The way to St. Jean Pied de Port

How curious that my last blog's title was "I would walk 500 miles" not knowing that the next time I would write, it would be for the sake of truly walking 500 miles.

"Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands."

I came across these words by Native American author Linda Hogan about a year and a half ago. I have not been able to stop thinking about these words. They have taken on new meaning as I begin my walking. I had never been this excited about my travels before. One person told me they thought it was because it was the first thing I have really done for myself. I hope that's not the case. It sounds too selfish. I think it has to do with the quote above.

I feel like I have been carried to the camino. For me, it is a walk of gratitude, among other things that I am still defining. The past four years have been very difficult years. If I were a building, it feels as if four years ago, that building were completely destroyed and I have been working and rebuilding to have a livable home. I have been rebuilt, but I did not do it myself. Some wonderful parts have been added by some really lovely people. It is not just a livable home, but it is quite wonderful. So I walk in gratitude.

I will walk. A lot. I will listen in a deeper way. I will ask important questions. And there will be many behind me. Many of you. Reminding me "be still. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of many."

I would walk 500 miles...

I will tell you something about stories,

[he said]

They aren't just entertainment.

Don't be fooled.

They are all we have, you see,

all we have to fight off illness and death.

You don't have anything 

if you don't have the stories.

-Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony

Photo courtesty of the Arizona Daily Star

I have now put somewhere between 200-225 miles on my feet walking through the Sonoran desert over the course of 3 weeks over the past three years.  Some people that I walked with had accumulated up to 750 miles on their feet.  And so I wondered: How many more miles will *my* feet have to walk? How many miles will it take before something changes?  Before there is hope?  Before people stop dying searching for the basic rights to life?  I don't have the answers to the questions, but I speculate that my feet will be walking many more miles to come.

For the third year in a row, I embarked on a 75-mile walk from Sasabe, Mexico to Tucson, Arizona with 49 people from all over the US.  We all walk with a common purpose: to remember those who have died crossing the border, and those who continue to cross; to bear witness to the suffering and inhumanity that is occurring at our Southern border.  But for each of us, the question of why we walk is also a personal one, answered differently by each of us.  At night, each of us has to do a security shift for a couple hours, keeping watch in case border patrol or migrants come into camp.  The first night from 11pm-1am I sat with Judith.  She is my age, from Colorado, and I've never had as much fun doing a security shift.  I listened to her stories: of her mother who crossed, undocumented.  Of her friend, Jeannette, who was put into a detention center with high risk of being deported.  Though this was my third year walking, the reality of migrants crossing and the hardships they face is still very far removed from me.  In a sense, because I don't see it directly, it is still unreal to me.  Yet here I was, listening to Judith's stories, and this is her reality.  This is why she walks.

And why do I walk?  I asked myself this question a lot this year.  Mile 5, mile 17, mile 36, definitely by mile 60, "Why do I keep doing this?  Why do I keep coming back???"  But I can't NOT come back.  I have to believe very firmly that every life has value and deserves dignity.  That no person should have to risk their lives to provide for their families or simply be with those they love.  I suppose the border issues are complex.  I suppose.  But really, to me, it's quite simple.  Our tightened border policies that were implemented in the early 90's provided more security in the urban spaces so that less traffic would pass through there.  They had hoped that the danger and threat of death of natural barriers (desert) would be a deterrent for those crossing.  That those who tried crossing and perished would warn others not to cross.  Death was a factor in our border policy.  A high percentage of migrant deaths occurs due to heat and dehydration.  Migrants mostly cross in groups, and something as simple as a few blisters could cause someone to be left behind.  The desert is a dangerous place to be left alone with little water.  Unfortunately, desperation to be able to provide for one's family or to be reunited with one's family takes precedence over the possibility of death, so while the warning is clear, many continue to cross, and many continue to die.  You will hear that the number of people crossing has decreased significantly.  That is true.  However, the number of deaths occurring has remained steady.  This means that there is a greater chance of perishing while crossing.  So why do I walk?  Because in all of the talk on immigration reform, not once have I heard any mention of the number of deaths that is occurring in OUR country.  Thousands of deaths in the past 20 years.  If a few hundred people were dying each year in my little county in Michigan, we would certainly know about it.  The country would know about it.  But not until I began walking myself and was intentional in learning about it, did I hear of the deaths at our border.  So I walk because each story is important.  I walk because most of you who will read this do not know what is going on.  Most people in the north don't know.  So I feel it's my duty to let people know.  It's my part.

