Hey HUN,
Merely standing at your seat in a Haitian church is not sufficient to reserve it. Some friendly-looking churchgoer might just sidle up, exchange cordial greetings with you, and covertly plant a bible beneath you so that when you sit down, you are forced to scoot over. If you are a slow learner, you may just find that you have been cordially scooted right off the bench, at which point there is little choice but to seek out some innocent newcomer on whom to practice the same deception.
Well, maybe not. Certainly it is wise to defend your pew-turf with a strategically-placed bible, but it is unlikely that you--especially as a foreigner--would be altogether evicted. I told this story to typify and demonstrate the artistic license I have employed for this newsletter. While I have not made it difficult for the discerning reader to separate fact from hyperbole, I want to make this disclaimer for the sake of any guileless readers that might pick up a wholly inaccurate perception of Haitian culture thanks to the liberties I have taken.
This will be my final update to the Haitian Update Network. To some of you, this may come as a relief; others may experience the same poignancy that I do. But whether you have enjoyed these updates or merely tolerated them, I hope you have gotten a taste of the culture in which I have been immersed for the last three months.
As I prophesied before I left (I use the term loosely), Haiti has changed me much more than I have changed it. As I said to a friend recently, I have spent much of the last three months untangling my past, and the rest learning to live a less tangled life. This new lifestyle requires much more grace and patience than I have natively, but I definitely feel that I have made progress during my time here. I am not under the illusion that my work is done--fast changes are subject to fast remission--but I feel better able to handle hardship gracefully.
Aside from that, I have learned a great deal about religion, human nature, and about myself. I'm a little older, and a little wiser. I have learned this prayer: may my heart grow wise before my hands grow strong (from Love & Sleep, by John Crowley). But only time will tell how permanent these changes will be.
The purpose of the HUN has been to update you on this missions effort, an to update you on my personal life. The former mantle has now expired, and the latter will shift to a new newsletter which, in honor of my new location and in recognition of the irony of my change in circumstance, will be named FUN - the Floridan Update Network. All of you have subscribed to the HUN in support of a missions effort, and I feel that it would be unethical to automatically subscribe HUN members to a newsletter updates on my personal life. I will not be moving anybody over to this new list automatically, so if you'd like to be added, please let me know.
I wish I had some wise parting words to impart, but all I have for you is this: I cannot tell you how richly I have been blessed by my time here. I have your support to thank for the success of this trip. Should any of you need support in any regard, please drop me a message.
Until then, God bless you and keep you. Bondje beni'w,
Dan
-----------------------------------------------
View HUN archives.
Effective April 7th, my contact information will be:
Dan Kaschel
2011 E Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
231-631-3016
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
HUN Update, March 27, 2007
Hey HUN,
The clock struck midnight; March 23rd arrived like the black sheep in a family of holidays. All around the nation of Haiti, children turned in their beds. It was Friday, the last day of mid-term exams in hundreds of schools throughout the nation. I was aware of this fact, but oblivious to the fact that I was to be tested as well. In my naivety, I had thought that, perhaps, the fact that it was my departure date from the United States would preserve me. How very, very wrong I was.
I had returned home late, and stopped in the house only long enough to get water and a peanut butter sandwich before heading over to my apartment. It was another day without electricity--just one such day among many that week--so my door opened into darkness. I stepped in and set my things down on the table, the location of which I have learned by memory from similar dark days. I lit a candle and set it by my bed side, then read from my T.S. Elliot book. The Wasteland: a poem every bit as comforting as The Exorcist alone in the dark. At one point I remembered my peanut butter sandwich and went to get it. I continued reading while I ate.
It wasn't crunchy peanut butter, and yet it crunched. What could it mean? I hardly had to look at my sandwich to see the swarms of ants crawling in and out; the moment of testing had finally come. But experience is a good teacher, and I cast the ants a scornful glance, shook the sandwich slightly to dislodge a few, and continued eating. I needed the extra protein, anyway.
Twelve hours later, I was in the states; I'll be here until I return to Haiti on the 29th. It sounds so easy when I say it that way, doesn't it? Words have a strange ability to make stretches of time appear irrelevant, as if to say, "time passed, but nothing happened." Well, things have happened. For instance: I was waiting for my Mother to come pick me up from the airport when I realized that I could use the time to sort out some issues with my future plane tickets. I went to do so and meanwhile asked a nice British lady next to me to watch my bags. She was very friendly and agreed to do so, despite the intercom's warning against such things. When I returned, the poor woman was quite undone; I was so busy pitying her for whatever had happened that I didn't notice that my bags were gone. "The police took them!" she said. "I tried to stop them, but I couldn't!" She couldn't have been more distressed if she had been a murder witness. "Don't worry," I told her, "I'll take care of it. Thank you so much." I took off running down the hall.
I quickly reached the conclusion that, given that the airport had at least ten miles of public corridors, my random search would probably fail to produce results. I asked a security guard who directed me to the correct area. The "correct area" was a desk. Behind the desk was a woman. Perched atop the nose of that woman, like a small animal peering down from her face, were her glasses. Thick, leopard-patterned glasses with lenses as round and small as a silver dollar. I approached her and explained the situation as simply as I could: "ma'am, a police officer stole my bags, and I'll be needing them back, now." She asked me why a police officer would have stolen my bags, and I told her that it was probably because he had thought them unattended. Which, I explained, was the furthest thing from the truth. A nice British lady was watching them quite carefully.
But after this I was quite meek, and after some gently scolding they released my items into my custody. I got my cell phone out and saw three missed calls. Uh oh: my Mother was supposed to call when she arrived at the airport. I began running toward the exit, knocking down children and old people in my path. I met my mother without further mishap, and thus began our adventures, which belong, I suppose, to a different newsletter.
And maybe to a different life. I am frequently asked: was it difficult to adapt to Haitian life? And in all honesty, for the most part the answer has been "no." Aspects that have been difficult to deal with might have happened in Spain or Russia or Missouri. Very little about Haiti itself caused me significant distress. Going back to America may prove more difficult. Maybe it's because I'm used to the fact that the simple virtue of my location means that every day carries value to my resume, my relationship, and my religion. Have I grown to depend on that? It's hard to tell.
Now, I am no longer a policeman/soldier/fireman/missionary. My occupation no longer comes with a badge. I find myself worrying: is this the only meaningful thing I have ever done? Is this the only meaningful thing I will ever do? It is time to accept a new commission. And what that commission will be, only God knows, and only time can tell.
---------------------------------------
View blog archives.
Attention: I will be starting a new newsletter, if any of you are interested. In honor of my new location and in recognition of the irony of my change in circumstance, it will be named FUN - the Floridan Update Network. I will not be moving anybody over to this new list automatically, so if you'd like to be added, please let me know.
Effective March 23rd, I will be reachable at the same old number: 231-631-3016.
God Bless,
Dan
The clock struck midnight; March 23rd arrived like the black sheep in a family of holidays. All around the nation of Haiti, children turned in their beds. It was Friday, the last day of mid-term exams in hundreds of schools throughout the nation. I was aware of this fact, but oblivious to the fact that I was to be tested as well. In my naivety, I had thought that, perhaps, the fact that it was my departure date from the United States would preserve me. How very, very wrong I was.
I had returned home late, and stopped in the house only long enough to get water and a peanut butter sandwich before heading over to my apartment. It was another day without electricity--just one such day among many that week--so my door opened into darkness. I stepped in and set my things down on the table, the location of which I have learned by memory from similar dark days. I lit a candle and set it by my bed side, then read from my T.S. Elliot book. The Wasteland: a poem every bit as comforting as The Exorcist alone in the dark. At one point I remembered my peanut butter sandwich and went to get it. I continued reading while I ate.
It wasn't crunchy peanut butter, and yet it crunched. What could it mean? I hardly had to look at my sandwich to see the swarms of ants crawling in and out; the moment of testing had finally come. But experience is a good teacher, and I cast the ants a scornful glance, shook the sandwich slightly to dislodge a few, and continued eating. I needed the extra protein, anyway.
Twelve hours later, I was in the states; I'll be here until I return to Haiti on the 29th. It sounds so easy when I say it that way, doesn't it? Words have a strange ability to make stretches of time appear irrelevant, as if to say, "time passed, but nothing happened." Well, things have happened. For instance: I was waiting for my Mother to come pick me up from the airport when I realized that I could use the time to sort out some issues with my future plane tickets. I went to do so and meanwhile asked a nice British lady next to me to watch my bags. She was very friendly and agreed to do so, despite the intercom's warning against such things. When I returned, the poor woman was quite undone; I was so busy pitying her for whatever had happened that I didn't notice that my bags were gone. "The police took them!" she said. "I tried to stop them, but I couldn't!" She couldn't have been more distressed if she had been a murder witness. "Don't worry," I told her, "I'll take care of it. Thank you so much." I took off running down the hall.
I quickly reached the conclusion that, given that the airport had at least ten miles of public corridors, my random search would probably fail to produce results. I asked a security guard who directed me to the correct area. The "correct area" was a desk. Behind the desk was a woman. Perched atop the nose of that woman, like a small animal peering down from her face, were her glasses. Thick, leopard-patterned glasses with lenses as round and small as a silver dollar. I approached her and explained the situation as simply as I could: "ma'am, a police officer stole my bags, and I'll be needing them back, now." She asked me why a police officer would have stolen my bags, and I told her that it was probably because he had thought them unattended. Which, I explained, was the furthest thing from the truth. A nice British lady was watching them quite carefully.
But after this I was quite meek, and after some gently scolding they released my items into my custody. I got my cell phone out and saw three missed calls. Uh oh: my Mother was supposed to call when she arrived at the airport. I began running toward the exit, knocking down children and old people in my path. I met my mother without further mishap, and thus began our adventures, which belong, I suppose, to a different newsletter.
And maybe to a different life. I am frequently asked: was it difficult to adapt to Haitian life? And in all honesty, for the most part the answer has been "no." Aspects that have been difficult to deal with might have happened in Spain or Russia or Missouri. Very little about Haiti itself caused me significant distress. Going back to America may prove more difficult. Maybe it's because I'm used to the fact that the simple virtue of my location means that every day carries value to my resume, my relationship, and my religion. Have I grown to depend on that? It's hard to tell.
Now, I am no longer a policeman/soldier/fireman/missionary. My occupation no longer comes with a badge. I find myself worrying: is this the only meaningful thing I have ever done? Is this the only meaningful thing I will ever do? It is time to accept a new commission. And what that commission will be, only God knows, and only time can tell.
---------------------------------------
View blog archives.
Attention: I will be starting a new newsletter, if any of you are interested. In honor of my new location and in recognition of the irony of my change in circumstance, it will be named FUN - the Floridan Update Network. I will not be moving anybody over to this new list automatically, so if you'd like to be added, please let me know.
Effective March 23rd, I will be reachable at the same old number: 231-631-3016.
