Just in the Nick of Time
Short stories from the blog
I started this blog in 2009, in my mid-twenties, and kept it up until I got married at 32. Hardly anybody read it, which was probably for the best.
Back then I was living in Wichita, Kansas, where I’d quit a perfectly respectable engineering job to become a public school teacher. Teaching wasn’t for me, so after a couple of years of hitting my head against a wall, I went back to engineering, this time for an Indian company, Mahindra Satyam, working on-site at Learjet. Weird situation. But it got me interested in other cultures. Until then I’d always joked that I was perfectly happy never to leave Wichita.
So, I left.
What followed was a few months on a kibbutz within sight of Gaza, six months backpacking around the world, and three years in Haiti, first as a driver, then alone in a fishing village, then running a bakery. Along the way I got myself into quite a few predicaments, met some remarkable people, and occasionally learned something. Most importantly, I met my future wife. In fact, my travels ended with our wedding, and a couple of years later we were living on a sailboat with our first baby.
Nowadays I’m married with three kids, running a small business, and living a considerably more ordinary life. Most people who know me now have no idea about any of this.
The original blog has 200-some posts, many of them just me thinking out loud. I had AI sort through them and pull out the anecdotes: short stories, lightly trimmed, roughly in the order they happened. Each one links to the original post.
In 2012 I admitted to “a bad habit of signing up for new challenges.” These stories are mostly what happened next. I still haven’t quite broken the habit.
Contents
Chapter One · 2009 to 2011
Wichita, and Leaving It
In which I sell my stuff, lose to Arby’s, and fall asleep in a field in western Kansas.
In 2009 I was in my mid-twenties, single, and living alone in an apartment in Wichita with more stuff than I wanted. I sold a 22-foot sailboat I called “a chain around my neck,” put two go-kart wheels on eBay (they went for $21.50), and cancelled my home internet. The Cox rep who called to win me back said there’s nothing like having it at home, “where you can kick back, with your jammies on.”
The Power of Stick Shift
I got a surprise when I left work the other day: my car wouldn’t start. I’d left the headlights on at lunch, and I had somewhere to be.
I remembered something I’d read from John Eldredge about how a passive man says, in effect, “God will not come through.” I said to myself with fierce resolve, “Far be it from me to be construed a passive man.”
The power of stick shift is that you can, theoretically, start the car by getting it rolling really fast in neutral and popping the clutch. I pushed my car out of its stall and lined it up on an open stretch of parking lot. Did I mention I was wearing dress clothes? It started moving slowly, then faster. Soon I was literally sprinting behind the Honda. Uh-oh, looks like we’re gonna hit that Ford in about twenty yards.
It’s hard to catch a car that’s already rolling as fast as you can run. With an extra burst of speed I did a Jason Bourne, dove into the driver’s seat, and popped the clutch: glut, gluuuut, gluuuuuuuuuut. Silence. Stopped. At least I didn’t hit the Ford.
I didn’t really expect that to work. My main plan was to cause enough commotion that someone would have mercy on me. Sure enough, a very large shiny SUV came lumbering around the corner. The tinted window cracked open and a pair of eyes peeked over the top. “Do you need a jump?”
“No, I just push cars around parking lots for exerci… yes, I could use a jump, thanks for stopping!”
From the blog: The Power of Stick Shift
The Wool Blanket
My brothers once spent thirty posts on a family forum debating wool blankets. This was my contribution, a story from my Kansas years.
I knew only vaguely the virtues of wool, but had enough sense to know $9.99 was a good price, and bought one at Harbor Freight to keep in the back of my Jeep for emergencies. Good thing, too, because one time an emergency came up.
Joey and I were at Lake Afton on a blustery day and shipwrecked our Lido sailboat on the rocks. Fortunately, where we hit shore was directly in front of the only camper parked on the lake. A hardy couple were out enjoying the gale from their lawn chairs. I’m sure they were enjoying the idyllic scene of our sailboat careening around the lake at about 40 miles an hour with two screaming guys hanging on for dear life. Their day got more interesting when we careened directly into their Party Pad.
The boat was upside down and waterlogged, the mast jammed in a crevice, and the waves were bashing the hull on the rocks. The man waded in to help. Then his wife decided she would help too. I remember thinking this perhaps wasn’t a good idea. About then a mighty gust besmote us all and, I kid you not, ripped her shirt open. We all demurely averted our eyes, and she ran, mortified, back to the camper.
All hope was fading when I suddenly remembered the Harbor Freight wool blanket under the back seat of my Jeep. I excused myself from the man in the water, and from Joey, who was busy eating a Tootsie Roll or some such, and came back with the 80/20 blend. I laid it over the rocks and we heaved the Lido onto it. The man tied a rope from his pickup to the bow, and with many a crunch and a pop, his truck dragged a thousand pounds of waterlogged boat out over the rocks.
We all cheered. The lady stayed in the camper.
The boat took Joe and me the rest of the summer to repair. The blanket was unharmed, but never before had I seen a blanket so muddy. We hosed it and wrung it, over and over, and more mud kept coming. We left it in the front yard to slow-water a square patch of Dad’s grass. When it finally dried I beat it, and beat it, and beat it, and billows of dust kept coming out. It was like an old car seat that had been farted on way too many times. Finally I gave up and put it back under the seat of the Jeep.
Many moons later I drove to Turkey Hill Ranch Bible Camp for a fall retreat. It was dreadfully cold, and we were assigned an unheated cabin. I had come prepared with every accoutrement known to mankind. One of the other guys had brought absolutely nothing. No sleeping bag. No pillow. That night I watched him curl up in his bunk, fully clothed and shivering, while I pulled my zero-degree bag a little tighter and took another long sip from my steaming thermos of hot chocolate. I watched his lip begin quivering and felt a twinge of pity.
I climbed out of my sleeping bag, went out into the freezing cold, and from under the back seat of my Jeep removed one very filthy Harbor Freight wool blanket.
Was it scratchy? Yes. Like a horde of chiggers.
Was it dirty? Yes, like an over-farted-in car seat.
Was it warm? Yes, like the fires of Hades.
Was it an 80% wool Harbor Freight blanket for $9.99? Yes, and none other.
My buddy was grateful beyond words. Well, he did have a few words. He gasped, “Is this a genuine wool blanket, or at least an 80/20 blend?” I assured him it was. Soon his shivering stilled into a quiet slumber. The next morning he looked like he had slept inside a vacuum cleaner bag, but the following night he curled up in the same blanket again.
Written in 2015 for that family forum.
Arby’s, We Are On to Your Tricks
I don’t eat at Arby’s much. Not that I don’t like it. It’s that I have never once gotten out of there without spending an arm and a leg, and I’m always too embarrassed to argue about my order. I just fork over the dough and make a mental note never to repeat the same mistake.
Recently I received a sheet of Arby’s coupons in the mail. On my lunch break I decided to risk it. I drove up to the menu board.
A raspy voice ensued: “garble, garble, would you like, garble, mushroom, garble, triple cheddar, garble.” I hastily interrupted. “Look, I have this coupon. C-O-U-P-O-N. It says I can get an entire meal for $3.99.”
Silence, then: “garble garble? … garble? garble?!” They were asking some sort of question. I decided to play it safe. “No, I don’t think so. Nope.” Now the voice sounded exasperated. “Are you sure? Garble, it’s free! Cinnamon, garble, and it’s FREE!”