Baboquivari, the old mountain peak friend that guides us and many others crossing

For those who don't know, to get a better idea, we walk 10-16 miles per day.  The first half of the week we walk through a wildlife refuge, and the rest along a highway.  We walk with only what we need on our backs.  Support vehicles carry all of our luggage and everything else we need.  We stop every 1.5 miles for water, and every 3 miles for rest and food.  We start early in the morning to avoid high heat and reach our campsite by noon and spend the rest of the day under shade, resting, napping, visiting with people, or playing Uno with 7-year old Itzel, the youngest to ever walk with us.  Groups bring us lunch and dinner and we eat quite extravagantly.  The only time you'll walk 75 miles and *not* shed a pound!  While we in no way seek to understand the experience of the migrant who makes this trek or simulate it, it is inevitable that at some point we will experience something that will remind us or make us think about what the migrant experiences.  Tuesday is our second longest day at 14 miles.  During our breaks, I make a priority list.  It usually goes something like: food, bathroom (meaning a hopefully semi-private tree), drink, footcare, sunscreen.  Being last on the priority list, I forgot to put sunscreen on that day, but didn't worry too much about it as most of my body was covered.  The sun only saw a little of my forearms and hands and face, yet that was enough.  By dinnertime, I felt really ill.  Nauseous.  I found a spot with shade and breeze, but if I had to go in the sun, I suddenly felt *really* ill and panicky.  I could deal with feeling ill, as I was humbled by others taking such good care of me.  What I could not deal with so well was the realization that if I had been a migrant, if it had been me that had been born in a country to the south who needed for some reason to come north, whether to find work to feed my family or because I missed my family so much, I would not make it.  We carry with us a cross with a name, age, and year of death on it of someone who had attempted crossing the desert, and we symbolically finish their journey for them.  If I had been a migrant, feeling so ill, I would have been left behind.  Maybe border patrol would have found me and sent me back to who knows where (people deported aren't necessarily sent back to their countries), or maybe someone from a humanitarian aid organization would have found me and given me water and medical care, but maybe, very possibly, I would have died.  There were numerous times during the week when the heat felt unbearable to me, and I got anxious and panicky to the point of tears to find a cooler spot free from the fierce sun.  On the last day, at 109 degrees, I managed to find a sliver of shade by one of the vehicles.  I huddled myself together to fit into that spot of shade.  And so many times, I imagined myself feeling that way in the desert apart from our group.  Desperately seeking shade.  Water.  Respite from the sun and heat.  Clawing my way along the desert floor with it's vast array of cacti to make the way more difficult.  Would I find shade?  Would I just lay there and let every bit of moisture be taken from me, my body frying in the sun?  Would my name have been on one of those crosses: Jamie Archer, 30, 2012-2013?  Or maybe I would not have been found for a while.  My remains would have been found, but nothing to identify me.  Then it would be Desconocida on the cross: Unknown Female.  And what if my body were so ravaged by the animals and elements that I would become Desconocido/a: Uknown Male OR Female: gender could not even be identified.  These are the crosses we carry.  The lives and spirits we carry with us.  Each had hopes to make it to a better life.  I have finished the journeys for three people: Rusbel Cano Lopez the first year, then Desconocida, and then this year it was Rene Lopez, 32, died 2008-2009.  I thought about him a lot that week.  I still think about him a lot.