God Bless,
Dan
HUN Update, March 20, 2007
Hey HUN,
Month one: There's an ant in this loaf of bread. Umm... I'll wait for lunch.
Month two: This peanut butter is swarming with ants. I'll have to buy more tomorrow.
Month three: If I don't turn on the light, I won't be able to tell if there are ants until it's too late to care.
The guy who drives me to and from the airport (or the U.S. consulate) used to be a pimp. He managed two dozen prostitutes before God slapped him on the face and he decided to become a preacher. The guy I eat lunch with every day was arrested for armed robbery and deported to Haiti. He wandered aimlessly on the streets until he found a job teaching kindergarten. A good solid quarter of our church women have been prostitutes for some portion of their lives. Significantly more than a quarter of the men have at one time or another availed themselves of such services.
But my pimp driver is willing to leave work and spend hours out of his day to be a driver for an American he hardly knows. And my thug lunch mate is a philosophical guru who muses about physical manifestations of spiritual visions. And one of those ex-prostitutes makes my lunch every day. And one of those men preached a sermon last Sunday on sexual immorality.
You don't need to leave the States to see that God changes people's lives, but what has amazed me here is that people are willing to accept those changes. What would the public reaction in Traverse City be to a ex-con kindergarten teacher? He wouldn't just be an ex-con; he would be an ex-living ex-con. (Did I mention that he also sold heroine and cocaine, too? I must have forgotten.) But here, people are proud of their six-foot-four heavy-built gangster-talkin' teacher. Because you know what? He's great with kids. They learn really well with him despite crappy home situations and a lack of school supplies.
I've been reading a book on business policy, and it has stressed that the United States is a place where you can fail at business many times but still come back to succeed. Haiti doesn't really have that. If you can raise capital for one venture, you've done really well. But when it comes to giving people second chances, this nation wins hands down.
I'll be moving to Florida in a couple weeks. I'm flying there the 23rd and returning on the 29th with a load of equipment; then, on April 7th, I'll be moving to Tampa, Fl for an indefinite period of time. That's when I get my second chance. Of course, some people may ask why I need a second chance. I've never been in jail...well, not because I deserved it, anyway...and my legal record is clear of anything that would keep me from being nominated for local government.
But I've burned my share of bridges. I've under-committed and I've over-committed and I've had good things but managed them poorly. I've had money and lost money and the same goes for friends. In short, my home is full of mistakes and successes and I don't want that to become the context for the next segment of my life. I've learned a lot here, but to cement what I've learned I need to stay away from the old ruts. Does this make sense? I hope so, because I've spent plenty of time thinking about it.
It's been wonderful writing to all of you. Knowing that my major decisions would end up in a newsletter has motivated me to put a lot more thought into my reasoning, and sometimes to choose a different, better course. Because of that, and also because I want to keep in touch with people, my first FUN (Florida Update Network) newsletter will be sent out while I'm visiting Florida from the 23rd and the 29th. After that, there will be one more HUN, and then it will be done.
Rhyme intentional.
------------------------------
View blog archives.
Attention: I will be starting a new newsletter, if any of you are interested. In honor of my new location and in recognition of the irony of my change in circumstance, it will be named FUN - the Floridan Update Network. I will not be moving anybody over to this new list automatically, so if you'd like to be added, please let me know.
On March 23rd, I will travel to Florida to hang out with my mother and my Grandfather until the 29th. Please direct all packages and letters to my Grandfather's address so that I can pick them up when I get there. Nothing sent from now on will reach me fast enough to reach me. This is my current contact information:
Phone Number (cell): 011-509-617-7720Address for Letters & Packages (temporary): Dan Kaschel, c/o Jack Mendillo, 6746 Aliso Ave., West Palm Beach, Fl, 33413
Effective March 23rd, I will be reachable at the same old number: 231-631-3016.
God Bless,
Dan
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Record Eagle Post, March 18, 2007
The Last Episode
Posted on March 18th, 2007 by Dan Kaschel in Away From HomeAs a human, I’m permanently stuck in the present. Sure, I can remember things… but generally only as they relate to the present. The future yields its secrets one moment at a time.
That said, I don’t know if I would say that “time flies.” Provided that I have enough variety in my life, I tend to amble forward with enough time to enjoy the scenery, but without the waiting-for-a-page-to-load-with-dial-up-internet-access ennui. Still, after three months in Haiti, my inability to access the four-dimensionality of my past makes it seem almost instantaneous.
I’m leaving in under a week. Leaving for a new home and a new job; leaving for new opportunities and new ideas. I feel as if all the people from back home were little dots on my map; and now, I have zoomed out and the world looms large and every single person reading this in Traverse City looks like home. I’m excited to be away, but even twenty-year-olds deserve a certain amount of nostalgia.
This will be my last Away From Home entry, as I will no longer be in Haiti doing missions work. For those of you who are interested, I am beginning a newsletter for my Floridan Experiences. If you wish to be included, add a comment to this article with your e-mail address.
It has been a pleasure. Bondje beni’w (God bless you),
Dan
Visit the archives.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
HUN Update, March 14, 2007
Hey HUN,
This is going to be a short one. I just wanted to keep you updated on my life and plans. Big things are afoot!
After quite a bit of prayer and lots of helpful advice (my favorite piece: "ask your mom"), the Lord has led me to stay in Florida when I leave Haiti. That's right, my dear friends, family, neighbors, and brothers and sisters in Christ: our little group is about to be disbanded. While I have struggled a great deal with the pressure I felt to live according to human expectations, God has given me a lot of peace about this course of action, and I am confident that I am pursuing the correct path.
But my work is not nearly over. Jean has some plans for me while I'm in Florida to continue my work on his behalf, and the work for the next week or so has intensified immensely. I've been working on finding a pair of projectors for Jean's church; they are very high-quality, and are difficult to find for under four thousand dollars. I just found a pair of refurbished projectors of the precise model with brand new lamps for $1500 each. That is, both of them together will be less than a pretty good deal on one of them. This comes at a very fortunate time, because I can use my return ticket to Haiti to ship things over here more safely and with less risk.
Personally, I am setting about the formidable task of searching for a job and a place to live in Florida. I am very excited about the next chapter of my life, and I am eager to make the most of it. My goal is to establish a lifestyle with sufficient income to make a significant contribution to Jean's ministry. We'll see how that goes.
Naturally, these updates will cease by March 23rd. You've been a fantastic, encouraging group of people and have brought countless smiles into my life. Smiles are worth their weight in gold.
------------------------------
View blog archives.
Attention: I will be starting a new newsletter, if any of you are interested. In honor of my new location and in recognition of the irony in my change in circumstance, it will be named FUN - the Floridan Update Network. I will not be moving anybody over to this new list automatically, so if you'd like to be added, please let me know.
On March 23rd, I will travel to Florida to hang out with my mother and my Grandfather until the 29th. Please direct all packages and letters to my Grandfather's address so that I can pick them up when I get there. Nothing sent from now on will reach me fast enough to reach me. This is my current contact information:
Phone Number (cell): 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters & Packages (temporary): Dan Kaschel, c/o Jack Mendillo, 6746 Aliso Ave., West Palm Beach, Fl, 33413
Effective March 23rd, I will be reachable at the same old number: 231-631-3016.
God Bless,
Dan
This is going to be a short one. I just wanted to keep you updated on my life and plans. Big things are afoot!
After quite a bit of prayer and lots of helpful advice (my favorite piece: "ask your mom"), the Lord has led me to stay in Florida when I leave Haiti. That's right, my dear friends, family, neighbors, and brothers and sisters in Christ: our little group is about to be disbanded. While I have struggled a great deal with the pressure I felt to live according to human expectations, God has given me a lot of peace about this course of action, and I am confident that I am pursuing the correct path.
But my work is not nearly over. Jean has some plans for me while I'm in Florida to continue my work on his behalf, and the work for the next week or so has intensified immensely. I've been working on finding a pair of projectors for Jean's church; they are very high-quality, and are difficult to find for under four thousand dollars. I just found a pair of refurbished projectors of the precise model with brand new lamps for $1500 each. That is, both of them together will be less than a pretty good deal on one of them. This comes at a very fortunate time, because I can use my return ticket to Haiti to ship things over here more safely and with less risk.
Personally, I am setting about the formidable task of searching for a job and a place to live in Florida. I am very excited about the next chapter of my life, and I am eager to make the most of it. My goal is to establish a lifestyle with sufficient income to make a significant contribution to Jean's ministry. We'll see how that goes.
Naturally, these updates will cease by March 23rd. You've been a fantastic, encouraging group of people and have brought countless smiles into my life. Smiles are worth their weight in gold.
------------------------------
View blog archives.
Attention: I will be starting a new newsletter, if any of you are interested. In honor of my new location and in recognition of the irony in my change in circumstance, it will be named FUN - the Floridan Update Network. I will not be moving anybody over to this new list automatically, so if you'd like to be added, please let me know.
On March 23rd, I will travel to Florida to hang out with my mother and my Grandfather until the 29th. Please direct all packages and letters to my Grandfather's address so that I can pick them up when I get there. Nothing sent from now on will reach me fast enough to reach me. This is my current contact information:
Phone Number (cell): 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters & Packages (temporary): Dan Kaschel, c/o Jack Mendillo, 6746 Aliso Ave., West Palm Beach, Fl, 33413
Effective March 23rd, I will be reachable at the same old number: 231-631-3016.
God Bless,
Dan
Record Eagle Post, March 12, 2007
An Unexpected Change in Plans
Posted on March 12th, 2007 by Dan Kaschel in Away From Home
Posted on March 12th, 2007 by Dan Kaschel in Away From Home
I know Christopher Columbus is no longer in vogue — “but he didn’t really discover America” — but even so, what would you do if you were planning to sail to India for some good old-fashioned profitable trade and instead you ended up on some continent that wasn’t even on the maps? All things considered, I think good ol’ C.C. did rather well for himself. I mean, sometimes life just blindsides you, and you can either wilt or flower.
I had a talk with Jean, my host, who said the things I do for him are no longer things that I need to be local to do and that it’s an unjustified drain on his and my resources — he’s always very diplomatic — to keep me here. And, after moving past my initial feelings of rejection and disappointment, I suppose I agree.
But it sure does put me in an awkward situation. Jean knew I was visiting my mother and grandfather in Florida from March 23rd through the 29th, so I imagine that, in his eyes, I can follow the same plane without returning. It’s not that simple, though; first of all, my plane ticket goes to Florida, not Michigan, which means a plane ride I can’t afford or a very long walk. And frankly, I’m not ready to go back home, yet.
So I’m weighing my options — which, at this point, are limited to finding another ministry to work with in Haiti or staying in Florida where I can get a job and figure things out from there — and sitting tight and praying and just generally hoping that things will turn out fine.
And that’s my life today. Heaven knows what tomorrow will bring.
Dan
Monday, March 12, 2007
HUN Update, March 12, 2007
Hey HUN!
