Photos

I wanted to put a photo or two with each blog entry to give a better idea of what I was writing about. Unfortunately, I could not figure out how to do that and after 30 minutes I finally gave up. Instead, I picked a few of my favorites - trying to get a range of all the things I wrote about and experienced. I hope you enjoy.

I'd also like to take a moment to thank you, dear reader, for sharing this journey with me. It's been nice to have you undergo it all with me. Your support, emails, and comments meant more than I could ever describe. It was quite a ride and I'm thankful you were there for every turn in the road. Thank you deeply.


The last day at the after-school orphanage. Saying goodbye to my kids.

An outdoor lesson at the after-school orphanage. This little boy knew the answer but then was shy coming up to the front to share with everyone.

One of the beautiful children at the baby orphanage.

A bench I built for the school-build. Very exciting to have done it myself!

The crew working on the beginning construction of the 4th school.
- Our guide up Mount Kinai and her family just outside their home.

Children at the after-school orphanage painting water scenes like Monet.

The tent was so full that many of the children had to squish together on the ground. But they all still found a way to paint.

The "quiet signal."


The Capital Building in Port Au Prince.


The streets of Leogane.
On the drive through Port Au Prince.

Where the babies spend most of the days in the baby orphanage.The room is even smaller than it appears in this photo.

After jumping off the highest cliff from the waterfalls in Jacmel.

With Jean-Pierre (far back), Mimi, and Jean Pierre's brother (to the left) at their house in Jacmel.

WIth Victane.

My tent on the roof of the base. The background is a mixture of storm clouds and mountains mingling together.

The "tent school" we help construct on our climb up Mount Kinai.

One of the local children on a rubble site helping push a wheelbarrow full of broken concrete. You can't tell from the picture but he is barefoot and pant-less.

Jen and I on the completed rubble site where we met Victane and also found out the 5 people who buried in the rubble after the earthquake were rescued without casualties.

Reading with the children at the baby orphanage. The boy on the right was the one who wouldn't let go of my hand. The boy who broke my heart leaving.

In front of the tent for the after-school orphanage with some of the children.


* Thank you again. Feel free to keep up-to-date with me on my website at www.angiebullaro.com or subscribe to my youtube page
http://www.youtube.com/user/abullaro (this is a brand new page and still under construction - it should be up fully shortly!) *

Closing Thoughts

It’s been over 4 weeks since I have been home from Haiti. A lot can happen in 4 weeks. In 4 weeks I restructured an after-school program and cleared the rubble from a handful of homes, and helped build the shell of a school, and climbed a mountain, and learned Creole, and found a new place to call home in the open arms of Leogane. In the US, a lot can happen in 4 weeks also. I was overtaken with and recovered fully from Dengue Fever, presented with several interesting and very different job opportunities, stuck on an emotional rollercoaster, said goodbye to two of my closest friends who left the city, and watched my brother say “I do.” Time passes quickly, no matter where you are. It’s just amazing how differently time passes.

Yes, I have recovered nicely from Dengue, despite my 4 days in the hospital and infectious disease scare. As to be expected, the first thing I did after feeling better was…you guessed it – run. Of all the things I had been missing while stuck inside resting, trying to beat out the mosquito born sickness, fresh air and running were top of my list. It was like taking in a lungful of oxygen after being suffocated for days. It was like finally being able to move again after too long of lying paralyzed. It was medicine for my body, heart, and soul.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in these four weeks. I’ve written several closing remarks and discarded them all, mainly because I hadn’t realized I wasn’t ready yet to write what needed to be said, that was still being worked on deep inside me. Two weeks out with Dengue Fever gives one a lot of time to think. My thoughts went everywhere. For most of those two weeks, I must admit, they were rather negative. Not towards my sickness, I still find it rather comical that that was the big “thing” I came home with, but more towards life, my life, and how I felt back in the meat of my existence. Being cooped up in a sunless apartment without fresh air can do that to you.

But once I was able to walk outside, everything began to change. The moment the sun kissed my cheek my heart of ice started to melt. The more I walked around outside the more I shed the negativity and found a new perspective I hadn’t expected and hadn’t had for quite some time. When you can’t do anything for two weeks, you realize how blessed you are when you can. I had a heightened sensitivity for how lucky I was to be healthy and mobile…and alive. It wasn’t just the sickness, but the two weeks of milling over every part of my life that brought me a certain clarity – one I had not anticipated. As if everything was going to be just fine. It would all work out. It always does. Believe me, dear reader, it always does. And I let go of so much stress and anxiety. I left go of so much baggage – and just let myself be- for someone who is used to always “doing,” it’s hard to allow yourself to “be.” It took Dengue Fever to give me that outlook and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Thinking back, I can’t help but wonder if a new perspective is what I was supposed to learn on my trip. Working far too many hours at jobs I didn’t like to be able to follow my dreams and then getting so bogged down at work that I wasn’t able to do what it is I came to NYC to do started to take a toll on me. A lot of things were wearing me down. And the fresh, clear viewpoint I was supposed to gain in Haiti got lost somewhere over the water between Port Au Prince and New York City. So sickness knocked me out for a couple weeks during which time I had nothing better to do than re-evaluate everything. Sometimes it takes a little more to get my attention. But this time I listened. I knew there was a reason for everything that was happening and I wasn’t missing out on it again, who knows what the next extreme would be! It may take a bit, but sooner or later I always come around.

…

It would have been easy to fall into the self-pity and “why” trap following my return. The last thing I needed was to take more time off work and watch as the unpaid bills pile grew larger and larger. And after a month of service it didn’t seem “fair” to get so sick. But I learned a long time ago that life isn’t fair – if I ever doubted that my mother was sure to remind me. I don’t know how many times I heard “no good deed goes unpunished” during my spout of Dengue. I laughed; it’s such a funny and seemingly true phrase. But all I kept thinking was how fortunate I was that I didn’t get a 103-degree fever in the 106-degree temperature in Leogane. I thanked my lucky stars that I came back from a disease-ridden 3rd world country with a viral illness and not malaria. There were so many reasons to be grateful. Was it a disappointment? Yes. But did I get the better side of the coin? Absolutely.

The week of recovery following the hospital I contemplated that peculiar phrase over and over. No good deed goes unpunished. And then came the day I went to the billing office in Jacobi Medical Center. One office visit to the Parasitological Lab with over 20 tests run and loads of tubes of blood drawn, one night in the ER where I received both a CT scan and a spinal tap, 3 nights and 4 days in the hospital, and plenty more tests and blood drawn – with no insurance. The man behind the desk apologized for the amount and handed me a bill for 170 dollars. I nearly fell out of my chair. Based on my earnings they were able to scale the bill down from thousands and thousands of dollars to 170 for EVERYTHING! Also, having looked at the original bill, I was aware that the generous and kind doctors who had taken care of me had left off several things. Not only was the bill unbelievably low, it also covered me for the next 6 months. If I need to come to the hospital or ER at all between now and January I can go to Jacobi free of charge. Incredible.

I walked back to the bus station, partially in shock, yet ecstatic over the news. And it hit me. Like someone turning the light on or finally pulling the shades. Bad things happen. That’s a part of life. No matter how much good you do, no matter how many people you help, no matter how generous you are – bad things still happen. Everyone suffers at some point. We all hurt, and break and cry, and fall apart. Nothing can stop that. But I believe that the more “positive” you put into the world, the more you get back. I wasn’t being punished for helping. It wasn’t some sort of reverse karma. One way or another I was getting sick. But because of the past month, I was cut a break on my illness. I was cut a break on the bill. I was cut a break on so many things. Does that make sense? Are you getting what I’m getting at? We can’t stop bad things from occurring, but we can lessen the blow – I believe – by the works we do. Maybe, just maybe, sometimes all the good we do can ease the pain when it comes knocking.

So do good, dear readers. Give more than is comfortable, care more than is safe, believe more than is wise, and at all times, with all people, allow yourself to love. Maybe that is actually the “big thing” I was waiting for. Find joy in everything. In the midst of the storm there is still much to be thankful for. There is always something to be thankful for. Take each day as it comes because each day has so much to offer if we open ourselves to the unexpected.