Our last morning, we have a ceremony on top of a ledge, from where you can look out over the 70 miles we had just walked.  Where many have died, and where many will continue trying to make it through.  We say goodbye.  If I could say I have a "favorite part" of the week, this ceremony would be it.  But this year I felt it deeper than I ever had before.  I wept as I looked out over the land.  I wondered about Rene Lopez.  When was the moment that his body had to give up?  Who was out there now, struggling to survive?  Whose cross will I carry next year?  How many more miles will I walk and how many more crosses will we carry?

We lay the crosses at a tree at Kennedy Park, our finishing point, symbolizing the journey they never got to finish

It continues to become more real today.  I am staying in Tucson for the summer, where I can learn as much as possible about immigration and migrant issues.  I need it to become more real for me so that it can become more real for you.  Last week I signed a petition and made calls to get Jeannette released from the detention center.  I don't know what you imagine an undocumented person to be, but Jeannette is well-liked and respected in her community and is mother to three young US citizens.  To be deported would be to rip apart a family and get rid of a valuable community member.  These are the people affected.  I had never made calls before, and almost didn't.  A woman I talked to said she would "note it down."  I had little hope it made any good.  But by that evening, enough calls had been made and Jeannette was free to go home to her children.  At the organization I am volunteering at for the summer, a woman called in about her son.  He crossed a week ago but was left behind by his group.  His group had made it, but she hadn't heard from her son.  He is 15.  This is real.

A prayer with my feet...

I've been sitting in the same spot for an hour, with this blog open, full of empty space to fill.  But not knowing what exactly to say, or how to begin.

I guess I could start by saying that once again, my feet walked 75 miles through the desert.  For the second year in a row, I participated in the migrant trail, a trek through the Sonoran desert from Sásabe, Mexico to Tucson Arizona.  Because I'm sure you are wondering how it works, I will a few logistics:
We walk between 6 and 16 miles per day, starting in the early morning and arriving at our campsite for lunch.  We stop every mile and a half or so for water, food and rest.  Trucks carry all our supplies so all we have on us while walking are the essentials we need for the moment (water, sunscreen, etc.), as well as a white wooden cross with a name on it.  Different organizations come out to feed us an abundant amount of magnificent food.  We have everything we need and an endless supply of it.  We were a group of 50-some from all over the US and a few other countries as well.  And why do we walk?

Let me ask you a question.  When I say the phrase "illegal alien" what do you think of?  I'm guessing it's something that is completely negative.  I had heard recently that during the 90's, and maybe even before, some bigwig paid big bucks to make sure the phrase "illegal alien" was used on national television, and used in a way to provoke fear.  I remember hearing that phrase on tv while growing up, and because of that, (and here I will admit my utter ignorance on the subject), illegal alien had come to mean "those bad Mexicans trying to get into the US," - drug smugglers.  Does this resonate with what you think of when you think about the southern border and the migrants?

Just 10 minutes ago I googled Sásabe to find out where exactly the accent went.  The first website that popped up was called Desert Invasion, all about the "illegal aliens" (to use their term), or drug smugglers, were crossing into Arizona, traveling through the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge, "invading" the land and causing damage to it, and making it a dangerous place.  It shows a photo of a water jug found in the desert, stating that it was used by drug smugglers.  Websites like this and rhetoric like this is part of why we walk.

The first half of the walk, we ourselves walk through the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge.  The land is being destroyed, yes, but not by migrants.  It's being destroyed by the border patrol who constantly rip through the land on their ATVs and with their trucks, making drag roads by dragging huge tires being trucks.  There are areas where the grounds has been so overrun by border patrol vehicles that our vehicles could not get through it, and we had to wear bandanas to cover our mouths because otherwise, the dust made it too hard to breathe.  It was sad to see that land in a wildlife preserve was allowed to be so ripped up and destroyed by vehicles.

