I didn't want to post this report until after I left Haiti, because I didn't want to make you nervous, but I put myself in a pretty bad situation my first day in Port au Prince, and I have a certain missionary family and the folks at Haiti Communitere to thank for getting me out.
First, let me tell you what I did right. As I told Darin Kucey in an email a few days later, the smartest thing I did that day, I did during the bus ride from the Dominican Republic when I sat near his family.
First, let me tell you what I did right. As I told Darin Kucey in an email a few days later, the smartest thing I did that day, I did during the bus ride from the Dominican Republic when I sat near his family.
I compare traveling alone in a country where you don't speak the language to being at a zoo. You have all the humans and then the other species, and they all go about their business, but there's a lot more looking and staring and gawking than there is real communicating. These past few weeks, I have felt like an animal in a cage, watching the humans go by; it's fascinating and exciting, but lonely and very challenging.
So when I hear someone speak English, I hover around them and pick up scraps of information where I can. Darin was at the bus ticket counter in Santo Domingo that Sunday morning, Jan. 19. He saw a good sign of my greenhorn status right off the bat, when my face went pale as I realized I had left my passport securely locked in my hotel safe, two miles away.
I had a few hours before the bus left, so I checked my big bag with security and walked back to get my passport. An hour and a half later, stupid move #1 was taken care of - no harm, no foul, no lost bag, no arrest, no getting run over in crazy Santo Domingo traffic.
Darin (I didn't know his name then) appeared to be my perfect mark as far as protection. Seriously, he wasn't a big guy, but he had a ruddy face as if he had spent some time in the clink and knew how to get out of a jam. He spoke Spanish and English and little did he know, he would have a grateful friend that day.
His family, however, looked like the cast in a Disney movie. Mom, son and daughter were just as blonde and sweet, and "Central Ohio" as can be. This at first had me concerned that they might be as lost as I was, that they were looking for Cinderella's castle in Tomorrowland, until I learned that they were six months into a mission trip in Port au Prince.
Even better for my feeble plan to bail me out that day.
So when I hear someone speak English, I hover around them and pick up scraps of information where I can. Darin was at the bus ticket counter in Santo Domingo that Sunday morning, Jan. 19. He saw a good sign of my greenhorn status right off the bat, when my face went pale as I realized I had left my passport securely locked in my hotel safe, two miles away.
I had a few hours before the bus left, so I checked my big bag with security and walked back to get my passport. An hour and a half later, stupid move #1 was taken care of - no harm, no foul, no lost bag, no arrest, no getting run over in crazy Santo Domingo traffic.
Darin (I didn't know his name then) appeared to be my perfect mark as far as protection. Seriously, he wasn't a big guy, but he had a ruddy face as if he had spent some time in the clink and knew how to get out of a jam. He spoke Spanish and English and little did he know, he would have a grateful friend that day.
His family, however, looked like the cast in a Disney movie. Mom, son and daughter were just as blonde and sweet, and "Central Ohio" as can be. This at first had me concerned that they might be as lost as I was, that they were looking for Cinderella's castle in Tomorrowland, until I learned that they were six months into a mission trip in Port au Prince.
Even better for my feeble plan to bail me out that day.
How was I in such a jam? Surely I could just get off the bus and walk or get a ride to Haiti Communitere where I would be staying, right? OK, I had 30 pounds of luggage, but why was this such a problem?
This was a BIG problem, because there are "hard" places in Port au Prince where someone as unfamiliar, unaware and unarmed as myself just should not be after dark, and I was about to be dropped right between a rock and one of those hard places.
And when protests boil out onto the streets, even the light of day isn't protection.
On the bus, I chatted a little with Darin and his family, but tried to leave them to their travel routine - son did his homework, daughter read and watched a little of the movie on the bus DVD screens. They helped me get through the charade of customs and the money exchange. (The D.R. Peso and the Haitian Gourde trade about evenly, but few people in either country will accept the other currency.)
Some time during the eight-hour, 200-mile trip, Darin clued in that I didn't have a clue. Also, he seemed to understand more than I did that it was vital that I be picked up at the bus stop, and he also grasped pretty easily that I was incommunicado.