Yes, find joy in everything… that is something I learned first hand from the people of Leogane.

Day 4: The Aftermath

It is the 4th day since I have been back home in NYC. I know this blog was only supposed to last the duration of my trip, but rather lost in a daze and feeling quite out of place in my own life - I felt compelled to write about my experience on the other side of the world. I'm not sure if you're even out there anymore, dear reader. But if you are...so am I.

It was strange to wake up in Haiti on Saturday morning and go to bed in NYC Saturday night. Can you imagine two places more opposite? Yet the impact of this separation and the weight of the trip were hardly noticeable from behind a 101 degree temperature and a body so achy I was certain it was going to fall apart. Before I left for Haiti I got a half dozen shots and a bottle of pills to ward off the symptoms of malaria. With these pills I was instructed that if I had any (with an emphasis on "any") flu-like symptoms in the 6months that followed my return, I would have to see a doctor because it could be malaria. I laughed as I put my hand on my burning forehead - of course I'd get malaria. I went to Haiti expecting something big to happen, something life changing. Who knew that "big thing" that was so life changing would be malaria. It's actually very comical if you think about it. I laughed.

Two days later after an entire Sunday spent at a 103 degree temperature - hotter than it was outside - I finally went to the hospital to get some tests done. A friend of a friend of a friend made time for me at a city hospital in the Bronx. She specializes in parasitic studies so she seemed the perfect doctor to see, particularly when you don't have insurance - so my other choice was some doctor at a crowded city hospital who doesn't have time for any patient so you get half-assed care after spending all day in a dirty waiting room. Yup, I'd definitely try my chances with this other doctor.

The PA filled 6 small tubes and 2 rather large jars of my blood for more test work than I have ever had taken. A million questions more tests a few cups and 5 hours later and I finally was able to leave. At that point I was malaria free...for now. Malaria can show itself anywhere up to a year after returning, even if you're tested as soon as you're home. I'll stick with optimism for now and assume I'm in the clear - it's best to never underestimate the power of positive thinking.

I woke up today without a fever and feeling much more like a human being. Since Saturday I really had been just a shell of a human laying sick on the couch like a zombie and crying over ridiculous things because I was so tired I couldn't think straight. Even still, through all the fever and aches I surprisingly had a massive appetite. What I craved most were cold milk and some sort of chocolatey cereal. In two days I have finished almost an entire gallon of milk and nearly 2 boxes of cereal (powdered milk is really terrible, believe me!) In Leogane all I had wanted was a huge NY slice of pizza, but after the slice I had from the place next door that left me in the bathroom for an entire day, my appetite for pizza suddenly dwindled.

I haven't thought twice about being able to flush my toilet paper or not having to spray bug spray before bed or soap that comes from a pump. But I have found it hard to take showers that are even luke-warm. A month of water that's never colder than rain water and you start to get used to it. The warm water that's usually too cold felt like it was scalding my skin. I also have been finding it ludacris how much water I have used to shower. I waste more water turning on the shower and undressing than I did cleaning my entire body in Leogane. Yet, it's hard not to stand in the shower for far longer than you need when you know the water will just keep coming. Shame on me, especially after witnessing the lack of water first-hand. I guess old habits really do die hard.

Everyone asks if I'm happy to be home or if I miss Haiti. I fnd it's easier just to lie - it's so hard to explain what I'm really feeling, especially when what I'm feeling is not much of anything. Or I tell them I've hardly had time to think about it since I've been so sick (which is the truth.) Mostly I just feel numb. It is completely normal to be back, which doesn't feel right. In all actuality, it's as if I never went - like it was all just a dream. If it wasn't for the huge mound of dirty clothes that lies on the floor at the foot of my bed, I'd swear I had never left. I wonder when it will sink in.

It's a little difficult to fall back into my old routines, mostly because I thought I would be over them by now and apparently I'm not. It doesn't feel right to go back to catering where I serve people with far too much money, when I just spent so much time serving people with far too little. I'm trying to cope with that right now. I'm trying to figure out where I'm supposed to go from here. It's feels a bit of a let down to be back to how it was. Then again, it doesn't feel much like anything.

Day 28: Ce Fini

Last day. I pretend it’s not even though everyone asks if it is. I still pretend it’s not. The team leader of the school build had asked one of the guys who recently joined the team if he’d find another job for the day so that I could spend my last day on the school. It was very kind of both of them. It was also the perfect way to spend my last day working. The school build is an all day site – meaning you head out in the morning, eat lunch on site (cooked by one of the neighborhood women) and don’t come back until the end of the work day. It was nice to spend the whole last day working off base.

I had worked the first morning at the school build, before heading off to Jacmel. It had now been exactly one week and the volunteers had come so far. All the beams for the walls were up and we were working on tinning the roof. This meant I spent the majority of the day climbing along the structure like a monkey and taking in the breathtaking countryside from the peak of the roof- my kind of day. Unlike almost every other site, this school is down a dirt road that cuts through corn fields and sugar cane on both sides. There are a few broken down houses and several tents around the school but it’s mostly farm land with a mountain-painted backdrop. It’s beautiful.

In the afternoon we watched a threatening storm blow in and right past. Seeing it from above was a like a sneak peak at an upcoming feature. We ended the day feeling very accomplished and ¾ of the roof finished. I reveled in the fact that I got to spend my last hours adding to Haiti, helping to build it up. Then we headed to the taptap with a gaggle of children following. A few of the children had helped tar the nails. While we were loading up I saw that one had some tar on his hand still, something poisonous particularly for children who constantly put their hands in their mouth. I took out my hand sanitizer and barely squeezed any in his hand before I was surrounded with reaching hands. “Keep your hands low and say ‘please’ or ‘s’il vous plait’ and I will give you some,” I instructed in Creole. 20 voices rang out in unison “please!” 20 hands received squirts of hand sanitizer. We had a mini lesson on remembering to wash our hands with soap especially after playing or using the bathroom and then did another round of squirts. They loved the smell of it. They giggled at the way it felt between their fingers. One little boy rubbed his hands on the top of his – apparently that needed cleaning too. I boarded the truck empty of hand cleaner and full of the smell of clean children.

…

At the end of every meeting, whoever is leaving before the next meeting can stand and say something before all the volunteers and staff. Six people, including myself were leaving; I was the last to speak. There was so much to say, yet so much had been said before. “Give each other a break and assume the best of each other. It’s important to remember to lock the tool shed (a constant cause of frustration at the meetings) but it’s more important to remember why we’re here. Spend time with the community. Love the children. Learn the language. And go to the orphanage.” Those were my main thoughts.

On my way to pack one of the directors on base stopped to give me a hug. This entire month I was quite certain she did not like me. I was positive she was one of the people who viewed me in the wrong light, misperceiving my intentions and passion . I was taken aback when she wrapped her arms around me. She complimented all of my work with the orphanage. Then she pulled out a packet of paper that was issued by the department of education (or someone like that) that explained the 3 main areas of which all schools would focus on and begin to rebuild themselves around. She said she had been looking through these papers and realized that I had already focused on all of those in the orphanage. She was impressed and proud. I was speechless. She also complimented my passion and my ability to maximize resources and times. “I don’t know how many times I saw you get other volunteers to help you cut out shapes for lessons at 8pm at night. It was truly impressive,” she said. And you think things you do go unnoticed. I’ve learned that nothing, good or bad, goes unnoticed.

We talked a little longer about education and then she told me her long-term goal (now that HODR would be staying in Leogane until at least the end of 2011) was to build a community center where children could come each day to learn something different. Perhaps chess one day, painting another. “And they could have a library,” I said. The lack of books is constantly on my brain, and I’ve been formulating for weeks now how to remedy that – what type of NGO I could build that would allow for children to have books in their own language (something we take for granted – how could we not?) I couldn’t contain my excitement as she spoke. She said it was a long shot and of all the ideas that are discussed very few ever come into fruition. Running a community center in Haiti would be a dream come true for me. I assured her with as much fervor as was physically possible that if this idea goes into work I will indeed be back. I would most likely be back either way (I won’t be able to stay away from Haiti for long – if it wasn’t for debt I would have never left in the first place.) She put the idea in my head, an idea that had been brewing but had not come into its own yet. Maybe she would use HODR to get the ball rolling. Or maybe I would…

...

