What I Learned About Buying Local In A Third World Country

Local charcoal sellers. Just not the right ones.

I've traveled to Haiti twice on short-term missions trips, part of a Christian non-profit organization working to establish post-secondary, Bible-based computer training schools. Each time I traveled with a friend from America to the north coast city of Cap-Haitien, home to more than 300,000 people.

Just a two-hour flight from the American wealth and comfort of Ft. Lauderdale or Miami, Fla., flying into Cap-Haitian is akin to dropping off the end of the world. The poverty is mind-blowing, the city nothing short of an intense experience of sights, sounds and smells.

From the sky as you descend the horizon is filled with thin columns of smoke rising from the countryside that's home to innumerable crude, tin-roof homes. Alongside the airport runway is a collection of wrecked, inoperable airplanes. It's not exactly the type of welcome you'd expect from the Cap-Haitien Chamber of Commerce. When you step out of the plane, you're hit with a blast of heat and humidity and you have to get used to sweating because you've pretty much left air conditioning behind.

Everywhere you go in the city you'll find the charm of colorful French colonial architecture reminiscent of the French Quarter in New Orleans. Yet the streets are often lined with garbage and everywhere is the pervasive aroma of smoke -- fire is used to cook food in homes and along the streets and burn trash in smoldering heaps -- mixed with the combination of rotting refuse and sewage. And always the streets are filled with people. Extraordinary amounts of people clogging the sidewalks and spilling into the road. It's a very young collection of people -- 55 percent of the population is under the age of 25 -- and a very poor collection of people where 80 percent of them live in poverty and more than half live in abject poverty.

Vendors line the streets and jam the alleys, selling all manner of clothes, shoes, food, medicines, household cleaning products, soaps, shampoos and everything else. It's like a roofless Wal-Mart Supercenter -- Haitian-style -- everywhere you go. And they sell charcoal. Lots of charcoal.

Haiti has largely been stripped of its trees, hacked down and burned to charcoal that fuels the fires used to cook the food that attempts rather futilely to feed the 10 million Haitians. It's an environmental disaster, but in a country where electricity is basically a luxury -- a very undependable one at that -- fire and the charcoal to produce those flames is absolutely essential.

Largely like fuel in America, charcoal is a commodity that is central to the local economy. There are  fuel stations, but supply can be sketchy, it's almost a luxury in the impoverished nation and you have to get used to seeing guards armed with automatic rifles and shotguns guarding the pumps against thieves.

Each time I've been to Haiti I've had the privilege of being hosted by the same friend, a dear Haitian man who is kind, generous, gracious and everything you'd want in a host. I've stayed with local families and experienced first-hand Haitian life in what I'd call a middle-class setting. Check out this video I shot and edited: Life in Haiti

On my last trip to Haiti, one afternoon the house we were staying at on the edge of the city was short of charcoal. So my friend offered to go buy some. I figured it was a short trip into the city to one of the ubiquitous roadside purveyors to secure a big bag of charcoal. I was wrong. As we journeyed ever farther into the Haitian countryside to find the right charcoal, I learned three things about what it means to truly buy local. And I think the lessons I learned on that day apply to the American ideal of buying local.

1) It's about relationship: Buying charcoal in Haiti should be easy. It's everywhere in the city. Buying charcoal from vendors lining the streets is as simple as buying food in America, whether it's a grocery store, restaurant or convenience store. If you have even a little bit of money you won't go hungry in America -- although you very likely won't be eating nutritious food. But on this particular day we were on a mission. We were going hard-core local charcoal buying.

We traveled probably an hour-and-a-half or more deep into the Haitian countryside for our charcoal. I was seeing signs for the Dominican Republic, that's how far we went. It's like driving 90 minutes to a 7-Eleven for a hot dog and passing dozens of 7-Elevens along the way. We drove past charcoal sellers at road junctions, past them in the town of Limonade, past them in no-man's land on the highway. Somewhere just west of the Dominican Republic we stopped on the road. Down a long driveway I saw a cinder block house with a tin roof, pretty much like a thousand other cinder block houses with a tin roof we passed on the drive.