My U.S. phone was fairly useless once I landed on Hispaniola, and the phone I bought in the Dominican Republic was useless in Haiti. I also had no Internet or email service. If I ever thought I was a tech-Superman, I was a tech-Superman snorting Kryponite.
Then, we all went into a communications meltdown. Darin tried to call HC on his Haiti phone, but there was no answer - he left messages to call back. When he got close enough to Port au Prince for a data signal, he let me use his hotspot, and I sent a few emails to HC. But no response. I would soon be dropped off in what many still describe as a war zone with more baggage than clues, holding a sign that read in perfect Creole; "Rob me, beat me, and have a nice day."
The huge, beautiful tour bus pulled up to the vacant bus station about 30 minutes before sundown. Calling it a bus station is a polite way of referring to this apparent apocalyptic outpost. It had once been a modern gas station and convenience store, built, I gathered, less than a decade ago. The 2010 earthquake didn't damage the building, but when it destroyed the Haitian economy, the store was one of the many casualties.
It was still a gas station, but with only a few men standing around a gas pump. I got off the bus and stood in the gravel with my bags, nowhere to go but trouble.
I had just been very cozy and comfortable on a half-million-dollar bus, with climate control, luxury seats, video screens, polite people and, well, a good life. Moments later, I'm on the tarmac of Hell's airport hoping at best to be dealt a peaceful death.
I had really left myself hanging this time. Well, to my credit, I had sent a few emails in the past few days telling the people at HC when I would arrive, but only the ones today clearly asked to be picked up and when. What if no one got those? What if Darin's messages didn't get through? I knew that I would laugh about this in the coming years as I utterly dreaded the coming hours.
The next scene is one that, if you saw it in a movie, you would cry "bogus!" But life is often more dramatic than the movies.
The bus driver finished unloading everyone's bags, got on the bus and closed the door to pull away. But seconds later, the door opened again. Darin appeared, holding his phone up, and he shouted to me. "Haiti Communitere just called; they said wait for them, they'll be here to pick you up."
Wow, this was a huge relief. But I wasn't out of the woods yet - not until I saw the inside walls of the HC compound.
This was a BIG problem, because there are "hard" places in Port au Prince where someone as unfamiliar, unaware and unarmed as myself just should not be after dark, and I was about to be dropped right between a rock and one of those hard places.
And when protests boil out onto the streets, even the light of day isn't protection.
On the bus, I chatted a little with Darin and his family, but tried to leave them to their travel routine - son did his homework, daughter read and watched a little of the movie on the bus DVD screens. They helped me get through the charade of customs and the money exchange. (The D.R. Peso and the Haitian Gourde trade about evenly, but few people in either country will accept the other currency.)
Some time during the eight-hour, 200-mile trip, Darin clued in that I didn't have a clue. Also, he seemed to understand more than I did that it was vital that I be picked up at the bus stop, and he also grasped pretty easily that I was incommunicado.
My U.S. phone was fairly useless once I landed on Hispaniola, and the phone I bought in the Dominican Republic was useless in Haiti. I also had no Internet or email service. If I ever thought I was a tech-Superman, I was a tech-Superman snorting Kryponite.
Then, we all went into a communications meltdown. Darin tried to call HC on his Haiti phone, but there was no answer - he left messages to call back. When he got close enough to Port au Prince for a data signal, he let me use his hotspot, and I sent a few emails to HC. But no response. I would soon be dropped off in what many still describe as a war zone with more baggage than clues, holding a sign that read in perfect Creole; "Rob me, beat me, and have a nice day."
The huge, beautiful tour bus pulled up to the vacant bus station about 30 minutes before sundown. Calling it a bus station is a polite way of referring to this apparent apocalyptic outpost. It had once been a modern gas station and convenience store, built, I gathered, less than a decade ago. The 2010 earthquake didn't damage the building, but when it destroyed the Haitian economy, the store was one of the many casualties.
It was still a gas station, but with only a few men standing around a gas pump. I got off the bus and stood in the gravel with my bags, nowhere to go but trouble.
I had just been very cozy and comfortable on a half-million-dollar bus, with climate control, luxury seats, video screens, polite people and, well, a good life. Moments later, I'm on the tarmac of Hell's airport hoping at best to be dealt a peaceful death.