My first Haitian friend was Vilner, Jean and Marcia's eighteen-year-old cook. What was I to him? I was an extra mouth to feed. I was an extra dish to wash. I was the one who left sandals by the door step that he tripped on day after day after day. He spoke not a word of English, but thanks to his emphatic gestures and gentle nature, he managed to communicate somewhat.
I've never met anyone who reminded me more of a puppy. He was--and is--incredibly eager to please. One day I was filling my water bucket so my toilet would work, and, while I was waiting, he called, "cheve la!" "Sit over here!" I came over, and he picked a banana off the tree and gave it to me. It was green as a lime, but I opened it and behold! it was perfect. I ate it with obvious pleasure. He liked me for the simple reason that I was appreciative of the work he did.
I tried teaching him some Spanish. I have never met anyone with such a completely absent faculty for language. He can say two things now: "buenos dias" (good day), and "veinty-ocho" (twenty-eight). That's right. He knows how to say twenty-eight. It is beyond me how this managed to lodge in his head, but he now regularly hails me down and says with great enthusiasm: "veinty ocho!"
I remember sitting outside of the church during the evening service. I was reading a book when a little girl came up and took it from me. It was a thick, small-print book on business policy, and of course it was all Greek to her. "Eske sa ou'li pou mwen, supli?" she asked. "Will you read this to me, please?" I hardly knew what to say. Well, what the heck.
And so I read. And, to my great surprise, she paid attention. For several pages of case studies and financial evaluations--none of which would have made sense to her in Creole, much less English--she sat attentively. We were interrupted by another little girl who thought my nose was just about the strangest thing in the universe. She would touch it and squeeze it until I was forced to cover my face with my hands.
The some eight-year-old-ish boys joined us. They wanted to play a game: the one where you hold your hands palm-up underneath theirs (which are palm down) and try to slap the top of their hands. It is a game of reflex. We played for quite some time, and the girls would occasionally jump in.
Then some older girls, probably my age or a year or two younger, came and joined us. At this point I had moved on to faux-juggling. I would pretend to attempt easy feats--throwing up a rock and catching it, for instance, or juggling two rocks at a time--and fail miserably. To them, it was hilarious. Easy crowds!
Crowds, indeed. That group got bigger and bigger until I was entertaining ten or twelve people. I was starting to run out of ideas when boom! church ended and the group dissolved like smoke in a wind-storm except for one little boy who had (apparently) decided that he wanted to spend the rest of his life sitting next to me as if he were my manager. Or my little brother.
There are a lot of things I have done here. I have built and I have repaired and I have ordered and I have written. But the people , the experience of communication sans language, has been the most powerful part of my journey.
A man approached me yesterday. He spoke as best he could in English: "I want you know... if you sad you will call me and I pray for you so you can look up." God has been asking some difficult things of me lately, and I've had some really difficult decisions to make. What better prayer could there possibly be?
So that I can look up.
-----------------------------
Haitian Creole, Goodbye Edition
How're you doing? : Sa pase (sahk-pahs-eh) (Colloquial)
We're burning (aflame, ablaze). : N'ap boule (nahp-boo-leh) (Colloquial)
Goodbye : A revwa (ah-rev-wah) Derived from the French "au revoir"
See you later : M'we'w pita (mm-way-oo-pee-tah)
I love you : Mwen reme'w (mwehN-ray-may-oo)
------------------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates.
On March 23rd, I will travel to Florida to hang out with my mother and my Grandfather until the 29th. After that, I will not be staying with Jean, so please direct all packages and letters to my Grandfather's address so that I can pick them up when I get there. Nothing sent from now on will reach me fast enough at Jean's address to reach me. I am still not entirely sure of my direction from then on, but I have some options in mind and will keep you all informed.
Phone Number (cell): 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters & Packages (temporary): Dan Kaschel, c/o Jack Mendillo, 6746 Aliso Ave., West Palm Beach, Fl, 33413
God Bless,
Dan
My first Haitian friend was Vilner, Jean and Marcia's eighteen-year-old cook. What was I to him? I was an extra mouth to feed. I was an extra dish to wash. I was the one who left sandals by the door step that he tripped on day after day after day. He spoke not a word of English, but thanks to his emphatic gestures and gentle nature, he managed to communicate somewhat.
I've never met anyone who reminded me more of a puppy. He was--and is--incredibly eager to please. One day I was filling my water bucket so my toilet would work, and, while I was waiting, he called, "cheve la!" "Sit over here!" I came over, and he picked a banana off the tree and gave it to me. It was green as a lime, but I opened it and behold! it was perfect. I ate it with obvious pleasure. He liked me for the simple reason that I was appreciative of the work he did.
I tried teaching him some Spanish. I have never met anyone with such a completely absent faculty for language. He can say two things now: "buenos dias" (good day), and "veinty-ocho" (twenty-eight). That's right. He knows how to say twenty-eight. It is beyond me how this managed to lodge in his head, but he now regularly hails me down and says with great enthusiasm: "veinty ocho!"
I remember sitting outside of the church during the evening service. I was reading a book when a little girl came up and took it from me. It was a thick, small-print book on business policy, and of course it was all Greek to her. "Eske sa ou'li pou mwen, supli?" she asked. "Will you read this to me, please?" I hardly knew what to say. Well, what the heck.
And so I read. And, to my great surprise, she paid attention. For several pages of case studies and financial evaluations--none of which would have made sense to her in Creole, much less English--she sat attentively. We were interrupted by another little girl who thought my nose was just about the strangest thing in the universe. She would touch it and squeeze it until I was forced to cover my face with my hands.
The some eight-year-old-ish boys joined us. They wanted to play a game: the one where you hold your hands palm-up underneath theirs (which are palm down) and try to slap the top of their hands. It is a game of reflex. We played for quite some time, and the girls would occasionally jump in.
Then some older girls, probably my age or a year or two younger, came and joined us. At this point I had moved on to faux-juggling. I would pretend to attempt easy feats--throwing up a rock and catching it, for instance, or juggling two rocks at a time--and fail miserably. To them, it was hilarious. Easy crowds!
Crowds, indeed. That group got bigger and bigger until I was entertaining ten or twelve people. I was starting to run out of ideas when boom! church ended and the group dissolved like smoke in a wind-storm except for one little boy who had (apparently) decided that he wanted to spend the rest of his life sitting next to me as if he were my manager. Or my little brother.
There are a lot of things I have done here. I have built and I have repaired and I have ordered and I have written. But the people , the experience of communication sans language, has been the most powerful part of my journey.
A man approached me yesterday. He spoke as best he could in English: "I want you know... if you sad you will call me and I pray for you so you can look up." God has been asking some difficult things of me lately, and I've had some really difficult decisions to make. What better prayer could there possibly be?
So that I can look up.
-----------------------------
Haitian Creole, Goodbye Edition
How're you doing? : Sa pase (sahk-pahs-eh) (Colloquial)
We're burning (aflame, ablaze). : N'ap boule (nahp-boo-leh) (Colloquial)
Goodbye : A revwa (ah-rev-wah) Derived from the French "au revoir"
See you later : M'we'w pita (mm-way-oo-pee-tah)
I love you : Mwen reme'w (mwehN-ray-may-oo)
------------------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates.
On March 23rd, I will travel to Florida to hang out with my mother and my Grandfather until the 29th. After that, I will not be staying with Jean, so please direct all packages and letters to my Grandfather's address so that I can pick them up when I get there. Nothing sent from now on will reach me fast enough at Jean's address to reach me. I am still not entirely sure of my direction from then on, but I have some options in mind and will keep you all informed.
Phone Number (cell): 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters & Packages (temporary): Dan Kaschel, c/o Jack Mendillo, 6746 Aliso Ave., West Palm Beach, Fl, 33413
God Bless,
Dan
HUN Update, March 12, 2007
Hey HUN!
My first Haitian friend was Vilner, Jean and Marcia's eighteen-year-old cook. What was I to him? I was an extra mouth to feed. I was an extra dish to wash. I was the one who left sandals by the door step that he tripped on day after day after day. He spoke not a word of English, but thanks to his emphatic gestures and gentle nature, he managed to communicate somewhat.
I've never met anyone who reminded me more of a puppy. He was--and is--incredibly eager to please. One day I was filling my water bucket so my toilet would work, and, while I was waiting, he called, "cheve la!" "Sit over here!" I came over, and he picked a banana off the tree and gave it to me. It was green as a lime, but I opened it and behold! it was perfect. I ate it with obvious pleasure. He liked me for the simple reason that I was appreciative of the work he did.
I tried teaching him some Spanish. I have never met anyone with such a completely absent faculty for language. He can say two things now: "buenos dias" (good day), and "veinty-ocho" (twenty-eight). That's right. He knows how to say twenty-eight. It is beyond me how this managed to lodge in his head, but he now regularly hails me down and says with great enthusiasm: "veinty ocho!"
I remember sitting outside of the church during the evening service. I was reading a book when a little girl came up and took it from me. It was a thick, small-print book on business policy, and of course it was all Greek to her. "Eske sa ou'li pou mwen, supli?" she asked. "Will you read this to me, please?" I hardly knew what to say. Well, what the heck.
And so I read. And, to my great surprise, she paid attention. For several pages of case studies and financial evaluations--none of which would have made sense to her in Creole, much less English--she sat attentively. We were interrupted by another little girl who thought my nose was just about the strangest thing in the universe. She would touch it and squeeze it until I was forced to cover my face with my hands.
Then some eight-year-old-ish boys joined us. They wanted to play a game: the one where you hold your hands palm-up underneath theirs (which are palm down) and try to slap the top of their hands. It is a game of reflex. We played for quite some time, and the girls would occasionally jump in.
Then some older girls, probably my age or a year or two younger, came and joined us. At this point I had moved on to faux-juggling. I would pretend to attempt easy feats--throwing up a rock and catching it, for instance, or juggling two rocks at a time--and fail miserably. To them, it was hilarious. Easy crowds!
Crowds, indeed. That group got bigger and bigger until I was entertaining ten or twelve people. I was starting to run out of ideas when boom! church ended and the group dissolved like smoke in a wind-storm except for one little boy who had (apparently) decided that he wanted to spend the rest of his life sitting next to me as if he were my manager. Or my little brother.
There are a lot of things I have done here. I have built and I have repaired and I have ordered and I have written. But the people, the experience of communication sans language, has been the most powerful part of my journey.
A man approached me yesterday. He spoke as best he could in English: "I want you know... if you sad you will call me and I pray for you so you can look up." God has been asking some difficult things of me lately, and I've had some really difficult decisions to make. What better prayer could there possibly be?
So that I can look up.
-----------------------------
Haitian Creole, Goodbye Edition
How're you doing? : Sa pase (sahk-pahs-eh) (Colloquial)
We're burning (aflame, ablaze). : N'ap boule (nahp-boo-leh) (Colloquial)
Goodbye : A revwa (ah-rev-wah) Derived from the French "au revoir"
See you later : M'we'w pita (mm-way-oo-pee-tah)
I love you : Mwen reme'w (mwehN-ray-may-oo)
------------------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates.
