We walked through the narrow streets uphill toward Titi's neighborhood. There were no sidewalks, so the storefronts were mere inches from passing traffic. The air smelled like laundry detergent and freshly filleted fish. As I observed the local architecture, I began to notice a pattern. Between the larger multi-story buildings were smaller impromptu structures, wedged together like mismatched books on a crooked shelf.

The pastel green booths sold lottery tickets and exchanged currency. Scott called these the "National Banks of Haiti". Apparently they were all owned by the same outfit, because the signage above each one was identical: Titi Lotto.

"Why is your name on all these little green stores?" I asked the shorter, older guide.

Titi looked confused.

"It's his last name," Scott interpreted, "like Smith or Jones – or Patel."

We stopped long enough to change some American money. The Haitian dollar no longer exists on paper. They have reverted back to the gourde, except in the minds of the Haitian people. If you ask someone how much something costs, they will tell you in Haitian dollars and expect you to calculate the price to gourdes in your head. This is not an easy assigment for a first time American traveler. All you really need to know is that everything is done in increments of twelve-and-a-half cents. For example, a handfull of rice is twelve-and-a-half cents. Two cigarettes equal twelve-and-a-half cents. A recharged transistor battery cost twelve-and-a-half cents. From there it goes to the dollar twenty-five level, then twelve-fifty, and so on. Bottom line being, twenty-five American bucks will buy you approximately one thousand gourdes in Jacmel on a good day.

The pink dispensaries were called boutiques. They dealt in convenience items – mostly rum and tobbacco, masked by imported bags of corn chips and cans of energy drinks. The most popular brand of rum in Haiti is named Bakara. It is most commonly sold in half pints for one dollar and twenty-five cents. Cigarettes come in half-packs of ten each. There is only one selection, Comme·Il Faut, which translates to: "As It Should Be" – and only one choice: regular or menthol. They cost one dollar and twenty five cents. Most boutiques also offer a limited variety of household items, like candles and cooking oil. But the big sellers are beer and water, and sometimes even ice. The primary beer in Jacmel is called Prestige. It comes in a short-necked bottle, like Red Stripe in Jamaica, but it tastes more like Imperial from Costa Rica, or Carta Blanca from Mexico. In any case, it is the Budweisser of Haiti. Prestige beer has won several international brewing medals over the years, and that fact is proudly printed on every lable.

Water from almost any hydrant in the town should be used only for bathing (at best). Drinking water is sold in small sealed plastic bags about the size of your hand. They claim, in English, to have been decontaminated by process of reverse osmosis through a system of semi-permeable membranes. You simply bite off one of the corners with your teeth. Ice, or glace, is made by freezing these same little bags, should the proprietor of that boutique have access to electricity. Most do not. A beer costs a buck twenty-five. Water and ice are twelve-and-a-half cents each. Do the math.

I purchased some smokes, a flask of rum, three bags of water (one of them frozen) and a Prestige beer. The cashier spoke only Creole. He told me the the total in Hatian dollars.

"Four-hundred gourdes." Scott offered impatiently, when I began counting on my fingers.

I paid the merchant and turned to leave.

"And you have to drink the beer here." My brother added. "The deposit is almost half."

"No problem." I turned the beer up and drank its entire contents without stopping for air. "Merci beaucoup." I stifled a belch and handed him back his bottle, still cold and sweaty.