My relationship with numbers. And rats.

There are few experiences like moving to a new place to make you feel lost, humbled, and hungry for a little capability.

We've been here almost four weeks, and I'm still celebrating the little victories: The right Kreyol phrase at the right moment, knowing the name of all the fruit on the breakfast table, constantly switching between Haitian Goudes, American dollars and the ever-present but technically non-existent "Haitian Dollar."

Haitian Goudes are the official currency here. They come in bills: 10, 25, 50, 100, 250, 500, 1000 and coins (I know there are other coin amounts, but I've really only seen 5 goud coins).

There are 40 Haitian Goudes to the American Dollar.
Haitians usually ask for things in dollars. BUT the trick is, they mean the "Haitian Dollar" which means 5 goudes. It would make their week if you accidentally paid in American dollars.

Still, I know we usually get charged more for being foreigners, no matter the currency. The fact is, we can pay more. Just by having a home, food, and a small income for teaching, we are well-off in Haiti, and we can pay a few extra goudes for our Sprite or fresh green coconut.

So we're constantly doing the math in our heads. "Ok, 6 dollars, that's 30 goudes or basically 3/4 of an American dollar which is like 75 cents oh crap what are these numbers, what currency am I in again. My name is CJ, I don't know math, I am learning Creole I like coconuts!!"

Yes, I just devolve into a squawking lunatic, spouting numbers and random phrases. I'm cool.

That's been happening for the entire four weeks, and Nathan's knowledge of French has saved us in every mathematical situation. He knows French numbers, which are the same as Kreyol numbers. Also, Nathan knows more than numbers; He knows French. All of it, it seems like.

In every language I've tried to learn (German, Italian, Kreyol), numbers have been the most difficult thing for me. I'll be able to talk about family, food, and God before I can count to ten. I remember being in my fourth year of German and still looking over my friend's shoulder when the Frau told us to flip to a page in our textbook. 176? What is that again? Hundert sechs und...?

I don't want to be like this in Kreyol. Last night, I asked Nathan to drill me on numbers with flashcards, hand signals, math, counting, written tests, everything.

Bail (say Bye) and Gracieuse (say Gracias with a U), the women we live with, found our lesson to be more entertaining than the night's chores, so they also yelled numbers and cackled when I messed up. Bail was washing clothes on the porch and Gracieuse was cooking dinner, but both were happier to hurl numbers (and sometimes joking insults) my way.

Graciuse called me "thick-headed student" or "etidyan tèt di" because it took me so long to remember four, five, fourteen, fifteen, forty and fifty. Something about those fours and fives, I can't explain it.

Now add to this scene a few rats that kept running between our living room and the back door. I was fixated on scaring them, and stomped my feet every time I saw one (about every 2 minutes).

"Karant senk (45) AHHHHH" I yelled, jumped up and screamed at the rat. Bail peered in from the front porch and yelled, "ou dezòd anpil" or, "you're really disordered!" Which means she was telling me I needed to be institutionalized. I'm happy to be the entertainment.

I'd rather be a blan who speaks Kreyol than a blan who screams at rats in English. I'm learning to curse them in Kreyol, and I can count them too (as long as there aren't more than 100).