Arrival

Once we crossed the threshold at Toussaint L'Overture airport, it took just a moment to catch sight of the sign reading "Aaron, Eric, Chris" and to rendezvous with the person we thought to be our driver. On a brisk walk through the parking lot, the gentleman explained that he was not our driver, but he did know a cop at the gate and could access the airport to fetch us. Through the car honks and crowds we came to Martin, our driver, woke him up, and started out.

After five hours in Martin's Mercedes traversing the 40 or so miles from the Airport in Port Au Prince, we finally arrived at our new home. There ain't no fast-runnin' trains in Haiti, evidently, and despite Martin's considerable skills behind the wheel, we thought the congested dustdevil that is Haiti's capital might have us licked.

While seemingly everyone in the city plodded to and from the shops with their widgets and whosie-whatsits on their head or under their arm, we and Martin stood still. At one point, while crews broke up the badly busted street with pick-axes, we didn't move for an hour two.

As it turns out though, we needed the downtime, and were able to catch a few z's for want of any in Fort Lauderdale, but that's another story (see Aaron Frumin's blog, Oh the Places You'll Drink). Of the few things that did whiz by our window, crude tarpaulin tents emblazoned with USAID or Samaritan's Purse, seemed to make up the lion's share for a while.

By and by, we made it Leogane and the relative comfort of the All Hands basecamp at Belval Plaza, and I was reminded of an old song from Woody Guthrie's tramping days.

This train don't carry no rustlers, whores, pimps, or side-street hustlers; this train is bound for glory, this train.

Love and thanks to all those who got us here.

Chris