Mwen antrene Creole! (I’m a-learnin’ Creole!)

I think it’s rude to travel to a country and not learn a bit of the language. Sure, lots of people in lots of places speak English, but shouldn’t we try to learn something of our host’s language? Granted, if you try to speak French in Paris, they look offended at what you’ve done to their language and answer you in English… and they don’t yet realise that’s exactly what we were trying to get them to do in the first place… shhhh…

When I went to India in 2006, I learned something — almost everyone there speaks English, but they speak English that they learned from non-native speakers, who learned it from non-native speakers themselves. And so on. They call it Hinglish. Even when we were all speaking English, there was not a lot of communicating going on. And while you’re asking for something, they start the Indian head-bob, which appears to indicate assent, but I believe was actually a signal that they had stopped listening to you entirely and had already decided to do whatever they wanted to about the situation.

The night after the India build, I flew to Varanasi to stay with the friend of a friend on his beautiful estate. The flight was delayed, and the drive from the airport was long, and I arrived in my very awesome and palatial 5-bedroom bungalow at 2 a.m. local time (something like 4.17 p.m. EST… never figured out the time difference). I had some sort of fever which made for a bit of delirium, and when two house servants approached me before I went to bed, I wasn’t prepared for their questions. They wanted to know what I wanted for breakfast, looking at each other first in some sort of rock-paper-scissors mime, the loser of which had to pose the next question. “Poached eggs toast, Mum?” I’d gotten safely through India with poached eggs and toast so far, so that was a yes. “Mum would like papaya?” We had driven in through a grove of fruit trees, so papaya would also be safe. “Would Mum like bacon?” Boy, would mum ever like some bacon. But what do they consider “bacon” in India? In a predominantly vegetarian society, I hadn’t had any luck with meat products so far. Chicken never looked like chicken, beef was of course nonexistent, and, well, let’s just say I never got brave enough to try the hot dogs they sold at the Mumbai airport. (Strangely enough, the very first time I tried caviar was on a Kingfisher Air flight from Delhi…) Just because the word “bacon” was the same as ours, didn’t mean the product “bacon” was the same as ours. When I awoke that morning, I was not hopeful. My host, it turns out, was quite British, and had special products shipped in from Delhi every week that appealed to his non-Indian tastes. Including bacon. Real bacon. Real Delhi bacon…

OK, so maybe that wasn't a perfect example of the language barrier, but it's been a long time since I talked about bacon, and I had to work it in.

Before I went to Guatemala with the Lovely Lane Methodist Church of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, I actually tried to learn Central American Spanish. I started learning French when I was 3 years old and majored in French Lit in college, so I was pretty entrenched in the Language of Love/The Olympic Games. Many words were similar, but they say the worst Spanish accents come from French speakers, and I’d have to agree. And the homonyms weren’t helpful — when you say ‘notebook’ in French, you’re saying ‘street’ in Spanish. I’d ask for directions and I kept thinking they wanted to write them down.

I used Rosetta Stone, which was fabulous, and teaches using a method that mimics how you learn language as a child. They show you a picture of a horse running, and the sentence, “The horse can run.” They show you a picture of a fish, and the sentence, “The fish can swim.” This is how I ultimately came to learn the sentence, “The fish can’t run.” The fish. Can’t run. El pez no peude correr. I learned enough Spanish to be able to communicate in Guatemala — more importantly, to be able to know what was going on — and we tried to work “El pez no puede correr” into every conversation we could. We left them thinking that, quite possibly, in America, the fish CAN run…

For Haiti, I wanted to learn Creole. Building with us on each site will be Haitian construction workers and the Haitian homeowners, who may or may not speak some English, or even French as I learned it. There are translators on the build sites, but you have to wait for them, which wastes valuable time, and you can’t monopolise them to have a conversation with the homeowners. It wasn’t until the third or fourth day of the build in Thailand that we found out our homeowner wasn’t with us – it was the wife’s brother working with us, because the homeowners were with their child in the hospital the whole time. I’d like to be able to make conversation with our homeowners, and communicate somewhat with our trades — I think it’s respectful, and I want to know cool swear words in Creole for everyday use.

I found a computer application that teaches Creole (Rosetta Stone doesn’t have a Creole version, so to get my point across about the fish not running, I believe we’re back to mime). This program does not exactly have construction terms, but I have learned to say build (bati) and paint (pentire, pronounced almost exactly like panty-raid). I can also say hike, climb, ice skate, and accordian, which I expect to come in handy. I can set the table, make the bed, and try something on. I can call somebody, talk to somebody, love somebody, and hate somebody. I can drive, swim, sail, and ride a horse. I can count to a hundred (which I apparently could do in French when I was five, so I’m feeling a lack of progress here), but there had better not be any fractions involved in the build. And I can also say, “Nou jwe kèk oke sou glas!”* I’m still waiting for the chapter where I mix mortar, tie rebar, and set blocks.