Our host made a quick phone call. Down the driveway came some women and young kids trundling charcoal crammed into bags like you'd find at Home Depot loaded with 50 lbs. of grass seed. In went two and then three bags of charcoal, along with ants and other bugs on the bags. There were exchanges of warm greetings, the exchange of Haitian money and then the women and kids peered into the SUV I was riding in, apparently awed and humored by the sight of a couple of white guys -- me and my American friend I was traveling with.

After some more small talk we headed back to our home in Cap-Haitien. Past the women and children washing clothes in the muddy river, over the speed bumps that appeared out of nowhere in the road, past the droves of people waiting for rides along the road, past the myriad charcoal sellers, past the naked man with no legs next to an overturned wheelchair. (We passed him both ways. The first time I asked if we should stop and help him. No response. On the way back again I inquired about him and my host gave us the indication the man was crazy and we continued on. Some things from Haiti you never forget. And will never understand.)

I never got the full story of why we went so far for our charcoal. I can only surmise that it was extremely high-quality charcoal sold by people very dear to our host. Or maybe it was just your average charcoal sold by people very dear to our host. Whatever the case, it was very important to him that we get that charcoal from those people. It was about the relationship and about how much it meant to that family. Our trip probably meant they'd eat fairly well for a while. In a world of Amazon and Jet.com and Wal-Mart, there's a lot to be said for supporting the local economy. Whether it's the family-run business in your town or in the Haitian outback.

2) It's about determination. As you read in the previous paragraphs, our charcoal-buying venture was quite the journey. It took determination. It took resolve. Obviously it cost extra. But the final result is that our host was happy, an entire family supplying the charcoal was happy and the people we delivered the charcoal to were happy. Everybody wins. That's the way it should be, even if it requires a little more time, effort and money.

3) It's about the trickle-down effect. A family way out in the Haitian countryside suddenly had money. The kids we saw were literally dressed in rags. They were dirty. The house was primitive. But that family suddenly had an infusion of cash. They could buy food from someone out there in similar circumstances. Or catch a ride from one of the "tap-tap" drivers passing by on the highway looking for customers. Or buy a shirt for a kid. Or whatever. The point is that in a place of desperation there was a glimmer of hope. Things got a little better. I wrote before that some things in Haiti you never forget. One thing I'll never forget is being hot, sweaty and confused, but pulling away from a house in the middle-of-nowhere Haiti and waving to a group of smiling and laughing women and children. With an SUV full of charcoal.

Our Secret To Driving Long Distances With Kids

These kids are stoked to drive 400 miles without stopping

On Saturday morning, Team Sabo featuring a 9-kid lineup piled into our Chevy Express 15-passenger van, minus the back bench seat for additional cargo space, and left Myrtle Beach, S.C. After 400 miles of driving we arrived home here in the sprawling metropolis of Gloucester Point/Hayes/Wicomico in just under 6 hours. We did not stop once.

I posted this trip recap as a status on Facebook and sensed some doubts among some folks. I sensed some people were asking things or responding along the lines of:
--Was he actually serious?
--Did he really drive that far without stopping?
--Did he really have a van full of 9 kids? Or were they photoshopped in?
--What kind of drugs did he use on those kids? Where can I get those for my kids?
--Were they all wearing diapers, including him?

Yes, it's true. Um, not about the diapers part, though. Only Seth, age 2, was reppin the Huggies. What is true is that we had nine kids in the van between the ages of 2 and 16 and drove 400 miles in six hours without stopping. No potty breaks, no stops for fast food, no accidents, no relieving oneself via artificial means such as peeing into an empty milk jug or other device.

