Missionaries 1

Missionaries

Iron Market, Downtown

Tim and Kevin are leaving the Iron Market, where Tim has introduced him to a North African merchant who will exchange US dollars for Haitian gourdes. Kevin’s immigration status is murky, so he can’t open any bank accounts. NGO Tech isn’t recognized by the Haitian government anyway, so they channel funds to Kevin through his US checking account. The Haitian banks charge a 20% fee for any foreign currency exchange, plus taxes and mandatory “tips”. As a result, local custom is to rely on the black market for currency exchange. Even when using a personal check, Kevin will receive 90% of the official exchange rate from this North African man. While Kevin doesn’t fully understand all the signals, it’s clear that he’s being inducted into some sort of unspoken arrangement where collateral has already been exchanged. 

Tim is pulling a luggage wagon, stacked full of marine batteries, lanterns, water containers of all sizes, and several gallons of flat black paint.  Kevin is lugging along a 5-gallon jerrycan filled with kerosene, the lid leaking badly.  They maneuver around piles of coconuts, hand-made leather work, and colorful paintings. Swarms of naked children chase each other while their older friends use the distraction to thieve a few loaves of bread.  Women glide by in brightly colored dresses, balancing piles of textiles and baskets on their heads. 

Taking care to not to knock over any merchant stalls, they make their way back to the Isuzu.  It’s parked on a side street, where Tim paid a street kid to watch it. They round a corner and Kevin recognizes the kid’s Montreal Expos shirt in the shadows behind their SUV. The kid sees them coming, nods to Tim, and disappears into the crowd.   As they load the Trooper Kevin asks, “When are you going to let me use the station’s Lada?” Tim doesn’t reply, so he continues, “Why isn’t anyone using it.  It’s not half as rusty as the other SUV’s?”  Tim quickly replies, “I don’t know where that Russian eye-sore came from. No one can read the gauges or start it.  We’d sell it for parts, but not even the Cubans want it.” 

They get in the Isuzu and Kevin reaches for the seat belt out of habit, before rolling down his window instead. As they leave the market area, they approach a make-shift checkpoint manned by a lone soldier. Kevin asks, “Whatever happened to that missionary family that lives down the street? I haven’t seen them since that firefight the other night. I can’t believe no rounds come through the house.” Tim interrupts him, “And maybe you shouldn’t stand on the roof while people are shooting at each other!” Kevin gives him a “fair point” facial expression before continuing, “Was it connected to the Americans disappearing?” Tim doesn’t respond as he waves his press pass at the soldier. The soldier stares at Tim for a moment without expression, before waving him past with a dismissive gesture.

As they start moving Tim doesn’t respond so Kevin continues, “I mean, I get that the zenglando are basically just the next version of Macoute, but why do so many of these dechokaj events target either the Catholic hierarchy or old-school American missionaries? You’ve been explaining that the only safe way to preach the gospel is by avoiding politics. Then why have so many Christians been caught up in this political conflict?”

Finally Tim sighs and replies, “Kevin, no offense, but you don’t have enough Creole to understand what you’re hearing on the radio. I don’t know what you think you’re getting from those newspapers. You can barely read French. Of course…” Tim swerves to avoid a man pulling a wooden cart full of barrels. “Of course it’s messy. Voodoo, Kevin. Demonic powers. This is spiritual warfare. We’ve been saying it for years, so of course they’re coming after the missionaries. This country deserves all its suffering until they let go of their superstitions, reject communism, and accept help from the US! And yeah, the Lavalas mobs went after the Archbishop. The Catholic hierarchy is all that remains between Haiti and total anarchy.”

Kevin lights a cigarette and replies, “Well that, the CIA, and whatever else the US Embassy is cooking up.” Tim jerks in his seat and glances sharply at Kevin, then makes a show of waving away the cigarette smoke. Kevin continues, “Of course Haitian Catholicism absorbed some African folk spirituality into its saints and holidays. Doesn’t make it idolatry or whatever.” Tim suddenly jolts upright, “Are you trying to defend voodoo?!” Kevin sighs, “I’m not defending anything. I’m saying it doesn’t seem that different than Christmas being in December with a Yule log and lots of fir trees. That’s not in the Bible either.” Still no response from Tim, so Kevin pushes more, “Those leftists you’re worried about? Are they the ones running the Mother Teresa orphanage? Or the Fathers who are reminding everyone that Jesus was a brown-skinned, poor refugee, too?”

Now Tim pulls the Isuzu abruptly to the side of the road, angrily pulls the emergency brake, and turns his body toward Kevin. “You read a lot of books and met a lot of exiles in Miami.” He leans in, so close now that Kevin can smell the street-pork that Tim ate at the market. “You might think it’s all fun and games, but your name has found its way to the Embassy. You think human rights are more important than law and order?” He snorts, “Those of us who have been here more than a minute, know better.” He snatches the cigarette from Kevin’s hand and throws it past his face out the passenger window before continuing, “This is a godforsaken place. Until Haiti bends the knee to God Almighty, they get all that they deserve. And you will too if you’re not careful.”

Kevin breaths out slowly and stares into Tim’s eyes. Neither blinking. Then both snap out of it at the same time. Kevin replies, “Look. Here’s the thing. I’m still here to help. You’re not the first customer to shoot the messenger because he didn’t like the message. I may not have Creole yet or understand what all these foreigners are doing down here, but I know bullshit when I step in it.” They pass a Kok Kalite mural with fighting rooster above the phrase, “Ansamn, Ansamn, nou se Lavalas!”. Kevin gestures toward it, “Like the sign says, ‘Together we’re the avalanche!’. But who gets washed away? Before I came down here, I was told that every priest is progressive and every pastor is conservative until proven otherwise.” Kevin gestures toward the Bible on the seat between them. “It’s been a while since we talked about anything in there but Paul’s letters. Well, I was taught that the Bible may or may not be infallible, but you better not try to use it against the poor.”

Tim slowly restarts the Isuzu and gets back on the road. “I think it’s best we table this for now. It’s been a long day and you need to get back to your language classes. That’s still a condition of you getting access to any of the station’s vehicles. You can keep using the Yamaha for back and forth to wherever you go. I just don’t want to know about it.” He looks over at Kevin, “Kompran?” Kevin replies, “Tout sanble.” They pull up to Tim’s gate, just as all the lights go out in his house. The gate opens to the sound of his kids wailing that their TV/VCR just shut off. Kevin looks Tim in the eye and says, “I’m going to let you handle those batteries. It’s been a long day, and I need to practice my Creole phrases before my lesson tomorrow.”