Record Eagle Post, February 16, 2007

It 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.

HUN Update, February 15, 2007

Hey HUN,

I read a poem today that I just had to share. Please read it; I promise you'll like it.

Peas

I eat my peas with honey;
I've done so all my life.
It makes my peas taste funny,
But keeps them on my knife.

------------------------------

I found it in a poetry anthology and it made me laugh.

And think, too. Honey doesn't taste all that good with peas; I've tried it. It doesn't taste bad exactly, but the flavors don't blend that well. I think that sometimes we have to do strange things just because that's the only thing that makes our live livable.

In the name of specificity: as the Michiganders reading this well know, there are times one must use the air conditioning in your car even when it's really cold. When those windows fog up, there's really no alternative. And so the A.C. goes on despite the fact that it's forty degrees outside and you're freezing. It's not precisely convenient and it's even a little counter-productive... but that's what you do because often life demands that we choose between conveniences.

After some contemplative poetry reading, it was time to leave for work. On the ride there, I noticed: the old people in Haiti are awesome. These people don't have wrinkles; they have chasms. They look like they've lived thousands of years and carry all the wisdom of the ages in their cunning minds. Their claw-like hands look strong and capable, as if the craft to which they have been dedicated for so many decades is yearning to express itself once again.

"(Pastor) Jean, your old people are awesome. Maybe that's the reason the older generation is venerated so much here." Note: I was joking.

"Well, not all people treat their elders with respect. Many young people disrespect their elders, and I do not think it goes well with them, because when people do not do what the bible say, it do not go well. Sometime young people disrespect me, but the bible say we should honor everybody even if they do thing that is dishonorable to me, so I still honor them."

Gosh. I was kidding.

But that made me think, too. Why should Christians ignore the facts and treat people as if they were acting differently than they really were? There had to be a good reason. I was thinking so intently that I had to ask Jean to turn the radio down.

This is my idea. I thought to myself that it was most likely a case of God trying to make Christians see people as He sees them. So I thought to myself, "how does God see people that's different from how humans see them?" The answer is that God sees people atemporally; that is, He see what was, what is, and what is to come. So when God looks at a person, He sees their whole life, and hence He sees the only thing possible from that vantage: a creature living precisely how it was created to live. How could it do any different?

So when somebody does something to dishonor or disrespect you, they're doing precisely the same thing as you are; they are living the life they were given as only they can live it. Just because your faults occur at different points in your life and don't happen to be an affront to that person doesn't give you the right to disrespect or dishonor them.

It is crucial to note at this point that this doesn't mean you should let people do what they want because they don't know any better. Everybody is responsible for their own actions, and the bible doesn't command that Christians turn ourselves into limp noodles for universal derision. It simply demands that he or she continually treat his or her fellow creatures with honor and respect.

I think the world would be a better place if everybody did that, Christian or otherwise.

In other news: the laptop screen on the computer I'm using here (Toshiba Satellite 1405-S151) was dropped by whomever carried it from the car to the office yesterday, and now the huge crack running through the middle makes it all but impossible to use. About an eight of the screen still produces readable pixels; the upper left eighth, as it would happen. So I shrink the windows and type everything there. Eventually I'll have to buy a new screen for it, but it's rather expensive so I think I'll wait a little while.

And also: the church is in the process of building a staircase to the second level that hasn't been built yet. Now that's an act of faith! I've tried helping a few times, and the construction workers have humored me by allowing it, but it's hard to hide just how rusty my bricklaying skills are.

And one more thing: just kidding. I won't put it off even a moment longer. Here it is: today's segment ooooooooooof...

LEARN HAITIAN CREOLE! (canned clapping in the background)

Today we're going to beef up our vocab a bit.

With : Avek (ah-vake)
Like : Reme (r*ay-may) This "r" is said in the throat and is almost a "w." I have trouble saying it.
Read: Li (lee) This is also the he/she pronoun.
I would like to eat with you : M'ta'reme manje avek'w (mm-tah-ray-may-ah-vake-oo). Remember - "w"=contraction of "ou"
Lala likes to read with him : Lala reme li ave'l (Lah-lah-ray-may-lee-ah-vay-l) In this example, "avek li" (with him) is contracted to "ave'l." It is worthy of note that, because "li" is also a pronoun, the sentence could also be translated as, "Lala likes him/her with him/her."