So what's our secret? Well, let me ask you something if you are a parent of children and every car trip threatens to leave you, your children and your spouse mentally unhinged and the inside of your car looking like a cross between the scene of a food fight and the gnarly insides of a restaurant dumpster.
How much are you willing to pay for this secret? Because for just $14.99 we have a limited-time offer through Amazon.com where you can get my New York Times-bestselling book, "We Drove Across The U.S. Four Times With 10 Kids -- And Survived." Plus, for just $10.99 more you can get our bestselling DVD called "Driving With Kids 101" with live footage and handy action sequence tips that is a must-have for every parent. Act now and we will throw in for free our special limited edition of "Sabo Silly Songs" CD that makes the miles pass effortlessly.

Just kidding. No book, no DVD, no silly songs. Sorry to disappoint you because I know you had that wallet out and were on Amazon.com frantically searching. In fact, to be completely, totally and perfectly honest with you, we have no secret. I asked MerriGrace, our 16-year-old featured prominently in the photo above about our "secret" to van traveling with kids. She was pretty much stumped and said that basically when she gets in the van she gets calm because it's something we've always done. We've always driven long distances and it's just something they're used to. Yes, she said when she gets in the van she gets calm. That's your experience with your kids, right?

Now don't get me wrong. Portable DVD players have been a game changer. Showing "Frozen" at 77 miles per hour down a North Carolina freeway has some sort of soothing, or maybe embalming, effect on the nature of our wee lads and lasses. Our "Frozen" DVD actually broke just before we left for South Carolina and we made an emergency pit stop at a Wal-Mart on some South Carolina highway to get a new one to take the edge off of our 2-year-old's traveling angst. Or else we were all going to die because he was so out of sorts. Seriously.

We packed coolers and I believe Julie made sandwiches for a stretch of around 23 miles. We disposed of one box of Cheez-Its, a package of cookies, six bananas, a bag or two of Sour Patch Kids (affectionately called "Sour Cratch Kids" by our youngest verbalists), a couple of apples and assorted other edible items. We watched "Frozen" twice and our family has the unique ability of being to quote the movie verbatim from beginning to end. I'm not sure if that's a good thing.

Here's the big thing, though. The one thing that made a difference between us stopping or not.

I had no pop. Or soda. Or Coke, Pepsi, soda pop, whatever you call it.

I confess. The reason we usually stop is because Dad has to go. I'm the weak link in the bunch. On this trip I manned up though.

My next goal is 500 miles without stopping.

Driving Through A Traffic Circle Is Easy. Or Not.

You probably didn't know this, but Gloucester is home to one of the great mysteries of the universe. No, it doesn't involve the 17th century grave site of America's original revolutionary, Nathaniel Bacon, which has mysteriously eluded discovery for more than 300 years. Neither does it involve the origins of the native residents of Guinea down in Gloucester's swampy southeastern peninsula, a legend of multiple explanations that includes vague references to descendants of Revolutionary War-era mercenaries hired by the British who stuck around by hiding out in Gloucester after the 1781 surrender at Yorktown. Rather, the great cosmic mystery in Gloucester is something that confounds hundreds, possibly thousands of people each and every day.

It's negotiating the traffic circle, or roundabout ,at the "Wal-Mart intersection."

Say you want to live on the edge and literally gulp down adrenalin by the bucketful. Why, you would be wise to try and traverse the roundabout several times. You would cheat death. You would have to have your car insurance agent on speed dial. You would wonder how something seemingly so simple flummoxes motorists who apparently either can't read a "Yield" sign or just plain don't care.

Let's review the rules and regulations of traffic roundabout etiquette. Surely it must be a manual on the order of "War and Peace." Right? I mean these things are complicated, right?

Um, no. The operative word is "yield." Apparently people don't know what the word means because everybody I know has a "Wal-Mart roundabout" horror story. Or two. Or a million.

One time I was meandering through the roundabout when a young kid in a jacked up pickup barreled in, nearly making my old Volvo four-door sedan a hatchback. I laid on the horn, rather liberally I might add. We were both heading the same way coming out of the roundabout and he stopped in the middle of the road's right-hand lane in front of Chick-fil-A and gestured to me. I pulled up next to him and with the passenger's window down and politely informed him that he was supposed to yield to the vehicle in the roundabout. Which would be me in my Volvo.