A woman who I have become very close with and who I admire deeply is adopting one of the babies from the orphanage. Just the thought brings tears to my eyes. She is everything I hope to be in 15 years. Strong, intelligent, brave, and full of so much life with an incredibly beautiful spirit. She has two grown boys and a finalized divorce, and soon a little Haitian daughter. She saved this girl’s life in every way a life can be saved. This child will never go hungry, or get scabies, or know what it means to go without. She will not get tossed on the streets when she is too old for the orphanage or find herself pregnant at 14. She will be educated, and well traveled, and loved beyond words. The thought of all that is too much for one heart to comprehend. She told me that she knew she was coming for something big. She knew there was something larger than herself at work in this trip. The minute she saw this baby it was love at first sight for both of them and she knew right then what was her purpose. It was beautiful.

Part of me was a little sad; I had the same thoughts for the trip. I knew something big was going to happen. I knew my life was going to change. I knew there was a plan bigger than myself at work. But as of now, nothing had been revealed. I laughed gently to myself - God has a funny way of waiting until the last possible minute. I haven't been forgotten. I'm just getting a lesson in faith. I put the negative thoughts aside, knowing my answer was coming. It’s hard not to think about what I will do for work, or how I will pay my 900 dollar rent in two weeks when I have 12 dollars in my bank account. It’s easy to fall into anxiety, but I keep reminding myself to be patient and to have faith. Two things I constantly need to remind myself of – patience and faith. There is so much at work that I don’t see. There is something coming. I don’t know when it will come. I don’t know how it will come. I just know it will. And that is what I put all of my hope in. And that is what keeps me smiling and moving forward. A lesson learned from the people of Haiti.

Day 27: In A Bubble

Today was my last day of rubbling. There was much I could’ve done with the baby orphanage, helping to move the re-structuring process along, but I felt I needed one last afternoon swinging a sledge hammer and pushing a wheelbarrow. It was a new site we went to and the team leader who was in charge on my very first day of rubbling was now also in charge on my last – it felt very appropriate. And like my first day, she called on me to speak with the homeowner, even though there was a better French speaker on the team than myself. Turned out that the homeowner did not speak French, only Creole, so I had to communicate with her solely in Creole. If pride is what I felt for my accomplishment on the first day for making use of my language, then this was something far beyond that. I had come so far in Creole, enough so to have a conversation (as minimal and George of the Jungle it was) with a local woman. It was a great way to end my time moving rubble.

...

I am beside myself about the orphanage this afternoon. It was the best day we have had in the month I have been here. I could not have asked for more, I could not have been happier to leave any other way. It was as if they knew this was my last time and they wanted to make it as special as possible.

We arrived at the tent with the rain, which most times keeps a good chunk of the children from attending. With such a small group and the rain falling, we decided not to split the children up and to do a full class lesson inside. Half way through the lesson as the rain subsided the tent quickly began to fill. As I mentioned in earlier posts, though the tent is meant for the orphanage the other children (and many adults) from around the neighborhood trickle in, filtering their way throughout the orphans. By the time I was ready for the paint lesson there were over 55 children, 15 volunteers, and at least 15 local adults. That’s almost 100 people in a tent meant for around 20 – 30 people with 4 tables that seat maybe 6 children squished, 8 children when they sit on each other’s laps. That’s a lot of people and not a lot of space. But…it worked. It made it even more amazing.

For my last day I really wanted to do a fun activity. My children back home always loved to paint, especially because I loved to paint with them. Today we used watercolors to paint an ocean sea with a boat (we had just learned modes of transportation) and some sort of depiction of weather (last week’s lesson.) We also took a few minutes to talk about Claude Monet. 55 Haitian children in bare feet with dirty face repeated “Claude Monet” with enthusiasm, and my heart soared.

If you ever spent more than a minute with a child you can imagine the excitement and mayhem of giving that many children something as fantastic and special as a paintbrush and paint. The tables weren’t large enough for all the paper, at least every three children shared one set of paint, and half of the children sat on a blanket on the rubble floor trying to paint in their laps. You couldn’t move around the tent. And the sheer volume of people made for an extremely noisy working environment. You can’t paint with that much noise. I also cringe at the thought of losing my class to racket. Mid-painting I called for everyone’s attention and with the help of all the volunteers and our quiet symbol we were able to stop all the children mid-stroke and get their attention. Quite a feat, believe me.

Normally I leave the orphanage hoarse, having spent the whole time with a loud voice that will reach even the child in the back corner of the tent. This was the first time I lowered my voice. I talked no higher than a whisper and our translator did the same. The surprise of a soft voice and the silence emanating from everyone else brought an extreme calm to this 100-person tent. “When you paint,” I explained, “imagine you are in a bubble. In that bubble it is just you and your creativity. No one can touch you or disturb you. You are free to paint whatever you want.” The children made imaginary bubbles. And then I told them to stay in that bubble so that they - and everyone else - could paint the best they possibly could. For 30 minutes the sound level hardly rose over a peep. I looked around at the massive amounts of bodies in the tiny space, saw them all hard at work lost in their own imagination, and my face glowed with joy. Pure and utter joy. A joy you cannot buy. A joy you cannot define. A joy that comes only now and then like a rainbow after a storm. You have to catch it and hold it in your heart forever because its life is short lived, but its imprint is eternal.

The woman next door who holds our tables for us between classes came over for the entire lesson and after we exchanged numbers. We hugged several times and neither of us wanted to leave. My favorite little boy who is partially mentally disabled, showed up for the first time in weeks. Again, he must’ve known I was leaving. I hugged him tightly; so proud of all the work he had done today, so proud of his beautiful spirit. His smile, the brightest I have ever seen, was a sign of the hope for the future. I think about his future and how hard it will be for him; Haiti does not have any resources for children with disabilities and no education on the subject (to have a disability is a curse- most likely the reason he is an orphan, having been abandoned.) My heart breaks for the rough life he will have. But in that moment, his face beaming and his hand in mind, I took in only his soul and his smile and I prayed God keeps His hand on him until He calls him home.

We climbed on the taptap all 15 of us, me standing on the bumper gripping the bed door tightly with one hand and waving ecstatically with the other. A little boy hobbled after us, waving and smiling for about 100 feet and then fell back. The taptap turned the corner, leaving a piece of my heart right there with the orphan children of Leogane. I choked back the tears – today was too beautiful to cry, even if they were tears of joy.

Day 26: The Freedom to Choose

The orphanage I’ve been working with these past few weeks is mainly for older children (average ages between 4-12.) The other orphanage HODR has been working is the “baby” orphanage where children range from infants to a few children around 9 and 10 years. This morning was the first time I visited the baby orphanage and I saw how opposite the two orphanages were. This second orphanage is exactly what you think when you think orphanage – the children sleep there and spend all of their time there. I wish I could say wonderful things about it, but I left there feeling incredibly low.

The top floor of the orphanage was destroyed; a piece of scrap metal covers the hole to the roof that the stairs lead to – the only thing keeping the children from climbing onto the “roof.” All of the children and staff sleep in a tent in the front yard. There are around 30 children in the orphanage and I can’t imagine how more than 15 people sleep in this tent. The structure is one big room, a small room with a few metal cribs that are completely full of clothes and junk and one has some files in it which I assume are the children’s files, another room for clothes and food (all of which are thrown about in heaps and piles because there isn’t a single shelf or storage unit anywhere), a bathroom that the children don’t use (they go to a hole outside behind the house), and another room we weren’t allowed to see. The children do not go to school. The people who run the orphanage claim that another NGO comes in to teach them English a couple times a week, but another volunteer said she has yet to see that happen. Even if this NGO came, they would teach the children English which is a futile attempt in my opinion because a majority of the children don’t even know how to speak in Creole yet.