We, also, found water bottles, left by migrants.  Do you know what else we found?  Shoes.  Children's shoes.  Not just one pair.  Drug smugglers?  No.  Most of that stays on the Mexico side.  There are way too many border patrol hunting down migrants for drug smugglers to be doing their work on the US side.  The migrants passing through are families.  Men needing money to feed and house their families. Farmers needing work, because their own strawberry farm has been shut down because he can't compete with the US price, so in a nasty cycle, he must migrate to the US to work on strawberries that will be sent to Mexico.  He risks his life crossing that desert.  If he doesn't die in the desert, he could be deported (and when deportation takes place, you don't get to choose where you go...it could be another country).  If he makes it, he stays for months, maybe years, sending money back home.  And working harder than any American.  The fact is, US farmers need migrants to do the work, because the white American is no longer built to work manual labor for such long hours.  It's a cruel cycle.  Women cross the desert too.  And children.  People looking for a way to survive.  They are not "bad people."  They are people.  Humans who have a right to the most basic of needs, who have value and worth.  This is why we walk.  The people who cross the desert, cross the border, have been criminalized and labeled in untrue and harsh ways.  We've declared war against the migrant.

I know that sounds dramatic, but if you saw the border at Sásabe, it looks like a war zone.  Men dressed in black on their sleep back ATVs ready to hunt down a migrant.  It's creepy.  When I saw that, I felt I were facing some villain.  Think evil spiderman.  A war against the poor.  This is what it's come to?  A country who has flourished from its immigrants reacting in this manner...does not make sense to me.  Not only this, but our country has set up killing fields, knowingly.  Our border policies were set up so that the weakest areas to cross through are also the most dangerous.  Deaths would surely occur, for the desert is not a very accommodating place, and "hopefully" knowing that fact would deter migrants from crossing.  But it hasn't.  Migrants keep coming, and we have changed nothing on our borders, basically funneling the migrant to their death.  It's a crisis of human rights.  And we allow it.

The white cross that I mentioned earlier...we carry the name of someone who has attempted to cross and died in the desert.  We carry that cross and finish the journey for them.  We also carry prayer ties, one for each life that has perished in the desert so far this year.  There were 94-96 prayer ties.  A migrant was brought into camp one day, Jose.  He told of passing two dead bodies during his trek, which he thought to be 7 days, but couldn't be sure.  Add two more prayer ties.  Two more wooden crosses.  Perhaps those crosses will have a name and age.  Perhaps their cross will say Desconocido or Desconocida, for an unknown male or female.  Or perhaps their cross will say Desconocido/a, which means that not enough remains were found to be able to tell if they were male or female.  I carried the cross of Desconocida, unknown female.  She could have been 10, 18, 29...  She had a story.  And she was desperate, risking her life for the chance at a better one.  On the last day, we walk into a park in Tucson, setting our crosses at a tree, finishing their journey.  I had the immense honor of also carrying the prayer ties.  Me, little white girl who no real connection to the border atrocities, got to carry the memory of those 96 lives home, along with my Desconocida.  I didn't want to let them go.  Desconocida had become a part of me.  The reason I was walking.

I think about the migrants every day.  I can't help but to wonder how many are out there needing water.  Who got left behind from their group just because of a blister that hurt so bad they couldn't walk anymore?  Are there any children, making the trek across the unforgiving terrain?  How many have died today?

This is the thought that my brain is stuck on, so this is where I will end.  Innocent people in need are dying because of policies we have put in place simply to keep people out.  We are not a very giving people, are we?  This should not be.

I'm still learning.  I don't have all the information, and I'm probably saying things still that are a little ignorant.  But I walk, and I write this, because I feel it's my duty.  In my circles of people, this humanitarian crisis is virtually unknown.  I want you to know.  I want you to know that there is a humanitarian crisis going on in our own country.  I will continue to walk until this crisis ends.  I will continue to pray with my feet.

That's the end?

I am a horrible blogger.

I hope to God when I want to publish a book they don't tell me, "Do a blog first so we can see that we have something to work with."

I should have kept you up to date with all the stories that I will never forget. Christmas in Haiti. Making it snow for the kids. Handing out gifts to children in the tent city. Hearing Pastor Luc's experience during the earthquake. Having the kids act out for me what they experienced during the earthquake. Youseline's progress.