I should have known better, but I’m not one to turn down free food, especially food with the word cinnamon in it somewhere. “Well, sure, if it’s free, toss it in the bag.”
I eased up to the pay window. Now understand, some of this story has been stretched a little, but what I’m about to say next is absolutely true. The lady opened the window, reached for my card, and said, “That will be twenty-two dollars.” And these are 2011 dollars!
I about went through the roof. She disappeared to talk to the manager, then came back and apologized: “This is my first day on the job.” Right, I thought. You guys probably have a whole file on me in there with “sucker” written in big letters at the top.
This blog is supposed to have a spiritual focus. So the moral of this story is that Arby’s is a lot like sin: they can both cost you more than you ever think they will.
From the blog: Arby’s, We Are On To Your Tricks
Like Finding a Wife
One of my campers, a ten-year-old, cried himself to sleep three nights running. On the third night I sat with him on the bench outside our cabin. “Do you know that sometimes parents want their kids to do hard things because they think it would be good for them? Just like God sometimes wants us to do hard things?” A pause, then, between sniffles: “I’ve never heard of that concept before.” I nearly laughed at the word concept. He wasn’t homesick the rest of the week. Not sure if it was the talk or if he just got over it.
I took my cabin on a night hike to a hilltop to read Bible verses about the stars. It was so hot, and they were so hyper, and so freaked out about being in the woods at night, that my plan went by the wayside. But I managed one object lesson: “Boys, right now you’re frightened of the dark and you have to rely on me. The dark doesn’t frighten me anymore, but there are other things that do.” “Like what?” Then one kid quipped, “Like finding a wife, right?” Ten-year-olds can be perceptive.
By the time we got back one boy had skinned his knee, another was limping, and I was carrying a third piggyback. The next day: “Nick!! Can we go on the night hike again? That was the most totally awesome thing ever!” The answer was no.
One of my boys came from a hard background and spent most of the week in trouble. At one point I thought he might have to go home early. By the last couple of days he had changed. I even saw him break down and cry, and this was one tough little dude. On the last morning he gave me a big hug and asked me to write down my contact information. I did, on a scrap of paper. When I saw him later getting into the van for home, he was still clutching that piece of paper.
From the blog: 21 Highlights and Lowlights of Camp Counseling
Adoption
At an orphanage we visited on a short-term missions trip, two little boys basically adopted ME the first minute I walked in. Job didn’t smile much. It took something pretty big. When he got an entire box of crayons, his face lit up like someone had given him a million dollars. Every time I got up, even to take a picture, he would get up and bring me back to sit next to him.
Nickelson had been at the orphanage seven years. He watched out for the younger ones. On the last day we talked through an interpreter. I asked if there was anything he was looking forward to. He said oui. When I asked what, he said, “Adoption.”
From the blog: Haiti–Jumbled Impressions
By 2011 I was restless. I’d been to Haiti once on a short mission trip, I had money in the bank, and I had a job I was, as I put it then, “ambivalent towards at best, and downright weary of at worst.”
The First Try
I remember more than one night lying in bed late, feeling restless. Getting up and going for long walks around the pond at my apartment, the one with the fountain in the middle. Thinking, “I’m tired of here. Maybe I should take a trip. A big trip. Maybe there’s a hungry kid on the other side of the globe whom I could give a lunch to. Maybe I would see reality clearer. Maybe I would see God!”
One night I mustered my resolve, packed my car with a sleeping bag and several cans of beans, and hit the road. But I got sleepy in western Kansas and pulled over in a field to rest. Next morning I drove back to work and reality.
So much for that. But then I really did it.
From the blog: Around the World in 180 Days
Gate D33
On my way to Haiti I talked with a Haitian man named Vuther in the Miami airport for several hours. His house had been destroyed in the earthquake, with no insurance. Since then he and his wife had started a school in their home for neighborhood kids too poor to go anywhere else.
I was so engrossed in talking (listening) that, after a couple of hours, I failed to notice no one else was in my waiting area.
Then I received a complimentary phone call from American Airlines.
“Mr. Middleton, where are you?”
“Um, here in the Miami airport, why?”
“Where in the airport?”
“Sitting here at Gate D32?”
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE? You’re supposed to be at D33, and this is the last call for boarding to Port-au-Prince!”
Have I ever mentioned I’m absentminded?
For the record, out of more than a hundred flights, I’ve only ever missed two. One was with my wife, back when we were dating. That didn’t go over very well. The other time, fortune smiled: I walked to the next gate over, and they put me on that flight just as those doors were closing. I re-routed through some other hub and beat my bags to the final destination.
From the blog: Having a Vision as Big as Vuthers
A few more from these years
- One week I locked my keys in my car three times. Rather than pay a locksmith $55, I broke into my own car in the laundromat parking lot with a Slim Jim, cut my finger, and got some strange looks. (Meantime, Back at the Ranch)
- At the California border: “Are you transporting any fruit or vegetables?” I pointed at the sandwich I was eating. “Well, this has tomatoes in it.” I added that there were two more in the trunk. She waved me through. (When Was the Last Time You Went Road Tripping?)
- In the Dominican Republic I wrote in my prayer journal that I really wanted a pizza. That night it just so happened my hosts took me to a restaurant on the beach. I couldn’t believe it: they sold every type of pizza. (Update from the Dominican Republic)
Chapter Two · 2011 to 2012
The Kibbutz
In which I feed calves, walk to Bethlehem, and join a Facebook group.
In December 2011 I flew to Israel to volunteer on Kibbutz Nir Oz, a farming community in the Negev, within sight of Gaza. I fed calves at 5 a.m., hitchhiked to Jerusalem on weekends, and walked the Galilee with a backpack. I was the only American among the volunteers.
Christmas Eve in Bethlehem
The night before, the hostel owner didn’t honor my reservation. He said it had been for a mattress on the roof, and it was raining. So I had the opposite problem of Mary and Joseph: instead of the stable, he gave me a private room, at four times the price.
Three of us walked the six miles to Bethlehem: me, Tomasz from Poland, and Merle from Germany. Halfway there we passed a young shepherd watching a small flock on a hill. His staff was straight, with no crook. Tomasz said this was because of animal-rights concerns. I theorized shepherds had finally run out of crooked sticks.
Manger Square was a madhouse. We set out for the Shepherds’ Fields, got a ride from a kind couple who wished us Merry Christmas, and found what was waiting for us there was pretty exotic: a group of Japanese tourists.
On our way out of town we passed a Lutheran church starting an evening carol service. A group of young Palestinians sang carols they had practiced, all in Arabic. It wasn’t professional, which made it seem more like home. The whole thing was so pleasant I fell asleep at the end.
Then we walked back along the wall in the dark. It was raining in earnest now, and we were freezing. My favorite memory of that day is walking along that graffiti-covered wall in the rain, singing Christmas carols with Merle, she in German and I in English.
From the blog: Christmas Eve in Bethlehem, 2011
A Treatise on Baby Calves
One of my jobs is feeding the calves. Most drink from their bucket with no problem, but some won’t drink at all, so it’s part of my job to learn them. I could bottle-feed the stubborn ones, but then, from ever onwards, the cuddly critter expects a hand-fed bottle instead of drinking from its designated bucket, as good little cows should.
