Please sir, may I have some more...

In Haiti, sorghum is often the last line of defense against hunger; for this reason, it is appropriate that the Creole word for millet is “pitimi” (pronounced pity me). After an unsuccessful attempt to forage for dinner last night, Jacques Elie and I could find neither a grain of sorghum to suppress our hunger nor an ounce pity to uplift our spirits. Recent mix ups regarding meal duty have left our supply of Power Bars dangerously low and just yesterday we finished off the last of the beef jerky. The situation has become so dire that last night I was forced to break my abstinence from alcohol during Lent because I needed the bottle of wine to supplement the fruit and vegetable food group that was severely lacking in my diet. Coupled with the saltine crackers that I found in a cupboard, I felt like I had come to Mass for brunch.
If my efforts to evoke sympathy have failed thus far: the generator refuses to acknowledge my demands (ergo no power); the water is temporarily off, so the toilets do not flush (good thing we have been eating lightly); and the bus that carries the teachers from Gonaives will not start (don’t worry, Morgan can teach it). I cut my hair, or rather I had it cut, and I look like a dog that had part of his fur shaved off in order to undergo an operation; my pride was removed without an anesthetic. My clothes were taken to be washed while I was out and the shirt I have had on for days would probably be described by Homeland Security as “biological terrorism”.
In reality, I have nothing to complain about. The children are always beaming with smiles when I exit the guest house; English classes proceed without obstacle (four exams written this weekend); I have had ample help with the agronomic endeavors; and even the generator cooperates occasionally if I caress her enough. There is also that Chapel Hill basketball team that recently won a tournament…