The children literally spend all day in the one big room where they simply lay on the floor and roll around. Remember that these children aren’t all babies, and yet they have nothing else to do and nowhere else to go so they just roll. The infants don’t get enough attention so their muscles are tight and they only stretch when our volunteers come. Children who wet themselves stay wet unless we adamantly point out that they went to the bathroom in their clothes. At that point if they do take notice, the staff only take off the soiled clothes and let the children run around naked, still dirty.

All of the kids are starving for attention and love (and food - they eat some sort of mush military meal that is mainly a sugar rush from which they quickly come down hard.) Many have developed mental and emotional dysfunctions and anger problems. Some of the older children operate on a far lower mental level then their age would deem appropriate. And a chunk of toddlers still haven’t learned to speak or communicate at all. One boy about 9 years old lays around all day with a blank stare, not communicating with anyone. I fear for the thought of his life when he is too old to be taken care of in the orphanage anymore.

Before I go any further, I don’t want you to think this is all the fault of the people who run the orphanage. They are under-staffed, with limited to no resources, no money, and not enough space. They are doing the best they can with what they have and are always trying to learn more to help the children and themselves. But how do you support 30 children in Haiti when you can’t even support yourself?

I walked into the orphanage and lost my heart right there. One little boy walked to me instantly, put his hands up, and crawled onto my lap not to leave again until the end of the day. Each time I tried to put him down he’d cry and scream. So I didn’t put him down. Truthfully, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to ever put him down. I could’ve walked out with him and brought him home with me without ever thinking twice. When it came time to leave I finally had to free myself from his grasp which was one of the most heart wrenching things I have experienced in the past month. I laid him on the floor, kicking and crying, and he caught hold of my finger with his tiny fist and held on for dear life. I nearly started balling myself.

I left the orphanage very low. And very overwhelmed. There’s so much to do. Shelves and storage to be built. Chairs and tables to be made (there is one tiny picnic style table for 30 kids and no chairs.) They do not have nearly enough books and the very few they have are not even in Creole. How can children learn when they don’t even have books in their own language? Or books at all? And our program with the children needs an incredible amount of structure. Overwhelmed indeed.

The afternoon was spent building a new, more structured program. It took some persuasion to convince the other volunteers who work on the class that structure is possible. It is easy to find excuses why children can't learn or why something won’t work. This orphanage offers a million and one reasons why these children could never achieve anything. But excuses are just that. Children can and want to learn. They crave structure, no matter how far “lost” they may seem. Yes, it would be difficult. Yes, it would take a lot of time and patience. Yes, it would be a long road. But, yes, it could happen. With all my heart I believed this program could run as smoothly with as many educational components as the orphanage we run on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s just a matter of faith. It’s holding children to higher expectations, because rolling around on the floor all day is not their greatest achievement. It’s difficult, though, to expect so much from children who have so little. But indeed it is through expectations that they can and will succeed.

It makes me want to stay even longer, thinking of how much work needs to be done and how I could help re-format our time with the children. And yet, it also makes me glad to leave thinking about how much work needs to be done and how heartrending it would be to walk through those doors each week. I get to leave. In a few days I will get on a plane and leave this all behind, leave all these children behind. They don’t get to leave. They don’t get a choice. This life has been handed to them. How easy it would be for me to leave and forget all of this sadness, because oftentimes ignorance is bliss. But the feel of that little boy’s hand gripping my finger has left a permanent imprint on my heart. I couldn’t look the other way now even if I tried.

Day 25: Stop, Drop, and Roll

My time here is quickly coming to an end. Far quicker than I would have ever imagined. Far quicker than I care to think about. I have spent the past 3 weeks building up a strong program at the orphanage that will be sustainable with or without me. This week it is time to pass on the torch and test out just how sturdy this structure actually is. Caitlyn and I have been training 3 new male volunteers to take over the "Team Leader" position at the orphanage. I was excited to have men take a bigger role in working with the children, as of lately it has been only females. The young boys who come each week need a few strong, male role models in their lives. It will be quite the difference, however, changing from two bubbly female teachers to two quieter male teachers. Change is good. Or so I’m told. I feel it is only natural to hesitantly give over the reigns of something you created-it's hard to let go. They’re my kids. I hate to leave them. Especially after all the sweat and energy and heart I put into the orphanage. But change is good...

It was a bit of a rough afternoon at the orphanage. The children showed up late, we had more volunteers than we knew what to do with, and about half of the neighborhood decided to join in on the lessons. Above all of that, we were teaching a heavy topic that relied solely on translation, which always makes for a trying activity. We thought it was very important to teach the children what to do in an emergency and the steps to take if another natural disaster occurs. I wonder how many lives could’ve been spared if people had been more prepared; had been more aware of how to keep themselves safe in an earthquake.

It was a touchy subject to teach. We went back and forth in our planning session whether or not the kids were ready to learn about it, and if it would be too traumatic. All valid concerns. But in the bottom of my heart, I just couldn’t bare the thought of not teaching these kids how to keep themselves safe in the event of another quake because we weren’t certain they could handle talking about it. In my years working with kids I have learned to always give them the benefit of the doubt; they never cease to surprise me in how much more they can handle than I give them credit for.

One of the project managers is also in the middle of coming up with a similar program that HODR will teach children, or teach teachers who will then teach their children – or something along those lines. He asked me when I was leaving, hoping it wasn’t soon so he could get my help. I sadly responded “Saturday,” to which he replied: “don’t go.” Later when I was asked to help reorganize and come up with a new structure for the baby orphanage, he walked by again and remarked, “Why are you leaving again?” I had no answer. Why was I leaving? With so much to do, why was I leaving?

Despite the obvious difficulties, overall the lesson went well. Haitian children were rolling all over the ground practicing how to stop, drop, and roll (rete-tombe-woule in Creole) – a sight at which I couldn’t help but laugh. Feet and arms flying in every direction. Oh the joys of teaching.

I left the orphanage thoroughly exhausted on every possible level. It was worth it to know that maybe just one child would retain at least one safety step that would someday save his/her life. I keep my fingers crossed for that. I pray their new knowledge will spread like wildfire, as knowledge often does.

Day 24: 6 Months

The past few blogs have been very long. Today’s will be very short. Not much needs to be said - today speaks for itself.

Six months. It has been six months since a 37 second earthquake destroyed thousands of homes, took far too many lives, and tore apart hearts across the world. It’s hard to believe it’s only been six months. On the other hand, I feel the earth has barely moved around the sun. Time is like that. Memories feels close, almost tangible while in the same breath they appear as an object caught in a glance in your rearview mirror. I guess everything has two sides. A positive and a negative. Haiti has come so far, and yet not far enough. Hearts are still bleeding open but so many are in the process of mending.

I felt very privileged and humbled to be in Leogane on this landmark occasion. I was aware in that moment that I would not know the effect this day would have on me until long after I’m gone. I did realize, however, how deeply time can heal your wounds.

It has been six months since my own heartbreak. And I have found that I, too, have healed more than expected. I didn't realize it until today - looking back. Funny how things have a way of mending when you take your mind off of them. Funny how hearts heal the most when you're trying to heal the heart of someone else.

Day 23: A Beautiful Ending

Sunday morning I stared out at the crashing waves and couldn’t count my blessings enough. They were beyond my grasp. So many ways this trip could have gone badly. So many ways this trip could’ve been just another trip for tourists. But in so many ways we had been blessed over and over. There could never be enough thanks.

We walked to Jean Pierre’s for a breakfast that people from Jacmel eat every Sunday morning: pumpkin soup. It was hot and hearty and something strange to eat for breakfast but surprisingly filling. Jean Pierre and Mimi continually commented on how comfortable they were with us and how much we felt like family. Our thoughts were completely in-line with theirs; our Haitian foster parents.

One of the neighborhood boys climbed a coconut tree barefoot and threw down enough coconuts for each of us. Coconut milk straight from the shell was our morning coffee and it had never tasted better. I couldn’t wrap my head around how natural it all felt. I couldn’t wrap my head around how I would ever be able to leave.

