GreenieOutdoors

I write these words in the shade of a tree, smoking a cigar, internalizing the luck of being born into a third generation, middle class railroad family, and not a third world country. I am in Haiti seventeen days after the earthquake. I am part of IMANA’s Medical Relief Team #3.

My Great Friend, Dr. Mehr, from my home town of Hornell, New York, chairs the Medical Response for Disasters Relief. In the past, I have asked him for the honor of assisting him, as he and his teams provide aid to disaster areas around the world. With my diverse background, I felt I could contribute to such a noble cause. I was right. It was an honor to work for such an organization.

So along with eleven other volunteer members from the Islamic Medical Association of North America, embark on a mission to make a difference in the lives of men, women and children in need – from medical care to something as simple as a compassionate smile and a Dum Dum lollypop.

The Arrival:

“Soon you will be able to smell the chaos” said an experienced doctor, as we passed through the dusty border between the Dominican Republic and Haiti. He was right. About ninety minutes from Port au Prince I began to feel it in the air. Other than a damaged bank across from the United States Embassy, the streets appear to be normal. The line for visas was not, I later learned, long at all; it was Sunday and only about a mile long. As the week wore on it would more than double.

Once inside our compound at the Bojeux Park (essentially an amusement park turned medical facility), our team unloaded the trucks of our personal gear and medical supplies, bought and paid for by the doctors. After a briefing, we began providing treatment to the one hundred or more people sitting underneath the canopy, many of whom had been waiting all day.

My job title is “logistics personnel”. In reality, it is a person who runs like hell to get whatever is needed! The idea is this: I provide support to the eleven Doctors as they treat whomever comes through the gate. This helps the local hospitals keep congestion down as much as possible.

I am tired. I have felt exhaustion like never before. From the deeply physical, to the slow, ebbing tide of emotional wreckage. What a strange stew of emotions I have concocted. All this sadness, relief, happiness, anguish and satisfaction has fed my soul.

No matter which religion we choose, God we believe in, or creed we follow, we are all just human. And from one human to another, I know I have made a difference in a place and time where it is not so easily or clearly defined. In the end, I feel real, and that feels good.

I have tried and tested many types of gear in that time and for many companies. Some gear was good, some bad, and some left me ugly and uncomfortable due to its in-efficiency and poor construction. However, this fall hunting season was completely different. I purchased the Storm Front jacket and pants, undershirt, and several hats. The gear was very comfortable to wear, functional, and above all it did what it said it would do as raingear. It kept me dry, day after day after day! I especially like the hats. Although they are light weight and pack great into a pocket, they really kept my head warm under my hood.

Also I would like to point out that every client (12) that came through our camp had at least TWO articles of Sitka Gear on. Every single client raved about Sitka Gear! Never has that happened in all my years of guiding.
Thank you Sitka Gear!

I can’t say that wind the smell of burning trash is exciting or exotic. I can’t say that seeing garbage everywhere is picturesque. I can’t say that hearing car horns repeated for no real reason has the same reaction the Sirens had on Ulysses. I can’t say that body odor in a hot climate is sweet to the nose. What I can say is interesting is this place and the people from which these sights, sounds and smells come from: West Africa, The Republic of Congo, Pointe Noire.

Interesting to see the reaction to my shin tattoos. Some people look directly at them. Others take side-ways glances. A few others take more discreet peeks. Many of the street hawkers have called out to me as if I were a Russian. They yell, “Hey Russki!” I am not sure why they see me as a Russian. Could it be that I walk like a strong Russian? Maybe because I look them in the eye as I approach? The truth is, I have a nasty knot in my back and I can’t move my head to look over my left shoulder. It’s killing me.

I walked the beach today. About one mile off shore, a huge crane rested; the gang way had been partially washed away by crashing waves. I wanted to surf. I had hopes of finding an ex-Pat surfing so I could use his board but no avail. As I continued to walk, I noticed various young women holding mirrors in their hands. Strange, really. They never looked up at me.

Approaching a large outside market, the nasty smell of cut, pounded and dried fish sent me back to my time on lobster boats in the Gulf of Maine. I held back the wretch, as I made my way down the packed narrow allies. The market area was about 6 blocks long by 6 blocks wide, covered like a child’s living room fort with corrugated tin instead of blankets. In the dim light, my eyes scanned the local wares. What spice section isn’t complete without monkey paws, yellow powered something-or-other, bird skulls in various sizes and what looked like dried scrotums? I made my way through the market with open eyes and kind words asking to take pictures of the interesting people and their wares. I returned the favor by offering a biscuit (cracker) which they would smile and say ‘thank you” in French.

Lastly, I will note that most women in the street wear a bra. I have always thought differently. Only a couple of the street vendors did not. But the overall population of women does, in fact, wear bras. The reason I mention this is because my brain has been trained to believe that African women do not wear them – a belief anchored in youthful perusing of National Geographic. The boy grows up.

Justus Mclarty Pontoon Trip