On March 23rd, I will travel to Florida to hang out with my mother and my Grandfather until the 29th. After that, I will not be staying with Jean, so please direct all packages and letters to my Grandfather's address so that I can pick them up when I get there. Nothing sent from now on will reach me fast enough at Jean's address to reach me. I am still not entirely sure of my direction from then on, but I have some options in mind and will keep you all informed.
Phone Number (cell): 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters & Packages (temporary): Dan Kaschel, c/o Jack Mendillo, 6746 Aliso Ave., West Palm Beach, Fl, 33413
God Bless,
Dan
My first Haitian friend was Vilner, Jean and Marcia's eighteen-year-old cook. What was I to him? I was an extra mouth to feed. I was an extra dish to wash. I was the one who left sandals by the door step that he tripped on day after day after day. He spoke not a word of English, but thanks to his emphatic gestures and gentle nature, he managed to communicate somewhat.
I've never met anyone who reminded me more of a puppy. He was--and is--incredibly eager to please. One day I was filling my water bucket so my toilet would work, and, while I was waiting, he called, "cheve la!" "Sit over here!" I came over, and he picked a banana off the tree and gave it to me. It was green as a lime, but I opened it and behold! it was perfect. I ate it with obvious pleasure. He liked me for the simple reason that I was appreciative of the work he did.
I tried teaching him some Spanish. I have never met anyone with such a completely absent faculty for language. He can say two things now: "buenos dias" (good day), and "veinty-ocho" (twenty-eight). That's right. He knows how to say twenty-eight. It is beyond me how this managed to lodge in his head, but he now regularly hails me down and says with great enthusiasm: "veinty ocho!"
I remember sitting outside of the church during the evening service. I was reading a book when a little girl came up and took it from me. It was a thick, small-print book on business policy, and of course it was all Greek to her. "Eske sa ou'li pou mwen, supli?" she asked. "Will you read this to me, please?" I hardly knew what to say. Well, what the heck.
And so I read. And, to my great surprise, she paid attention. For several pages of case studies and financial evaluations--none of which would have made sense to her in Creole, much less English--she sat attentively. We were interrupted by another little girl who thought my nose was just about the strangest thing in the universe. She would touch it and squeeze it until I was forced to cover my face with my hands.
Then some eight-year-old-ish boys joined us. They wanted to play a game: the one where you hold your hands palm-up underneath theirs (which are palm down) and try to slap the top of their hands. It is a game of reflex. We played for quite some time, and the girls would occasionally jump in.
Then some older girls, probably my age or a year or two younger, came and joined us. At this point I had moved on to faux-juggling. I would pretend to attempt easy feats--throwing up a rock and catching it, for instance, or juggling two rocks at a time--and fail miserably. To them, it was hilarious. Easy crowds!
Crowds, indeed. That group got bigger and bigger until I was entertaining ten or twelve people. I was starting to run out of ideas when boom! church ended and the group dissolved like smoke in a wind-storm except for one little boy who had (apparently) decided that he wanted to spend the rest of his life sitting next to me as if he were my manager. Or my little brother.
There are a lot of things I have done here. I have built and I have repaired and I have ordered and I have written. But the people, the experience of communication sans language, has been the most powerful part of my journey.
A man approached me yesterday. He spoke as best he could in English: "I want you know... if you sad you will call me and I pray for you so you can look up." God has been asking some difficult things of me lately, and I've had some really difficult decisions to make. What better prayer could there possibly be?
So that I can look up.
-----------------------------
Haitian Creole, Goodbye Edition
How're you doing? : Sa pase (sahk-pahs-eh) (Colloquial)
We're burning (aflame, ablaze). : N'ap boule (nahp-boo-leh) (Colloquial)
Goodbye : A revwa (ah-rev-wah) Derived from the French "au revoir"
See you later : M'we'w pita (mm-way-oo-pee-tah)
I love you : Mwen reme'w (mwehN-ray-may-oo)
------------------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates.
On March 23rd, I will travel to Florida to hang out with my mother and my Grandfather until the 29th. After that, I will not be staying with Jean, so please direct all packages and letters to my Grandfather's address so that I can pick them up when I get there. Nothing sent from now on will reach me fast enough at Jean's address to reach me. I am still not entirely sure of my direction from then on, but I have some options in mind and will keep you all informed.
Phone Number (cell): 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters & Packages (temporary): Dan Kaschel, c/o Jack Mendillo, 6746 Aliso Ave., West Palm Beach, Fl, 33413
God Bless,
Dan
HUN Update, March 9, 2007
Hey HUN,
There is just one person in this country that dislikes me. She is short and wears simple dresses with either white Adidas sneakers or her green off-brand sneakers, neither of which fit her. Her head is a perfect upright oval, and she wears a knit hat everywhere she goes. She smiles a lot, but doesn't talk very much. After all, she's a cook.
But I suppose I should have said that first. The church cook dislikes me. It all began a few weeks ago when Jean and Marci were on a trip to Jamaica, and that very same cook came to stay at our house to look after the children. I did my very best to stay out of her way because she always expects me to know more Creole than I really do and so I constantly have to ask her to repeat herself. But not in a mean way, because I liked her. I suppose I still do, whatever the circumstances.
Well, one night, she made this soupy stuff, the consistency of which reminds me a great deal of melted ice cream. It is yellow, contains cinnamon and bananas, and is sickeningly sweet. The first time I had it, a week or two into my stay, I came close to throwing up after just a few mouthfuls. It was a memorable experience and one I had no desire to repeat. I apologized profusely (in my broken Creole) and told her that I was sorry, but I wasn't hungry.
She said something. I blinked. It didn't sound like something that "yes" or "okay" would fix, so I waited and nodded a little and hoped she would be satisfied. She kept standing there. One of the children came to my aid, saying: "she says, while I'm in charge, you eat what I put in front of you."
I'd love to color myself perfect, but that got to me. First of all, ma'am, you're not in charge of me. You are in charge of them. The children. I've paid my dues. Secondly, nothing goes down my throat if I don't approve of it. Them's the rules. And thirdly, it is not possible for me to ingest this substance without generating a number of clean-up jobs for all of you. This isn't even a meal--it's just a snack! So get off my back.
I pretended that I still didn't understand, shrugged, and walked out to my apartment (this was soon after I had moved to the apartment). A couple weeks later, she protested to Jean that I had been rude and unmanageable. Jean was very upset and spoke to me about it. I apologized and assured him that it wouldn't happen again. What else could I do?
At first I was very unhappy with her, but over a couple of days I acknowledged that what I had done was culturally very rude, and that I had to let go and forgive and forget. And let's face it: being mad at a cook isn't really something I can do. If you feed me long enough, I can forgive almost anything.
But she still dislikes me. She still gives me the same forced smiles no matter what I do. She makes off-handed comments about me to the kitchen staff that she thinks I don't understand. I smile as if I'm clueless and sit down to eat. She cooks well.
It is a melancholy fact, to know that there is somebody in Haiti who wouldn't be pleased to see me return. And as my mind searches for a lesson to be learned from this situation, I find that it feels complete unto itself, as if this particular story has no moral, and offers itself not to be learned, but to be realized. Do you realize, Dan, that sometimes you will do things that you never have the opportunity to fix?
I read in a children's devotional a while ago: "Everybody gets mad sometimes. It is especially easy for us to get mad at the people we love, like our family and our friends and even God, because we know they will keep loving us even if we are mean to them. But it is still important to do what is right." You never know when you will say something that sticks.
----------------------------
No Haitian Creole today. That was one day when I was happier not to know it. So in the name of symbolic consistency... the lesson is canceled for today. But hey, I've already collected several admissions of skipping it anyway, so I don't think I'll seriously upset anybody. :)
There is just one person in this country that dislikes me. She is short and wears simple dresses with either white Adidas sneakers or her green off-brand sneakers, neither of which fit her. Her head is a perfect upright oval, and she wears a knit hat everywhere she goes. She smiles a lot, but doesn't talk very much. After all, she's a cook.
But I suppose I should have said that first. The church cook dislikes me. It all began a few weeks ago when Jean and Marci were on a trip to Jamaica, and that very same cook came to stay at our house to look after the children. I did my very best to stay out of her way because she always expects me to know more Creole than I really do and so I constantly have to ask her to repeat herself. But not in a mean way, because I liked her. I suppose I still do, whatever the circumstances.
Well, one night, she made this soupy stuff, the consistency of which reminds me a great deal of melted ice cream. It is yellow, contains cinnamon and bananas, and is sickeningly sweet. The first time I had it, a week or two into my stay, I came close to throwing up after just a few mouthfuls. It was a memorable experience and one I had no desire to repeat. I apologized profusely (in my broken Creole) and told her that I was sorry, but I wasn't hungry.
She said something. I blinked. It didn't sound like something that "yes" or "okay" would fix, so I waited and nodded a little and hoped she would be satisfied. She kept standing there. One of the children came to my aid, saying: "she says, while I'm in charge, you eat what I put in front of you."
I'd love to color myself perfect, but that got to me. First of all, ma'am, you're not in charge of me. You are in charge of them. The children. I've paid my dues. Secondly, nothing goes down my throat if I don't approve of it. Them's the rules. And thirdly, it is not possible for me to ingest this substance without generating a number of clean-up jobs for all of you. This isn't even a meal--it's just a snack! So get off my back.
I pretended that I still didn't understand, shrugged, and walked out to my apartment (this was soon after I had moved to the apartment). A couple weeks later, she protested to Jean that I had been rude and unmanageable. Jean was very upset and spoke to me about it. I apologized and assured him that it wouldn't happen again. What else could I do?
At first I was very unhappy with her, but over a couple of days I acknowledged that what I had done was culturally very rude, and that I had to let go and forgive and forget. And let's face it: being mad at a cook isn't really something I can do. If you feed me long enough, I can forgive almost anything.
But she still dislikes me. She still gives me the same forced smiles no matter what I do. She makes off-handed comments about me to the kitchen staff that she thinks I don't understand. I smile as if I'm clueless and sit down to eat. She cooks well.
It is a melancholy fact, to know that there is somebody in Haiti who wouldn't be pleased to see me return. And as my mind searches for a lesson to be learned from this situation, I find that it feels complete unto itself, as if this particular story has no moral, and offers itself not to be learned, but to be realized. Do you realize, Dan, that sometimes you will do things that you never have the opportunity to fix?
I read in a children's devotional a while ago: "Everybody gets mad sometimes. It is especially easy for us to get mad at the people we love, like our family and our friends and even God, because we know they will keep loving us even if we are mean to them. But it is still important to do what is right." You never know when you will say something that sticks.
