Andrew 3 Weeks in Haiti

An extraordinary true story of service, friendship and hope.
1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-0-9838300-0-9
Verlag: Maven Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 321 Seiten

A group of friends and strangers unite to help hungry orphans in Haiti after the devastating Jan 12th, 2010 earthquake.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Andrew, Michael

Leseproben

56 - Hotel Montana & the United States Embassy An hour after driving through traffic we arrived at the gates of the Hotel Montana. We couldn’t see inside and I didn’t want to. The area had been secured and no one was allowed in. We shouldn’t be here, these crews are professionals and there is nothing we can do to offer assistance. I realized it was almost the same argument we had heard earlier in the day from the Salvation Army: “...we are professionals, we know what we are doing.” I had to go along with it, and even for the sake of this man’s family, it might offer a sliver of solace in their mourning that Brian had personally inquired on his behalf. There was a solider there who recommended we try the Embassy. Another 45 minutes later we were at the United States Embassy in Port-au-Prince. For those of you who do not know, an Embassy represents a location of asylum to it’s citizen’s living or working in foreign lands.  Embassy grounds are considered legally to be US territory and are supposed to be treated as such by the host country. If for example you find yourself in a foreign country and things get ugly (think civil war or a major disaster like an earthquake), your country’s nearest Embassy is where you are going to want to go. Joe had texted to us that if we wanted to get on a list to be evacuated, we had show up at the Embassy with our passports in hand and we could be out of the country within 8-12 hours. For any Americans not prepared to deal with the stresses and dangers of post-earthquake Port-au-Prince, this was a fast, effective means of getting out of the country. Knowing how the process worked would not only help Brian and Rick leave the country, it would give me even greater confidence in staying, knowing I had another means of exit to rely on.   The road in front of the US Embassy was packed with traffic and people. Mathieu elected to stay with the truck and the others while Brian, Rick, and I went inside. There were several US soldiers guarding the gates, but they were dressed and armed differently than others I had seen: these guys were US Marines. Their fatigues were a dark shade of green and they wore dark khaki body armor. Several carried shotguns, with bandoliers of red shells slung over their shoulders. There was a short metal fence that lined the Embassy’s sidewalk, a small two-lane road, and a swarm of Haitians on the other side, many more than I saw at the airport gate yesterday. This group had to be between 1,000 and 1,500 strong, but there were lots of women and children there as well. They did not give off the potential explosive vibe of the piranhas at the gate. I noticed small groups of Haitians ahead of us trying to get past the Embassy gates; I could see a Marine gesturing to a Haitian family approaching the gate to stop. You could hear them pleading with the guard in broken English to let them in, that they were Americans. They then presented the all-powerful little blue passports to the young Marine. (A view of the traffic and crowd from the perspective of the US Embassy in Port-au-Prince.) In nearly all cases Haitians were immediately turned away. The Marine didn’t even look at their passports. I didn’t understand: I thought all US citizens were allowed asylum at a US Embassy, especially in a time like this? The family would reluctantly walk away, and seconds later another family would try. I could only imagine this went on thousands of times a day, every day. I prepared my passport by discretely removing it from its necklace case and tucked it into my front pocket. My left hand remained over it for fear of a pick-pocket removing it; this was the most important thing I had in my possession, and I wasn’t going to allow anything to happen to it. We approached the gate and an alert Marine locked onto us, holding out his hand and commanded us to stop. I quickly took out the passport, opened it, and said in most my most patriotic native accent “I am an American.” He instantly waved us through. I realized that it probably helped that I looked, dressed, and talked like an American, but I promise you, it was one of the most welcome feelings I had felt since we arrived. Brian enquired where he could leave the information about his co-worker and was directed to a bullet-proof window on the side of the building. I took a moment to try to relax a little and let some of the stress out of my shoulders. Just being there helped ease the tension; it was like being at home. One of the Embassy workers came out to speak with Brian personally and took his information. I was impressed with her professionalism: she probably had been dealing with all kinds of requests of this nature and here she was giving Brian courtesy and quality time. When they were done speaking, I asked her to confirm the details of the evacuation process and she said it wasn’t necessary to even come to the Embassy, but to go straight to the Airport, present my passport, and get on the list to be evacuated. She also added that the US was continuing to evacuate all non-essential personnel. It felt like she was suggesting we do the same. There was this one guy standing by himself in a daze; he was scared out of his wits. He desperately wanted to get out of the country. He told us that he had heard that there was a 90-percent chance of another major earthquake occurring in Haiti within the next 24 hours, and I could see by his expression that in his mind this was a sure thing. Who in the world accurately predicts earthquakes? I silently questioned. I would later find out that the report was substantiated on the news, but still didn’t understand who or how scientists were now predicting earthquakes. “Excuse me sir…. excuse me.” A marine was tugging on my shoulder. “We have a gentleman over there who claims he knows you. Is this true?” He was pointing at one of the entrance gates. Mathieu was on the other side and they were refusing to let him in. “Oh, ya… that’s our translator Mathieu, he is an American.” The Marine started waving to his counterpart to let Mathieu through. Together we walked toward him. Having the Marine at my side gave me a chance to find out why so many Haitians were being rejected. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t they let him through?” “Counterfeit passports… it seems that most of the Haitians have them.” That explains it. Apparently there is a black market dealing in fake American Passports. I would later see one woman carrying a huge stack of them, probably 20 copies, all hers. Many of these Haitians would dress up in their best outfits, trying to appear more American. They are absolutely desperate to get out of here. The Marine apologized to Mathieu, who took it in stride. “No worries.”, Mathieu answered. “Mike, I need to try to get some papers for my father so he can come visit me in D.C.” I didn’t think that this was an appropriate time for this type of request, but I understood where Mathieu was coming from. We were here, so it made sense. While Mathieu tried to get the documentation he was seeking, Rick approached me with a great idea: “Hey Michael, do you think you could let these Marine’s use your Sat Phone to call home?” Absolutely. I turned to see a group of four of them, they appeared to be between shifts, I approached one, and showed him how to operate the Sat Phone. While we were waiting for Mathieu, we learned more about what they did. They explained: “Our job is to protect the Embassy and American Citizens. If someone is approaching the Embassy and they appear to be American, we have authorization to do anything necessary to ensure their safety.” I had to ask; “So it’s not like the movie “The Saint” where Elisabeth Shue is running toward the gates: you don’t have to actually be on Embassy soil?” “Not here. If you were on the other side of the street, and it was pretty clear you were an American trying to get to the Embassy and someone was trying to prevent that or to harm you, we will absolutely intervene.” I love my country. It felt dang good to be an American. It was getting dark, and we needed to start heading back to the Salvation Army camp. Mathieu was not able to get the papers he wanted, and we would have to return when the Embassy opened on Monday morning. By the time we arrived back to the compound, it was completely dark. Most of the Salvation Army staff had left for the night. We snuck into the water storage room and grabbed as many bottles of water as we could carry. Rick found a few cases of MREs. “Is it okay if we take this, Rick?” I asked hopefully, my stomach aching with hunger. I also wanted to stretch the personal supply in my bag for as long as possible. “It doesn’t matter: they owe it to us and I’m taking it. Here, you have one too.” he offered as he handed me one. Rick could be a rough guy at times, but he is also very funny and kind. I wasn’t going to argue: I needed all the calories I could get. I understand now how easy it is to justify stealing when you are hungry. Mathieu went off to play checkers with the Haitian youth, I tried to find a place outside to charge my iPhone, Brian was already in bed, and Rick was just hanging out. I tried to take the best notes I could on the day’s events under my flashlight. I liked to eat the main portion of those MREs by...