The Third Wave_ A Volunteer Story - Alison Thompson [0]
Copyright © 2011 by Alison Thompson
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Spiegel & Grau, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
SPIEGEL & GRAU and Design is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
Photos on the title page and on this page courtesy of Juliet Coombe.
All other photos courtesy of the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Thompson, Alison
The third wave : a volunteer story / Alison Thompson with MeiMei Fox.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-679-60492-1
1. Disaster relief. 2. Volunteers. I. Fox, MeiMei. II. Title.
HV553.T46 2011
974.7′1044092—dc22 2010040767
www.spiegelandgrau.com
Jacket design: Greg Mollica
Front-jacket photograph: Jonas Karlsson
v3.1
Dedicated to Maria Bello, Sean Penn, and Mother Teresa
My secret heroes:
Lisa Fox is my rock and tirelessly helps raise money or goods and offers up her contacts and friends to support me on the ground. I love you, “sista.”
Jeffrey Tarrant, a quiet hero who helps endless organizations and me with donations to support our causes. He and his wife, Connie, have huge, kind hearts.
Mark Axelowitz, a great volunteer, friend, and supporter of my missions. He has a deep thirst for helping others and my life is enhanced with him in it.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Act I - Ground Zero
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Act II - The Third Wave
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Act III - Haiti
Chapter 14
Epilogue
What to Know Before You Go
About the Author
ACT I
GROUND ZERO
CHAPTER 1
My Rollerblades squeaked as I sprinted through yet another set of red lights. I had come five miles but still had two more to go. Over my back hung a bag containing a hefty first aid kit, my old 8mm camera, and a small bottle of Chanel No. 5.
I quickly glanced at the sidewalks filled with people gathered around radios and television sets dragged outside from corner stores, and I picked up speed. As I got closer to my destination, I had to battle my way through crowds of people streaming in the opposite direction. Although they walked in an orderly, quiet fashion, their hair and clothes were covered in white soot, and they held on to one another like invalids. They looked like the victims of the nuclear explosion in Hiroshima, whose black-and-white photos I’d seen in books. There was no color anywhere. People all seemed to be holding cellphones to their ears but none of them were speaking. They were in shock. I turned onto the cobblestone streets, which were less crowded though more difficult to navigate on skates, and continued to make my way to the World Trade Center. Soon, I found myself alone in a blizzard of ash and smoke that burned my eyes and throat.
Inside the cloud, I found a Latino man in his late forties dressed in an expensive blue business suit, lying unconscious on the ground. I loosened his Gucci tie and tilted his chin back to start giving him CPR, all the while calling out into the fog for help. What felt like hours later but was probably only minutes, two EMS workers ran over and carried him away.
Deeper into the smoke, I saw an arm elegantly pointing out of the rubble toward me. I began ripping at the chunks of cement, reaching in to yank the person free. When I pulled on it, only the arm came with me—there wasn’t a body attached. I screamed in horror and threw it on the ground. When I looked down at it, I saw a ring with small sapphires and diamonds on the delicate wedding finger.
Still wobbling on my skates, I looked at my worst nightmare. A million pieces of paper danced around in the air currents like oversized confetti. I caught one and read someone’s private bank statement, then tucked it in my backpack. The air smelled of burned plastic. There was almost no sound except for tiny beeping noises coming from underneath the rubble at regular