Nous sommes arrive!

April 11, 2010

We woke up this morning early, schlepped our bags down the hotel elevator, and stepped directly from the hotel lobby into the airport. Staying in an airport hotel has proved to be one of the best decisions we've made so far. And yet, “airport hotel” is not the right term. All airports have hotels nearby, but only Miami has a hotel INSIDE the airport. Having a international flight requires a 2-hour advance check in, so we took our unshowered selves with our checked luggage to the Air France counter, with every intention of checking our bags, having some breakfast and coffee, and then going back to the hotel for a shower before arriving at the gate. Who gets to do that?

So the five of us pushed our Smarte Cartes to the Air France check in at 7:20am, where Kimberly and I immediately stepped into the Business Class check in line. Nobody else was there (we were the first to check in!) and the nice lady behind the counter didn't mind, but Mean French Dude, who normally screened the business class line rejecting riff-raff like us, stepped in between us and the other three and demanded that the other three go to the riff-raff line.

Kimberly and I had a grand old time weighing our bags. A bag 50 lbs and under is free, anything over costs $100. My bags were perfect (of course, because Rachel made us weigh them before we left her house during our packing party) but Kimberly's bag was 59 lbs. So we took things out, moved them around, gave stuff down the way to Rachel, Lisa, and Danielle, and eventually didn't pay a thing to check our bags. The other three girls had a very nice check-in employee as well, who let them get by a couple of pounds over.

Then – to Starbucks, breakfast, coffee, showers, grab carry-ons, and go! We got to the gate at 8:55am and after a quick photo we were on the plane. It made me nostalgic to hear French spoken on the overhead. I could almost convince myself that we were headed to Paris... almost. Two hours later we were flying into Port au Prince, and we looked down and could see tent cities everywhere. The city is nestled on the coast but just behind it, the land slopes upward dramatically. This island is mountainous, indeed.

After landing in Port au Prince, we disembarked into the airport. Already we could see large cracks in the walls, and the reality of the earthquake's devastation was upon us. We were then directed back outside because the “International Arrivals” door was smashed – I could only imagine what lay beyond. We walked on the tarmac, traversing the entire length of the airport, then went back inside to baggage claim and customs.

Everyone had a large white form where they had written the items they were declaring. Everyone, that is, except us. Where did we miss the memo that we needed forms? Other people apparently got theirs on their plane, but I guess our flight attendants forgot to hand them out.

I smiled at the customs agent. “Nous n'avons pas de form” – (we don't have a form). “Ils n'ont pas vous les donner?” (They didn't give them to you?) “Non.” “Vous etes quelle nationalite?” (Which nationality are you?) “Je suis Americaine.” “Vous venez au Haiti pour comment?” (What brings you to Haiti?) “Eh... on est medecins, et therapiste physicale, pour vous aider.” (We are doctors and physical therapists, to help you.) “Bonne journee.” (Have a good trip!) He waved us through, didn't check one single bag. Big sigh of relief.

Outside we were mobbed by Haitian men offering to transport our bags. We had been warned about this, and Rachel had it well in hand. She picked a guy, said “You're my guy,” and he and his posse pushed our carts out of the airport, jostling us, whisking our carts away from us and pushing them down the street where I had spotted a very nice looking young man waving a cardboard sign saying “MOMS IN HAITI”. That's us!

Then there were cars and trucks and honking and yelling and disorientation as we walked a few blocks (yes, blocks!) to the transportation vehicle. Several Haitian men threw our bags in the back of the truck and helped us on board. Rachel paid the “you're my guy” guy, and he divvied up the money among his helper friends. Several other men demanded payment too, but they weren't “with” our guy so they went away empty-handed.

So there we were, stuck in a cage in the back of a truck, locked in, sitting on benches, with noise and heat and humidity and traffic and driving like a banshee. And rubble. And cracked buildings. And women walking with gigantic bowls on their heads, bowls full of laundry or whatever, and they weren't even touching them to keep them stable. Forty five minutes we drove, enduring a traffic jam past an American Army “blockade” that cut the traffic down to one lane. Then we turned, went through a gate, and we were here.

The Quisqueya Christian School was just a school for 30+ years – a beautiful walled compound with a soccer field, several buildings, a cafeteria, etc. Two days after the earthquake a team of German emergency medical workers came to the gate and asked if they could set up a small camp to help with the medical relief effort. And suddenly, QCR (Quisqueya Crisis Relief) was born. Now they have anywhere between 40 and 100 medical professionals here at any one time, housing them, feeding them, and transporting them to hospitals, clinics, and tent cities to work. We are so fortunate to be here. We've had lunch, a rest, and are hanging out on the balcony overlooking palm trees and tropical plants of all types.

Oh, and did I mention we're sleeping in a real room with an air conditioner?

Tomorrow we're headed out to our assignments. I am so thankful that Rachel was so intensely organized. Her goal was to acquire enough supplies to basically run our own clinic, and if we are sent to a tent city, we'll have to transport our “clinic” with us. Thanks to Rachel, we can do just that. We're ready – bring it on!!