----------------------------
No Haitian Creole today. That was one day when I was happier not to know it. So in the name of symbolic consistency... the lesson is canceled for today. But hey, I've already collected several admissions of skipping it anyway, so I don't think I'll seriously upset anybody. :)
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
HUN Update, March 6, 2007
Hey HUN,
I woke up this morning with wool socks. They're probably the only pair in Haiti, but I doubt I could convince anybody to take them unless I paid them. "But they're warm, even when they're wet!" Yup... somehow not a selling point here. I was also wearing fleece pants and a gray hoodie. Basically I was the polar opposite of the Haitian that refuses to believe in snow. Get it? Polar opposite? Good one.
The story: I woke up at about four this morning from a lovely dream about kickboxing with jackrabbits and remembered quickly that my sheets were being washed and hence were not with me. I did not remember because I was cold, but because in the last several hours my feet had become an aerial view of the the Pacific Ring of Fire. I had so many bug bites that plunging a knife into my foot to scratch them was beginning to sound attractive. And so I decided to protect myself.
And it worked. No more bites. A little hot, but no more bites.
When those things happen, I like it. I'm the type of person that doesn't feel engaged by life unless he's doing something. Routines are like vitamins to me; they're necessary to keep me running, but they're not the part of my diet that I enjoy. That's an issue here, because in Haiti, routines are a luxury. Routines mean security and predictability and safety--real assets in a city with more per capita kidnapping than any other place in the world.
But I see walls topped with broken glass and razor wire and think, "how could I climb over that?" There's a locked metal door between me and a piano, and I spend fifteen minutes finding out that I could fit between two bars if I was stark naked. Jean wants to move his projectors off-center a few feet, and I spent the next two hours learning about keystoning. Frankly, if it's not a challenge, what's the point?
The point is that I am here to be an asset to Jean in any way that I can, not to entertain myself. There are plenty of challenges to be had here, but I came here for a purpose and the purpose is not me. How natural it feels to focus on myself. How inevitable. I've taken to recalling my true focus every morning just to start off my day the right way.
We humans... no, I'll speak for myself. I, as a human, am capable of thinking about three or four things at once, and concentrating on about... one. That means that I remain precisely the same distance from my goal until I refocus. It's a chilling thought.
Makes me want to find those wool socks.
------------------------------
Haitian Creole, anyone? Me too. Today we'll just jump right in and pick up some new vocabulary and grammatical familiarity.
Is that the one you want? : Eske se sa-a ou vli? (ess-kay-say-sah-ah-oo-vlee) "Eske" turns any sentence into a question. "Sa-a" (a little tricky to pronounce) is equivalent to the English phrase "the one." Literally, it means "the this."
Other : Lot (loht)
The other book is really good. : Lot liv la bon anpil. (loht-leev-lah-boN-ahN-peel) Note the implied, but omitted, "to be"
------------------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
I woke up this morning with wool socks. They're probably the only pair in Haiti, but I doubt I could convince anybody to take them unless I paid them. "But they're warm, even when they're wet!" Yup... somehow not a selling point here. I was also wearing fleece pants and a gray hoodie. Basically I was the polar opposite of the Haitian that refuses to believe in snow. Get it? Polar opposite? Good one.
The story: I woke up at about four this morning from a lovely dream about kickboxing with jackrabbits and remembered quickly that my sheets were being washed and hence were not with me. I did not remember because I was cold, but because in the last several hours my feet had become an aerial view of the the Pacific Ring of Fire. I had so many bug bites that plunging a knife into my foot to scratch them was beginning to sound attractive. And so I decided to protect myself.
And it worked. No more bites. A little hot, but no more bites.
When those things happen, I like it. I'm the type of person that doesn't feel engaged by life unless he's doing something. Routines are like vitamins to me; they're necessary to keep me running, but they're not the part of my diet that I enjoy. That's an issue here, because in Haiti, routines are a luxury. Routines mean security and predictability and safety--real assets in a city with more per capita kidnapping than any other place in the world.
But I see walls topped with broken glass and razor wire and think, "how could I climb over that?" There's a locked metal door between me and a piano, and I spend fifteen minutes finding out that I could fit between two bars if I was stark naked. Jean wants to move his projectors off-center a few feet, and I spent the next two hours learning about keystoning. Frankly, if it's not a challenge, what's the point?
The point is that I am here to be an asset to Jean in any way that I can, not to entertain myself. There are plenty of challenges to be had here, but I came here for a purpose and the purpose is not me. How natural it feels to focus on myself. How inevitable. I've taken to recalling my true focus every morning just to start off my day the right way.
We humans... no, I'll speak for myself. I, as a human, am capable of thinking about three or four things at once, and concentrating on about... one. That means that I remain precisely the same distance from my goal until I refocus. It's a chilling thought.
Makes me want to find those wool socks.
------------------------------
Haitian Creole, anyone? Me too. Today we'll just jump right in and pick up some new vocabulary and grammatical familiarity.
Is that the one you want? : Eske se sa-a ou vli? (ess-kay-say-sah-ah-oo-vlee) "Eske" turns any sentence into a question. "Sa-a" (a little tricky to pronounce) is equivalent to the English phrase "the one." Literally, it means "the this."
Other : Lot (loht)
The other book is really good. : Lot liv la bon anpil. (loht-leev-lah-boN-ahN-peel) Note the implied, but omitted, "to be"
------------------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
Friday, March 2, 2007
Record Eagle Post, March 2, 2007
Haitian Culture: A Survival Guide
And now I present to you: Dan Kaschel, straight from the school of hard knocks!
Sure, you go to a new country, and you expect a new culture. What I didn't quite get is that Haitians aren't any more aware of their cultural idiosyncrasies than Americans are. So when I asked them if there were things I should look out for, their suggestions came pathetically short of truly informing me. So here are a few tips on how to avoid offending Haitians.
- Respect is everything. Among themselves, firstly--which means always referring to people by their titles (first names are very informal here, and most Haitians will introduce themselves by their last names) and always greeting people as they pass by--but especially among elders. It is considered rude to whistle around your elders, or to cross your legs. It is a sign of impertinence, and it is taken very offensively.
- Gender equality does not exist. Because of strictly enforced gender roles, it is pretty much unheard of for men and women to be close friend outside of a romantic relationship. When I visited a friend who was on a mission trip here at a hotel, it was a bit scandalous. Oops.
- Possessions are jealously guarded. Everything is under lock and key to keep it safe, and a sure way to make a Haitian enemy is to give him or her the idea that you have access to his or her possessions. So if you can pick locks, just don't tell anybody. It's better that way. Possessions--and privacy, similarly--border on sacred.
If I had known these things--or if somebody has been aware enough to tell me--I would have been much better off. But I didn't, and nobody was, so now I'm telling you. If you go to Haiti, be cautious.
But don't let that scare you off. Haitians are very complex, and understanding them wholly is the work of many rewarding lifetimes. If you ever happen to stop by, look me up and we can say hello.
If you're a man. Of course.
Dan
For more about me and my adventures here in Haiti, see my newsletter archive.
HUN Update, March 2, 2007
Hey HUN,
I came to Hotel Montana yesterday in Petitionville (pronounced pay-shoN-vi, and don't ask me where the silent syllables go) to meet my best friend from the States, who was here on a mission trip. I was here an hour or two before her, so I immediately made use of the most undervalued resource in the world: hot water. My first real shower in two months; it was a treat.
It is a beautiful place, and I spent some time walking on the paths. One of the things I noticed was how American I felt. I have felt American all my life, so I never really knew any different, but two months in Haiti has caused a different perspective to filter into my mind. The internal switch was automatic. One moment I had an American-Haitian mentality cross, and the next I was a 100% full-blooded American. The change was palpable. I walked differently--I knew that I was important and entitled to respect. I resumed the American dynamic: you pay, you get served; you serve, you get payed. I was paying, so it was a fair assumption that the entire Hotel staff was at my disposal.
I'm not saying this ironically. I think that's an appropriate mindset in the United States, though of course everybody should be treated with courtesy and respect. I'm just saying that I never understood my own mindset until I had adopted a different one. I might even go so far as to say that I miss feeling like an American. The sense of self-evident self-worth that is so very cultural in the US is absent here, and as I slowly revert I feel almost as if my value is draining away from me. It is a strong indicator of the power of one's own sense of value.
The experience came at a good time for me. Jean has expressed an uncertainty as to whether the work he has for me merits six months of my time, since much of what I do (research, writing, correspondence) can be done from the States. I understand where he's coming from, but it's difficult not to feel rejected. So I have had some time to think, and some time to talk with somebody I trust. Actually, I didn't talk to my friend extensively about it, but sometimes it's encouraging just to tell someone about it.
"Plan one" is to make every effort to be an asset to Jean and thereby justify my time with him. But if that is impossible, my time here at the Hotel Montana has spawned some other possibilities as well. During the twenty-four hours of my stay, I gained two contacts, both of which would be grateful for my help in their ministries. It is possible that I may be able to distribute myself in that manner. It's just a fledgling idea at this point, but I'll begin praying about it immediately.
I had feared in coming to stay here that it would be like leaving American all over again. But it really wasn't. As American as I felt, there must be some part of my mind that has decided that this place--Haiti--is now my home. That is disconcerting to me. And exciting. And a little weighty.
After spending just one week, my best friend and her group members spoke of how one leaves a part of one's heart in Haiti upon leaving. After two months, my heart seems to have settled down here almost in its entirety. After four more months, I wonder how much I'll still have to bring back.
-----------------------------
Haitian Creole today will be dedicated to the Raincatcher's mission group, which managed to learn one Creole phrase while here: "se pa piki" (say-pah-pee-kee), which means "it's not a shot."
Here's a few simple, useful Creole words that I use every day.
Thank you : Mesi (may-see) -- derived from the French "merci."
You're welcome : Derien (deh-ree-eN) -- Remember, the capital "N" is a nasal vowel indicator
Good morning : Bonjou (boN-zhoo)
Good evening : Bonswa (boN-swah)
Good night : Bon nuit (boN-noo-eet) -- Only used when you're going to sleep or leaving, not as a greeting
How are you? : Koman ou ye? (koh-maN-oo-yay)
I'm fine : M'bien (mm-bee-eN)
I may be a little late on this, but hey: better late than never, right? Right. Right...
------------------------------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
I came to Hotel Montana yesterday in Petitionville (pronounced pay-shoN-vi, and don't ask me where the silent syllables go) to meet my best friend from the States, who was here on a mission trip. I was here an hour or two before her, so I immediately made use of the most undervalued resource in the world: hot water. My first real shower in two months; it was a treat.
It is a beautiful place, and I spent some time walking on the paths. One of the things I noticed was how American I felt. I have felt American all my life, so I never really knew any different, but two months in Haiti has caused a different perspective to filter into my mind. The internal switch was automatic. One moment I had an American-Haitian mentality cross, and the next I was a 100% full-blooded American. The change was palpable. I walked differently--I knew that I was important and entitled to respect. I resumed the American dynamic: you pay, you get served; you serve, you get payed. I was paying, so it was a fair assumption that the entire Hotel staff was at my disposal.