----------------------

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 11, 2007

Hey HUN,

I moved yesterday. While my new locale is certainly more secure--two thick steel doors with a lock and two quarter-inch bolts guard my door, and concrete walls ensure that I will hear my assailant's pickax long before they actually break through--I already miss the room that, for all its imperfections, has been the closest thing I have to a home. Though I shall not miss the three full-height mirrors, one on the wall in front of the bed and one on either side, that makes absolutely sure that the first thing I see every morning is the damage that sleep has inflicted on my weary, unresisting body.

My previous habitat was a guest room within Jean's house, but I have known all along that it was a temporarily dwelling to be vacated when we had readied the guest apartment behind the house. It is built atop a concrete ("concrete" is an assumed adjective around here, but I try to say it often for clarification) shed, but I have found to my delight that with some practice I should be able to pull myself up to my door without ever using the stairs. I miss rock climbing a great deal, and this will provide some opportunity to remind my arms that they won't be idle forever.

My new apartment (and I use "new" in the loosest possible sense of the word) has three rooms: a foyer/living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The bedroom is dominated by the queen-sized bed (a mattress on four concrete blocks) and a large metal...object...that I assume to be a shelving unit. The entrance, however, is a decent size and is quite empty except for a plywood table and a number of wooden shelves covered with books. Far be it from me to begrudge shelves of books for taking up space! I shall be sure to peruse them when I have a moment; I'm quite excited. The bathroom is in need of a little TLC--the shower is home to a veritable museum of insectoid life forms, and there are so many ants that it made me wonder for the hundredth time why nobody has properly developed ant cuisine--but with a little love and a lot of gruesome guerrilla warfare, I expect that before long it will be perfectly serviceable.

I spent much of yesterday cleaning. First I did some thorough sweeping, which was an exercise in futility as the dust simply flew up to escape my swaths and settled as soon as I turned my back. It did do some good, though; the room is now free of spider webs, dried vegetation, and one iguana (no, I didn't kill it). To my surprise, one of the things I found on the bookshelves was a sponge still in its plastic. I filled a bucket with water, dragged it up, and began scrubbing in earnest.

Floors in the States just don't get dirty like they do in Haiti. Dirt in Haiti is like a skyscraper, with different strata and rates of rent for each. The top levels, most vulnerable to footprints and sweeping, are left to the surfs and the peasants: dust particles. The next layer is for the commoners, and consists primarily of larger-than-average dust particles and sand. Getting rid of it is like trying to sweep sand off a beach, for all the good it does. The deepest layer is a diabolical grime that clings to the floor "like barnacles to big whale bottoms" (name that Disney movie). As I was sweeping, I could hear it mocking me: "Hah! Brooms? I'm not ticklish."

Suffice it to say that I spent a great deal of time scrubbing, and when I was done, I was left with what may possibly be the most brackish water I have ever seen. I got to my feet, my back and neck doing their best to convince me that perhaps it was about time I started treating them like the old, worn body parts that they were and start assigning grueling tasks to spry teenagers, and looked down at my bucket, then dipped the sponge in to clean it. I lifted it out and squeezed, noticing in passing that the water coming out looked reasonably clean. It made me think.

I get really frustrated with people sometimes. It's hard to see how crappy people can be to each other, and still maintain a positive perspective on humanity. Look at all the awful things we say and do to each other! When I look at people collectively, it's really easy to focus on the evil. My bucket of water, you see, was mostly just water. I doubt if a tenth of it, by volume, was actual dirt. But water is clear, and dirt is opaque, and so for all I could tell it was a bucket of pure mud. It was only by observing the water I squeezed from the sponge--that is, by focusing on the individual instead of the collective--that I understood that, as bad as it looked, the water was still mostly clean. It was encouraging.

It's easy to get caught up in origins and destinations. But time and time again, and I beg you to forgive me this cliché, I find that the lessons are found in the journey between the two. I think that's why God keeps us moving all the time; why He never lets us stay in our comfort zones. Because moving and learning and changing are all interrelated processes, and all are necessary in that one key process of becoming.

And now, let us become better speakers of Haitian Creole.

Let's talk about nouns today, shall we? We're going to talk about three things we do a lot with nouns.

