Today, my teflon wore off...

...and that means this all feels a bit more raw than it did yesterday or five days ago. The thing is, there isn't anything romantic about just surviving. And just for the record, I'm not at all equating what I'm doing with 'surviving'. Not even close. I'm merely a witness to relentless activity and fatigue. I guess I must acknowledge that it isn't too far from voyeurism.

Today I was out for 6 hours buying the following items: 2 upright Lasko fans (US$100 each) for the factory; iodized salt; sugar; 3 dozen used joint compound/motor oil/transmission fluid/paint buckets; one pair of sandals; 2 phone cards; matches; and, a dishpan (they wouldn't sell just one, so I had to buy 3). Bernard drove and brokered deals during the first half of the day, and Nixon (Dumel's brother) did the same during the second half. Driving here is by necessity a sport requiring nimble reflexes, quick decisions, agility, multiple muscle movements, and fearlessness; being a passenger requires only a little less. Amidst Bernard's baritone voice (accompanying one or more of Cap Haitien's radio stations) and Creole lessons with Nixon, I noticed a few things that appeared to be rules rather than exceptions. Here is window into the way I saw things....

1. Single mopeds carrying three and four fully grown adults.

2. Cars with alignment so poor that steering wheels were muscled into place.

3. Men pushing carts they rented early in the day, hoping to earn a little money on top of the lease by transporting goods across town. In one case, the 'goods' consisted of at least 200 bags of cement mix. A related observation: one must purchase drinking water to quench his or her thirst, and the heat is obscene.

4. Tap-taps, a seemingly ubiquitous form of transportation; 1984 Toyota pick-up trucks holding dozens of people each. The overflow passengers stand on the metal bumper and hold onto the sides of the bed. The fuel is diesel; some people on mopeds and in the open tap-taps pull their shirts up to protect their noses and mouths from the dust and exhaust (posye in Creole, Nixon told me). It hurts to breathe.

5. People deftly maneuvering worn-out bicycles among the chaos of all other traffic. Most carry at least 2 people who often balance goods on their heads.

6. Muscles. While I am accustomed to powering my transportation, creature comforts, and activities with fossil fuels, almost everything here is powered by sinewy muscle.

7. Taxis in the form of old Toyota Corollas; their tires are bald. The roads really are as horrendous as I'd been told. What many of us would assume to be trip-stopping barriers are driven through and around.

8. People wearing Aeropostale t-shirts. What are Aeropostale t-shirts doing here? "My name is...." mechanic shirts. Harvard shirts; Dallas shirts; "I'm sexy" shirts on older women; of course the list goes on.

9. Convoys of beautifully air-conditioned UN trucks.

10. Vendors selling nail polish out of metal wheel barrows.

11. A dead pig in the street; a casualty of the sport of driving. Likely, a devastated owner was not far away.

12. And old man, laying listlessly on a blanket beneath a mango tree, wasting away.

13. Younger men, characterized by the above-mentioned sinewy muscles, cleaning out the sewers. There is no trash collection here, and perhaps one would assume there not be. But, this is what we don't witness because our trash is removed systematically: men standing waist-high in the open sewers, pulling out the tarred and stringy and smelly plastic bags, styrofoam containers, plastic bottles, decomposing food, and unidentifiable masses. You can see the stringiness and blackness of it all mixed with human refuse when you look at a picture, but you can't smell a picture. It is noxious.

None of this was romantic or lovely or beautifully simple. It was gritty and raw and infinite. It wore away my teflon.