Sometimes they just loll their tongues from side to side and jerk their heads as if they’re wholly insane, and they probably are. This means a testing of my patience as hasn’t been seen since the days of Job.
I saw one drinking so eagerly he wasn’t paying attention to his back end, which got stuck between the poles of his cage. He ended up stretched out long-ways, head in the bucket hanger, back legs outside the cage. It was so funny I couldn’t stop laughing. I helped him get untangled, which he was very thankful for, but I still gave him a stern lecture on the risks of drinking while driving his back end.
I’m mightily surprised at how routinely they poop in their food bucket. My cow book says cows have a keen sense of smell and are exceedingly picky about their food. After watching them, I think that book must have been written by an enterprising Hindu.
My cow book also says cows have a great memory. I’ve observed their memory to be off by about half a second. Every morning they put their heads down into the bucket hanger right before I lower the bucket in, and get bopped on the head. This I do with glee, admittedly. They never learn.
From the blog: A Treatise on Baby Calves and their Tendencies
On the Jesus Trail
One of the highlights of my time in Israel was hiking the Jesus Trail: about 40 miles on foot from Nazareth, Jesus’s hometown, through Cana and down to the Sea of Galilee, sleeping in my tent along the way, including right beside the Sea of Galilee itself. I don’t think I’ll ever read the New Testament quite the same.
Halfway up the Mount of Beatitudes, trying to get into the mood of the Sermon on the Mount, I spied an unrobed, bearded, hobo-looking man at the water’s edge taking his monthly bath. This ruined the historic atmosphere, to say the least.
In Capernaum, someone in the fourth century decided a certain house had been Peter’s and built a church over it. Centuries later someone built a mosque over that. The original house is now encrusted in so many layers of religious baubles that I passed it by and saved my shekels for cans of Coca-Cola instead.
In Cana I walked by a bakery and the Arab owner began enticing me inside, in the persistent manner they are wont to do. Usually I desist, but the chocolate-filled croissants were calling my name. He asked where I was from and what I was doing. I told him. Then, amazement upon amazement, he filled a bag with pastries and refused any pay. May a blessing come to that man and his progeny to the tenth generation.
Hitchhiking back to Nazareth, I mentioned to the Israeli driver that I’d seen the ruins at Bethsaida. “Oh! Did you see the arch with the pagan god engraved on it?” He pulled up his sleeve and showed me a large tattoo of that god. “Some people are Christians and worship Yeshua, and others are Muslims and follow Mohammad. Me, I’m a pagan.”
From the blog: Hiking in the Footsteps of Jesus
Levinsky Park
Asylum seekers from Darfur, South Sudan, and Eritrea were living in a park by the Tel Aviv bus station. I went with a ministry to help hand out dinners, about 500 of them, and to talk with anyone who spoke English.
One man, Michael, had a degree in computer science. He had been living in the park two months. He asked if I had any computer books, because the only book he had was a Bible. He was reading the Gospel of John slowly, paragraph by paragraph. He said he was reading an English Bible instead of an Arabic one because it was “those” people who had killed his family.
From the blog: Asylum Seekers in Levinsky Park, Tel-Aviv
A few more from these years
- Israeli pop cans are made of thicker aluminum, so I always think there’s more left than there is. I’m continually disappointed. (Differences)
- There is no Dr Pepper in Israel. I joined the Facebook group “Bring Dr. Pepper to Israel!” as its third member, pending approval by the admin. (8 Things You May Not Have Known About Israel)
- At the Ramon Crater, two women asked the hostel owner for a restaurant. “There’s a great one where you can get pita and a big bowl of hummu…” “Not huuumus!” Later: “Is there anything to do around here?” “Well, you could hike in the crater.” “No, we don’t want to hike.” (8 Things You May Not Have Known About Israel)
- Tomasz and I went camping in the Negev, which gets about an inch of rain a year, and got rained out. The next day we met geology students who had driven down from Jerusalem to see what a desert rainstorm does, since it almost never happens. What did they expect? A Middleton showed up. (told later in Tent and Sailboat Camping in Oklahoma)
Chapter Three · 2012
Around the World
In which I am overcharged on four continents.
From Israel I kept going: Egypt, Ethiopia, Kenya, a day in Venice, Indonesia, Japan, Hawaii. Thirty flights, twelve countries. By Ethiopia I was writing, “I’m becoming cynical of humans.” By the end I could report I had “somehow escaped falling in love with any cute foreigner girl, of whom I met several.”
Mount Sinai
The big thing the Bedouins sell at Mount Sinai is a camel ride to the top. About every ten steps someone asked if we would care for a ride, with a seller strategically placed at the top of every difficult stretch. There were enough camels on that mountain to transport a small army. Our guide practically raced up. I’m convinced he was trying to wear us out so we would buy one.
Getting stuck behind a camel on the trail is like getting stuck behind a semi on the highway. You keep peering around its backside to see if there’s room to scamper past.
At the top, one in our group hadn’t paid for their tea, and the Bedouins made a stink about it. So I volunteered to be the sacrificial lamb who paid twice, covering the transgressions of the Judas and silencing the murmurings of the Bedouins.
We had an hour to wait for sunrise. My Welsh companion Matt debated whether it was appropriate to sneak a smoke. I told him it wouldn’t be the first time fire had rested on this mountain, and that it would probably be OK. He lit up. I read about Moses and the burning bush, which the monastery below still has on display, it having conveniently never burnt up.
From the blog: Climbing Mount Sinai
The Pyramid Police
Right after I bought my ticket, an official-looking man asked to see it, took it, and told me I had to hire a camel or a horse to see the pyramids. Walking was against the rules. He was not lying, he said. He was not affiliated with the stables. He was, in fact, the Pyramid Police. I had already read about this scam online. I pointed out the tourists walking around and politely asked for my ticket back. By the end he was quite angry with me for all my pains to be polite.
Later a camel man named Abdul offered me a ride starting at 300 pounds. I sat at the base of a pyramid refusing while he kept coming down. At 60 I caved. I ended up paying 145 through high-pressure guilt, but it was an hour on a camel around the pyramids, and the money went straight to the man who owned the camel.
On the way back, Abdul told me my ticket included one of the smaller pyramids. I clambered down a long, low passage into the burial chamber, alone. Perched on a stone shelf above the empty sarcophagus, I popped open a Coca-Cola I’d bought from a man with a cooler in the middle of the desert (without dismounting the camel), and wondered whether a can of Coke had ever been opened in that tomb before. If the mummy were still in there, I bet it would have rolled over.
From the blog: Visiting the Pyramids of Giza
The Bad Samaritan
A kid kept insisting I exchange his Euro coins into Ethiopian birr. Then an internet-café owner ran up, and another kid with more coins. “Internet! Euros! Change! Please! Ferenge! You! You! You!” Finally I spun around in the middle of the road, looked the first kid right in the eyes, and said, “Look! I am NOT a European, so I don’t need Euros. In fact, I am AMERICAN.”
As I was explaining this to him, I noticed his eyes. They were severely crossed, one turned inward, just like mine. He was about thirteen. And he did need new shoes. He walked off.
Of course, then I felt awful. Yes, I AM American. And because I’m American, when I was thirteen like that boy I was having my second operation to get my eyes straightened. At thirteen, this kid is trying to scrape together enough to buy shoes. At the time, though, I didn’t feel bad enough to go back and exchange his paltry Euros. I’m a Bad Samaritan.