Door : port (port)
A door : yon port (yo*-port) *indicates nasal "n"
Doors : port-yo (port-yo)
The door : port-la (port-lah)

Pretty easy, right? The word "a" is translated as "yon." Words are pluralized by attaching "yo" to the end. But definite articles, I'm afraid, are a little more tricky. For example:

The door: port-la (port-lah)
The car: machin-nan (mosh-een-na*)
The country: peyi-a (pay-ee-ah)

So there are a few different ways to say "the," and it just depends on the noun and how it sounds. There are certainly rules that govern this, but basically the only way to learn it is to hear a lot of vocabulary and get used to hearing it said a certain way.

----------------------

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 3, 2007

Hey HUN,

I got a request a while ago for a brief explanation of my day-to-day schedule. I promised I would do so when I had an established schedule. By that indication, one might suppose that my life was completely unpredictable and that I am simply unable to generalize. As it happens, nothing could be farther from the truth. I just forgot.

Every morning at six, the alarm goes off, and if necessary I set about dissipating whatever elements of my dream have refused to disappear. Does that happen to anybody else? A couple nights ago, I woke up and there was a man slumped against my bedside table, sleeping I suppose. What was I to do? My knife is never far from me, so I immediately whipped it out. My eyes tried desperately to resolve the shape more accurately; to pick details from the grainy pixelation of shadow. I tentatively reached out with my left hand to touch the man's shoulder, knife at the ready. Nothing. There wasn't even anything there from which to derive the shape of a man; only blackness, and my own yawning imagination.

Then I turn off the fan. The fan is necessary at night, when it's typically around eighty-five degrees, but less so in the morning when it's a pleasant sixty-five to seventy. The fan has its own stand and is located several feet from the bed, so my next course of action is to mentally chasten myself for, once again, neglecting to turn on the lamp first. So I feel my way around the fan and turn on the light (assuming there's electricity) and, while my vision scatters like light on oil-water, I consider to myself what it would be like to be blind.

I have my own bathroom, albeit without running water and a toilet that has to be fixed every time you flush, and I thank God every morning for it. Truly, it is my first pleasure every morning. I enter in, kill any marauding insects large enough to tickle my peripheral vision, and use my dipping bowl and five-gallon bucket to wash up. This requires more skill than one might think, and there's really quite a technique to it; but, all things considered, I'm going to hold on to that educational segment for some other time. I will say, however, that the first bowl-full feels very, very, cold.

I finish the various morning bathroom duties, make my bed (it makes Marcia happy to see my room all tidy, so I happily oblige), and put everything into my backpack that I took out the night before. I grab my sandals (I actually forget this step at least a couple times a week and regularly find myself running back to my room to get them) and make myself a peanut butter sandwich and we head out the door.

...Not really. The Petit-Frere family has a carefully engineered calendar that schedules who will be late each morning. As a result, we never actually leave the house on time, but it's never the same person that causes the hang-up. I found this frustrating until I realized that, as the hapless American, I was not in the least inconvenienced by this, nor was I badly reflected upon. Actually, the worst aspect of the situation is that, every couple weeks, somebody will miss their day and we'll all be ready at the right time. Then everybody looks around confusedly, pretending they do not know precisely whose fault it is, and everybody heads out the door feeling vaguely dissatisfied.

For those of you unused to my humor--no, they don't really use a calendar, and the last sentence is wholly fabricated. But it really does feel like this, most of the time.

We pray every morning before we leave. Such prayers you have never heard, unless you've had the pleasure of spending some time with Jean. Haiti is a dangerous nation, and there are lots of way to get hurt or killed or kidnapped or otherwise distracted from fulfilling your duties within the ministry. Jean has it all covered. He prays so fervently that I sometimes wonder why God doesn't pat him on the shoulder and say something like, "come now, I'll take care of it. Just get in the car and it'll be all right." In any case, the proof is in the pudding: Jean's family has indeed been protected. God may or may not agree with my perceived hyperbole, but either way, He listens. And I guess that's what matters.

The drive is always exciting. I have hypothesized on occasion that the purpose for leaving late is so that Jean can feel rushed; without that, he could not possibly justify some of the Knievel-esque stunts he pulls every morning. My youthful experiences with passing in front of an oncoming truck with only ten yards to spare seem flimsy and atrophied. This man thinks nothing of passing several cars on a crowded city road (creating his own lane in the process that gives him between one and two inches on either side, depending on how the side-view mirrors are adjusted), claiming the lane of opposing traffic for his own for a few seconds, and then nudging in to the four-inch space between a tank and a battering ram. Well, two big trucks, anyway. It's a good thing that I've developed the zen philosophy I spoke of in the last update. I look forward to every car ride.