Here’s the beauty of Creole: for the most part, it’s lazy, phonetic French. No articles, no conjugation. Voyager? Vwayaje. Fixer? Fikse. Every letter is pronounced, just like in Spanish. Dix? Dis. Treize? Trèz. And I’m amazed at how much French I remember, considering I haven’t had a conversation in French in years. I can pull the odd sentence out when Montreal fans come to town and need directions, but it’s not really come up a lot otherwise. La ville? Lavil. À demain? A demen. It’s a language of 99% French cognates! I am loving this! I pretty much just have to forget a little French to make this work… and then figure out fractions, and metric, and “plumb” and “flush,” and I’m good to go!

I actually have a friend moving to Haiti soon, so I’m hoping to practice some Creole with her on Facebook. And the receptionist at my spa is from Haiti, and is incredibly helpful in reassuring me that I already know all this. Anyone else? Nenpòt moun ki?

I’m hoping to avoid the scene in Bangkok in 2009 where we were all learning Thai on the fly, and practiced phrases together… until the day we realized we had just walked through the lobby of the Marriott as a group loudly repeating, “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” over and over. It’s too late for the Thais, but we’d like the good people of Haiti not to think we’re insane. Who wants insane people building their house?

* Let’s... play... some... HOCKEY!

What I Can't Do

"I am always doing things I can't do,

that's how I get to do them." — Pablo Picasso

Yeah, I have issues. There are a lot of things I don’t do. Phobic, lazy, abhorrent – whatever the reason, some things are just out of character for me.

I don’t like to travel. I don’t talk to strangers. I don’t like to be out of my routine. I don’t like crowds. I don’t skip my daily nap. I don’t answer the telephone. I don’t go outside when it’s above 75 degrees. I don’t exercise. I don’t go away without my dog. I don’t let other people set up my tent. The list goes on.

Sometimes you just get a sign that it’s time to get out of your rut. Like when I got that post card from the American Stroke Association that said they would train me to do a marathon in Hawaii, all I had to do was raise $5,000 for the ASA to go. Hot weather? Exercise? Long plane ride? Dog-sitter? Completely out of character. So I did it. Same with the first build I did in India. Timber was gone at that point, but hot weather? Building houses? Long plane ride? Yup, nothing could have sounded less-appealing. So I did that, too. In the last year, I’ve tried sushi and whiskey, calamari and duck, and driving a jet ski. And swinging on a trapeze, which only confirmed my fear of heights and was quite terrifying, actually. This out-of-character stuff doesn’t always work in my favour.

Every year I volunteer to be vehicle support on the Cycling the Erie Canal bike tour. I don’t ride a bike – don’t even own one. I spend a week smiling cheerfully and chatting with the riders, getting up before 5 a.m. without getting a nap, answering the phone, and letting other people put up my tent. The first few tours, this caused me great anxiety. Suffering panic attacks the week before the ride. Searching for excuses to back out. And not just a little crankiness on the road. This year I was much more relaxed, maybe even friendly. Sure, I slept for a week when I got home, but I got to do things that I can’t do.

(I’m back to not answering the phone again. Don’t even bother.)

Will I be able to handle Haiti? Yesterday I volunteered for the first time for Buffalo Habitat, and I learned a lot about plumbing. On the bike tour I was outside in 80s and 90s for hours on end, and never cried once. And I am blessed with a very poor sense of smell. Won’t know until I get there, but I might just get to do a bunch of things that I can’t do.

My Birthday! No, the real one!

Well, we think it's the real one, but we actually don't know any witnesses to the event. My friend Jack Kenny sent me this video, which I'd never seen before and, well, I've watched a couple of times now. New respect for Corgis.

Today is the 45th anniversary of the actual day on my birth certificate, even though I celebrate all summer long. I also started telling people I was 45 a couple of months ago, because the transition takes a while for me. So today I go to Lake Effect Diner for my free milkshake, and buy beer at Wegmans because they have to proof you and then they wish you Happy Birthday. We have a family tradition where my Mom doesn't call me on my birthday, so I compensate.

Last night I celebrated with my brother Mark and 6-year-old niece Tegan — hours in the pool with Teeg and then Chinese buffet at Mandarin. Got a hilarious Hoops & Yodel sound card, from Tegan and Mark - if you don't know, those make my day.

And Tegan made a card for me from my dog Yodel, because he doesn't have thumbs. Inside she wrote, "Don't forget the awesomeness!"

(I don't have to repeat myself I'm sure, but if you're interested in commemorating my birthday monetarily, there's this Habitat fundraiser I'm doing...)