We said very long goodbyes, promised we wouldn’t forget them and that we would check in often and then headed back to the hotel to enjoy the beach. On our way back we ran into a man working for the UN that we had met the previous night at dinner. He drove us to his friend’s house that was right on the beach. We spent the entire afternoon bouncing between the hammock, swimming in the ocean, laying in the sun, and enjoying beers on the deck with a view I’d give anything for you, dear reader, to see. It is easy to forget that you are in the beautiful Caribbeans when you live in Leogane. The closest beaches are covered in garbage and the waves drop more of it on the shore with each lap. But here on this stranger-turned-friend’s little slice of heaven I remembered where we were. The Caribbeans lived up to their name here.

The guy from the UN was heading to Leogane the following morning at 5am. We had planned on leaving Sunday evening, but it was hard to pass up a ride INSIDE a truck with air conditioning and a CD player. His aunt had a little house on the beach that she rents out. Tonight it was empty so she let us stay for free. It was a tiny hut with two small rooms and a double bed from which we pulled the top mattress off so we had enough spots for the 4 of us to sleep. He apologized for not being able to provide more and we thanked him profusely for his unending generosity.

Once again it was another night of not believing our luck. We fell asleep to the ocean’s lullaby.


Living open to the unexpected has yet to disappoint. The unexpected leaves you available for the extraordinary. It’s unstable and its unreliable, this I know. But it is also full of so much faith. Faith in humanity. Faith in the kindness of strangers. Faith in the beauty of the world and what it has to offer. On occasions it works out for the best, other times not so much but it’s always worth the gamble. Sometimes keeping yourself open for the unexpected leaves you on a park bench in the middle of Naples at night, but awakens you with fresh coffee and warm croissants in the morning. And now and then the unexpected drops you in the arms of strangers who will consider you family for the rest of their life.

Day 22: Jump in Feet First

This morning we awoke to coffee and breakfast. Crackers and real butter and this fish mess that was surprisingly good - even for breakfast. Jean Pierre and Mimi arranged for two young men they knew and trusted to drive us around all day on their moto-taxis. These two guys acted as part taxi – part bodyguards who checked in almost hourly with Jean-Pierre. The guys took us to the busy market that lined the tiny city streets. Produce spilling over curbs, women with baskets on their heads selling everything from clothes to packaged cheese, people dodging in between moto-taxis and chickens – it was all so picture-perfect Haiti. They never left our sides, certain not to lose us and face the wrath of Jean-Pierre.

After stocking up on some food and drinks we headed to the base of the mountain for our trek to Basin Blue – a spot in the mountain with three separate water falls that pictures could never do justice and large swimming holes with cold, fresh water. To get to the mountain leading to the waterfalls you have to cross three rivers. These rivers range anywhere from ankle to knee deep. There is absolutely no other way to get from Jacmel to the village on the other mountain except through these rivers. What a sight. Muddy brown water full of Haitians bathing to the east and moto-taxis trying to skid through without tipping over to the west. Women holding their goods securely on their head and skirts in their fists to keep from getting wet. Men pulling crying goats by a leash across water they can’t even stand in. I’ve never seen anything like it. We took off our shoes and walked across, trying not to think about what we were walking on or through.

Caitlyn and I decided to rough it and make the trek up the mountain by foot. 5k up hill sounded like quite an adventure. The scenery itself made the climb worth it. A local man from the village adjacent to the tiny path leading to the waterfalls asked if we needed a guide. We assured him we did not, until we made it halfway up a narrow path on a steep incline and heard “Mesdames, that is not right path you are on” echo through the trees. From far below he was calling out to us over and over until we responded. Ooops. Apparently we did need a guide. He took us back down, around some smaller falls, through little crevices to an opening that held a picturesque waterfall falling into a pool surrounded by mountains on almost every side. We had made it.

You have to use a rope to climb down the side of a large rock, swim against the current through a little pool before making it into the largest pool of water. A giant rock sits in the middle as a resting place for those who climb up the waterfall and jump off. I saw that downpour of water and knew I had to climb it. One slow step at a time through splashing water I found a little crevice in the rocks and pulled myself to the first flat rock landing. “You can jump from here,” our guide said. It wasn’t that far up. Maybe 50 feet. I looked down at the slope of the mountain and wondered just how certain he was about jumping. The thought was trashed a few seconds later because I knew either was I was going to jump. I didn't come this far to just stand on the edge. In so many ways I realized I had not come this far to just stand on the edge looking out. Sometimes life calls for a leap of faith. Sometimes you just have to jump in feet first without worrying about the trip down. Sometimes you just have to jump. You just have to jump. So I did.

After I found my way back to the surface of the water, I saw a boy do a back flip off the highest rock, a good 100 feet up. A back flip I wouldn’t do, but I had to jump from higher. I climbed up to the top, the other 3 women I traveled with looking on from below. And there I stood for about 15 minutes, all the courage drained out of me. Two girls no more than 16 years, cheered me on from the side, reminding me they had already jumped several times. It was the first time I felt my age. 5 years ago I wouldn’t have hesitated at the edge. I couldn’t get my legs to jump. To my credit, it wasn’t the height but the rocks and my uncertainty that I could actually clear them if I jumped. “Oh my mom is going to kill me when she hears this story,” was all I kept thinking.

Being an absurdly competitive person, mostly with myself, I knew there was no turning around. I realized I just couldn’t think about it. When you stare at anything long enough all you start to see is the negative. You imagine problems that may not even exist. Like most things, its best not to over analyze the situation. I walked back from the edge, breathed in deeply, and then took two steps before leaping off the edge into the body of water below. That is a feeling I’d like to remember for a long time – the thrill of falling and the excitement at being able to swim up for air unscathed.

The girls followed me back up and we jumped one more time. Then we headed back down to Jacmel. It was a very fulfilling day.

We had decided to stay at a hotel that night and found a room at a place called JaClef that had a pool almost as neon green as the running club shirts and as thick as mud. Not a good sign. It was a tiny room with two flimsy double beds, a black-light and moldy smell in the bathroom, and AC (the only saving grace that kept us from walking away.) The room was insanely expensive, especially for Haiti. It was 75 Amercian dollars per night (split 4 ways.) I don’t spend that much on a hotel in the US! Never in a million years did I think I’d spend that much in a 3rd world country. Inflation has caused many things in Haiti to be incredibly expensive. A lot of that is do to years of NGO’s moving into town and then leaving. Bad for the economy on many levels.

We came back to the hotel to find that the water still wasn’t working and the toilet didn’t flush. After 2 hours of arguing, negotiating, and then pleading the manager finally gave us our money back. The girls were less adamant about leaving than I was, especially if the water came back on. I’m not a sucker and I knew we were already being taken advantage of – not one room in that hotel was worth more than 20 dollars a night. There was no way I was spending that much money on a room that didn’t have running water. I would not budge on that. I have learned through the years to be more compromising, to be more lenient, but there are some things I just cannot budge on for various reasons, but mainly because of principle.

We flagged down another free ride and got dropped off at the nicest hotel I’ve seen in Haiti. All white, directly across from the ocean with a working pool and bar, ran by a blan from Germany. All of the rooms were filled except for the top floor of the villa he rents for 220 American dollars a night. I pleaded our case, pulled the volunteer card, and explained all the trouble at the other hotel. He couldn’t turn us away. For 100 dollars total he let us stay in a house with enough beds for each of us to have our own, a bathroom with a working shower and separate tub, a front porch with a hot tub (not working) and beautiful view of the ocean. The place was huge and gorgeous and clean and we were each only paying 5 dollars more than the atrocious hotel we just came from.

We met Jean Pierre and Mimi for dinner. They took us to a beautiful restaurant tucked away in the mountains which you would never know about without knowing a local. It was thatched roofed with an upscale Caribbean feel and ceiling fans. We enjoyed another delicious meal, but this time they allowed us to treat – the least we could do. After dinner they drove us back to the hotel, reminded us to walk over for breakfast the following morning, and we headed to bed in awe of how blessed we had been the past two days.