I'm not saying this ironically. I think that's an appropriate mindset in the United States, though of course everybody should be treated with courtesy and respect. I'm just saying that I never understood my own mindset until I had adopted a different one. I might even go so far as to say that I miss feeling like an American. The sense of self-evident self-worth that is so very cultural in the US is absent here, and as I slowly revert I feel almost as if my value is draining away from me. It is a strong indicator of the power of one's own sense of value.
The experience came at a good time for me. Jean has expressed an uncertainty as to whether the work he has for me merits six months of my time, since much of what I do (research, writing, correspondence) can be done from the States. I understand where he's coming from, but it's difficult not to feel rejected. So I have had some time to think, and some time to talk with somebody I trust. Actually, I didn't talk to my friend extensively about it, but sometimes it's encouraging just to tell someone about it.
"Plan one" is to make every effort to be an asset to Jean and thereby justify my time with him. But if that is impossible, my time here at the Hotel Montana has spawned some other possibilities as well. During the twenty-four hours of my stay, I gained two contacts, both of which would be grateful for my help in their ministries. It is possible that I may be able to distribute myself in that manner. It's just a fledgling idea at this point, but I'll begin praying about it immediately.
I had feared in coming to stay here that it would be like leaving American all over again. But it really wasn't. As American as I felt, there must be some part of my mind that has decided that this place--Haiti--is now my home. That is disconcerting to me. And exciting. And a little weighty.
After spending just one week, my best friend and her group members spoke of how one leaves a part of one's heart in Haiti upon leaving. After two months, my heart seems to have settled down here almost in its entirety. After four more months, I wonder how much I'll still have to bring back.
-----------------------------
Haitian Creole today will be dedicated to the Raincatcher's mission group, which managed to learn one Creole phrase while here: "se pa piki" (say-pah-pee-kee), which means "it's not a shot."
Here's a few simple, useful Creole words that I use every day.
Thank you : Mesi (may-see) -- derived from the French "merci."
You're welcome : Derien (deh-ree-eN) -- Remember, the capital "N" is a nasal vowel indicator
Good morning : Bonjou (boN-zhoo)
Good evening : Bonswa (boN-swah)
Good night : Bon nuit (boN-noo-eet) -- Only used when you're going to sleep or leaving, not as a greeting
How are you? : Koman ou ye? (koh-maN-oo-yay)
I'm fine : M'bien (mm-bee-eN)
I may be a little late on this, but hey: better late than never, right? Right. Right...
------------------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
Monday, February 26, 2007
Record Eagle Post, February 26, 2007
I woke up this morning to gun shots. This was not terribly unusual but the sounds had worked their way into my dream and made my waking experience more unpleasant than it had to be. It was already 5:26, just a few minutes before I had to be up, so I got out of bed and flipped the light switch. No electricity. Shucks.
I retrieved my flashlight and waddled over to my bathroom, then took a flashlight shower. I grabbed my towel and began drying and actually feeling a little pleased at the lack of mishaps thus far, electricity notwithstanding.
It seems I judged too soon. I noticed that I felt a little itchy, but in a weird way as if I was being bitten in a dozen placed at once. I looked at one such place--and found an ant. I shook out my towel and they fell to the floor like rain--like tropical rain, thick and hard.
It seems that some peanut butter from the night before had found its way onto my towel. A little peanut butter is no problem, but hundreds of ants were. In addition to those crawling on the floor, I was covered from head to toe with them, and they were happily chewing whatever piece of real estate they happened to have access to.
When uncomfortable things happen to me, I do my best to learn from the experience. But this time, all that came to mind was clichés, like "sometimes small mistakes can lead to big problems." As Dane Cook would say, "forging some new territory there, Socrates." I think we've all got that one under our belt.
After throwing out "if it looks to good to be true, it probably is" and "it's not always possible to determine the correct course of action," I realized that, in the midst of my cognition, my tiny attackers had not been idle. Already dozens of tiny bumps were erupting from my skin like baby volcanoes, ready to be scratched until blood flowed like lava.
Stupid ants. I brushed them off irritably (and resisted the urge to develop a "there will always be a bigger fish" thought). I realized that, in my determination to make the right decision, I had frozen during the opportune moment: before they had finished biting.
As a missionary, I face that dilemma constantly. I'm representing my home and my God and... well, me. So when somebody asks me a question of any significant depth, I'm prone to over-clarifying the question and over-developing the answer. Meanwhile, the time during which he or she is actually interested in what I have to say has long since passed.
In all honesty, for all my love of communication, I struggle with it a great deal. Sometimes it seems the only way to communicate effectively is to make sure you're intimately acquainted with the conventions of communications of every person you meet. I hate the gnawing hunger of poor communication, and even worse the bitter sickness of miscommunication. What's a foreigner to do?
...Smile. I smile, they smile back. Answer simply, nod encouragingly, and keep smiling. What a relief to know that there are one or two things that extend across cultures. What a relief to know I needn't rely on my imperfect tongue.
Today is laundry day. Time to wash that towel.
Dan
For more about me and my adventures in Haiti, visit my newsletter archive.
I retrieved my flashlight and waddled over to my bathroom, then took a flashlight shower. I grabbed my towel and began drying and actually feeling a little pleased at the lack of mishaps thus far, electricity notwithstanding.
It seems I judged too soon. I noticed that I felt a little itchy, but in a weird way as if I was being bitten in a dozen placed at once. I looked at one such place--and found an ant. I shook out my towel and they fell to the floor like rain--like tropical rain, thick and hard.
It seems that some peanut butter from the night before had found its way onto my towel. A little peanut butter is no problem, but hundreds of ants were. In addition to those crawling on the floor, I was covered from head to toe with them, and they were happily chewing whatever piece of real estate they happened to have access to.
When uncomfortable things happen to me, I do my best to learn from the experience. But this time, all that came to mind was clichés, like "sometimes small mistakes can lead to big problems." As Dane Cook would say, "forging some new territory there, Socrates." I think we've all got that one under our belt.
After throwing out "if it looks to good to be true, it probably is" and "it's not always possible to determine the correct course of action," I realized that, in the midst of my cognition, my tiny attackers had not been idle. Already dozens of tiny bumps were erupting from my skin like baby volcanoes, ready to be scratched until blood flowed like lava.
Stupid ants. I brushed them off irritably (and resisted the urge to develop a "there will always be a bigger fish" thought). I realized that, in my determination to make the right decision, I had frozen during the opportune moment: before they had finished biting.
As a missionary, I face that dilemma constantly. I'm representing my home and my God and... well, me. So when somebody asks me a question of any significant depth, I'm prone to over-clarifying the question and over-developing the answer. Meanwhile, the time during which he or she is actually interested in what I have to say has long since passed.
In all honesty, for all my love of communication, I struggle with it a great deal. Sometimes it seems the only way to communicate effectively is to make sure you're intimately acquainted with the conventions of communications of every person you meet. I hate the gnawing hunger of poor communication, and even worse the bitter sickness of miscommunication. What's a foreigner to do?
...Smile. I smile, they smile back. Answer simply, nod encouragingly, and keep smiling. What a relief to know that there are one or two things that extend across cultures. What a relief to know I needn't rely on my imperfect tongue.
Today is laundry day. Time to wash that towel.
Dan
For more about me and my adventures in Haiti, visit my newsletter archive.
HUN Update, February 25, 2007
Hey HUN,
I am twenty years old, and, for the first time since I became a free-thinking human being, my age doesn't end with that loaded syllable: "teen." I've never put much stock in age, but sometimes I can't help but glance backward and wonder: When did I become this person? When did I begin thinking the way I do?
I was talking with Jason (Jean's older son) today, and he was musing about how much he wanted "superpowers." He wanted to fly and be a human torch and be super strong. He finally settled on playing the system--he wanted the power to have any power he wanted. That's Jason; he's the kid who asks the genie for more wishes. Seeing as it wasn't so many years ago that my musings ran along the same lines, you would think I'd be just the person to talk to.
Nope. I said I didn't want any superpowers, but that if I could have anything I wanted, it would probably be a medium pizza. With bacon. Not willing (unfortunately) to indulge my culinary fantasies, Jason asked why I didn't want any superpowers. And then, I said something frighteningly... adult.
In my experience, power is the flashy press agent of a somewhat less glamorous pair: responsibility and limitation. All power implies the responsibility to use that power to cultivate the people or things over which you have power, and further introduces a new set of laws that were usually in the fine print and certainly weren't what you expected when you called the number at the bottom of the ad. The bible says, "to whom much is given, much is required." Spiderman said, "with great power comes great responsibility. I hardly need express how grateful I am that those two are in agreement.
For example. Let's say I'm elected president of the United States by a spontaneous and unanimous vote (I can dream, right?). Some would say I have just become the single most powerful man in the world. But power has a sour taste when it's served with a stack of paperwork every morning, and the bitter addition of futility makes for a singularly unappetizing meal. Because that's what happens when humans with power oppose each other: they arrange the whole system into deadlocks so that if they can't get anything done, at least nobody else can either.
To complicate matters, it seems Mr. President isn't allowed a moment to himself without a couple shady characters with dark sunglasses and expensive suits watching him like hawks. Sure, they nod respectfully and say, "yes, Mr. President, yes," but who is a slave to whom, really? You'll notice that nobody says they "own" power. Because nobody does. They "have" power. Like a horse "has" a rider.
The presidency, of course, is outside of my experience, but something as common as being a parent operates under the same principles. Parents have dictatorial power over their children, but with that power is bundled the responsibility of raising and caring for those children, not to mention a heavily restricted lifestyle.
I have hand-chosen a couple examples, but this model can be applied anywhere. We have power over ourselves; we have power over our environment; at times we are placed in positions of power over other people. Everything that we do, think, and say effects other people, and that is power. It is a universal dynamic in human existence.
What startled me was an implication of my own thinking. I have the power to affect changes in my life. Don't I thereby have a responsibility to do so consistently and in a way that yields positive results? And doesn't that mean I'm limited by maturity to those actions which my principles allow? I suppose I had always considered self-improvement the "correct"option, when in fact it seems it is mandated by my own belief!
Dear friends, family and acquaintances: sometimes philosophy seems like paint; just a colorful veneer that makes the truth more attractive and belies the labor of reality. When have I ever failed to feel unbearably confined? When have I felt unburdened by responsibility? Power is like a mountain side: no matter how high you are, every upward movement is arduous, and downward movement is sudden and dizzyingly rapid.
But there is, if you'll excuse the mixed metaphors, a silver lining to that cloud. Maybe that mountain is steep, but at least I can tell which way is up. How can I improve? I can be more productive at work. I can be more gracious to the people around me. I can manage my time according to my priorities. I can take care of my body. How can I defy gravity (kudos to those who catch the reference)? I can let go of my pet lies--"my time is my own" and "I'm only human" and "I deserve this"--and take responsibility for my actions. I can lay aside personal grievances and forgive and refuse to indulge my childish sense of retribution.