Another day two boys insisted on guiding me up a mountain to a monastery. One of them, Tilouse, kept wiping his eyes; they had watered since he was born. His friends told me he was very clever in math, and he wants to be an engineer. As we came down the mountain he looked at me with this big grin and said, “I am soooo happy!” Then he wiped more tears away.
His family was too poor to take him to the hospital in Addis Ababa. I could have stayed and helped, but it would have meant days on buses, and that would have been inconvenient, you know? So Tilouse will probably have eye problems his whole life. I’m a Bad Samaritan.
From the blog: The Bad Samaritan
On Top of the Truck
From Moyale to Isiolo I rode on a transport truck loaded with bags of corn, three levels deep, from 8 a.m. one morning to 7 a.m. the next. The first fourteen hours were on one of the worst dirt tracks I’ve ever been on. For hours we moved at walking speed, jounced around like we were on a mechanical bull.
Most of the time I sat perched on top of the roll cage. At the start there were eighteen of us up there. At each stop a few more hopped off, and by nightfall there were just five of us left. I sat out late watching the stars while the truck toiled on through the bush. There were no city lights anywhere. I finally felt somewhere totally remote. Parts of it were miserable, but all in all it was a blast: probably the closest thing I’ll ever experience to a covered wagon. The next day we rolled into Nairobi.
From the blog: On the Move
The Four Stages of Culture Shock
By Lake Naivasha there were hippos walking along the water’s edge. They say culture shock has four stages: honeymoon, withdrawal, adjustment and mastery. I went through all four in about a minute. First, the honeymoon: hippos, so close! In my excitement I set my camera on a fence post and, while fiddling with the controls, touched the fence. It was electric, and it royally zapped me. I think the voltage was set for hippopotamuses, not humans. Withdrawal. Then adjustment: I stood well back and snapped pictures while the tingling in my leg died down. Finally, mastery. I turned my back on the lumbering beasts, muttered “Veni, vidi, vici,” and returned to my lodgings.
From the blog: Crazy Safari and The Shocking Semantics of Culture Shock
Leeches and Bats
I spent several weeks with a missionary family among the Moi, a highland tribe in Papua with no roads in, only an airstrip notched out of a mountainside. One day five Moi men took me on a “picnic” down to the river, an hour each way, on a trail that varied between a 45-degree muddy angle and an 80-degree muddy angle. They went barefoot. I slipped, slid, fell, and turned into a giant sweat blob.
At the river I pointed out my first leech to the man next to me. Unconcerned, he picked up a sharp rock from the beach and scraped it off my leg, leaving a bleeding hole where its slurping head had been. Thanks, bro, for passing on that stone-age technique.
Then one man crept under an overhang where bats were dozing, while two others waited outside with sticks. Out came the bats. Whap went the sticks. They roasted two and popped them in their mouths whole, minus the wings.
Later I set up solar panels for the new church and had to fill the batteries with acid, which a good part of the village found interminably interesting. When I cut the tip off the first bottle with a knife, several warriors jumped back. Perhaps someone had warned them battery acid was harmful. But what about poor me, who was opening the noxious things?
From the blog: Clashing Civilizations
A few more from these years
- In Dahab I haggled a scarf down from $30 to $4, then put my arm on the seller’s shoulder and asked what his situation was. His mask dropped. I was his first customer of the day. It was 9 p.m. (Bartering in Dahab)
- Street soccer in Alexandria ended when I shot on goal and the goalie deflected it into the Mediterranean. Glad they got the ball back. My team lost. (10 Experiences from Egypt)
- My Cairo taxi driver needed a light for his cigarette. I didn’t have one, so, still weaving through traffic, he signaled the next car over and they passed a lighter through the window. He lit up and passed it back. I was impressed. (Visiting the Pyramids of Giza)
- At Lake Nakuru a monkey ran off with a bag of MY bread rolls. It helped itself while my back was turned taking pictures of its adorable relatives. (Crazy Safari)
- At Lake Naivasha I met a film crew making a documentary about Kenyan food recipes. With hippos and giraffes and the Big Five roaming all over, why not do a feature film on minced sauces? That’s what the public wants, surely. (Crazy Safari)
- The adjustment knob on my $10 Wal-Mart watch broke off in Egypt. By Bali I was adding six hours to whatever it said, and felt sorry for the people beside me on buses who leaned over to check the time. (Bali Walee)
- Among the Moi we caught our eleventh rat in a steel trap. It gave a merry chase dragging the trap behind it, pursued by humans brandishing a broom and a wiffle bat, then freed its tail and escaped. To Lamu, probably. (Clashing Civilizations)
- Boarding the plane out of the jungle, a bumblebee stung my leg. Luckily Steve Crockett was there, and since he’s related to Davy Crockett, I let him dig the stinger out. (Luxury)
- They call Indonesia the sleeping giant, and I believe it. In Jakarta I saw a man asleep sprawled across three motorbike seats. Now that’s sleeping class. (Jakarta Ho! A Somewhat Sagacious Soliloquy.)
- In Jakarta a young woman asked to have her picture taken with me, and then so did her entire extended family. Someday her great-grandkids will flip through the album and ask, “So who’s the white guy?” (Jakarta Ho! A Somewhat Sagacious Soliloquy.)
- The toilet in my low-end Tokyo hostel had a whole panel of buttons, plus a sink on top, which was awkward to get your hands under. Who’d have thunk to put a sink on TOP of the toilet? (I Thought I’d Seen it All, Until I Saw Japan)
Chapter Four · 2012 to 2013
The Driver
In which I learn to drive like a Haitian, mostly.
Back in Kansas that summer I wrote, “Sometimes it feels like I have a million acquaintances but no friends.” So I moved to Haiti.
In December 2012 I started as a volunteer driver and handyman for Heartline Ministries in Port-au-Prince. That meant airport runs, a 1992 4Runner that had “put itself out there,” and fixing whatever was broken, which was everything. Haitians have a proverb for it: Dye mon, gen mon. Beyond the mountains, more mountains.
Safety 5th
Driving is not nearly as bad as I expected. That’s not to say I haven’t nearly hit someone, more than once, or knocked the driver-side mirror off the Montero. I did. The rules are simple. An inch is as good as a mile. The right of way goes to whoever gets there first. Cutting is not considered rude; it’s considered merging. Or winning.
Everywhere one looks in Haiti, something needs fixing. The fan in my room blows copious amounts of air but is missing its grill, and I have it set up blowing right on me while I sleep. I’m not a little apprehensive that some morning I’ll stick my head into the blades while turning off my alarm clock. Free lobotomy, here I come. In America I’ve seen many posters that read “Safety 1st!” In Haiti they should make posters that read “Safety 5th!”
This week a company put up an eight-foot concrete wall for us. The blocks weren’t mixed right and have the consistency of chalk. I can crumble them with my pocketknife. I pushed on the middle of the wall and it swayed back and forth.
Then there was the day our power went out at the guest house. An electric pole mounted in the top of a wall had broken off and fallen into the street. We called the electric company, which I didn’t even know you could do, considering the power is usually on less than twelve hours a day. A guy showed up in an old, beat-up, unmarked pickup truck. He got the pole back up, then needed to go up and connect something. So he leaned his aluminum ladder against the live wire (yes, it was insulated, but still!) and asked me to steady it while he climbed up.
“No way!”
