Nothing quite says, Welcome to the neighborhood, like having your bikes stolen out of your backyard. Such was the feeling of violation in our new home last month. Incidentally, this is not the first time we’ve lived in a downtown urban area, nor the first time we’ve had our bikes stolen! When we lived on State St & Madison Ave in Chicago—same thing. Initiation? Rite of passage? Rookie mistake?
Years ago when I lived in Central America we used to joke about how easily things would “grow legs and walk away.” In Haiti, the easiest way to combat this is to live behind enough cinder blocks and bars, broken bottles and razor wire to rival a Supermax. Besides being ugly, living within utilitarian confines sends the wrong message and doesn’t quite jibe with the proverb in the previous post (which happens to be the November 18, 2008 post; we apologize for the long, yet intentional, hiatus). So, now we’re out a few hundred bucks in bikes—which had been great for getting around and meeting people.
About the same time the bikes were stolen, we had been planning a garage sale. We decided that we had enough stuff to merit a Thursday-thru-Saturday sale. On Thursday morning at 7am I set up a couple tables under the porch of a nearby vacant building and laid out the contents of a dozen boxes. Pam and I were going to work in shifts and we discussed in advance how much we wanted to try to get for the big-ticket items. Within minutes curious passersby turned into a crowd digging through all the stuff on the porch. By 9am, two hours passed, and so had the mob along with 90% of everything we had set out. When we counted the absurd wad of dirty cash and coin jammed into my cargo shorts—we made US$362!
Back to burglary: My wife could tell you that I’m a calculated individual. I study, research, and consider the risks at work or at play. When I gamble (don’t get the wrong idea, there’s a lot of theology here), the risk/reward ratio is the determining factor. The same could be said of the guys who stole our generator only two weeks after our bikes! We had an excellent little 2000-watt Honda generator that we secured to a concrete column outside. The heavy-duty steel cable was apparently no match for bolt-cutters, and the 45-lb. Honda that carries like a suitcase was easily handed over the fence in the darkness. It seems there are guys in this town who study and plan much like myself and share similar interests: in generators at least. I’m quite sure we could be friends.
This, however, caused us to step back and really think through home security and theft prevention. The idea is to create an environment where the risk/reward ratio, as it pertains to burglary, is so unfavorable that it isn’t even worth the hassle. Our neighbors say Dobermans work well. Ultimately, in the economics of our theology, the risk/reward ratio related to the choices we make in life only becomes favorable, or meaningful, when we live in obedience to Christ—even without guarantee of wellbeing or reward this side of Heaven. Sometimes it’s just the price we must pay to live in the hood.
Two weeks ago we were at the hospital getting health certificates—documents required for our residence permit. One of the requirements for the health certificate is sitting in on an HIV/AIDS counseling session and taking a “confidential” HIV/AIDS blood test. Another part of the process included getting a card indicating our blood types. So that day we dragged Silas and Luke around the hospital: to the exam room, to the counseling office, and to the lab for tests. After we finished, the doctor told me to come back the next morning to get the results—and the health certificates.
As instructed, I returned for the papers. On my way out a nurse stopped me and told me someone was looking for me. “Who?” I asked. She led me toward the radiology room and pointed me to the x-ray tech, a guy I didn’t know. He introduced himself and began by saying, “Eske ou ka ede-m?” On any given day, I find myself in at least three or four conversations beginning with these same five words (translated: Can you help me?), typically followed by a request for anywhere from $5 to $50—no joke. This happens so much, it becomes desensitizing, and it’s difficult not to tune-out and politely say, “no” and, “I’m sorry”. Since we were at the hospital, I presumed he needed help paying a hospital bill. But his request was different. (more…)
Of all athletes in American sports today, two of the three highest paid professionals are Dominican-Americans. Alex Rodriguez and Manny Ramirez, who both lived in the Dominican Republic, are under contract to earn a combined $435 million.
We kept up with the Olympics and it was intriguing that Caribbean sprinters dominated the track. The men’s 100m dash final—won by a Jamaican—featured two American and six Caribbean sprinters. In the women’s 100m dash, Jamaicans took gold, silver, and bronze.
The Dominican Republic and Haiti have few things in common, but they are on the same Caribbean island: Hispaniola. Isn’t it fishy that one side of Hispaniola produces the highest paid athletes in the world, the rest of the Caribbean produces the fastest men and women in the world, and Haiti barely produces a competitor?
When people in abject poverty face difficult decisions, good options seldom exist—the choices are simply bad or worse. When a mother has more children than she can feed, where does she find help? In Haiti, there is a culturally acceptable and clandestine child-trafficking arrangement resulting from these difficult decisions and those who prop-up and benefit from the structural evils that force these decisions in the first place.
Restaveks: 300,000 child-slaves blend into the landscape here. They are visible only by understanding what to look for—most foreigners do not. Conversely, tens-of-thousands of families in Haiti rationalize this form of trafficking by promising food, shelter, and education in return for household help. Unfortunately, in too many instances these arrangements fall victim to human depravity, and children are exploited.
The following video was produced by Compassion UK: