. "52," he says. I figure that is an address just like the 56. The moto driver seems to think so, and he takes off.

At the third bank, the guard outside says the ATM is inside. Finally! I go inside, and a guard there tells me that the ATM is for Haitians only and that I must go to the counter.

I go to the counter. "5,000 gourdes, please," I say to the woman.

"No," she says. "100 dollars."

I shrug. 5,000 gourdes would be 125 dollars, but I'll settle for $100, which would be about 4,000 gourdes. I figure that this is the bank's clever racket. If I put my card into the ATM and ask for 4,000 gourdes, it will spit out gourdes at the "official" exchange rate, but if the bank runs my credit card for $100, then they can give me gourdes at their own rate, taking their own cut out of the percentage they set for exchange.

She scans my credit card and driver's license and makes a printout, causing me to be very nervous with the possibility of identity theft. This is a bank, presumably a professional institution, but this is also Haiti. Why couldn't I just use the ATM? I think. That would be a lot easier; a lot safer; a lot quicker.

Then she makes me sign a paper and take it over to another counter.

I am the 5th person in line at this counter, but I count 35 people in line for the other counter, so I'm very grateful for the fact that I don't have to be in that line. Why does it have to be so difficult just to go to the bank?

I finally get up to the counter and hand my paper to the teller. He hands me back a $100 bill in US money. I look at it. "What?" I say. "No, I wanted gourdes."

"Well this paper says you wanted $100," he says.

"I asked the lady over there for gourdes, and she made me change it to dollars," I said. I really couldn't use a $100 bill. How would I ever break it? Fortunately, I had seen a woman two people ahead of me in line with a $100 bill in her hand, and I had seen them give her Haitian currency for it.

I handed the bill back to the teller. "Can you just change this for gourdes?" I asked.

He looked at it as if he was making a huge concession for me, being a hero and getting me out of my difficulty. He filled out another paper, made me sign it, and counted out the money. I got back 4120 gourdes, which, according to today's rate at xe.com, should have been 4215 gourdes. So they did get their cut after all, about 100 gourdes, or $2.50, which would be 2.5% of my $100.

I ask the teller, "Am I really not allowed to use the ATM?"

"No, you have to come to this counter," he says.

"Hmmm," I reply, silently vowing to find another ATM somewhere. If they have one in Saint Marc, they must have one here somewhere. This is Port-au-Prince, after all.

Finally, I leave the bank and hop back on the moto. We start back towards where we came from. Despite the fact that this is the middle of January, the sun is blazing hot (today's high was 86), and I can feel my face and my arms starting to burn. Dust flying in the air has already caked my hair with a grimy layer.

We drive by people digging ditches, a funeral procession that has traffic backed up for miles in the other direction, and some children who wave when they see a white woman on the back of a motorcycle. I wave back.

The moto driver stops at the gas station and puts 100 gourdes worth in the tank. That gives him half a gallon, making gas approximately $5.00 a gallon. Not nearly as bad as the UK!

By the time we get to our starting point, two and a half hours have passed. I am exhausted and thirsty from my trek, even though the moto has done all the work. I am toasted pink all over on every bit of exposed skin from the sun.

But there is a little smile playing on my lips and a little excitement leaping up in my heart at the fact that this is where I am and these are the kinds of things I get to do and see and experience.