Guys Named Steve

For my birthday in 2006, my brother Bruce took me to a psychic. I totally eat stuff like that up, so I was game. She had some interesting insights into my relationships, apparently saw my Dad standing behind me, and told me that I was going to a tropical climate to build something. Since I was planning on going to India on a build in October, that caught my attention. She very specifically told me, “You’re going to meet someone named Steve. He won’t change your life, but he’ll be the beginning of your life changing.”

Well, that was hilarious to me, because I’m horrible with names as it is, but when I’ve had a few fermented beverages, every guy becomes “Steve.” I’m not actually close enough to anyone named Steve to explain this — it just seems to be an easy-to-remember, easy-to-pronounce name to which I default. In 1995, I went to the Dolphins game on a date. We started drinking Bloody Marys at 9.30 in the morning. By halftime, we decided we needed to walk around and sober up a little. I ran into a friend of mine and introduced him to my date. “Steve, this is Steve!” Friend: “Hi, I’m Dave.” Date: “Yeah, me too.”

So, was I going to meet someone named Steve? Or just someone I called Steve?

When I arrived at Velvett Country in Lonavala, India, I was anxious to learn about the build and meet some of the volunteers. I arrived a little early, and the next day went to the reception area to meet the new arrivals. Sherwood and Marsha Kirk were among the first, and we hit it off right away. Sherwood’s brother was working the build, and so the Kirks took me to the build site with them to crash a House Leader meeting (this is where I first got the information about safety concerns that ultimately made me a credible safety monitor — just have to stay one chapter ahead of the class).

When we returned to the resort, I still didn’t have a roommate, and asked at the front desk if someone had been assigned to my room. “Street, Stephen.” Seriously? Here in prudish India, they assigned a man to my room? I told them that was a man’s name, but they shrugged it off, so I thought my roommate must be Stephanie, truncated in the printout. We had great fun at the poolside that night, however, wondering who this Stephen might be. Is he the psychic’s “Steve”? Would he be a Crew Leader? House Leader? A Block Leader and really dreamy? I kind of felt bad for this Stephanie we hadn’t yet met, picking on her like this, but hopefully she’d be someone with a sense of humour who would think it was funny later.

In the middle of the night, around 4 or 5 in the morning, there was a persistent knock on the door. When I opened it, there stood my roommate. Stephen Street. Full beard and mustache, no mistaking this. He looked at me and said, “This will not do.” I should have said, “I can’t be pretty for you all the time,” but I didn’t think of that until the following morning. He’d been traveling through the night from Mumbai, and he had lots of questions about the build. I showed him all the photos I’d taken at the build site, and he had one negative thing to say after another. That won’t work. You can’t do it that way. How is that supposed to happen? Volunteers won’t be able to do that. I’m no prude and I figured we’d be at the build so much it wouldn’t matter if my roommate was male or female, but I didn’t want a jerk for a roommate. When the sun rose, I went to the front desk and insisted they change my roommate. If that was the psychic’s “Steve,” he sure didn’t change my life.

The next night, in the middle of the night, there was another persistent knock on my door. It was Tammy. My roommate. Her luggage didn’t come with her so we talked about what items I had to share, and went to bed. I was up earlier every day than she was, and Tammy stayed later every day than I did, so we didn’t see each other a lot. She really impressed me when she knocked on the door one night, because she couldn’t turn the doorknob herself. She and another volunteer had convinced the shuttle driver to stop off at a store so they could get a case of beer, and Tammy had her arms full of bottles because she’d let the other guy have the case.

The following year, I drove to LA for the CWP, since I was still not thrilled with flying, and this way I could visit everyone I’d never visited because I wouldn’t fly there. First stop was Cedar Rapids, Iowa, home of Tammy Stines. Within an hour of my arriving, we’d already talked more than we ever had a chance to in India. We knew we had some things in common that made us good roommates (what are the odds you get assigned a roommate who also needs the TV on to fall asleep?), but our commonalities went much deeper than that, and we’ve been friends and travel companions ever since. When neither of us could do the 2008 CWP, she invited me on the mission trip to Guatemala with her church. I think she likes traveling with me because I overpack, so she doesn’t have to bring as much because I'll have everything. Only person I’ve ever traveled for two weeks for without running out of conversation. Whether or not she’s going on the Haiti build is still up in the air, but at the very least I’ll be spending a week with her in Iowa this August, getting’ some cultchah and, alternately, going to the Iowa State Fair.

Damned if that psychic wasn’t right.

P.S. Stephen Street ended up being a Crew Leader on the house next to mine at the build site, and his obstinance and refusal not only to follow the House Leader, but to let anyone else follow the House Leader, kept their house from finishing on time. My crew was fabulous and we finished early, so a few of my crew members went next door to help them out. They were back within a half hour. “Too dysfunctional – we can’t even help them,” was the report. Jerk.

Whaaat? No Bath & Body Works Orange Ginger??