He didn’t die.
From the blog: Driving in Port-au Prince, Haiti
Things One Sees
One morning on an airport run, a truck loaded with sugarcane was beside me, four men perched on top. A haggard man came up and demanded a stick. They refused, so he held them up with a rock. They still refused, so he threw it. One of the men stood up on the load and began swinging a sugarcane stick at his head.
About this time one of the guests in my car asked whether the UN would intervene in this type of aggression. As luck would have it, some UN soldiers walked up at that exact moment. The haggard man yanked out a piece of cane and went on his merry way while the soldiers watched, doing nothing. So I told our guest, “Apparently not.”
A rat once jumped out from under the hood of our car. Our yardman chased it with a stick and, with all of us cheering him on, dispatched it promptly. Another day I was stuck in the middle of several projects, none going well, when he walked by muttering, “Problems on problems.” I said, “You can say that again.”
We needed tile, so I went to a materials store with a display rack of samples. I pointed to one. Do you have this in stock? No. I pointed to another. No. I pointed to every tile on the rack. No, no, no. So what did they have? They took me to a dark, musty back room with one size of tile, in one color, piled in boxes. I bought a few.
From the blog: Things One Sees in Haiti
A Very Steep Hill
Detours sent us through rough backstreets in our box truck, loaded with most of a 22-person work team. We came to a steep hill of loose dirt and potholes. My heart sank. The pickup ahead of us tried, got stuck, backed down, tried again, and churned up the hill fishtailing and shooting rocks out behind.
We couldn’t turn around and couldn’t back up. I stuck it in first and gunned it. Stuck halfway. We rolled back down. A Haitian man came over and assured me we could make it. Same result. He came over again: we could make it, if only we got a bigger head start. I figured he had probably been sitting there all day watching who made it up and who didn’t.
So once more I revved the engine, and in a mushroom cloud of dust, nearly stopping once while the tires spun and the truck careened around, we crested the hill. Everyone in the back started cheering like crazy. They were probably just glad to be alive.
That evening I listened to the team recount their week. None of them mentioned the hill. What really freaked them out was a U-turn I made beside a 40-foot drop-off. I wasn’t concerned about that one. We had plenty of room.
That week I also got my first ticket, for driving with people riding on top of the box truck. Why the police ticketed me and not every other vehicle on the road with passengers on top is a mystery.
From the blog: A Tale of a Very Steep Hill
My Day Off
Many aspects of Haitian life are intense. Sometimes Haitians drive their cars like maniacs. Sometimes they worship the Lord like maniacs. On my day off I witnessed both.
In the city cemetery, a massive tree had a great number of voodoo dolls pinned to its trunk. In retrospect I should have asked my guide what they were for. Instead, I remember telling him I’m a Christian and don’t believe in that pokey-needle-jazz.
That evening I went to my friend Watson’s revival meeting. Most of the Haitian sermons I’ve heard are delivered in the same emotional tenor: imagine Tony Evans speaking Haitian Creole. Except that he’s on steroids.
Driving home, I was stopped at a police checkpoint over a burned-out headlight. One officer wanted a bribe. Another wanted to throw the book at me. Then a third came up and asked, “So what do you want us to do to you?” How are you supposed to answer that from an officer of the law? “Just give me a warning and let me go.” Eventually they did. Ask and you shall receive.
Downtown I passed a mob of perhaps a hundred people running down the street, yelling, some carrying torches. I gave them a wide berth. Then a concrete barrier loomed out of the dark, directly across my lane. I stopped just in the Nick of time, as is my custom.
From the blog: What to Do on My Day Off?
Wedding Cake
I was given the job of driving the wedding cake to the church, an hour away. The Heartline ladies had made it: three tiers, quite impressive. It rode in the cab of the pickup, along with four Haitian ladies and me.
At the site, the cake was carried into the bridal suite, a plywood structure converted for the occasion. The base was set down. The top was set down. The middle tier was still being carefully held by an unnamed person. Moments later, disaster struck. Right under my nose, it flopped out of her hand and landed ker-plop on the cement floor.
After the ladies recovered from their heart attacks (I may have covered my mouth in dismay), they tried seeing what the cake would look like demoted to two tiers. I thought it looked great. Who needs three levels anyways? Then, to my surprise, they set about fixing the ruined one. I wondered about germs from the concrete floor, but if we’re following the three-minute rule it was probably still OK. Their skill reminded me of the part in Ernest Goes to Jail where Ernest whittles a machine gun out of a bar of soap.
On the ride home the humor set in, and I was regaled with peals of laughter from the back seat. The only girl who never snapped out of her deep funk was the one who dropped it, sitting next to me in the front seat. But I won’t reveal her name.
From the blog: Wedding Cake
Frank
I met a German tourist named Frank at the grocery store. He told me, in broken English, that he had come to Haiti looking for a wife. He had even put up a sign outside his hotel: “One man from Europe looking for a woman to marry,” with a phone number.
Later, back in Germany, he emailed to say that sadly he hadn’t found one. He had been introduced to three ladies, but none worked out. The deal-breaker with one was that she had, in his words, “the face of a man.” I would have thought not being able to speak a word of each other’s language would have been an earlier deal-breaker, but what do I know? Perhaps communication in a marriage is overrated?
Another day I passed a motorcycle towing another motorcycle with a piece of twine. I mentioned it to the Haitian lady with me. “What do you expect, you’re in Haiti? Keep looking and you may see a dog towing a dog.” I’m still watching for that one.
From the blog: What Will Happen Next?
A few more from these years
- Running through the Dallas airport on the way down, I reached the gate as the door was closing, under a mountain of luggage, and was the last passenger aboard. Just in the Nick of time. (Running)
- Half asleep, with mosquitoes chewing on me, I grabbed what I thought was lemon-eucalyptus spray and doused my head. It was 100% DEET. No more bites that night. Perhaps cancer next week, though. (Narrating Pertinent Happenings)
- My official physical for residency consisted of checking that I had a pulse. (the Month of March has Arrived – and time Marches on)
- I was flushing a toilet by pulling a string the same week I read about a Japanese Bluetooth toilet that keeps a poop diary. (Degaje (day-gah-zay))
- A man came to the back of our tap-tap with a boy who seemed to be blind. Everyone in that tap-tap was poor, and they took up a collection anyway. (the Month of March has Arrived – and time Marches on)
- At an outdoor market I found a brand-new baseball cap for three dollars. At home I saw the bill was sewn on crooked: a factory reject, sent to Haiti as a charitable donation, for me to find in a box at the market. I still wear it. (Second-hand Compassion)
Chapter Five · 2013
The Village
In which I am the only blan for miles, and eventually the insider.
That spring I turned 30, an age I had always imagined would find me “responsibly holding down a regular job and married with kids.” Instead, in June 2013, I moved to Ravine Sèche, a fishing village north of Port-au-Prince, to learn Creole. For $150 a month I rented a concrete house with a tin roof, an outhouse, and a rain barrel. Voodoo fetishes hung from the ceiling. I kept meaning to cut them down, but they were kinda high.
Sighting a Foreigner
It was about 10 p.m. I was helping as cashier in the little canteen my landlord, Ironce, runs right outside my door. The music was blaring but cutting in and out, because the radio controller was an antiquated piece of junk. Ironce had borrowed my screwdriver and, between that and a butcher knife missing its handle, was fixing it once and for all. The tiny generator whined in the background, revving up and down for no apparent reason, and the single lightbulb brightened and dimmed in cadence.