We arrive at the church/school and assume our stations. Mine is an office next to Jean's, and from that moment on my schedule doesn't exist. I have things to do, of course, but they vary wildly according to day of the week, grass-length, and celestial alignment. Many people I don't know come into my office and ask for a repair on their computer, or for a brief lesson in programming, computer systems, English, or piano. And others, too; some that I didn't know that I knew enough about to teach. It's exciting and reaffirming to be able to enrich a person's life just by spending time with them. They are so grateful and so...in awe. I wish there was some way to make them understand that their day-by-day persistence, love, respect, and sincerity are worth far more than every paltry niche of my supposed knowledge. It is a rich culture, and it has a great future once it finds a footing.

At about twelve, I'm ready for a break, so I go up to a rooftop, spread out my towel, and read the bible or pray. It's extremely pressure-less, and, although I haven't fallen asleep yet, I find that it is very restoring. By the time I get up again, I am ready to face the afternoon. Beginning with lunch.

Afternoon is more of the same, and afterward comes and one of a dozen prayer meetings, outreaches, or special services that pepper the evenings. Every once in a while nothing is planned, and we get home as early as seven. I happily do some reading until ten-ish and then go to sleep.

That's about how it goes. And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: today's lesson in Haitian Creole!

For using two verbs together, one as an infinite, it is necessary to remember that there is no stem changing or conjugation as there is among the romance languages. So,

I sleep: M'domi (mm-dome-ee)
I want (it): M'vli (mm-vlee)
I want to sleep: M'vli domi (mm-vlee-dome-ee)

For negatives, add the word "pa" after the subject:

I don't want to sleep: M'pa vli domi (mm-pah-vlee-dome-ee)

As you see, the fact that verbs don't change forms simplifies the language immensely. All right, that's probably enough for now. If at some point people are thinking, "gee, I wish I didn't have this language crap at the bottom of the newsletter," let me know and I can kill it. I just thought it would be neat.

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 put "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!

God Bless,

Dan


P.S. A thank you goes out for those that have already sent letters and packages. They mean a great deal to me. Especially those that contain food! :)

HUN Update, January 31, 2007

Hey HUN!

Let me tell you, I was not prepared for the way that Haitians eat. When I came, I was under the assumption that it could be a very long trip indeed if I didn't like Haitian food, so when I found that rice, beans, and cornmeal mush are actually entirely edible here, I was thrilled. I knew that, at least most of the time, I would be fine. Oh, how young and foolish I was (three weeks ago)! In truth, the things that eats away at me (pun very much intended) is the monotony. Would you like my menu for the next week? I can give it to you right now: five days of rice and beans, one day of cornmeal mush, and one day of cornmeal with with beans. All seven dishes served with some vegetables (onions, green peppers, the occasional tomato) in a beef or goat broth.

Now, I like the food here. I enjoy eating it, and I don't think I'll ever really get sick of it. But my entire body goes up in a frenzy when it even thinks of anything else. Chocolate? Cheese cake? Chocolate? Ice cream? Chocolate? My mouth waters like mad and my brain feels detached from my skull. I think I'm having a withdrawal from refined sugar. All this time, I thought staying away from coffee made me better than everybody else, but now I know that I was just as hooked as anybody.

But not for long!

One surprising result of my new diet is that I've lost weight. The complete lack of sugar and minimal fat content has combined with the fact that Haitians don't believe in snacks to nibble at my waistline. I found this out rather suddenly when Matthew, Jean's youngest son, informed me in his broken English that I should pull down my shirt. Oh. Good thing I brought belts.

I was, however, prepared for the driving here. A New York taxi cab seems tame compared to these drivers, and intersections (lacking stop lights, stop signs, etc) all look a moment away from a tragic accident, but it seems that the zen approach to driving that I developed in the States is serving me well. I figure if somebody is still alive after driving for a decade, they must be reasonably competent, so I should just buckle my seatbelt and go. The former part I have to omit, because Haitians don't believe in seat belts.

They do, however, believe in insect extermination. I have become a high-ranking hero--I'm sure I would be low-ranking deity by now if they were Hindu instead of Christian...thrice-accursed monotheism...--after discovering a particularly effective way to kill the local CODs (Cockroaches of Death). These two-inch monsters don't respond well to conventional methods such as insecticide or bricks; they outlive any normal attack and have a terrifying habit of playing dead so that when you pick them up (there aren't rubber gloves here, but a liberal amount of toilet paper works just as well) they suddenly squirm and fly away, leaving you in convulsions for as long as it takes you to remember that Men in Black was just a movie.

