How God can use the least savvy of travelers

by Bryan Hill

This past summer, I had the privilege of traveling with some classmates to Port Au’Prince, Haiti.  While there, I spent ten days serving as a construction worker, painter, garbage man, groundskeeper, and medical student.  What I enjoyed most about Haiti was the opportunity to experience its beautiful Creole language, customs and culture.

I do have experience in one foreign language, Spanish, but only to the capacity of ordering food, getting directions, or buying things.  It takes a little time for me to work up a good sentence, execute its proper construction, and then carefully listen to the response.  In the end however, I can always manage to get my enchiladas without chicken.

Not so in Haiti.  Creole and I never made proper acquaintances.

So there I was in the airport at Port Au’Prince with no way to ask for food, directions, or a restroom.  I was completely dependent on the three people in our group who spoke a combination of French and Creole, as well as the stern looking woman that worked in foreign relations and wore rather threateningly pointy shoes.

Time passed at the airport and I became desperate for a bathroom.  I consulted with the French experts and practiced the all-important phrase.

“Oo-ay le twa—let”? I stammered to a complete stranger.

I was directed around the corner and sure enough, there was the door with the universal men’s room sign.  It had a round head, a body with his hand’s on his sides, and most importantly, no dress.  I had found the “twalet.”  One word down, thousands more to go.

Navigating the language barrier was quite daunting, but I found the culture shock in regards to wardrobe quite amusing.  I am now of the opinion that Americans could use a little fashion sense.  To my astonishment, we were constantly out-dressed at the airport, the beach, and even in the streets.  Around town, I wore jeans and t-shirts because I was told shorts may be offensive.

Unfortunately, my casual attire could never match the Haitian’s slacks, ironed collared shirts, ties, and black leather shoes that they wore to work every day in sweltering heat and suffocating humidity.  It did not matter if you were the accountant, or the deliveryman.  One must look his best at all times.   Overall, I learned that Haitians are classy people and that next time, I would be sure to bring some extra ties.

As the days went by, I began to realize that our imperfect communication didn’t matter.  It didn’t matter that we were out of our comfort zone.  God doesn’t worry about how we speak, or if we look out of place.  He is willing to use us the way we are, and all we have to do is take action.  Translators helped us take medical histories and instruct patients on how to take their medications.  And my jeans and t-shirts?  Well, they were excellent painting and construction apparel.

Every day I added new words to my vocabulary so that by day five, “good morning” came out as “bonjou” and “good evening” was “bonswa.” I realized that most things in French and Creole sounded much better than in English.  “Thanks for the chow” sweetly rolled off my tongue as “mesi boukou, manje a tre byen.” Inquiring after someone’s name was as beautiful as “Ki gen ou rele?”

Just as soon as I had figured out how to make it through “How Great Thou Art” in perfect French, it was time to head back home.  I dressed a little nicer this time, got stared at a little less, and promptly found the “twalet” at the airport.

Now that I’m home, I often with I could wake up on the east wing of the hospital overlooking the mountainside.  I wish I could rinse off in the cool water, put on my scrubs, and go to work.  There was something so simple about that when you compare it to a life filled with traffic, computers, iPods, and television.  And while I think I’m going to stick with the English language, I think I’ll keep the word “twalet” handy next time I’m in an upscale restaurant.