The burn was unlike anything I had felt before. It literally felt like I had been shot. The group of Haitians that had gathered around me started cackling at my clear discomfort. The klarin sonson had done it’s job, it had made the blan cough.
I’m not one to succumb to pressure, especially in Haiti. If I handed out money every time a kid came up to me with a “bum senk goude” I’d be more broke than my loans would indicate. But this time there was enough of a burning curiosity in me that pushed me over the edge. I’m in Gran Bois working with the ServeHaiti clinic and Dr. Leo. There’s a couple of “bars” about a mile down the dirt road. The one I went to was aptly named “Brother’s”. It was really like my B1G homes of Iowa City and Champaign. There were some signs in the back and I’m pretty sure one of them said Wing Night Wednesday. It was Creole, so I may be taking some liberties with the translation. 
The scene was bumping with some God-awful rap blaring over speakers that were probably bought at a Costco in 1984, broken, shipped to Haiti, then “repaired” three years ago. A group of pre-teen boys were playing dominoes on the one table. I think the pool table was around back, but I’m sure it was occupied. I had just bought some minutes so I could make some phone calls back to the states and my old buddy, purple shirt “Vote Roger Galle” found me and started in his best English to get me to give him something.
I’ve been through this rodeo a hundred if not a thousand times. “Bruddah. Can you help me. I have no money. Give me two dollars. Be a good bruddah.” And I respond, in limited Creole but phrases I’ve become fairly adept at, “I cannot give you money and no one else. I came all the way from the U.S., you should give me money. I am hungry too.” They usually get a kick out of my failed Creole, which is enough to satisfy them. But this guy was persistent, and then he pointed to the jugs of moonshine on the counter in Brother’s.
I had been eyeing the shine since earlier in the day when I was helping a couple workers in the garden plant some plantain roots. We were walking back to the clinic and when they thought I wasn’t looking they bought a small bottle of it and killed it behind the bar. #BlanSeesAll. When I joked to them about it they started laughing, but did say it was good. I wasn’t sure, there were too many leaves in the jug for me to feel too comfortable with it. But the seed was planted.
And all it took was “Vote Roger Galle” to keep hounding me for free stuff for me to cave. The agreed upon transaction was for me to buy a small bottle of the moonshine and then everyone could pass it around. That way no one was left out and he could say I was a good brother. So that’s what we did. Twenty Goude is all it cost for a half-pint sized bottle of this concoction. It was red. And I was first to go.
There was no countdown. There was no chaser. No LMFAO song or drinking game to offer me any sort of encouragement. Just me and my manhood…And thirty Haitians watching closely with bated breath. So I closed my eyes and took a pull. And I couldn’t be a wimp; it had to be a fair sized pull. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t give myself alcoholic liver disease and gastritis all in one fail swoop. I composed myself quickly and held up the bottle to pass on to the next taker, and around it went. #USA However, no one had near as much fanfare as I. When the bottle was finished Mr. “Vote Roger Galle” gave me a firm handshake and we were officially brothers. And so it was. I stumbled my way back to the hospital with a rumble in my tummy that I was no longer accustomed to and the people went about their day with a new story about the "blan".
As an addendum I was able to secure a nice bottle of moonshine and bring it back to the states. In fact I had a couple. Unfortunately, in my rush I did not properly secure them in my suitcase. When I saw my bag for customs in Miami off the baggage claim it was clear that something didn't go well. The front of my suitcase was clearly wet. It's not like my flight was Splash Mountain or something. It was clear that there were a couple lost soldiers riding in my bag. And when I finally grabbed my bag the smell knocked me down. Definitely was one of the moonshine bottles that bit the dust. But that's okay. I still had one survive.
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