I suppose you'll have to wait for the book. But until then, I'll leave you with my last story of Haiti. The one where I had to say goodbye.

Remember how I was yellow? After the prodding of many, and having lost 20 lbs and being so hungry I would eat anything (other than rice and beans) and craving a good shower, I decided it would be best to head back to the states. A couple girls, Liz and Gina, game to deliver Christmas goods to the kids and visit, so I ended up flying back with them, just before Christmas. I went to the doctor first thing when I came back. The doctor peeked in at me and asked if I had had a TB test. When I said no, she came back in with a mask. I felt so disease-ridden. Not to mention I had just been around hundreds in the plane and at the airport, so here's hoping I didn't have some hyper-contagious disease. No TB. It turned out to be Hepatitis A.

See, I was kind of dumb before I went to Haiti. I didn't check into the vaccinations and such I should have before going. I just trusted what I was told. That malaria meds would be the only thing really, but it wouldn't do much good since I would be there for a long time. Dumb.

If I weren't dumb, I would have found out to get a Hep A vaccination, along with typhoid, and a pre-rabies shot. This is what the Center for Disease Control told me when they called to make sure they would have to put out some urgent quarantine.

Remember when I was bent over the tub, plunging, sweating, in the dark with only my headlamp on? And it splashed my face? Welcome Hep A.

I will say, however, that I was right. I was fine, pretty much. Not dying like a lot of people seemed to think. And I won't ever get it again. Just be warned: if you go to Haiti, get a Hep A vaccination and whatever else they tell you to get!

So that's why I went home. I was supposed to go back to Haiti a month or month and a half later and stay until August. I ended up going back for just a few days, to say goodbye.

It was horrible. Those kids dug into my heart, attached claws, and won't let go. I knew I would miss them, but I figured it would die down. It hasn't. I can't eat peanut butter without thinking of all the peanut butter sandwiches I ate with them. French no longer belongs to the French. It belongs to the Haitian kids whom I helped when they were doing their French homework. I can't say "Hey you," without thinking of Youseline, who we called Yuse-yuse. Hey yuse-yuse. My arms feel empty without her. I hear Yolette's laughter in my head, Kimberly's sassy remarks, Kenlie's dancing, and not only is their grip on my heart, but touch my wrist, and my mind will automatically go to all the times they pulled on my wrists. "Mami Jamie, Mami Jamie." There were times I hated the grips on my wrist and would hold my hands up in the air. They thought it was funny. What I wouldn't give for a grip on the wrist now.

I was there for Valentine's Day. It was the loveliest Valentine's Day of my life. I handed out candy hearts, telling them what they said, and made sure they knew they were the loves of my life. The few days I was there, I spent playing with the kids, and retiring in the evenings to a hotel just around the corner and was able to cry away from the kids. When I would come back in the morning, they'd all give me a scowl because I hadn't stayed the night there, at their home, at what they knew to be my home too. A week since I've returned, and tears still come to my eyes.

The days went by fast, and before I knew it, I was leaving. I kissed and hugged all of them and said goodbye. I got into Edy's car to go to the airport.

My last memory is this:

Banging on the gate to get back inside to see one of the kids, and asking, "Do you know that I love you a lot and will think of you every day? Do you know that?" "Yes Mami Jamie." And it's finished.

I think perhaps I'm not ready to share a lot of stories about those last 3 days because I hold them sacred in my memory.

In any case, my time in Haiti is done, for now.

C'est la vie. Se lavie.

I had a golden glow, and not because of the sun...

I can't believe it's already been over a week since my last blog post. These days are flying by quickly. But honestly, I'm not too sad about that.

I haven't written too much in the last month. Here's the real low-down. The life of a missionary, or any humanitarian doing work like this I suppose, isn't as romantic as you may imagine it to be. Or I imagined it to be. Your days spent helping the downtrodden, sick, and poor. It seems like more time is spent overcoming the irritations and frustrations of working in a foreign country. Because when you live and work in a country that is foreign to you, things just happen.

