The first thing I noticed about Haiti was how much it looked like the satellite images I'd been looking at for the last couple months. Flying over I saw the expanse of Hispaniola, and the only thing missing was that giant yellow line that divides Haiti from the Dominican Republic. Where was it? I looked closer... but I guess it was erased or something. I did, however, see Port-Au-Prince, sitting right where it should be. I saw a loading dock that I'd zoomed in on a thousand times and--what do you know!--the same boat was still there. Maybe it's grounded or something, because I swear it's been there for a month.
And then the plane touched ground, and I saw a beautiful, beautiful thing. Grass. Looked just like the stuff at home. And from that point on I was continually comforted with the things that are universal about our earth, and also the things that are universal about humans. Now, a week later, I'm starting to reflect on the differences. Haiti often reminds me that I am far from home, but rarely in an expected manner.
For instance, the toiler paper is different. It's a thin, blue, recycled (I think) paper with random holes and black spots. Ink, I hope. I ignore it most of the time. And the animal life is different. Goats and stray dogs pepper the street, and it's not uncommon for a goat to be nabbed for dinner that night. Goat soup is a favorite here. Monstrous roaches abound, but they are not the king of the insects; ants are. Ants will swarm by the thousand atop an unsuspecting roach, and just begin eating it alive. Just this morning, I picked up a roach (hands gloved with blue, speckled toilet paper) that had clearly been the main course of an ant-meal for the last couple hours at least. I picked it up to throw it outside, and the thing starts wiggling! With ants crawling in and out of its head and abdomen, it still wiggles! For the first time since I came to Haiti, I had one of those uncontrollable "holy-crap-there's-a-spider-on
The food, at least for me, is very hit and miss. The rice--plain, white rice, I mean--is infinitely better here. It has a great flavor without butter or additive. The potatoes are regrettable; grainy and disappointing. The beans are fantastic. I don't really like beans in the states, but here, all sorts of beans are perfectly wonderful. The vegetables--mostly cucumbers and tomatoes--are heartbreakingly awful. I miss good tomatoes. I have not found a local drink that I like, so I stick to water, which is fine with me since I happen to love water. I thank God that I have yet to taste something that I cannot make myself eat. My mother gave me excellent advice before I came: taste a little first. I was incredibly grateful for that advice when I found that Haitian spaghetti replaces tomato sauce with ketchup.
The church? Is Mars Hill (Grand Rapids church--if you've never been there, visit, it's worth the time) minus a few million dollars. Instead of a shiny steel warehouse, it is a crumbling concrete parking garage with an elevated stage area. Over a thousand folding chairs and dozens of long wooden benches crowd every square inch, and the people in the back are so far away that there are two TVs hung in the back so that they can actually see the action. The whole place, in comparison to a State-side setup, is a marketing disaster. But every Sunday morning and night, thousands gather together to worship, hands raised and hips swaying (it's a Haitian thing) and "merci Bondje, merci Seignor!" -- "thank you God, thank you Lord!"-- echoed time and time again until I start to wonder why American churches spend so much money on comfortable chairs.
And how's this for stunning: Pastor Jean held an all-night prayer on Friday night/Saturday morning. And you know what? The church was full. The babies and younger children slept on blankets and benches in the back, and older kids attended them while the adults prayed. I joked about that with Jean before the service: "Jean," I said, "I don't even talk with my best friend for that long at once." And he looked at me with that irritating knowing look of his. As expected, he has this down to an art: he had a whole list of things to pray about so that the prayer was always directed. Considering the amount of seating, it was a bit of a logistics nightmare--when agitated black people pray, they walk back and forth (I do too, actually)-- but it worked, somehow.
In closing: I would like to publicly thank Sarah for giving me chap stick (Burt's Bees, of course) for Christmas. I didn't think it would be necessary, but it was. Okay, that's it. I'll be including my contact info with every update in case anybody loses it, so here's that fun stuff:
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 put "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God bless,
Dan
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