Day 1 - February 26th

Arrive in Port au Prince

Drive to Deschapelles

I left Miami this morning at 7:45 as my mom headed back to Durango. The plane landed at around 10:00 A.M. in the Port au Prince airport, or, the “Toussaint L’ouverture Aeroport International.” Note: Toussaint L'ouverture was a Haitian war hero who led the revolution against the British invasion and established Haitian independence in the 1790s. He is well known for his tactical genius. After sailing right through customs, I retrieved a cart for my bags at the modest charge of $2. However, I made a naïve mistake in that I left the cart unattended in an effort to squeeze through the dense crowd to my baggage, looking a fool for my hastiness. After an unsuccessful attempt, I returned to find that the cart had been taken. It was indeed a rookie mistake. Or a senior mistake (I have visited 3 times previously). I purchased another cart, making sure this time around to keep it close to me. One aspect of travel in Haiti that I did recall was the overwhelming number of Haitian men standing just outside the airport, desperate to help me carry my bags in search of a meager tip. My mom had told me to make it clear whom I had “hired” to aid me. With a definitive nod of the head to a man in a plaid collared shirt, I sifted through my pocket for two dollars. Apparently, though, it takes two different men  - granted, the uniforms were the same – to escort me fifty meters to my ride. Thus, twenty minutes and I had strayed far from my plans of frugality, dolling out fifteen dollars. 

“Do you have a tip for me?” the first man asked.

I reached into my pocket and handed him the two dollars I had purposely placed in my right front pocket separate from the other cash I had so as to expedite the tipping process and to avoid any potential awkwardness. With my Uncle Ian (Ian Rawson, director of Hôpital Albert Schweitzer) in sight, the second helper held up five fingers, letting me know the tip he desired. I knew his estimate was about 225% too expensive, but bargaining would have been foolish at the time. I greeted Uncle Ian and he led me to an official Hospital car and we exchanged chatter about the immediately evident devastation of the earthquake in the form of a hobbling, one-legged man or the faint, distant view of the collapsed presidential palace. The spirit, though, in Haiti, is one that makes many people reluctant to speak of past tragedies with sadness. Uncle Ian explains to me the mindset of the Haitian people that focuses on what positives came about because of the tragedy, and the same mindset that continues to look in a forward direction.

We visited an elegant hotel on the southern end of Port au Prince to pick up an Irish architect, Ray Ryan, who was fascinated by the design of both the Hospital and our family house in Deschapelles. We dashed through the congested streets of downtown Port au Prince, engaging in a "mechanical ballet," as Mr. Ryan described it, with every other spectacularly colorful vehicle on the roads. One would be hard-pressed to find a stop sign or traffic light in Haiti, and nearly every road lacks a median or at least a lane divider. Oddly enough, in fact, there are few automobile accidents that occur, Ian informed me. Motorcycles are a different story altogether. Thankfully, we made good time getting out of Port au Prince, unfortunately at the expense of my sense of safety and security.

We climbed up a mountain pass, which is dwarfed in size by Coloradan passes but dramatic in its own right. We were outside the city a solid thirty miles when we began to see small groups of people meandering down the arid mountainside. They had no urgency in their step, yet there travels were obviously not purposeless. A small vendor sold goats, as they lay dead, roped to the man’s cart. At first, I was surprised and disturbed by the sight, but it was evident to me that such a sight was a Haitian commonality. We reached the top of the pass and began our descent into the Artibonite valley, a more fertile area of Haiti. Two more hours left us pulling into our family house, Kay Mellon; Mellon being the surname of my great-grandfather, Larry, who founded the hospital. Recalling past trips, I headed directly toward the refrigerator where, as expected, an ice-cold Coca-Cola awaited me. I grabbed it promptly and placed my feet up on the ottoman as I sat on the rocker overlooking the valley.

Uncle Ian, asks, “Shall we head up to the hospital?”

“Surely.”

To Be Continued.