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!) *

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 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 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.