A drunk man was loitering at the window. Out in the dirt street, a young man with Down syndrome and a burly beard was performing a thoughtful jig to the music. One foot out, other foot out, arms in a robot dance now.
Into this melee an athletic-looking, obviously uncomfortable, tall Hispanic man in slacks and a white tank top appeared at our window. The boys informed me he was a Dominican. Darline, Ironce’s wife, concurred loudly over the music: “He’s a Dominican!”
A moth landed on his arm, then his face, and he swatted wildly. Over the din I picked up “dos… noches…” Darline handed him a mosquito candle through the window, around her working husband on the inside and the drunk on the outside. Money was passed. No change was given. He looked perplexed. I think he wanted two candles, or change. Darline gave neither. He started to argue, but nobody could hear him, assuming anybody was paying attention, and nobody was. Eventually he backed away and disappeared into the night.
Ironce bumped the wrong wire and the music quit. In the sudden quiet the drunk, without ever having turned his head, said the obvious: “The Dominican left.”
I felt sorry for him. He was obviously a foreigner in this environment, and in a way I was the insider. Then Ironce “fixed” the music, and I couldn’t hear myself think again. If you can’t beat them, join them. A group of us went into the street and danced with our friend.
From the blog: Sighting a Foreigner
Was God at Church?
During Sunday school the pastor kept talking directly at me, slowly, repeating himself so I would understand. Then he got tired of me sitting incognito in the back row and moved me to the front. The VERY front. Every time my concentration lapsed I would hear “Nee-koe-LAH!” and look up to see Pastor checking on my attentiveness.
The night before, a young man and I had gotten into a discussion about whether Noah in the Bible was a black man or a white man. He thought white. I attempted a lesson on genetics and the origin of the races, which, considering I speak about ten Creole words, was tricky. Then Pastor loomed out of the dark, and the young man excitedly posed the question to this recognized spiritual authority. After deliberation, Pastor declared the Bible was silent on Noah’s nationality. Tout moun pa konnen. Nobody knows. I figured I did know, but didn’t press the point.
I asked what time church started. There was some argument among the bystanders. Pastor thought 7:30 would be good for me, but under pressure gave in to 7:45, and eventually conceded 8:00 would probably be early enough.
I showed up at 8:00. The church was empty except for Pastor, one lady, and her two small kids. Next week I’ll come no earlier than 9:00, when everyone else shows up. I wouldn’t be surprised if God arrives closer to 9:00 too.
From the blog: Was God at Church?
Pè and Pye
I was out by the ocean, where I get good cell reception, making a phone call home. Two of my teenage sidekicks came up breathless to warn me I was in great danger. “What danger?” “From a wicked malefactor.” “What malefactor?” “The werewolves.” Everyone in the village had gone inside early. Then they hightailed it back themselves.
My new roommate, Noë, began pulling on my arm, insisting we go back, NOW. Reluctantly I went. Everyone was indoors, an odd and unfamiliar scene for Ravine Sèche. One neighbor had his whole family sleeping together in one of his two houses. I didn’t feel any evil presence. It just seemed like a bunch of people had creeped each other out.
The next morning, on the way to the well, Noë introduced me to the oldest person in the village. He said she was 107. I didn’t believe it. Noë said I could ask her myself. We hurried to catch up, and she spoke first, loudly, cocking her head: “So, you guys heading down to get water?” I had secretly hoped that at 107 she would have something more profound to say. More like Yoda.
I asked her how old she was. “What?!” Louder. “Oh! I’m 107 years old.” “See?” said Noë.
I still wasn’t convinced. “Well, the way I know she’s so old,” Noë added, “is because she has a daughter who is an old, tiny, frail thing.” He hunched over and twisted his arms in a dinosauric fashion. “In fact, she looks a lot worse than her mom.”
Between malefic werewolves, a lady hobbling around at 107, and getting my flip-flops re-stitched by the official flip-flop cobbler, I’d say today was a success.
From the blog: Pè and Pye
The Other Side
A medical team from America came to Ravine Sèche for a one-day clinic. I didn’t know any of them. They blew in setting up tables, opening a pharmacy out of suitcases, snapping pictures. You can always tell newbies to Haiti, because they’re dressed for a safari. Were they hiking somewhere afterwards, I wondered?
I watched from under a shade tree with a group of locals. One man told me, “I have asthma and need a new inhaler, but I’m going to wait for the line to die down.” That seemed reasonable. It was a nice shade tree.
One of the team asked me what I do here. Well, you’re seeing it. Today I’m watching you guys work.
The leader asked if I could get lunch for twenty-two people. My friend Darlene agreed to cook rice, beans, and chicken for $50. I felt that was too low, so I pitched it to the leader at $70. Surely a group of doctors could afford it, and surely Darlene needed the extra $20 more than they did. Afterwards I had a pang of conscience. I had just done two things that annoy me constantly: taking them to my friend instead of the best cook, and charging them more because they could afford it. I offered the leader the difference. He wouldn’t take it. And in the end she cooked fish instead of chicken, which was probably less appetizing for those who got the heads.
A boy of about seven had a serious problem, so I knelt down to talk with him. I asked if he knew who I was. “Wi, ou se blan Mayse Nicolas.” My reputation precedes me. After we talked about his problem, he asked me why my toe had a Band-Aid on it.
While we waited, one of the kids told me he was looking forward to making watermelon juice with me later. I said, “Want to start now?” “Nah, let’s wait until after the blans leave.” That’s the thing. Blans leave. Even me, someday.
From the blog: The Other Side
A Long Wait
The pastor and I visited a family one morning. When we were ready to leave, they pressed us to stay for rice and beans. I knew we were in for a bit of a wait.
Their place was on the beach, so we pulled plastic chairs under a shade tree and waited. And waited. After two hours I saw three men get in a boat and row away. They had no net, so they weren’t fishing. Someone offered that I could go with them, but I declined, because I was waiting for my rice and beans. An hour later they came back with fish they had bought at a market. When the ladies started scaling them, I knew we were in for an even longer wait.
Four hours after we sat down, we were served rice, beans, fresh bonito, and a cold Coca-Cola. It was really delicious, and by then I was hungry. For a while I watched some fishermen play cards, but they got tired of that and rolled over to take a nap.
When was the last time you waited four hours for a meal? Some days here I feel like Huckleberry Finn.
From the blog: A Long Wait
Back from the Morgue
While I was visiting an American couple, they got a call that a Haitian friend of theirs had died at the hospital. The wife went straight to the widow’s house to mourn with the family. That evening she came back with the craziest news. While she was there, the morgue had called: the mortician noticed the man was still breathing, so he was sending him back to the hospital.
The next day a group of us went to pray with him. Middle-aged, bearded, he didn’t look well, but he could talk. On the way out my friend remarked how sickly he looked. I countered that he looked pretty well off, considering he’d been in the morgue the day before.
From the blog: Short Anecdote
Ou Komanse Kòmik
There were a number of weeks out here I didn’t smile or laugh much. But good ol’ Nick is returning. The way Darline put it: “Ou komanse kòmik.” You’re becoming funny. I’ve reached the point in the language where I can sometimes tell a joke and have people laugh.