There isn't time for a night dining experience de jure after working all day, so instead we all have peanut butter sandwiches and go to bed. Because I have a habit of reading while I eat, a book I found called The Household Encyclopedia or something like that has become my supper companion. Reading cover to cover, it wasn't long before I stumbled upon the topic of "cockroaches." "To kill," it said, "put rubbing alcohol in a spray bottle and spray the cockroach. They will die quickly."

Now, The Household Encyclopedia was published some time in the 1800's--well, long enough ago that it uses drawings instead of photographs, anyway--but I didn't think cockroaches had changed much in the recent past so I dumped my bug spray that I never use anyway (apparently using DEET on Haitians bugs is the equivalent of using a water pistol for game hunting) into a water bottle (no comments please; I labeled it with a sticky note) and dumped a liberal amount of isopropyl into the spray bottle. Thus armed, I hunted for a cockroach.

It didn't take long. The little bugger (no pun intended) was in my bathtub--that's right, the one that doesn't have running water--and in my eyes it was as good as dead. I sprayed it twice for good measure and sat back to watch. It squirmed around and wiggled its legs and died just as it (and this is ironic) attempted to escape its unknown attacker by rolling over to play dead. Its tiny open circulatory system passed its last sensory input to its nerve bundle of a brain, and the tiny legs retracted in defeat, all hydrostatic pressure disappearing into the ether. It was touching.

I'll move on, since I'm sure most of you have a life outside of reading these updates. It's time for today's Haitian Creole!

Where is Beatrice Boulevard? : Ki kote via bulva Beatris yi? (key-kote-ay-wvee-ah-bool-vah-bay-ah-tris-yee?) Literally, this is translated as "what place the street Boulevard Beatrice be?" The word for street, "vi," gains its article from the "a" attached to the end. Other words gain articles (the word "the") in similar but slightly different fashions; for example, "door" is "port" and "the door" is "portla."

It is not here. : Se pa la. (Say-pah-lah) This literally means "is not here." The subject is implied,

I can see that : M'ka we sa. (mm-kah-way-sah) As you may recall, the "M" is a contraction of "mwen," meaning, "I." "Ka" is the verb for "can" ("kapab" is a longer form that means the same thing), and "sa" is a word meaning both "this" and "that."

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 put "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!

God Bless,

Dan

HUN Update, January 28, 2007

Hey HUN,

Psalm 46:10 says: "Be still, and know that I am God."

That verse has meant a lot of things to me throughout my life as a Christian. Most of the time, it means, "stop worrying, you're not in control anyway." I'm a low-grade control freak, so that's necessary for me to hear now and then. But last night, that verse meant something different: "shut up and start listening."

I talk a lot when I pray, and I don't think I'm alone in that. Now, I have some non-Christian friends on this mailing list, and I think that they would all concur with me when I say that a relationship with only one person talking really isn't much of a relationship. It doesn't take a doctorate in psychology to know that you have to listen if you have any desire to learn. Actually, it's a bit of a paradox: if God knows everything and I know (basically) nothing, why should I be the one doing all the talking? Like I said a couple of updates ago, Matthew says "[the] Father knows what you need before you ask him."

You didn't sign up to this list for the religious content, so I'll cut to the chase. Having taken a little time to listen, God has really started to give me focus. Do you ever feel like you get lost in the moment-by-moment emergencies of your life? Sometimes it seems that "step-by-step" is the only feasible way to get through life; and yet, big-time financial planners will tell you that if you don't keep your long-term goals in mind all the time, they probably won't be realized. That's because everyday decisions can be powerful when each one is consistent with where we want to be in the long run.

It's really changed how I look at things, and it's allowed me to minister in a whole new way to the people here. I don't have a lot of business experience, but I have some, and most people don't have any. With 70% unemployment, that's not much of a surprise! I've been absolutely amazed by how blessed Haitians are to be taught fundamental economic principles. One guy came to me today and said he had a business idea that he felt was wonderful but he couldn't make any money. I asked him if the people to whom he was marketing his product (he was a tailor) had the money to pay him--because if you want to be rich, there has to be enough money in your targeted demography to make you rich. Lights went on everywhere. This guy is twenty and wants to start mass producing clothing because right now it's cheaper to buy imported clothes than to buy the custom made clothing they create here. I can only imagine how many great ideas have foundered because of a simple lack of information. This guy took off like he expected to be rich within the week after extracting a promise from me to teach him more if he had questions. My objections about my limited personal experience... completely ignored.

