The Third Wave_ A Volunteer Story - Alison Thompson [76]
Our first order of business was to find a safe place where we could set up camp, guarded by our locally hired policemen. They drove us deep into the hills to a place I called “the jungle house.” The large private residence, surrounded by plants, was half-destroyed, but it had a grassy area out back where we would be safe from falling buildings and could protect ourselves from potentially dangerous, hostile people in search of food. We put tarps on the ground to serve as a sleeping area, and I instructed some of the guys on how to build a latrine in the dirt behind the bushes, which I had learned from Donny in Peraliya. Sean had thought to bring a generator, so thankfully we were able to charge our cellphones, which was critical in keeping our communication lines open. Working into the night, we surrounded the entire area with the security wire we’d brought. This was the extent of our base camp at the start of our adventure.
A few things we didn’t bring, and wished we had, were tents, sleeping mats, and sleeping bags. We had assumed that, as in Sri Lanka, we’d be able to find a guesthouse or two left standing. What’s more, we wanted to save as much room as possible in our cargo plane for aid and medical supplies. But as soon as we had ventured out into the streets of Port-au-Prince, we’d realized our mistake: We knew that we would have no choice but to camp outside, unsheltered. Those blankets that Donna Karan had generously donated were a godsend; without them, we would have had nothing but the clothes in our backpacks to cover ourselves with at night.
I cooked pasta for thirty people on a camping stove that evening and, along with Sean, Jim, Oscar, Maria, Barry, and the others, came up with a plan. The next day, we would set out with medical supplies to begin helping people.
It must have been midnight before we got to sleep under the trees, exhausted and eager to get to work alleviating the suffering we’d seen all around us that day. But just a few hours later, I was awakened by beautiful voices wafting through the bushes and trees. It sounded like an angel chorus from heaven. Although I couldn’t understand what they were saying, I could tell that these people were praying. Their song was full of a melancholy sense of love and gratitude, which brought peace to my soul. The next day, I asked one of our guards what had been going on. He explained that people began waiting in line for food distribution at a nearby church at 3 a.m., and praised God with their hymns until dawn to pass the time and ease their hunger.
Early the next day, most of the doctors headed to St. Damien’s, a pediatric hospital on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince, and I went with them. The buildings were partially broken down, and what remained was a haphazard array of stretchers and people—children and adults—lying directly on the ground outside under a blazing sun. Many people needed immediate amputations or they would die from their infections. I learned that hundreds of surgeries were being performed each day. I made it my job to tend to people’s wounds, give out love, and assist the doctors. There was no official leadership, so we all just did what we had to do. The medical teams were from all over the world and spoke eight different languages. Somehow we managed, spreading out and covering as much territory as possible. I even