It helps to learn how everyone is related, which is to say nearly everyone. Now, instead of “that old guy I find kind of intimidating,” I think: “That is Darlene’s father, Darlene being his only child by his first wife, who is the gentle older lady yonder who is a stalwart in the local church and one of only six going on the church’s annual evangelistic trip later this month, not to be confused with his second wife, who is more domineering and lives in St. Marc.”
Nothing can be miserable forever, humans being so adaptable.
From the blog: More at Home
Thankful
Some days I feel beat by the multitude of interactions in a foreign language, the physical discomforts, the lack of privacy. One day I even started a blog post about it. It’s still on my desktop, half written, titled “Haitians Annoy Me.” Instead, I’ve been trying to think of things I’m thankful for.
Today six friends drove up from Port-au-Prince to visit. They brought lunch, and before leaving they prayed over me. What really blew me out of the water was a gift from Anachemy, my Haitian-American friend from Port: Cheez-Its, granola bars, Jelly Bellies, taffy, Dr Peppers, Vanilla Cokes, and even Oreos. I was eating the Oreos thinking, “Gosh, these are amazing, I should buy more of these sometime,” then saw the price tag: $10 US. And remembered why I don’t usually buy them.
My life is rich. So what if there are a few bug bites along the way?
From the blog: Thankful
A few more from these years
- On rainy nights, open the outhouse lid and the inside is lined with cockroaches. Some scurry back down. Some run around the room and over your toes. (Fish Fry)
- We fished a dead, decomposing lizard out of the bottom of my water tank. That was my shower water. It also had little worms swimming in it. (Fish Fry)
- Enochson, my fifteen-year-old constant shadow, was insulted to learn what Food for the Poor means in Creole. “We’re not in poverty! Those beggars in St. Marc, now they’re in poverty. Not us.” (On Being Asked for Things)
- When I turned some teenage boys out of my house for a little time alone, they called me a “wicked, mean person,” and in nearly the same breath asked if they could cook spaghetti on my stove. (On Being Asked for Things)
- A girl visiting from St. Marc was said to be deeply in love with me. I said, “What? I just met her today.” I was assured she had known ME longer. (On Being Asked for Things)
- On a short trip to Venezuela I drove over the big bridge in Curaçao more times than I wanted, because what looked like the exit ramp was really the “do it again the other way” ramp. (Taking the Road Less Traveled: Venezuela)
- Venezuela was out of toilet paper. Some enterprising person made a smartphone app showing which stores had it in stock. Where I stayed, there was half a roll left, to be used judiciously. Butter was rationed, and kept in little locked boxes. (Taking the Road Less Traveled: Venezuela)
Chapter Six · 2013 to 2015
The Bakery
In which I go to war with the Haitian banking system, and lose.
After a couple of months back in Kansas, I returned to Haiti in November 2013 to oversee Heartline’s new bakery and a discipleship program for young men. That meant early mornings at the oven, payroll, a rusty Toyota pickup, a 125cc dirt bike, and a great deal of time at the bank.
Finding Small Change
Many stores in Haiti don’t have change. Hand a cashier a 1,000-gourde note (about $25) and they look at you as if you were a snake: “Nou pa gen monnen!” We don’t have change! I decided a hallmark of our bakery would be always having change. First I had to find some.
I sent workers out to find coins. They came back like Noah’s doves, with little twigs, when I was expecting fresh rolls of coins in cardboard tubes. A man on the street offered to supply all our change needs, at 120 gourdes for every 100. How often could he do this? “From time to time.”
So I put Moise, my co-worker, on the back of my motorcycle and went to a bank. The line was about 75 people long. The manager said they didn’t have enough change. At the next bank I was ushered into the back office of the Grand Pumba himself.
“We can split that 1,000 into 50s for you.”
“No, we want coins. Two hundred 5-gourde coins.”
He leaned back and laughed. “We have no change in this bank.”
“So when the government mints coins, where do they go?”
“I don’t know.”
“In my country, they go to banks.”
“We aren’t in your country,” he chuckled. Obviously this blan knew nothing about how things work in Haiti. “If you want coins, go to the gas stations. They give us cartons of coins every day.”
“What? So you DO have coins!”
“No. We send them down to the National Bank.”
“And where do the gas stations get their coins?”
“From the tap-tap drivers.”
Moise was about to melt through the floor in embarrassment. “So the National Bank collects coins from the banks, who collect them from the gas stations, who collect them from the tap-tap drivers, who collect them from the people. Where do the people get their coins?”
The Grand Pumba admitted I had him on that one.
At the first gas station, the attendant had no coins and suggested I try a bank. “Well, guess what? We just visited two banks, and they told us to visit you guys! Isn’t that a hoot?” And we took off for the next station.
From the blog: Finding Small Change in Haiti is an Uphill Battle
Bakery of Charity
An orphanage asked if we could donate bread for the kids’ Christmas dinner. On Christmas Eve I bought six platters of rolls, about 300, and asked Bilhah, our cashier, to call and confirm where they were. She couldn’t reach them, but Wilson knew where the orphanage was and could deliver it.
That afternoon I asked Wilson how the drop-off went. “I didn’t take the bread. Jovany did.” I asked Jovany. “I didn’t take it. Carl, our security guard, did.”
Two days later I found Carl. “Did you deliver the bread to the orphanage?” “Yes, I can do that.” “No, not can you. Did you?” “Oh yeah, I did that.” “How did it go?” “They didn’t say anything.” Carl added, “I didn’t actually go to the orphanage, because I don’t know where it is.”
“So where did you take it?” “To the grocery store. I gave it to Merlin.” “Who is Merlin?” “Oh, you don’t know who Merlin is? He was the contact I was supposed to give the bread to.” “Did Merlin say thanks?” “No, because Merlin wasn’t at the grocery store. I gave it to Merlin’s brother.”
I went back to Bilhah. “Were you ever able to reach the orphanage?” “Oh yes.” “Did they say anything about a man named Merlin?” “No.” “What did you tell them?” “That we would drop the bread off at their place.” “And who delivered it?” “Wilson. He’s the only one who knows where it is. Because… he knows the lady.”
The next logical question was “Which lady?” But I decided to stop while I was behind. As I left, wondering whether our bread for orphans had gone to the brother of a mysterious necromancer named Merlin, Bilhah chirped up: “It’s really not an orphanage, you know. It’s an organization that takes care of kids…” By then I had tuned out.
From the blog: Bakery of Charity
Twelve Bolts
At the hardware store, the bolts were sorted haphazardly into old plumbing-part boxes with the labels scratched out. At the counter, the cashier measured each one by holding it up to her index finger. Then she informed me I couldn’t buy just one of each. I needed six of one type, four of another, and twelve of the third. I found more of the first two, but there weren’t twelve of the third. If they only had one bolt left, I couldn’t buy it, because I had to buy twelve.
Finally I asked: could I please buy twelve, and they only give me one? With hesitation, she agreed.
Another day, while my A/C was being worked on, a windshield-wiper salesman decided I needed new wipers. I said no repeatedly. I got between him and the car and said no firmly, and he reached around me. Finally I pushed him away. I went back under the hood, and when I looked up a minute later he had installed one of his wipers on my car. I pulled it off, threw it across the parking lot, and yelled at him to get lost. He stopped laughing after that. But there could have been better ways to handle the situation besides losing my temper. I felt bad afterwards.