Easier said than done, of course; but it is encouraging to clarify my life's sense of direction, and to grow in my understanding of why I do the things I do. Now, if only I can manage to suspend reality long enough to enjoy another round of "pick the super power."
Haitian Creole Time!
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I was browsing some creole resources online and found a new way to indicate nasal vowels. As you may remember, when "a," "e," "i," or "o" are followed by an "n," the "n" is silent and the vowel is nasal. For instance, the Creole word for "time" is "tan," and the word is pronounced "tah" except with a nasal "a." Henceforth this will be indicated with a capital "N," so the pronunciation for "tan" will look like this: tahN.
Today we'll learn a couple useful phrases to boost vocabulary and get a feel for the language. It's important to recognize that Haitians tend to throw out tenses--the past tense, especially. For instance, a Haitian will not ask, "when were you born?" He or she will ask you, "when are you born?" The past tense when used with the verb "to be born" is pretty much only used for famous dead people.
I haven't spoken with them in a while : M'pa pale avek yo pandan yon bon ti tan. (mm-pah-pah-leh-ahv-ehk-yo-paN-daN-yoN-boN-tee-taN) The literal translation reads: "I not speak with them in a good little time."
She wants to send her love to her friends at home : Li vlé bay remen'li pou moun-li yo lokay-li. (lee-vleh-bai-ray-meN-poo-moon-lee-yo-lah-kai-lee) The literal translation reads: "She/he/it wants to give love (hers) for people (hers) (plural) house (hers).
Oh good fun. If you're tempted to skip over that bit, remember these important words:
With : Avek (ah-vek)
For : pou (poo)
Them : yo (yo) This can also be added to a noun to indicate a plural.
Speak : pale (pah-lay)
Plenty for today.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
I am twenty years old, and, for the first time since I became a free-thinking human being, my age doesn't end with that loaded syllable: "teen." I've never put much stock in age, but sometimes I can't help but glance backward and wonder: When did I become this person? When did I begin thinking the way I do?
I was talking with Jason (Jean's older son) today, and he was musing about how much he wanted "superpowers." He wanted to fly and be a human torch and be super strong. He finally settled on playing the system--he wanted the power to have any power he wanted. That's Jason; he's the kid who asks the genie for more wishes. Seeing as it wasn't so many years ago that my musings ran along the same lines, you would think I'd be just the person to talk to.
Nope. I said I didn't want any superpowers, but that if I could have anything I wanted, it would probably be a medium pizza. With bacon. Not willing (unfortunately) to indulge my culinary fantasies, Jason asked why I didn't want any superpowers. And then, I said something frighteningly... adult.
In my experience, power is the flashy press agent of a somewhat less glamorous pair: responsibility and limitation. All power implies the responsibility to use that power to cultivate the people or things over which you have power, and further introduces a new set of laws that were usually in the fine print and certainly weren't what you expected when you called the number at the bottom of the ad. The bible says, "to whom much is given, much is required." Spiderman said, "with great power comes great responsibility. I hardly need express how grateful I am that those two are in agreement.
For example. Let's say I'm elected president of the United States by a spontaneous and unanimous vote (I can dream, right?). Some would say I have just become the single most powerful man in the world. But power has a sour taste when it's served with a stack of paperwork every morning, and the bitter addition of futility makes for a singularly unappetizing meal. Because that's what happens when humans with power oppose each other: they arrange the whole system into deadlocks so that if they can't get anything done, at least nobody else can either.
To complicate matters, it seems Mr. President isn't allowed a moment to himself without a couple shady characters with dark sunglasses and expensive suits watching him like hawks. Sure, they nod respectfully and say, "yes, Mr. President, yes," but who is a slave to whom, really? You'll notice that nobody says they "own" power. Because nobody does. They "have" power. Like a horse "has" a rider.
The presidency, of course, is outside of my experience, but something as common as being a parent operates under the same principles. Parents have dictatorial power over their children, but with that power is bundled the responsibility of raising and caring for those children, not to mention a heavily restricted lifestyle.
I have hand-chosen a couple examples, but this model can be applied anywhere. We have power over ourselves; we have power over our environment; at times we are placed in positions of power over other people. Everything that we do, think, and say effects other people, and that is power. It is a universal dynamic in human existence.
What startled me was an implication of my own thinking. I have the power to affect changes in my life. Don't I thereby have a responsibility to do so consistently and in a way that yields positive results? And doesn't that mean I'm limited by maturity to those actions which my principles allow? I suppose I had always considered self-improvement the "correct"option, when in fact it seems it is mandated by my own belief!
Dear friends, family and acquaintances: sometimes philosophy seems like paint; just a colorful veneer that makes the truth more attractive and belies the labor of reality. When have I ever failed to feel unbearably confined? When have I felt unburdened by responsibility? Power is like a mountain side: no matter how high you are, every upward movement is arduous, and downward movement is sudden and dizzyingly rapid.
But there is, if you'll excuse the mixed metaphors, a silver lining to that cloud. Maybe that mountain is steep, but at least I can tell which way is up. How can I improve? I can be more productive at work. I can be more gracious to the people around me. I can manage my time according to my priorities. I can take care of my body. How can I defy gravity (kudos to those who catch the reference)? I can let go of my pet lies--"my time is my own" and "I'm only human" and "I deserve this"--and take responsibility for my actions. I can lay aside personal grievances and forgive and refuse to indulge my childish sense of retribution.
Easier said than done, of course; but it is encouraging to clarify my life's sense of direction, and to grow in my understanding of why I do the things I do. Now, if only I can manage to suspend reality long enough to enjoy another round of "pick the super power."
Haitian Creole Time!
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I was browsing some creole resources online and found a new way to indicate nasal vowels. As you may remember, when "a," "e," "i," or "o" are followed by an "n," the "n" is silent and the vowel is nasal. For instance, the Creole word for "time" is "tan," and the word is pronounced "tah" except with a nasal "a." Henceforth this will be indicated with a capital "N," so the pronunciation for "tan" will look like this: tahN.
Today we'll learn a couple useful phrases to boost vocabulary and get a feel for the language. It's important to recognize that Haitians tend to throw out tenses--the past tense, especially. For instance, a Haitian will not ask, "when were you born?" He or she will ask you, "when are you born?" The past tense when used with the verb "to be born" is pretty much only used for famous dead people.
I haven't spoken with them in a while : M'pa pale avek yo pandan yon bon ti tan. (mm-pah-pah-leh-ahv-ehk-yo-paN
She wants to send her love to her friends at home : Li vlé bay remen'li pou moun-li yo lokay-li. (lee-vleh-bai-ray-meN-poo-moon
Oh good fun. If you're tempted to skip over that bit, remember these important words:
With : Avek (ah-vek)
For : pou (poo)
Them : yo (yo) This can also be added to a noun to indicate a plural.
Speak : pale (pah-lay)
Plenty for today.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
HUN Update, February 22, 2007
Hey HUN,
Come : Vini (vee-nee)
You come : Ou'vini (oo-vee-nee)
I'm coming : M'ap vini (mop-vee-nee) Full form would be "mwen ap vini"
I am going to come (later) : M'pral vini (mm-pral-vee-nee)
I came : M'te vini (mm-tay-vee-nee)
You come here now! : Ou vini la kounya! (oo-vee-nee-lah-koon-yeh)
Later : Pita (pee-tah) Literally, "more late"
We are going to come later : Nou pral vini pita (noo-pral-vee-nee-pee-tah)
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
Last night, I stumbled into my apartment after about twelve hours of everything except eating. I was terrifically hungry, and couldn't have differentiated between a peanut butter sandwich and the Holy Grail. I noticed ants on the table and flicked them away.
I unscrewed the peanut butter lid and got a bit of a shock. Hundreds and hundreds of ants were swarming in my peanut butter jar, mostly in the cap. I slammed the cap on the table and out fell a couple hundred ants. I brushed them off the table and crunched them with bare feet. I don't know that I've ever been so furious at a living creature. That was MY peanut butter!
I then proceeded to take my knife and scoop out every single ant into the toilet. Twenty minutes later, I was able to convince myself that my peanut butter was ant free. I cleaned my knife like wiping blood from a sword, and returned to the table where I brushed off the rest of the ants. My bread was untouched, and I quickly resisted the urge to wonder what that meant about my bread. The sandwiches were quickly made, a water bottle quickly grabbed; with my book and my food and my water, I was in paradise, ants already forgotten.
Bite. Bite. Unscrew water cap. Bite. Swig. CHOKE! Because, as it happens, that was the bottle into which I dumped my bug spray when I filled the bug spray bottle with alcohol. After five minutes of rinsing my mouth and generally dwelling on the unhappy events of the evening, I returned to my sandwiches and my book. And a trustworthy bottle of water.
Skip forward nine hours. I woke and picked up the peanut butter (which I had tied up in a plastic bag) to make breakfast. Nope. The ants found a hole. I spent my shower time once again purging my peanut butter jar. Interestingly, until I thought to myself "WWAD"—"What Would an American Do?"—I never considered tossing the peanut butter. Disclaimer: that's certainly an unfair generalization, but I'm an American, so I get to generalize. So there. Anyways.
An hour later I arrived at the church, hungry but ready to be productive. There was an ant on my desk, and I squashed it out of residual resentment. Thanks to my clumsy finger and the ant's sturdy exoskeleton, I only succeeding in squishing a portion of it. It valiantly attempted to drag itself to safety. It made me think about degrees of problem severity.
1st Degree, me at home, age 15: I'm bored.
2nd Degree, me at work, age 19: I have too much work to do.
3rd Degree, me in Haiti, age 20: I'm hungry and food may not be available in the next twelve hours.
10th Degree, PB Scout Ant, age 25 days: Part of my body has been flattened into the ground, and my intestines are sticking to the table making it more difficult to drag myself away from this dangerous area.
Sure puts my problems in perspective. Still, I have yet to meet the man or woman who thinks, "well, at least it's not worse" and suddenly feels better about life. So how can this apply practically to me, and how can I allow this perspective to give me more grace and patience?
The answer lies in looking at how the ant deals with its problem. It's obviously in a pretty serious predicament, one from which it will almost certainly die. So how does it react? It puts one leg in front of the other. Instead of trying to fix the problem, it does its best to make the problem better.
I've never owned a car that was perfectly reliable, mostly because I've never spent enough on a car to warrant a dependable vehicle. As a result, I'm used to my car breaking down. My good friends know my most common reaction.
I start walking.
I know it will take hours to get home. I know I can probably get somebody to pick me up. But at least the problem is decreasing in magnitude instead of increasing (a psychological escalation in problem magnitude is called "panic"), and if everybody is occupied, I will have already put my solution into action.
I'm not arguing against efficiency. I'm sure the ant wouldn't have refused an ant-medic, if there is such a thing. I do think, though, that if a problem is unmanageably huge, sometimes the only thing to do is try to make it smaller.