I have been utterly useless the past 3-4 weeks. Among other things, I got jaundice. Who gets jaundice??? Well, babies do. I did. But when you are an adult...? I'm in a foreign country. Things just happen. One day, I was hanging out with some of the boys. For some odd reason, I took a look in the mirror. Odd reason because these days, there's absolutely no need to look in a mirror. I notice the outer whites of my eyes were yellow, so I asked Junior, "Do you see this? Are my eyes yellow?" His response, "Oui Mami Jamie. Jaune." Yes, yellow. So I looked it up, and jaundice appeared first, and the other major symptoms it listed fit me to a T. I wasn't too worried, until a made a comment about it on facebook. Jaundice itself isn't dangerous. Just inconvenient because it makes your skin itchy, and creepy because my eyes were yellow, though I did have a nice golden glow to my skin. But it means that something else is really wrong, and with your liver. So while I had my suspicions about what was going on and believed I was going to be fine, I felt like I was getting death threats. "Your liver is shutting down!" It didn't help that the family doctor wanted me to fly home pronto. Yikes.

Now, my skin no longer itches and I've gone back to the white girl in Haiti status. And except for a minor part of my eyes, they have cleared up. But I was knocked off my butt for a while, and so it's good to finally be feeling better.

This run in Haiti has been a bit rough for me, in many ways, yes. I've heard people tell me, and I've heard of people saying, that I shouldn't have to be living under these circumstances (no plumbing, being so sick here...). I actually get mad when I hear these comments. It would seem to me that some of the first posts I had written while here would deter those comments. Having no running water is...well...it's just different. Never in my life have I claimed to be entitled to have running water. And if you really know me, you'll know that I really don't care about that part too much. I am the girl who dared myself to go a week without showering while working at a camp - and succeeded. I am the girl who walked 75 miles through the desert for a week and took only one shower that entire time (I relied solely on baby wipes. I didn't even have a bucket bath). Maybe you didn't want to know this about me, but being dirty doesn't scare me. Especially when being clean only last for 10 minutes. Today I was driving past a tent city. There was a person bathing outside their tent, wearing only shorts. It was a woman. She was right next to the road. I'm grateful to have privacy. Running water, as it turns out, is not a necessity, and I am not entitled to it. And neither are you. *Note I said "running water" and not solely "water."

My health. I remember learning about missionaries traveling by boat to other countries. More of them than not would die on the journey there, and never even start what they had purposed to do. They knew what they were getting into. Whatever their aim, they risked their lives for it. Today we worry that experience "won't be smooth." If I risked my safety while here, I would be lectured. I'm not asking for a death sentence, but I didn't sign up to have a smooth year. You don't decide to live in a third world country for a year expecting things to go as planned. Things happen. Jaundice, weird fungi growths, muggings and threats. In my opinion, setting out to value human life, to add value to others' lives, is worth some discomfort. I wish we could be a more compassionate people and be willing to bear some discomfort to make other peoples' lives a little better. And I'm not even talking about people in third world countries, though certainly they have need more than anyone else perhaps, but I'm talking about the family across town in the ghetto and I'm talking about your neighbor. But, I suppose, if you really want that $400 new Apple gadget rather than spend that money so that a child can go to school, well, I guess you are entitled to it, right?

Happy Birthday Rosemanite!

This is Rosemanite. Today was her birthday. She turned 8. I find myself wondering if this is the first birthday she has ever celebrated.

Yesterday I took the kids in small groups to make cards for Rosemanite, and today we presented them to her, and sang Happy Birthday. At first, she showed little emotion, but as time went on, it was clear she was having a good time. As we taped the cards and pictures on the wall by her bed, I asked if she was happy. Her eyes opened wide and she gave me a big, "Oui!" I felt bad that I had no gifts for her, so I rummaged around my room for something for her. Every time a kid is in my room, they are constantly asking for things of mine, so I gathered a couple things, miraculously found some tissue paper to wrap them in, and she opened gifts that were for her. I feel immense pride in presenting things to the children that they can call their own. Perhaps it is an American mindset, but I can't fathom not having a single thing to call my own. These kids share everything, so as I see it, they are finally given something to call their own. Although, what is humble to watch is that though they love acquiring things, they are often quick to share whatever they have with others. I really hope that today, Rosemanite felt special and loved.

