I have been up for the past 36 hours. When we found that we couldn’t get a charter plane from Ft. Lauderdale, we hired a bus and drove the 45 minutes to Miami. We got on a flight to Santo Domingo which got in around midnight. From the airport, we were loaded on two Domnican buses, the really crowded bumpy kind although ours had pink fringed curtains which was certainly a nice touch. Then 8 bumping, grinding, neck cramping hours from Santo Domingo to Port-au-Prince. The driver blared merengue music from the speakers for most of the journey but no one said anything because we figured it might help him stay awake.

As dawn was breaking, we made it to the Haitian border skirting along the largest lake in Haiti, “L’Etang Sumatre”. I have always wanted to see this lake which was beautiful in the mist of a new moring. Sumatre was supposed to harbor caimans or American crocodiles, and although I tried to keep a sharp eye, I didn’t see one.

It was about 8:30 when we arrived on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince. Initially things looked as I had remembered. Controlled chaos in the streets. Vendors crying, brightly painted lottery kiosks, cars honking, people hurrying, and shouting. Soon we saw a building whose roof looked like it had been stepped on by a giant, then another and another. We passed the airport and it looked like a weeklong rock festival. Tents of all colors everywhere. Flags from around the world. Large military planes taking off and landing every 30 seconds. Past the airport we saw our first camp. Thousands of sheets draped over sticks in an attempt to give a bit of modesty and to block out the sun. It was then that the magnitude of the disaster began to sink in. As we drove the the city and saw building after building crumbled to pieces, the cathedral, the palace and sadly most large schools which were still in session at the time of the quake, My heart sank. This was worse than I imagined.

We drove to the Central LDS Chapel not far from the Champs de Mars where 500 or so displaced church members are now living, and started a clinic in the bishop’s office. We treated infections, lacerations, fractures and whatever else we could. I accompanied a woman whose arm had been crushed and had acute compartment syndrome to Sacre Coeur Hospital. She needed urgent surgery or she would lose the limb. A year ago Sacre Coeur was the newest, nicest private hospital in Haiti. A large fountain with turtles swimming in it graced the entrance. Today it looked like a war zone. Hundreds of people lying on the ground or waiting patiently in long lines to be seen. We met a team of surgeons from Florida who had been working around the clock and were exhausted. They asked for more x-ray film and for water for themselves. We made a list of their most urgent needs and will send it back to Salt Lake. They promised to look at our lady with compartment syndrome as soon as they could, but we both knew it was too late. She would lose the limb. I tried to explain that to her, but she was adamant that she wouldn’t let anayont cut off her arm. We then drove to Hopital Canape Vert, which had a similar scene—French paramedics and doctors working as fast as they could bringing stretchers from the yard to the OR. It reminded me of a scene out of the civil war. Canape Vert is very near our clinic and as we drove to within a 5 minute walk of our clinic, I had to roll up the window as they smell of decaying bodies was too strong. I will try and visit our compound tomorrow. It has been a long, hard, sad day.

Jan18th