I grew up in a country surrounded by people that are making it in life. As a result, I know the skills necessary to make it. I am familiar with them; they are a part of my culture. I don't want to bring my culture to Haiti; that would be a crime. But I do want to be a part of making success a Haitian cultural norm.

On a lighter note: I misplaced my camera yesterday. I panicked. I looked in every single office, throughout the sanctuary, under and above and below and beside (plus additional prepositions if you like) every orifice and piece of furniture that I've used in the last week. It was nowhere. I was beside (those prepositions again) myself.

You guessed it. I left it on my bedside table. *sigh*

Your Haitian for the day:
I : mwen (Mway, with a nasal "n")
You : ou (oo)
We : nou (noo)
He/She: Li (lee)

The order is SVO (subject, verb, object) just like French and English, so most simple statements are direct translations.

I see you : Mwen we ou (Mwen-way-oo)

But, like French, everything is contacted, so "I see you" would actually be...

I see you : M'we'w (mm-way-oo) - but the last "oo" is barely pronounced. Creole is phonetic, which is why the "ou" changes to a "w." In fact, if you say use the present progressive ("You will eat him"/"you are going to eat him"), it becomes a regular old consonant.

You will eat him: Wap manje'l (Wap-mahn-zhay-l) - the "l" at the end is the contracted form of "li" which is he/she.

That's probably way too much for one day, but I got carried away. So... happy Sunday! Here's the contact information as usual.

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!

Bondje beni'w,

Dan

HUN Update, January 25, 2007

Hey HUN,

I had a defining experience today. I believe I mentioned in an earlier update that spaghetti is served here with ketchup instead of tomato sauce. Interestingly enough, it's also traditionally accompanied by a hot dog ( sans bun). My method of coping has been to use the hot dog to use up most of the ketchup, then mix around the ketchup to minimize the ketchup-y effect.

Today, I was served spaghetti with no ketchup and no hot dog... but ketchup on the side. It was a diabolical, it was sinister; it was fiendishly clever of them. I could almost hear the voices in the background, though the house was empty: "how low, can you go; how low, can you go." Restraining my urge to stand and shout, "I can be Haitian too!" I wrenched the ketchup top off the bottle and squirted a glob atop my noodley strands. I braced myself for impact as the first forkful approached my mouth... and chew, and swallow...

You know, it wasn't that bad. Given the choice, I'm a tomato sauce man, but I can deal with ketchup. And if a man kills cockroaches and eats spaghetti with ketchup, isn't it about time to apply for Haitian citizenship? Yeah, that's what I thought. Maybe tomorrow, if I have time. All right, on to bigger better things:

I've been sick most of this week. A cold, of all things. Just your average, Northern Michigan cold. Foolish me, to suppose that I could escape cold season by fleeing a thousand miles south. I guess things just aren't that easy. However, thanks to the insight of my parents, I have plenty of FDA approved medicine with me (the only word for the pills they take here is: sketch) as well as several bottles of multivitamins. I never really appreciated the FDA until this trip.

Word came back from the embassy: I should have my passport within a couple days. That's a relief, since the Petit-Frere family was stopped by the police, and I almost got hauled off to jail because I didn't have my passport. I joke about it all the time, but Marcia is the only person who thinks it was funny. It must just be the Haitian sense of humor.

I know I'm a little late on this, but if anybody is interested in seeing some pictures, I have a few posted here. I'm still feeling a little under the weather, so I'm going to cut this update short. I promise I'll be back soon with something more substantial. Before I forgot, here's your Haitian Creole for the day:

I want food! : M'vli mange! (mm-vlee--man-zhay) --but remember, that n is silent and nasal!
I would like food. : Mwen ta reme mange. (Mway-tah-ray-may-man-zhay) Here, "ta" acts as "would," and "reme" is the verb "like."
Haitian Creole: Kreol ayisyen (Kray-ol-ah-ees-ee-yen)

Happy happy Haitian!

If you need to contact me, here's the info:

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!

That's all, folks! (Spoken in a porky pig voice, of course)

Dan