I have a lot of duties here, so it's pretty easy for me to attend to the ones that are doable and ignore those that are intimidating to me. Jean wants to build a second level on his church to accommodate all the people who are attending, and he asked me to look into ways to raise money.
To raise nearly two million dollars. Gulp.
Maybe I ought to stop looking at the immensity of the problem, and start with the first hundred dollars. I can find that. And I can move on from there. I want to be in a place where I can say, "if I keep doing what I'm doing right now, the problem will eventually be solved."
So I'm going to go and raise some funds. And put that peanut butter jar somewhere out of reach.
Now, let's learn some Haitian Creole. I'm going to do some review today on basic tense changes.Come : Vini (vee-nee)
You come : Ou'vini (oo-vee-nee)
I'm coming : M'ap vini (mop-vee-nee) Full form would be "mwen ap vini"
I am going to come (later) : M'pral vini (mm-pral-vee-nee)
I came : M'te vini (mm-tay-vee-nee)
You come here now! : Ou vini la kounya! (oo-vee-nee-lah-koon-yeh)
Later : Pita (pee-tah) Literally, "more late"
We are going to come later : Nou pral vini pita (noo-pral-vee-nee-pee-tah)
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Record Eagle Post, February 20, 2007
Colored Candy Shell
Posted on February 18th, 2007 by Dan Kaschel in Away From HomeIt happened one morning that the sunrise was not so foreign to me. The morning air, thick with unshed dew, was a familiar friend beckoning me awake. The roosters hearkening the new day brought to mind other roosters on a continent far, far away, waking my friend in Africa.
The language still belies comprehension despite my efforts, but speech has patterned itself into discernible syllables that can be weighed and measured and studied instead of the fluid stream of sound that once slipped through the fingers of my mind. And though my vocabulary is small, any human can testify that knowing a few faces in the crowd makes all the difference.
Last night Matthew, the youngest child of my host, warned me of sitting too lightly in the back of the pick up truck. Squinting with the efforts of rallying his scattered English vocabulary, he said: “I know you be good climber an good piano when you grow up, but you just come a little while ago an I don’t want lost you.” I nearly cried. Instead, I promised I would sit down and be careful. How can one fail to be absorbed by such a people?
In short, my colored candy shell has been digested by the acid rigors of this beautiful country, and now I am chocolate, like everybody else.
Dan
For more about me and my travels, visit my Newsletter Archive.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
HUN Update, February 18, 2007
Hey HUN,
It's been a wild and crazy weekend. Jean and Marcia, thanks to a particularly exuberant staff appreciation day, are on vacation until February 23rd. They'll be visiting Florida and Jamaica and a few other parties, but according to Jean, the best part will be chilling out in front of a movie with no redeeming qualities whatsoever and eating pizza, knowing that there is nothing but nothing to be done.
So, since they left two days ago, me and the boys have been club-hopping, hitting crazy parties, drinking, and generally developing our stati (cactus->cacti, status->stati) as moral degenerates. ...Well, not quite. As it happens, they have school off Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, so they have a five-day weekend (and since Jean isn't about, I do, too). Jean asked me to try to make it a productive time for them, so I've been giving piano, computer, and literature analysis lessons to Sarah and Jason. I'm also teaching typing, and have included Matthew in that endeavor. But there was still plenty of time for roller blading (in circles on the driveway), eating (a favorite pastime of mine), and playing games of Hide and Seek in-the-dark. Much fun was had by all.
Speaking of: It occurred to me as I was sitting under a fig tree (just kidding, and sorry to any Buddhists reading this) that, while C.S. Lewis wrote a whole book about The Problem of Pain (as in, if there is a benevolent God, how can there be pain?), there doesn't seem to be that many people squawking about the problem of pleasure. It seems to me that pleasure can be a powerful strike for or against religious ideas. To avoid spending too much on the topic, I'll condense: if an all-powerful god restricts pleasure for any other reason than to increase our pleasure in the future or keeping us safe, then that god is 1) willfully tempting us and 2) has a cruel sense of humor. Since I don't care to follow a god that fits in either of those two categories (and since I believe the god I do follow to be above both), I can thereby state, at least theoretically, that every pleasure not, in and of itself, harmful, has a rightful place in the Christian life .
That means that the church was justified when it finally let up and admitted out loud that sex was okay for married couples, and also when it decided that dancing (but "leave room for Jesus") was not a road to hell. But doesn't it also include pleasures that are under more scrutiny, like drinking and gambling? I don't condone alcoholism or being a poor steward of your money, but I do believe that the two pleasures can be handled responsibly and in a way that honors God.
I'll be very disappointed if I don't get a couple of argumentative responses to this e-mail.
Of course, pleasure is problematic on a very different front, too. The problem with pleasure is that it doesn't come equipped with the warning signs so common among accepted wrongdoing. Theft, murder, and deception all have personal and legal consequences that are painfully obvious. But laziness, tactile pleasure (I try to keep this newsletter family-friendly), and object fixation are all good things gone awry, and it's not hard to convince myself that what I want to do is perfectly okay.
For example. It was a bit of a luxury, but I haven't been spending money on myself, so I decided to treat myself to some grapefruit juice. It was wonderful--my first positive departure from water (dried milk doesn't fit in this category) in six weeks. Jason asked me yesterday if he could have some, and I started to say no. It's imperative to set strong boundaries here, and so I had plenty of moral justification. But that's not why I was refusing. It was because, dang it, this was something I bought for ME and it was my FIRST personal purchase and I DESERVED to reap the ENTIRE benefit of it. I told Jason that there wasn't much left, but that he could finish it.
There's so much to learn here--not just because I'm in a new culture, but also because with these new people my reasons for doing things is clearer to me. If I just keep my eyes open, I think I can really come out of this situation a better person. When I left the States, I was struggling with the fact that my attempts at morality were imploding into self-absorption. The words from Kiterunner rang in my ears as I left: "There is a way to be good again."
Thank God.
And now, let's lighten things up with some Creole. Today, we'll focus on time-related vocab.
Now : Kounya (koon-yeh)
Later : Pita (pee-tah) -- a compound word made of "pi," more, and "ta," late
Today : Jodia (zho-dee-ah)
Afternoon: Apre midi (ah-pray-mee-dee) -- literally, "after midday"
When are you coming? : Kile w'ap vini? (keel-ay-wop-vee-nee)
I am coming now. : M'ap vini kounya. (mop-vee-nee-koon-yah)
And here's a fun little tidbit. "Fe" is a verb that means "to make" or "to do," but it's very flexible within the Creole language. For instance, if you want to say "go away" or "don't bother me," you say "fe respe'w," which translates to something like, "go respect yourself." That made me laugh.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
It's been a wild and crazy weekend. Jean and Marcia, thanks to a particularly exuberant staff appreciation day, are on vacation until February 23rd. They'll be visiting Florida and Jamaica and a few other parties, but according to Jean, the best part will be chilling out in front of a movie with no redeeming qualities whatsoever and eating pizza, knowing that there is nothing but nothing to be done.
So, since they left two days ago, me and the boys have been club-hopping, hitting crazy parties, drinking, and generally developing our stati (cactus->cacti, status->stati) as moral degenerates. ...Well, not quite. As it happens, they have school off Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, so they have a five-day weekend (and since Jean isn't about, I do, too). Jean asked me to try to make it a productive time for them, so I've been giving piano, computer, and literature analysis lessons to Sarah and Jason. I'm also teaching typing, and have included Matthew in that endeavor. But there was still plenty of time for roller blading (in circles on the driveway), eating (a favorite pastime of mine), and playing games of Hide and Seek in-the-dark. Much fun was had by all.
Speaking of: It occurred to me as I was sitting under a fig tree (just kidding, and sorry to any Buddhists reading this) that, while C.S. Lewis wrote a whole book about The Problem of Pain (as in, if there is a benevolent God, how can there be pain?), there doesn't seem to be that many people squawking about the problem of pleasure. It seems to me that pleasure can be a powerful strike for or against religious ideas. To avoid spending too much on the topic, I'll condense: if an all-powerful god restricts pleasure for any other reason than to increase our pleasure in the future or keeping us safe, then that god is 1) willfully tempting us and 2) has a cruel sense of humor. Since I don't care to follow a god that fits in either of those two categories (and since I believe the god I do follow to be above both), I can thereby state, at least theoretically, that every pleasure not, in and of itself, harmful, has a rightful place in the Christian life .
That means that the church was justified when it finally let up and admitted out loud that sex was okay for married couples, and also when it decided that dancing (but "leave room for Jesus") was not a road to hell. But doesn't it also include pleasures that are under more scrutiny, like drinking and gambling? I don't condone alcoholism or being a poor steward of your money, but I do believe that the two pleasures can be handled responsibly and in a way that honors God.
I'll be very disappointed if I don't get a couple of argumentative responses to this e-mail.
Of course, pleasure is problematic on a very different front, too. The problem with pleasure is that it doesn't come equipped with the warning signs so common among accepted wrongdoing. Theft, murder, and deception all have personal and legal consequences that are painfully obvious. But laziness, tactile pleasure (I try to keep this newsletter family-friendly), and object fixation are all good things gone awry, and it's not hard to convince myself that what I want to do is perfectly okay.
For example. It was a bit of a luxury, but I haven't been spending money on myself, so I decided to treat myself to some grapefruit juice. It was wonderful--my first positive departure from water (dried milk doesn't fit in this category) in six weeks. Jason asked me yesterday if he could have some, and I started to say no. It's imperative to set strong boundaries here, and so I had plenty of moral justification. But that's not why I was refusing. It was because, dang it, this was something I bought for ME and it was my FIRST personal purchase and I DESERVED to reap the ENTIRE benefit of it. I told Jason that there wasn't much left, but that he could finish it.
There's so much to learn here--not just because I'm in a new culture, but also because with these new people my reasons for doing things is clearer to me. If I just keep my eyes open, I think I can really come out of this situation a better person. When I left the States, I was struggling with the fact that my attempts at morality were imploding into self-absorption. The words from Kiterunner rang in my ears as I left: "There is a way to be good again."
Thank God.
And now, let's lighten things up with some Creole. Today, we'll focus on time-related vocab.
Now : Kounya (koon-yeh)
Later : Pita (pee-tah) -- a compound word made of "pi," more, and "ta," late
Today : Jodia (zho-dee-ah)
Afternoon: Apre midi (ah-pray-mee-dee) -- literally, "after midday"
When are you coming? : Kile w'ap vini? (keel-ay-wop-vee-nee)
I am coming now. : M'ap vini kounya. (mop-vee-nee-koon-yah)
And here's a fun little tidbit. "Fe" is a verb that means "to make" or "to do," but it's very flexible within the Creole language. For instance, if you want to say "go away" or "don't bother me," you say "fe respe'w," which translates to something like, "go respect yourself." That made me laugh.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
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