This is “vol. I” in a series of excerpts from Bob Bixby’s journal entries from his time in Haiti with a medical team (Jan.22-Feb.8).
* You can read the next entry excerpt, “vol.II - Day 2″ here.
[intro/disclaimer from Bob to readers: The thoughts here are mine alone and don’t necessarily represent what the others are thinking on the team, but I thought perhaps you would be interested in knowing someone’s perspective and this would help Jodell as well. This first entry ends rather suddenly, but I hope to continue thoughts from each day. My strongly-held Christian perspective will be evident from time to time, but I don’t intend to be preachy: It’s just what I feel and think; and it’s written for me and my closest friends. Nonetheless, I hope that it will help all of the family and friends of this team get another perspective of what is going on. You have good reason to be proud of your loved one who is here. I am just amazed by the level of dedication and commitment that I have seen from everyone. Such a huge blessing. Many Haitians have thanked me for the team’s presence (I speak French), and I have received many hugs - all meant to say thanks to the team.]
Bob (Team Chaplain)
Day One (1/22/2010)
Entering into Haiti was a surreal experience. The 45-minute flight was extended to about two hours because the Port-au-Prince airport that normally handles about nine flights a day (so I am told) is now trying to handle 200 flights a day. Looking down on the city of a couple million souls, one could see very few lights. A black hole of suffering, I thought. And that was before we got here.
When we finally landed, we were parked in a field in the far corner of the airport among parked planes and helicopters. We stepped out into the still, dark night with the incessant roar of planes landing and taking off. There was a US military base about two hundred yards off flooded with perimeter generated perimeters lights. A car drove us to the terminal. We had our passports stamped at a desk that had been dragged near the door, no questions asked. They figure you are coming to help, or you are an idiot. And an idiot who would come at a time like this would have to be a harmless idiot, so why bother to do any questioning?
It was weirdly quiet in the terminal. The main lobby of the terminal had huge cracks in it, and chunks of wall had fallen. It clearly was not a safe place to loiter, and thus the haunting vacuity of the place. It was totally different outside.
As we snaked our way through a corridor to the outside, I saw security unlocking the cuffs of a man; and by the time we were outside, several men were cuffed and released. Must be some sort of crowd control, I thought, to handcuff a rabble-rouser for a few minutes, then let him go. US Marines guarded the perimeter of a fenced-off area for arrivals to look for their transportation. A crowd of people were there – especially because there had been an earthquake (aftershock of 6-something Richter) that day – again – so they clamor to the airport, one of the Marines said. As we made our way to the bus, the crowd surged our way like a wave; and as quickly as it started, stopped. It was aborted by tough Marines who stepped toward them and basically intimidated them into a submissive spectator-ship of a small group of 14 Americans and Haitians getting on a chartered bus.
The bus trip was long – very long – accentuated by the fact that the streets were dark, the roads very rough, and the rubble of destroyed buildings agonizingly monotonous. The trip is apparently 45 minutes in normal conditions, but it seemed to take almost another two hours (similar to the DR – Haiti flight).
I cannot describe what I have seen and smelled tonight. It was as if we were driving through a war zone. This quake was huge. Destruction is everywhere. But it is worse than a war zone. Most wars are at least somewhat prepared for. Pictures of the WWII bombings of the German city of Dresden came to my mind as I looked out the bus window. But the difference is that the Germans had the benefit of knowing they were in a war, and having air sirens, and having a chance to evacuate. They also had the advantage of knowing they had provoked the enemy. These poor people got hit with a terror unmatched by bombing and within seconds – literally! – lost their homes and friends. (Later, I would see one young dad bring his daughter for treatment by our surgeons, her legs broken. Apparently mom had perished in the quake. Mark did the surgery, and as she was waking up in the recovery room, I was escorting the young man to a waiting area outside when the little girl started to wake up and cry out for daddy. None of us could be so formal as to keep that dad from the recovery room.)
Anyway, these people were not at war. They were just going about business as usual when a terror unparalleled in their history struck. As we rumbled through the streets, we kicked up dust on hundreds of makeshift dwellings and beds; many people had their beds in the median, as far away from the walls as they could be. I couldn’t help but think to myself that it takes a traumatic crisis to changes one’s thinking about walls: I still cannot help but thinking of walls as protection – these people cannot help but think of them as death traps. (Later, one old guy who had two broken legs was in the x-ray room when a tremor so small I didn’t feel it vibrated his cot. He was so terrified, he was trying to get out of his cot. I happened to be there and, having not felt a thing, reassured him that he was ok. Poor guy. He lost a lot in the quake and will probably sleep close to the door from now on, assuming he even gets a house again.)
To be continued….
(You can read the next entry excerpt, “vol.II - Day 2″ here.)