Day 21: Leave Room for the Unexpected

There are not words for this weekend. No matter what I say it will never express the generosity, kindness and beauty we experienced. I will try anyways.

I am a firm believer in keeping yourself open to the unexpected. Extraordinary things can happen when you don’t spend your entire life planning, pretending like you know what the future holds. When it comes to traveling, I particularly hold tight to this belief. Today was a reminder why.

Myself and 3 other women jumped off the taptap full of 25 people in the bed, 3 on top of the roof, and three in the front seat (remember taptaps are about the size of a Ford Ranger) to hitch our way to Jacmel. Within 10 minutes we were in the bed of a large truck, fresh air blowing through our hair, and vast mountainside before us. A friend had recommended hitching a way to Jacmel, preferably in the back of a pickup truck, because the drive through the mountains is breathtaking. “After all,” he reminded me, “you are 4 women. You will get picked up in a heartbeat.” I also preferred the idea of an airy truck bed to a covered, over-filled “bus” that costs 100 goud (a little over 2 dollars.)

I remembered every time my dad brought home a truck from work we wanted to ride in the back. We were only ever allowed to sit in the bed if we sat smack dab next to the cab of the truck and went no more than 5 or 6 blocks, never reaching more than 20 mph. Now here we sat each in a corner, arms and legs sprawled out, going well over 60 mph up a mountain, around treacherous curves on one lane roads with two directions of traffic. Sorry, Mom.

The countryside was beautiful. Green and rolling. Yet, even with the ocean kissing its border, it all still seemed so dry. Less than 10% of Haiti’s forests remain. Looking down from so far up, this fact was incredibly evident. Nonetheless, each curve in the road brought another “ooh” from my lips.

The couple we hitched a ride with were in their early 60’s and instantly took us in like family. It in fact felt as if we had planned our trip to come see them, our family. By the end of the weekend they introduced us as their daughters and their neighbors would ask each morning how their blan daughters were.

Like any worrying parents, Jean Pierre and Mimi refused to leave us until we found a hotel. The search was a futile attempt so we pitched a tent in their front yard. They had offered us the tent right off the bat (I immediately jumped on board) but one of the woman traveling with us was determined to sleep in a bed - a foolish request in my opinion when a local family offered to take us in. When given the chance to stay as a tourist or visit as a local – always give in to the unexpected and choose the ordinary local life over that of a tourist. I promise, dear reader, you will never regret it.

They live across the street from a beach that stretches on for miles lined with palm trees and bordering bright blue waves crashing on the shore. A little hike up the mountain, through all the fruit trees we came to their tiny house with a front yard that actually had grass, and lush grass at that. After we settled in they took us to dinner at a restaurant on the beach. It was the best meal I’ve had yet in Haiti. We started with a salad that consisted of more than just ONE tomato and ONE piece of lettuce (like on the HODR base) and actually had dressing on it. This was accompanied by a piece of warm bread and butter. It felt lavish. It tasted so good. It's amazing how sick of rice and beans you can be when you have rice and beans for lunch and dinner for 4 weeks straight. The entrée of fish was so fresh and delicious I felt guilty for such indulgences. We chatted the whole time, getting to know their family and feeling more like kin. Then they paid for the bill without a single consideration of our request to treat.

We headed back to the house, climbed in the tent under a blanket of stars and just smiled. What a lucky day. Transportation, room, and meal considered we spent a total of one American dollar. More than that, we were in the company of truly special people, and that is worth more than any amount.

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I feel I should take a moment to describe a conversation we had with Jean Pierre. While we were in the middle of scrambling to find a hotel and I was in the middle of profusely apologizing for all the inconvenience, he remained incredibly calm and pleasant. He said he had realized that you just have to learn to be happy. In Haiti you never know what tomorrow will bring so you learn to be happy right now. He had spent 24 years in the US where he said he always planned for the future. But Haiti is not like that. "You can’t plan for anything because nothing is stable. So you live one day at a time," he explained. This is something I have noticed a lot in Haiti; for better or worse, people don’t think about the future. For example, there are many reasons why Haiti is almost completely de-forested, one of which being that they use the trees to make coal which they can sell for a living. A short-run living, but a living none the same. Yet, if they left the trees for longer they could sell the fruits for years and make money continuously. But making coal is something you can do in the present- it has immediate effects and gratification. They are not worried about how they will survive in the future so it doesn’t occur to them to save things for the future. In America all we ever think about is the future. We have social security and retirement funds and a hundred different options for making ourselves feel stable about the years to come. And that allows us to sleep “better” at night. But maybe that isn’t the way. I don’t think we should disregard the future completely but there has to be a happy medium, some sort of compromise. Maybe we are meant to live more by the day. To enjoy life now. To find that middle ground where we keep an eye on the future while remembering to treat each day like it’s all we have, because let’s face it – one day it will be.

It never ceases to amaze me how much I learn from Haitians. I learned so much from Jean Pierre and Mimi after only a few hours. Always generosity. And now a reminder to enjoy our days, no matter how rough they may be. Because if anyone has learned how to find joy in tribulation it is the Haitians.

Day 20: Run

At the field hospital behind our base there is a volunteer who started a running club for the local children. Everyday at 430pm they meet to run for about 45 minutes – 1 hour. In bright green shirts that read “Leogane Track Club” on the front and “Vini Kouri” (come run) on the back, they run for 5-10 minutes, then walk for 5-10 minutes through the fields of Leogane. I have been itching to run with them since I heard about the program a couple of weeks ago. I have yet to run since arriving in Haiti. Though there is much to occupy my mind, and less to stress me out, I have been feeling that familiar itch in my legs to get up and just go.

After a long day of work and a tiring but fulfilling afternoon at the orphanage, I dropped my backpack and bolted out of the base to catch the tail end of the group. 20-30 neon green shirts lit the way like a beacon in the night. What a sight it was to see. Imagine the scene: dirt “roads” full of rubble and rocks you have to dodge in order not to fall, houses half destroyed or made of sticks, Haitians standing and sitting and grouping everywhere like bystanders at a marathon, and then along comes a group of runners composed of 5 blans surrounded by 30 Haitian children in matching shirts. The people of Leogane are not used to runners darting down the streets, especially in the middle of the hot season in the blazing sun. Everyone stared. We ran.

I stayed to the back next to a girl running barefoot and a boy in ripped Crocs. Only two of the older girls actually had running shoes, and I wondered if the group leader had provided them. The rest ran on the rough terrain in shoes that should have been tossed months ago. But the kids ran anyway. And of course they ran without complaining. Some held onto my shirt, some tried to link onto my arms and hold my hands. So much extra baggage made running even more difficult, especially after 3 weeks of not running, but I didn't have the heart to tell any of them "no."

Slowly my group fell behind. One of the girls tripped on the rocks and scraped her knee, causing the last of the team to slip out of view as I scooped her up into my arms to dry her tears. We decided to walk for a bit, my small group of 6. It didn’t take long to realize I had no idea where I was and the rest of the runners were too far ahead to catch up with. We kept walking, figuring we’d find our way sooner or later. We turned right down a little path between fields of sugar cane and corn and discussed the names of animals in Creole and English. They laughed at my accent and asked to know more. I smiled, feeling like I was in a dream.

After a bit we ran into a small group of Haitians. Straight from a scene from a movie – perhaps follow that bird - they stared at us with minimal confusion and then motioned us forward; waving their hands and pointing. We didn’t have to ask for directions, one white woman with a group of neon green was pretty obvious – they knew who we were with. For the next half hour, every little bit we’d hit a bend or fork in the road and momentarily question which way to head. But without fail there was always someone standing off in the fields or pulling a cow pointing us in the same direction of our predecessors. Cheering us on. Showing the way.

