If it were just three times I could get some sleep . . .

The sun is coming up in Port au Prince. One would think that is the most obvious sign of the beginning of a new day. But for newcomers there is another. The roosters. They crow indiscriminately around the clock, but apparently that is just to keep their voices in good shape so that when the Creator taps on the horizon with his blazing baton they will be able to join the symphony without hesitation.

I haven't noticed any hesitation.

It is irritating when the cock crows.

It is irritating when the cock crows and light is shed on things that I don't want to see, things that I can deny in the dark.

But it happens every morning. Some of the roosters sound as if they have very little voice left. They strain with urgent call as if to say, "surely you will be able to hear us this time, surely you will not keep your eyes closed any longer."

It is getting more difficult to say I didn't know.

Irritating.

No interpreter needed . . .

For the past few days I have spent all but a few hours in a relatively small area. The guest house where I sleep is a nice concrete block structure where work teams can stay and where artisans work at their crafts on the first floor.

Then about a half-mile up the road is the house where we have been doing some work. Not repair work, generally, but work to assist the ministry of the missionaries that live there. Among other things, we built a chicken coop from start to finish, including fencing in part of the small back yard. It is such a fine chicken coop that we already have several on a waiting list just to get in. No, not really. It was a fowl joke.

Anyway, we have walked that road now a million times, it seems like. So we have quickly come to know some of the folks in the neighborhood. For instance there's Edward. Edward is a small, upper middle age man who salvages scrap metal and makes it into useful things. Like bedsteads and flower pot holders and huge gates. Right there on the gravel and rut road. There are always younger men helping him, running a grinder or a torch. Edward enjoys helping us with our Creole. When we pass him we throw up our hand and yell "Bonjour." If it is close to noon he yells back, "No, bon soir," shoots us an ear to ear grin and laughs. Sure he is laughing at us, but in a good way, the way I would do if I were him. As it turns out, almost any Haitian is glad to help out with learning the language, and they really love hearing an American butcher it up good. Broad smiles and unrestrained laughing. No matter how tired or nasty I've been on my way home down that road, I always feel better after meeting a few folks like Edward on the way.

I wanted to write more but I am suddenly tired. We are going to church tomorrow, probably the one in the big tent that serves the tent city in our neighborhood. It starts at 7:00 a.m., ends about 11:00 a.m.

Better get some rest.

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Sweet Home

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

But I am in Port au Prince, Haiti, on this particular Saturday morning. From where I am sitting on the sofa, drinking my coffee, looking out the window at the mountain that stretches up toward the summer hazy blue sky, it feels amazingly similar to a summer Saturday morning in Alabama.

But when I stand up, I see the difference. From the window the piles of concrete rubble that were formerly concrete blocks become visible, outlined by blue tarps and rows of tents, stretching for miles and miles all across the city, all across this part of the country. I don't like to imagine what will happen when the heavy rains of hurricane season come. The tent cities and the makeshift lean-to shelters use every bit of available open space. The paths that criss-cross these densely populated temporary suburbs are barren of vegetation. Just packed dirt that with a heavy rain will become a huge mess. And help does not seem to be on the way any time soon. There are an estimated 650,000 people still displaced. Most of them are back in Port au Prince, with no permanent shelter.

More on all that later.

Many Americans talk about how open, loving and inappropriately happy the Haitian people are, even now, after the earthquake, and how different that is from us. They often express that they wish we Americans could be more like the Haitians.

But for me it's different.

For me it's just another way it's sort of like Saturday morning in Alabama.

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Thurvey (ratings week version)

Media experts were baffled last week by the lack of excited participation in the long awaited return of the Thurvey. However, the dramatic snowstorms in the northeast are being blamed.

Marketing experts suggested a more titillating topic might help overcome the snowldrums, but it is hard to imagine a more titillating topic than last week's question about the state and federal legislative agenda.

So the titillating Valentine Week question is:

If you could be a matchmaker, what would be the oddest political couple that you could match up and why. While it might be more helpful to consider only living politicians, you may resurrect the dead if it is important to your point. This is an open-minded post, so feel no compulsion to honor traditional gender combos.

To answer the survey, click on "comment" below. When the comment box appears, type your comment, then click on the anonymous button and click on publish. You may have to type in a secret letter combination to prove you are not a computer. Sign your name to the comment if you wish the world to know your thoughts.

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