When I did the CWP in Lonavala, India in 2006, we stayed at Velvett Country (life is cheap in India; spelling is cheaper). Velvett Country is a resort, with meditation paths and tennis courts and a masseuse on-staff. Of course, we left before 6 every morning and returned after dinner every night, so we partook of none of that, but there was a lovely deck around the pool large enough to accommodate all of the volunteers as we reviewed the day’s events after sunset. I could catch Sabres highlights on CNN World Sports in my room.

For the CWP in Los Angeles in 2007, we stayed at the LAX Marriott. There were 6 pillows on my bed, and I still use Bath & Body Works Orange Ginger products after using the samples we got as toiletries every day. There was a Starbucks in the lobby and Wifi all around.

In 2008, I went instead on a mission trip with the Lovely Lane Methodist Church, to build a dental clinic in San Juan La Laguna, Guatemala. We stayed in lovely cabins right on the lake, and had homemade dinners with a family who lived nearby every night. The hot water setup was questionable, but the view was fabulous. A little boy I sponsor in Guatemala draws me a picture of the mountain we were looking at with every letter he sends.

The CWP in Chiang Mai, Thailand in 2009 involved a long bus ride to the site, which gave us a chance to wake up before arriving at the build site, marking our time in the sun’s rise over the pictures of the King which were affixed everywhere along the route. The hotel had in-room internet so I could argue with my publisher, beautiful teak wood everywhere, and, well, a mall attached, which also included a Starbucks and was showing “2012.” Massages were $11. Hot oil massages were $13.

Haiti is going to be different. Muuuuuch, much different.

My friend Karen Haycox works for Habitat for Humanity International, and has posted a bit on Facebook about the conditions there. First and foremost: security. Karen wrote about how she was always met at the airport by someone to take her where she was going. It wasn’t the royal treatment – it was a necessity. Whereas on all my other trips I have gone early to see the country (and acclimate to the heat before the build), there’s no traveling alone in Haiti. The volunteers will meet in Atlanta first for the Opening Ceremonies, then take charter planes to Haiti and be shuttled directly to the campus together. No shopping, no wandering into town for a beer after a hard day. We’ll only know we’re in Haiti because we won’t actually get to see Haiti (nightly entertainment brought to the campus aside).

Second: pillows. We may or may not get pillows, but we certainly won’t get six of them. Or maid service. Or Starbucks. We will be sleeping in 6-person tents, which I expect are actually a lot nicer than the tents our homeowners were living in before they were accepted to the project. Now, I’ve had powerful good luck with roommates on these builds (Tammy Stines three times, solo once), but Tammy puts up with me being a slob and there’s no guarantee that the other four people will. And six people sweating all day in the hot sun sleeping in an enclosed area with a single fan… well, that brings up…

Three: water. In India the hot water lasted for about 45 seconds and in Guatemala the hot water heater controls were suspended inside the shower, held up only by bare, live wires. Thailand had no hot water problems, and LA of course had Orange Ginger bath products. Haiti will have — a bucket. Portajohns, to be sure, but no running water. We will each get a bucket of water every day for bathing. Not my preferred form of hygiene to begin with, but after a day of working on a build in the hot sun, crusted with mortar or paint flecks, covered with several layers of sunblock and sweat… I may pack a scrub brush. Certainly we’ll all be in the same boat, and will all smell equally bad, but the problem comes on the trip home. After we take charter planes back to Atlanta, people are going to get on connecting flights. And sit next to perfectly innocent, bathing people who are not going to like this one bit. I’m planning on asking my friend Sue to pick me up in Atlanta (after covering her car seats in garbage bags) and let me spend a couple of hours in her shower before I’m fit for sitting next to anyone.

Four: Wifi. This was kind of a surprise. Turns out you can’t go anywhere without Wifi. This is a blitz build let by a former US President, with a couple more brave celebrities backing him up, and great publicity for Habitat for Humanity International. There won’t be as many members of the media present as there were in, say, Los Angeles, but media will be there, and they’ll need the internet. So there will be a computer tent (I expect, along with the First Aid tent, one of the few air conditioned places to be found). And we’ll have some power strips for charging iPhones and iPads. So, if I can bear to touch my favourite electronics with my grimy hands, I get to blog from the site. And maybe even catch some Sabres highlights online.

This is going to be a challenging build, reminiscent of the early days of Habitat when volunteers would be put up in churches and schools for the builds, but without the convenient plumbing that those facilities proudly boast. Given the fundraising requirement (India’s registration was $800; Haiti volunteers need to raise $5000), only the most committed volunteers will be there. The challenges are what make this build so enticing: pushing myself to physical extremes; bonding with a new house crew and tent-mates; learning enough Creole to converse with the homeowners and learn about their experiences with the earthquake (note to self: learn “earthquake” in Creole, or this could get confusing); packing what I’ll need without overpacking like an idiot. Only four more months to work on that packing list…