I think I shouted it out every ten minutes that it was her birthday, and busted out singing to her several times (which, if you know me, is a big deal. I don't sing in public). Of course the other kids were going to ask me when their birthday is. It was disheartening to me when Robert and Belo asked me. Not only did I not know off the top of my head when their birthday is, but I have no way of knowing at all when they were born. From what I've been told, Robert was found on the street and brought to us by a security guard. Recently, I sat down with Robert and learned some of his story. His father and mother had both died. He has a younger brother, but has no idea where he is (Robert is 7 or 8 I believe). He had been living on the streets. He can be a bit rougher than some of the other kids, though by that, I am simply saying he is a young boy. He needs to learn to knock when he comes in my room. Today he walked in at the most inopportune moment. He didn't care, but I did :-) But he has a heart of gold. He is a good boy who really has a desire to learn in school and make a better life for himself. Personally, I love him so much because he reminds me of my brother, the way he's always running around making funny noises, doing cartwheels and crazy jumps wanting people to watch him. I'm in the process of teaching him how to walk on his hands. If all else fails, he could become a great circus performer :-)

Return to Hades..I mean, Haiti

It's been a month and a half since my last post. I have much to catch you up on. To give you a brief summary of the past month and a half, here are some facebook status highlights:

I think I just had the most awkward situation I've ever had in my life... October 12

It's raining. Which means I must take advantage and shower in it. Here's hoping no lizards find themselves flying out the pipe on my head! October 17

visited another orphanage that houses around 200 sick/abandoned children, and I'm feeling a little wrecked....Our kids at the home here are fortunate.... October 18

Out of the house 4 times in one week! That's a record! October 23

It makes me so happy at night to hear the kids shouting out the English they had learned in class that morning :-) October 25

spent the day in heaven. Also known as the beach. Pleasantly pooped :-) October 27

Honeymoon is paid for...too bad you can't have a honeymoon without a wedding.... October 28

I blame going from 200% to -100% on visiting the voodoo house... October 28

Spent 20 minutes on my walk to the orphanage convincing a guy why he doesn't really love me and shouldn't marry me. Keep in mind, these are the only 20 minutes I've ever talked to this guy... He still insisted I meet his mother tomorrow... Nov. 2

The boys got into my makeup. They were too pretty to get mad. Pink goes well on them :-) November 7

And today's:

Today I had my bum bitten by a child, I was de-skirted, and had a couple huge hogs stampede towards me on the street. I'm not sure if that makes for a good day or a bad day...

It's been an interesting month and a half. I'll slowly try to catch you up.

Some things have changed. Some haven't. I now have the swamp thing living in my bathtub, which still leaves me praying for rain to shower in. I still haven't developed a love for beans, and this time spent in Haiti has pretty much cemented the fact that I never will.

I don't go stir-crazy as much any more. And I finally feel a little productive.

On my way back to Haiti from Michigan, I had a layover in Miami. I noticed a girl waiting for the flight to Port-au-Prince that had also been on my flight from Detroit. White people on their way to Haiti are almost never going on vacation. They have some sort of humanitarian purpose, and so you feel you have the okay to step out of your American bubble and pry into the lives of others and find out why they are going. Well, maybe that's just me. But I can see it in their eyes, "There's a white girl going to Haiti. By herself. I wonder what she's doing." I just open up the conversation. It turns out this other white girl, Keyti, would be doing something similar to what I'm doing. She was also going by herself and would be there alone part of the time, so we both decided that this was the perfect opportunity to have a friend in Haiti. We exchanged information, and soon after we got to Haiti, we met up at another orphanage that is close to where I live. I have a better understanding of what people probably think about when I tell them I'm working at an orphanage. The orphanage we met at is a Missionaries of Charity orphanage, a Mother Teresa orphanage.