He informed me in rather colorful terms that I was supposed to yield to him. I hesitated before replying that the "Yield" sign was directed at the vehicles entering the roundabout, which he clearly was. For example, if you approach an intersection and there is a stop sign that you can clearly read on the side of the road to your right, I'm pretty sure that means you are supposed to stop. It would not be a stop sign for the cross traffic, in other words. In this case, the "Yield" sign is facing traffic approaching the roundabout -- not the traffic in the roundabout -- and is on the right hand side in clear, even plain view. Which motorists should take to mean that they better yield.

Except for the young buck in the pickup who, in even more colorful terms, disagreed with my sign-reading suggestion and thought it would be a good idea for us to pull in the Chick-fil-A parking lot to settle things. Needless to say I proceeded on to Wal-Mart while he simmered in his road rage over a chicken sandwich.

So here's the deal Gloucester drivers and motorists who wander in and have nearly hit me from locales far and wide, such as Maryland or North Carolina: If someone is in the roundabout, they have the right-of-way. It's that simple! As you approach the roundabout, from any direction, slow down, observe the traffic that may be in the roundabout and then proceed into it when you have an opening of appropriate length. Traversing the roundabout shouldn't be the equivalent of a shark circling its prey, because that's how it feels sometimes when you are in the roundabout.

For a glimpse of a street-view of our famed roundabout, here's a link: Roundabout o' death

Subtle Differences Between Boys And Girls

It's frequently that I give Julie a hard time about her childhood. Her childhood comes up typically when her sons are doing things that are completely foreign to her, which can involve anything from belching and other bodily function contests, to new and inventive uses of small explosives. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating about the explosives, but it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibilities. I mean, now that the statute of limitations has passed I may have participated in some Fourth of July sparkler bomb manufacturing back in the day in Bend, Ore.

Julie, however, fondly recalls games with her three sisters of "Beauty Pageant" and all-night dance-a-thons and baking contests. Really? Fond memories of my friends and me entail menacing the rural Bend sagerat population with BB guns, golfing in the cemetery, peeing contests (length and duration of whizzes were compiled, with bonus points if you could write your name in the dirt) and games of tackle football that were really good when blood was drawn.  It's really entertaining when our older boys get together, which happens all too infrequently now that they are college age and older, and reminisce about the good old days. Typically the reminiscing involves petty thievery of household items and goods -- their favorite is when they pilfered the TV out of the downstairs living room in which a visiting auntie was sleeping and managed to haul it up to their bedroom to play video games all night -- boxing matches, small-time gambling over board games with the loser typically forced to strip buck nekkid and run around the outside of the house, terrorizing babysitters and various combinations thereof.

Now our teenage girls can laugh and giggle all night about their shenanigans as well. Craziness such as playing mermaid in the bathtub, their secret inside jokes that still make them cackle, all-night mani/pedi parties and when things got really out of hand marathon sessions of Pride and Prejudice movie watching. Somehow our girls have survived all that madness!!!

This all came to mind the last couple of times I visited Target and Wal-Mart with a bunch of my kids and hit the toy aisle. Take Olivia, my 6-year-old. She goes right to the doll section and eyes all the dollies and clothes and bling and accessories and mercy sakes can it be excruciating for her to try and settle on just one or two things with her birthday money. On the other hand there's Judah. He's 3 and you cannot imagine the sheer thrill he experienced when he came across the Despicable Me "Fart Gun." When he first pulled the trigger and that "gun" emitted the sound that can entertain little boys -- and big ones, too -- for literally hours on end the sound of his maniacal laugh filled the stores. That gun passed so much gas in the hands of Judah the earth's temperature rose measurably. I am thankful Julie didn't make those trips when Judah was blasting away. I'm sure she would have been horrified, even after two decades plus of raising boys. As for me? Well,  I admit it. I grabbed a gun and started pulling the trigger, the howls of laughter peeling forth.