It’s amazing how identical rubble houses look. A half dozen times I thought I knew where we were only to find that we turned the opposite direction than I had expected, and I was more confused than before. It was starting to get late and I had to be at the nightly meeting by 7pm, so we picked up the pace to run again. Just as we started up I heard “Angie!” ring through the air. Angie is not a very common name in Haiti, so I assumed it was directed at me. There standing on the front porch with a smile from ear to ear and waving with enthusiasm was the woman who lives across from the orphanage where we work each week. She allows us to use the back of her house to lock up the 4 tables we keep for the children. I told her my name once and she has called me by it ever since. Of all the beautiful moments I have experienced in Haiti, this by far took the cake. There I was running in HAITI through the incredible countryside with children who were part of track club, far from the base, and a local Haitian woman not only recognized me but also called out to me by name. It brought a tear to my eye right there and I swelled with excitement. I waved back just as enthusiastically, jumping with each step I ran forward. For the first time I really felt a part of Leogane, of Haiti. In that moment I did not feel like a volunteer; I felt like a neighbor - like a local. And I beamed with pride at being a part of their community.

I now knew my surroundings and we were able to navigate our way back to the market next to the base rather quickly. The children took a short cut through an IDP tent camp I had never seen before and would’ve gotten lost in immediately if they hadn’t took it upon themselves to form a sort of protective bubble around me. Then one by one they fell off as we passed through the market where their tents were sporadically placed. One girl stayed with me, still holding my hand, refusing to leave until I walked through the gates of the base. We waved goodbye and I headed to the meeting 15 minutes late. A small price to pay for an evening I would never forget.

This, dear readers, is the beauty in running. My cabin-fever, my gradual fall back into taking on too many responsibilities at once, and all my thoughts over the upcoming weeks and months disappeared with each step I ran. I could hear my mom’s voice: “I told you you’d feel better after you ran.” I always do.

Mini Get Away

Dear readers, I'm heading on a mini vacation w/a few other volunteers (Friday afternoon - Sunday afternoon.) Need a little time away from base and away from all the blans. Also, need to get in as much of Haiti as I can in the next week. No posts until Sunday. Check back in two days. Enjoy your weekend and thanks for your continual support!

Day 19: Cabin Fever

I haven’t been rubbling all week (who knew you could make that into a verb?!) Quite truthfully, I’m trying to do everything I can but rubble for many reasons including a hurt shoulder and not limited to a need for variety. The upside to this is I’ve been able to create all week and do planning for the orphanage. The downside is that I’ve been on base for far too many hours. I’m starting to get cabin fever – badly. I also feel I’m starting to go a bit numb. I feel very far from Haiti, from Leogane, right now. I feel I am surrounded by far too many blans. I’ve made a point of eating my lunch outside with the local volunteers (even in the heat) instead of inside the base with most of the international volunteers. I need a little perspective - a reminder of why I’m here, because sometimes stuck inside the base, surrounded by a little too much drama for my own liking (a natural thing to occur when you have 130 people living in one communal space) you start to forget what it’s all about.

I also find that when I’m around base all day I’m easy to find. I’m accessible. I have a terrible problem of not being able to say “no” to almost anyone. My mom constantly reminds me that I’m wearing myself thin obliging myself to an exuberant number of commitments. Saying “no” had been something I had been trying to work on in the few weeks leading up to my trip. Somehow, that terrible habit followed me down here and has crawled back on my shoulder. Though I like the feeling of people wanting my services and skills, I remember how worn it makes me to be pulled in far too many opposing directions. I am now remembering how exhausted I become. I miss the people of Leogane. I miss the little free time I finally found after leaving NYC. I miss not having to say “no” because no one was asking. Because let’s face it, old habits die hard. I also just now realize how much I miss being able to blog about things that really matter – like life in Leogane. Inside 4 cement walls with no roof, you miss so much.

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I wanted to take a quick minute to thank everyone for reading and sharing my blog. I appreciate your time more than words. I also thoroughly enjoy and treasure your comments, even if I have not replied to them. Internet is dodgy enough – it takes almost a half hour each night just to post one blog – I rarely have the energy to do much more online. Do know, though, that not only am I reading your comments but I would love more. So please, leave a message or send an email with your remarks, questions, concerns, and thoughts on absolutely anything! It’s great to hear from you. Thanks again for staying with me. The end is in sight.

Day 18: The Illusion of Safety

People often compare their hurt to other’s. Comments such as “yes, I may be suffering but there are people in the world who have no homes or no food.” It’s easy to downplay your conditions based on worldly conditions. But I think it is a very thin, and most times hardly visible line, which separates perspective from reality. I once read in a book something that has stuck with me for many years since. The lead character, whose husband was away at war, was missing him terribly. She feared daily for his life but felt guilty for this since there were many women who had actually lost their husbands in the war. Her father asked her if she cut her thumb and someone else cut her thumb off, would that make the pain she’s feeling less real because it wasn’t her whole thumb. I have meditated on that many nights since. We may not be suffering as much as many others around the world, but that doesn’t mean our suffering doesn’t exist or isn’t valid. I am learning more and more that suffering is suffering no matter what form it comes in. A broken heart may show it’s ugly face in millions of different masks, but a broken heart is it still. Though, in our pain, it is important to keep some perspective, and that is where the very thin, almost invisible line appears. I still have no idea when I cross it. Do you?

This morning I woke to the terrible news that one of the younger international volunteers, who sleeps two tents away from mine, suffered a horrific family tragedy. I was affected by it all day; devastated by how affected by it he must be. It is easy to believe you live in a bubble where bad things don’t occur. It’s even easier to believe that when you’re in a place half a world away helping other people heal their pain. It just doesn’t seem right. Then again it never does. But you don’t think such terrible news can reach you so far away. As if you’ve crossed outside it’s dreadful borders and beyond it’s grasp. But the truth is you never are far from it, never far enough. And hurt is hurt, no matter where you are; no matter what form it comes in. Hurt is hurt. Whether by earthquake or by phone call at 2am. Hurt, dear reader, knows no border and no language barrier.

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On a lighter note. The orphanage had another successful day. It’s amazing to watch the kids grow. To see how much they remember and their excitement at knowing answers. When I’m exhausted and worn down and sometimes even dreading the amount of energy it will take to teach at the orphanage, these children always lift me up. In their bare feet with their smiling faces they inspire in me a strength that I didn’t know was there and an energy I thought was exasperated. I always leave the orphanage completely void of all oomph, but I rest assured that that oomph was left in good hands.

As a teacher, there is no greater compliment than to hear that children respond well to you and that you have a great control of the environment. Because as a teacher there is nothing worse than losing control of your class. It made all the exhaustion of lesson planning time well spent to have the director of the orphanage compliment the success of the new format of the orphanage and plead with me not to leave but to stay permanently with them. If only loans and debt did not exist. If only…

Day 17: Lightning Strikes (w/a NEW, forgotten addition)

It’s been several days since a huge storm has rolled in. For an hour before the rain fell, lightning and thunder ruled the sky without mercy. Leogane is notorious for threatening storms that never fall. Dark clouds rarely make it over the ominous mountaintops. But tonight, when the rain finally fell, it fell harder than I’ve ever seen. The thunder was so loud it was deafening and the lightning lit the sky like Times Square on a Saturday. A quarter of the base ran out into the shower and literally took one. People laughed and danced in the downpour and everyone looked out onto the storm with lighthearted laughter.

I smiled watching the rainfall – I’m a sucker for a good thunderstorm. But then I caught sight at how quickly the base was filling with puddles that would never flood more than a few inches, and my stomach turned. Inside our cement home we accepted the rain with open arms. We made merry without fear of destroyed homes (except those unfortunate tenters on the roof…including me.) But, the worst that would happen would be a wet floor and an air mattress that would need some drying out. Not even a hundred yards away on the other side of the wall there are hundreds of tents that will not fair this storm as luckily as ours. On the other side of the wall people’s “homes” are filling with water, mud (full of garbage and human/animal waste) is destroying their possessions as it drains through the streets with incredible speed, stopping only to fill puddles that often make it to knee-deep. On the other side of the wall they are not welcoming this incredible storm in the same way. They fear for their homes. They wait out the incomprehensible inconvenience and damage mother nature is exposing them to right now. I can’t help but think of the other side of the wall. And in doing so, I can’t find it in me to smile anymore.

...