Finding that orphanage has added infinitely to my experience here, and I have gone back at least a couple times a week since. Now when I leave, they don't say good-bye. They say "A Bientot," see you soon.

I used to wonder if we were taking good enough care of our kids here. I mean, they ate rice and beans EVERY SINGLE DAY for lunch. Surely they deserve more than that? Visiting the sisters has made me realize how fortunate our kids are, and grateful that they are here instead of another orphanage, or on the streets. The other orphanage has anywhere from 120-200 young children. Children come and go, and most of them come because they will die otherwise. The bottom floor is reserved for the sickest. I almost didn't want to go down there. I was told that the orphanage has a worker there whose sole job is to make coffins for those children that die. They need being held too. Even if it looks like they are going to fall apart when you pick them up. The upstairs is composed of three main rooms with about 20 cribs in each, each crib holding a child, and some of them two. These children may not be about to die, but some of them still have IVs, and they are skin and bones. Literally. Arms, thighs, and bums just folds of skin hanging off the bones. I really was afraid to pick them up, afraid I would break them. But as soon as you do, they cling to you: wrap their arms around you and lay their head on your chest. And cry and hold their arms out to you when you put them down. It's feeding time when I go visit, so I help to feed the children between 10-20 months old, though I'm surprised I haven't been banned from feeding them. I'm pretty sure I have the record for messiest feedings. The women who work there are very gracious with me :-)

The first child I fed, Maniolita, is one of those skin-and-bones children. I fed her mashed potatoes that first day. After cleaning her up, I picked her up. Then, she vomited on me. A lot. And all over. She's had a place in my heart ever since. Every time I go back now, I always look for Maniolita. The sisters always point her out if I haven't found her, and let me feed her. She's 18-months old, and beautiful. She sucks on her two middle fingers non-stop. So much that they remain pink and wrinkly with skin coming off. If you're not fast enough with the spoon feeding her, she'll have her fingers in her mouth between spoonfuls. I've gotten smart and do the holding before she eats now :-)

After making rounds and make sure to spread out some Jamie lovin', I sit with my other favorite, Soinrilia. I noticed her the second time I went. When you walk in, you are bombarded by kids between the ages of about 3 and 9 who all want to be held, and all want attention. I noticed Soinrilia sitting on a bench against the wall, quietly. Just sitting, looking around, demanding nothing. I wanted this quiet, gentle-spirited girl to know that she's loved and that someone looks forward to seeing her. She doesn't say much, and I only get a little smile every now and then, but she smiles when she sees me.

It's not all lovey-dovey with the children. There are a few I fear. Those are the biters. A few little girls that I will literally move if they sit next to me because you never know when it's coming. Like today. I was feeding a child (which I was really excited about because it was my first really clean feeding!). Augustin came up behind me and was hugging my legs. All of a sudden, she's biting my butt cheek! I move, of course, and tell her no, and she sits down. I go back to feeding. Then I feel her pulling on my skirt. Kids do that. But then I feel the waist of my skirt under my butt. She de-skirted me! We gave the sisters a good laugh and Augustin was sent out of the room. You gotta watch out for those biters...

Visiting this orphanage has given fresh life to me being here. I'm positive that I benefit from it much more than the kids do. It's a 15-minute walk from my home, and it's the one place I can go by myself. It gets me out of the house when I need without having to rely on anyone else, so it gives me freedom. It's also been great for me because there are always other missionaries there from different organizations who are just visiting a week. While it's mostly the same conversation every time, it gives me an opportunity to speak with other Americans in my own language. It also gives me a sense of purpose that I'm able to be a constant visiting face for the kids. For Soinrilia. I'm not just here for a week on a mission trip. I keep going back, and I will for the remainder of my time here, because I genuinely look forward to seeing them.

I may be convinced to become Catholic just so I can adopt one of them one day...