I had really left myself hanging this time. Well, to my credit, I had sent a few emails in the past few days telling the people at HC when I would arrive, but only the ones today clearly asked to be picked up and when. What if no one got those? What if Darin's messages didn't get through? I knew that I would laugh about this in the coming years as I utterly dreaded the coming hours.
The next scene is one that, if you saw it in a movie, you would cry "bogus!" But life is often more dramatic than the movies.
The bus driver finished unloading everyone's bags, got on the bus and closed the door to pull away. But seconds later, the door opened again. Darin appeared, holding his phone up, and he shouted to me. "Haiti Communitere just called; they said wait for them, they'll be here to pick you up."
Wow, this was a huge relief. But I wasn't out of the woods yet - not until I saw the inside walls of the HC compound.
Two women from the bus stood around their luggage waiting for someone to pick them up, and I hovered around them, waiting for my ride to arrive in something like a big SUV or truck or car or something. Guys on small motorcycles buzzed around, urging me to climb on back with all my luggage and pay them who knows how much to take me to some place I was sure they had never heard of.
I brushed them off and held out for my ride, whatever and whenever it would be. It got dark pretty quickly, and comfort came in my still being able to discern the large, black "U.N." letters on the sides of white trucks passing every few minutes. I didn't know if the soldiers inside carried the rule of law in this country and only hoped they carried big guns.
Some harsh lights gave thousands of insects a home, but little in the way of my security. The women were gone, and only one bus passenger remained, waiting for his ride home. He spoke a little English, and I stuck to him like we were the last two passengers on the Titanic.
There was a moment, I confess, when I pretty much gave up hope of passing the night unscathed and was inventorying my possible losses - my money, wallet, passport and at least some of my luggage, getting a few scrapes or scars or worse. I remember seriously regretting declining the medical evacuation policy.
Shortly after that unusually dark moment, Scotty arrived. This was my ride, and not in an SUV. No, he strapped my bags on the rear rack of his motorcycle and waved for me to climb on. He didn't have a helmet for me, of course, but I got on behind him and we took off into the crazy night.
The ride was surreal to say the least, as the potholed streets were dimly lit but wildly alive. We sped several miles through busy neighborhoods that had been charred by an eternity of neglect, then crumbled in a horrific earthquake, darkened areas of Port au Prince, Haiti crawling with humanity and sparked by a vigorous passion for life.
==================================================================
LINKS
-- Read the email I wrote to Darin Kucey thanking him for his help, and his response.
-- Watch a short video of the ride back to the bus station on the back of Scotty's "Moto."
==================================================================
I brushed them off and held out for my ride, whatever and whenever it would be. It got dark pretty quickly, and comfort came in my still being able to discern the large, black "U.N." letters on the sides of white trucks passing every few minutes. I didn't know if the soldiers inside carried the rule of law in this country and only hoped they carried big guns.
Some harsh lights gave thousands of insects a home, but little in the way of my security. The women were gone, and only one bus passenger remained, waiting for his ride home. He spoke a little English, and I stuck to him like we were the last two passengers on the Titanic.
There was a moment, I confess, when I pretty much gave up hope of passing the night unscathed and was inventorying my possible losses - my money, wallet, passport and at least some of my luggage, getting a few scrapes or scars or worse. I remember seriously regretting declining the medical evacuation policy.
Shortly after that unusually dark moment, Scotty arrived. This was my ride, and not in an SUV. No, he strapped my bags on the rear rack of his motorcycle and waved for me to climb on. He didn't have a helmet for me, of course, but I got on behind him and we took off into the crazy night.
The ride was surreal to say the least, as the potholed streets were dimly lit but wildly alive. We sped several miles through busy neighborhoods that had been charred by an eternity of neglect, then crumbled in a horrific earthquake, darkened areas of Port au Prince, Haiti crawling with humanity and sparked by a vigorous passion for life.
==================================================================
LINKS
-- Read the email I wrote to Darin Kucey thanking him for his help, and his response.
-- Watch a short video of the ride back to the bus station on the back of Scotty's "Moto."
==================================================================