I spent half of the afternoon working on the pre-fabrication of school #3 that HODR will build. All of the parts of the school are built on base then transported to the school site where they are put together like pieces of a puzzle. I love building things. My brother used to do a lot of work flipping houses and adding rooms and ceilings and such to clients' houses. I used to adore going with him and being able to construct something visible with my own hands. It's such a satisfying feeling to see the fruits of your labor. Even more satisfying to know that what I sweat over in the blazing sun on a concrete floor would allow many children to return to school and receive much needed and deserved education. Once again I felt life come full circle as I helped build a school after spending so much time here helping children learn. (I also got to use power tools and as my roommate will tell you - I really love power tools.)

More than just using power tools, what I really loved about today was being able to add to Haiti. I enjoy removing rubble (up until I tore something in my shoulder), but removing rubble is exactly that - removing. We are destroying something that is already destroyed. Yes, it absolutely needs to be done and by discarding the rubble we enable the owner to receive a temporary home - that is amazing. But you can only rubble so much before you start to get rubbled-out. All I've really wanted for the past few days or so is to create something for the people Haiti, not just destroy. Buildling this school has been what I've been waiting eagerly to do. And truthfully, it's what I thought I'd be doing more of here. Wow, not to be repetitive but here also lies another example of full circle: I both destroyed and created. Maybe you can't do one without the other - which is why as of recently I've felt as if something has been missing (both here in Haiti and my life before it.)

Day 16: Sunday Service

All week I’ve been reminding a local volunteer, Jean Kendy, not forget to come find me Sunday morning. I have been waiting with great anticipation to attend church with him. Sure enough at 8 am he was there and ready with two other international volunteers. We walked the 15 minutes through a part of town I had not yet seen to attend a service that would last four hours (technically we were only there for 3.5 hours because we arrived late.) I’m not sure if you read that correctly … FOUR hours. Luckily I had not planned on it lasting that long, so the expectancy that it might end any minute got me through the last hour. Four hours is a long time in a jam-packed church with hardly any circulation, in hot weather, without understanding the language.

That said - it was beautiful. The first hour only housed about 20 people. The pastor spoke mainly from the Bible and there was a lot of repeating of phrases. And then at 9am the crowd shuffled in without an empty seat to be found. At this point a younger man, who I was informed was not the Pastor, got up and led songs for a good hour or so. The music and singing was exceptionally beautiful and moving. Voices rose above the rafters without reservation, hands waved freely in the air, and “Alleluia’s” formed a beautiful backdrop to the entire morning. It was impossible to be in that church without swaying to the music. It was impossible to be among these people without feeling the strength of their faith. It had been 2 weeks since I attended a church service; today’s service reminded me how much I’ve been missing it.

After about an hour, the women rose to sit on the right side of the church while the men moved to the left. I had attended service with only men, which meant I would have to move to the other side by myself. Quite truthfully, I’ve been in more awkward situations and I had no qualms about grabbing my things to move. Several of the men in front and behind us very kindly waved their hands, informing me that it was OK to stay where I was - I wasn’t the only woman who wasn’t moving sides.

We continued with the singing intermingled with prayers. During one very heartfelt, emotional, and long song the electricity went out. (I forgot to mention that the church had a few lights, a couple fans, and speakers for the microphone the leaders used. I was amazed at how much electricity to which they had access. This was very telling of their community that one of the few places with electricity and fans was their communal place of worship.) The speakers stopped projecting music, the fans went silent, and the lights immediately were dark. But, you would never have known. Not one person in that church missed a beat. The man leading the song dropped the microphone on the pulpit as if he had never been using it. With or without electricity their voices still rose. Such an example of Haiti and Haitians’ power of perseverance through struggle. Nothing would stop them from singing.

After this incredible song, there was an extended prayer, followed by an interlude of soloist. Several women came forward one at a time to sing in front of the entire congregation. I was amazed at how well none of them sang. I’m not trying to be rude (I’m quite certain I have to the worst voice known to man…well, except for maybe my mom - sorry mom.) I actually was amazed and impressed by these bold women. It’s always people with extraordinary voices who brave the spotlight. Rarely would someone who can’t sing rise to the front in the US. But here, they welcomed each woman as if she was the most beautiful singer to ever grace their presence. I was a bit confused at what the purpose of this part of the service was and how one was chosen to be the next soloist, but I was awed all the same.

Towards the end, anyone who was new to the church was asked to come to the front and introduce himself/herself. The three of us volunteers stood in front of the congregation as the only non-Haitian attendees while Jean Kendy translated. I’m not certain they were used to seeing blans in their church. They looked on with surprise and wonder, and of course with complete welcome.

Right before the last hour the church played musical chairs again. At first I was completely bewildered by the movement of seats for the second time. Then the Pastor returned to the front to say a few prayers and hand out communion. Only the first few rows, less than half the church, received Communion. I questioned Jean Kendy why not a single person in the back of the church took Communion. He informed me that only people who were baptized could receive Communion, which is why so many people changed seats. Those that were baptized moved to the front, and those who hadn’t been baptized moved to the back.

At noon we left the church but not without an accompaniment from half a dozen children hanging from our arms and holding our hands. One little girl no more than 8 years old lived across from our base. She walked the 15-20 minute walk to church every Sunday by herself. Today she walked home hand-in-hand with a blan. We didn’t talk much. We just strolled together down the dirty streets as if this happened everyday.

Day 15: The More You Know

HODR recently started a teacher-training program during which local teachers learn Disaster Risk Reduction and about Trauma & Creative Therapy. The great thing about today’s training was it took place at the very first school that HODR built from ground up. What a beautiful experience to train teachers in a school that your hands built (well, not my hands, but someone's hands at HODR.)

The first two hours were dedicated to teaching about what causes natural disasters, what they are, and safety procedures for within the classroom. The second part of the day focused on learning about trauma and gaining tools for doing creative art therapy with students. When asked if any of the teachers had ever attended such a training or knew anything about either topic, the response was a unanimous “no.”

You take for granted that your school enforced a dozen fire drills each year or over exaggerated the importance of knowing where to go during an earthquake (even in non-earthquake parts of the world like Michigan.) Hundreds of miles away in a country peppered with natural disasters from earthquakes to hurricanes to fires, it’s hard to believe there are not safety procedures in place. They learned simple evacuation plans, the best place to take cover if evacuation isn’t possible, how to stop-drop-and-roll, and more. It was brilliant. Teachers have access to so many more lives than we could ever reach alone at HODR. Educate them and you educate so many more.

It’s interesting in Haitian culture how people respond to trauma. You can’t see the effects of trauma like you can a broken arm. So many people were hurt physically in the earthquake; that is evident when you look at them. So many more were hurt emotionally and mentally and that is not evident to the eye. Since they cannot see it, Haitians do not put any emphasis on trauma and it goes completely untreated. Like any wound that goes untreated, it festers, tares, and gets infected, and as time goes by it gets worse and worse leaving nasty scars that never heal. Do not for one second believe that it is any different for the emotional effects of trauma.

The teachers wanted direct answers about trauma; the exact signs to know a child is suffering from trauma. They wanted hard fast rules and black and white signals. But every child is different. And I had to explain with as much emphasis and passion and conviction as I possibly could that even if a child does not show outward signs of trauma it does not mean that they are not suffering from trauma. They survived a terrible earthquake that destroyed many lives of people they knew and crumbled their entire physical world. Whether they express it or not, these children are suffering from trauma – how could any of them not be?

We practiced a couple techniques for each type of creative therapy (art, dance, music, garden, and silent.) I made them all stand to partake in a dance. It was the first time I saw each and every one of them smile. I pointed it out, proving the point that dancing is good for the soul. It’s exercise and exercise releases endorphins, which make you happy. And when you’re happy you’re not thinking about all the things that make you unhappy. “For two minutes you can give your students a chance to get their minds off their problems. You can give them an opportunity to escape, even just momentarily, and for a little bit they get to be just kids. And every child deserves to get to be a kid now and then.”

Overall the teachers had some great questions, were thoroughly interested, and I pray they took some of what they learned with them. Imagine all the lives they can impact and potentially one day save just by being prepared.