Being here in Haiti, I feel like I’ve lost whatever veneer of holiness I used to think I had. The truth is I’m the same person, but frequent duress means I get to see my true colors far more often than I did back home. It’s humbling.
From the blog: A Few Frustrating Anecdotes from My Life
More Bank Fun
This time I had the reverse problem: about 1,000 small bills I wanted to change into large ones. This should be a piece of cake, I thought. The banks are short of small bills; this will be a boon for them.
Visit 1: The clerk looked at my piles of small bills in horror. “We don’t have any large bills at the bank.” I could deposit it all, though. “What’s your account number?” I didn’t know it. “Come back another day.”
Visit 2: After twenty minutes of counting, the deposit was made. “Fini!” “Not quite. Now I’d like to withdraw the exact amount I just deposited.” More horror. It was against bank policy to deposit and withdraw on the same day.
Visit 3: After an hour in line, withdrawal slip filled out: “You can’t withdraw with a slip. You must write a check to yourself.” I had thought to bring my checkbook. It held only the deposit slips; the checks were in my backpack at home. “Is there anything you can do?” “Nothing,” she said, ringing the bell for the next person.
Visit 4: The line was too long, so I didn’t bother.
Visit 5: The bank had closed early.
Visit 6: I finally made my withdrawal.
From the blog: More Bank Fun
The Self-Proclaimed Liar
I know a man who runs an orphanage out of his home. Let’s call him Jean. He kept asking why the blans who visited didn’t support him. After deflecting this for months, I decided to be honest. “People see your need, but they don’t trust you. We think you’re shady.”
“What?! Why would anyone not trust me?” “Well, for starters, because you lie.”
He took this in stride. “Yes, I lie, but I only lie to help the kids. I say the children are younger than they are, so people will be more sympathetic. When I ask an organization for rice, I tell them I have a big orphanage so they’ll give me many bags. That’s how I lie for the kids.”
“Don’t you call yourself a pastor? What does the Bible say about lying?” “The Bible is full of liars! Abraham lied about his wife being his sister. Twice. Jacob: big liar. David, oh, big, big liar. All the big men of God lied. It’s what they did.”
“And what about Jesus? Did he lie?” A long pause. Then, emphatically, with a finger raised: “He is the only one who didn’t lie.”
I told him that if he would promise not to lie to me anymore, I would see what I could do to help. A lengthy pause, then a loud groan. “Uggh, I can’t promise that! But I’ll promise to pray that God helps me say the truth more.”
Our relationship has improved markedly since I told him I think he’s a crook. I feel like Frodo trying to cut a deal with Gollum.
From the blog: In Which I Meet a Self-Proclaimed Liar
A few more from these years
- Riding home at night I came upon a voodoo parade: perhaps 1,000 people, dancers in white paint, ghastly costumes looming out of the dark. I switched sides and went the wrong way around the divider. (Why Not Much Writing)
- At our first baptism, held at a public swimming hole on a Saturday afternoon, a rowdy fellow did a cannonball almost on top of the man being baptized. By the third baptism, the whole pool had stopped to watch. (Baptism)
- Haitian spaghetti uses ketchup for sauce and sliced fried hot dogs for meat. I eat it for breakfast most mornings. Nutrition, nutrition. (A Few Frustrating Anecdotes from My Life)
- I set my alarm for midnight to run a load of laundry when city power came on. It wasn’t on. At 1 a.m. it was, so I put a load in, went back to bed, and watched city power click back off. I’m on day four of trying to get one load clean. (My Life in Haiti Feels Kind of Like Camping Out)
- I bought an electric mosquito zapper shaped like a tennis racket. I think the mosquitoes have learned that when I’m holding it, it’s time to hide. (Chikungunya & Air Conditioning)
- Visiting an injured worker outside visiting hours, I sweet-talked my way into the hospital. Then they thought I was a patient and wouldn’t let me leave without seeing a doctor. (Work Injury)
- On my day off I sprayed ant poison around my bathroom, which on the Sabbath was a double whammy: it was both work and destroying lives. (What is Rest? Harder than you’d think!)
Chapter Seven · 2015 to 2018
Happily Ever After?
In which I get married twice, and we buy a boat in a week.
Remember the friend with the $10 Oreos? Anachemy and I were married in May 2015: once at my home church in Kansas, and once on a beach in Haiti.
Two Weddings
Someone told me that now that I’m a married man I need to change the name of my blog from simplefollower to complicatedfollower. He especially noted there was nothing simple about two weddings. I agree.
It’s one thing to visit Haiti for a week-long mission trip. It’s another to plan your wedding there. A good crowd showed up, many of them for the free food. Even the president of the country watched a bit of it. He came by on his boat and yelled out a warning that if I ever left her, he’d be after me.
It was a team effort. A donor paid for the beach. Heartline provided food and transportation. John McHoul officiated, with Pierre translating, and sometimes, for the fun of it, John spoke Creole and let Pierre translate him back into English. My security guard helped make cupcakes. A friend loaned us his car, and it got creamed by a motorcycle while we were driving it.
Troy was my best man. My other groomsman was Enochson. I met him in Ravine Sèche, and he’s become like a little brother to me.
From the blog: A Wedding in Haiti
Yes! Let’s Do It!
Our landlord gave us three weeks’ notice. One evening we were lying in bed searching listings on our phones. My wife was fighting down vomit from morning sickness (even though it was evening; apparently morning sickness hadn’t got the memo). A brilliant idea crossed my mind. “Why don’t we buy a sailboat and live on it?”
She very enthusiastically gave me a thumbs up while jumping out of bed and running to the bathroom to throw up. When she returned she excitedly added, “Yes! Let’s do it!” I count my blessings for having found such an adventurous woman to share life with.
A week later we found a Hunter 31 that had been used by a sailing school. It had central air that didn’t work, an autopilot that didn’t work, a fridge that didn’t get cold, and a toilet leaking effluent on the ground. We looked at each other, nodded, and offered $7,900 cash on the spot. No survey was done, both because we didn’t have time and because I could see for myself the boat was a floating pile of deferred maintenance.
On the maiden voyage to our new marina, the engine overheated above idle, and there was not a hint of wind. Ten hours later, after motoring 25 miles at idle, we pulled into our new slip.
From the blog: New Adventures
Noah
On January 30, 2018, after nearly a year of pregnancy, 36 hours of active labor, midwives, doctors, drinking a full bottle of castor oil to make the baby come (never try this, btw), pain, exhaustion, and no epidural, Anachemy finally gave birth to our first child, a son, Noah. I was amazed at Anachemy’s strength. We brought him home from the hospital to a boat. Not many babies can say that, but considering his name, it was fitting. Jesus had a manger; Noah gets a bilge. Sort of. He’s technically above the bilge.
Before he was born I envisioned a cuddly baby who would fall asleep in my arms. I can count on one finger how many times that has happened. Since his entry into the world he has been like a heat-seeking missile: squirming, grabbing, biting, head-butting, kicking, and chewing on everything he can reach. And his reach is increasing. One of his favorite targets is my beard.
Overall, it is a joy having Noah. Yes, it’s lots of work. Yes, he annoys me a lot. But he is also super cute, and generally a very happy kid. I guess I’ll keep him.
From the blog: Noah
That’s where the blog ends. Since then there have been more moves, two more kids, a business, and another boat, but those stories haven’t been written down here yet.