Waiting on Fish to Spawn

I left Homer at 11 Saturday morning. I flew to Anchorage, and then to Cordova, and then to Yakutat, and then to Juneau, and finally on to Sitka, 12 hours later. The total time in the air was less than 3 hours.

A Subaru, Alaska’s state vehicle, pulled up outside the airport and a tall man jumped out. Dan Beischline, the man I came to work for in herring spotting. He approached me and started apologizing. Apparently the blue truck he said he would pick me up in wouldn’t start. So he found Randy to drive him to the airport. I threw my pack in the back of the Subaru and slammed the hatch three times before I realized that the latch was broken. This must be an official Alaska Subaru. I climbed into the front next to Randy, who held his Corona between his knees to shake my hand. We bumped through the Sitka dark to the hotel where Dan and I were staying. Dan and Randy discussed the politics of the fishery, and I tried to piece together the drama of a foreign business in an unknown town.

It seems that my official title is Dan’s “Observer.” So far, I’ve done nothing but observe, so it seems a fitting title. Here’s what I know now that I didn’t know then:

Dan has been flying his Cessna 180 on floats for the herring fishery for years. He has worked with different observers over the years, and was clearly hesitant when I spoke with him on the phone about switching to someone new. I am the last resort. It’s not the first time I’ve been picked last for a team. Hopefully it won’t be the last either… some of the best opportunities fall in the laps of the bottom stringers. He has already expressed surprise that he can talk so fluently with me--a girl--about airplanes.

In the last 24 hours, he has explained a lot about herring. The purpose of the fishery is to collect the herring eggs, which are a delicacy in Japan. They are fished right before they spawn, hoping for the best egg-to-body weight ratio (at least 50% of the fish females with at least 10% eggs). The boats, purse seiners, go out to test fish before the fishery opens to measure exactly how much of the fish are skein of eggs. When the fishery is opened by the State of Alaska, the boats go out to catch as many as possible as quickly as possible. This year, the quota the fishermen are allowed by the State to catch is a record high at 18,000 tons. The boats often hire their own pilots to fly above the water, spotting where the fish are and directing the boats to those spots by radio, thus guaranteeing a better portion of the quota to their boat if the pilot does a good job. The boats pay their pilots a percentage of their catch. Because each boat hires their own plane, there are a lot of planes flying in the same air over the same schools of fish around and around in circles. The pilots hire their own co-pilots, or ‘observers,’ to look for planes while they are looking for the fish. They pilots pay the observers a percentage of their percentage. If the fish are there, and the pilots spot them, and the boats catch them, and the observers don’t let them crash, everybody makes money.

The fish are processed whole and frozen, then shipped to Japan where the eggs are harvested and enjoyed on Japanese New Year.

This year, the Japanese are holding the price low on herring roe. They started at $300 per ton of herring. The fishermen have all got together and are refusing to fish until the Japanese offer more money. The fishery has a definite end, when the herring spawn out. The delicate balance is reaching an agreed price before the herring are too close to spawn so that the fleet has time to catch the record quota.

The Alaska State Fish and Game representative is out flying and boating, monitoring the herring, ready to open the fishery at any minute. He has put the opener on what they call a “two hour notice,” meaning he can open the fishery any time later than 2 hours after the notice was announced. It was announced Friday.

The fishermen are refusing to even go test fishing. No one knows what the egg to body ratio is. The fishermen will not test fish until the Japanese move on price. With this limited information, the Fish and Game guy just flies around to see where the most sea lions are eating the most herring. On his daily radio update, he reports on where mom and pop sea lion are having breakfast.

Finally, last night, the fishermen agreed with the Japanese on a price of $550 per ton. First thing this morning, all the fleet was back out test fishing. Fish and Game is still counting sea lions, but now they can test the number of females, egg weights, and fish size of the test sets the boats bring in. We spent an hour and a half in the air directing our boat around to where the schools of fish were.

Now that the price is set, everyone is chomping to GO FISH!

I have gotten two fitting comments from friends on my current choice to observe for herring spotting:

“That’s the most dangerous job in the world after crab fishing.”—from someone who has obviously not considered the dangers of taxi driving in Mumbai; and “You have a really fun job!”—I agree… in what other office do you get to wear a life jacket AND a parachute?

Ninety-five and Humid: The odds against good deeds, or "What really happened"

In my real life, I’m an Alaskan bush pilot. I find lousy weather, the sudden appearance of mountains in front my plane, and temperatures that would break steel entertaining. When the request came for pilots to fly relief to Haiti after January 12^th’s 7.0 earthquake, I headed southeast. Fly some new routes, do something for my fellow man, spend some time in warm weather: it sounded perfect. I arrived in Venice, FL ready to do whatever was asked. Agape Flights, based in Venice, flies a full time service to missionaries in the Caribbean. In response to the devastation in Haiti, they had received dozens of volunteer airplanes and pilots and tons of donated relief supplies. Agape’s permanent staff is made up of year-round saints; the rest of us were trying to combine a good deed or two with a short bout of adventure.

For weeks, Agape’s pilots flew into what could only be described as "airplane soup" over Port au Prince. Military, cargo and private flights arrived and departed constantly at an airport that, as designed, couldn’t handle two flights on a Tuesday-- and that was before the destruction of the earthquake. With the port only marginally opened, the airport was the lifeline for millions of Haitians: through it flowed the generosity of taxpayers worldwide and millions of individuals. Approach control was divided between the Navy in Pensacola, FL, the Air Force in Port au Prince, and Haitian controllers in a makeshift tower. In spite of this, we all managed to get our loads onto the tarmac without bending too much metal.

As the campaign went on, I served in a variety of rolls. An aviatrix in dispatch is essential, as payloads, cruise speeds, and fuel burn all need to be considered. With the volume of donations we took in, extra hands on the sorting line were never turned down. Eventually, I got myself resourced off of home soil to fly food, medical supplies, and aid workers into Haiti out of Santiago in the Dominican Republic, on routes not unlike those I fly in Alaska. Actually, it was a little more hospitable than home: if we ended up in the ocean, we would not die from the cold in two minutes; we would last long enough for the sharks to get us.

After a month of volunteering, it was time for me to head back to Alaska. I was to jump on a Florida-bound Agape flight on Friday, February 19^th. Then, Agape called me in Santiago and asked if I would be willing to escort six orphans from Children of the Promise (COTP) orphanage in Cap Haitien, a city on the north coast of Haiti. These kids were all orphaned or abandoned before the catastrophe, and had all been in the adoption process for years. They each had adoptive parents waiting for them in the States. Jean-Max Bellerive, the Prime Minister of Haiti, had personally cleared the children to leave the country, and the USA had given them humanitarian visas.

We surveyed flooded Cap Haitien before landing to pick up the six boys (Albert, Reese, Malachi, Ben, Simon, and Jeff) from COTP. We flew on to Port au Prince, where the kids had to check in with the US Embassy. We met Maria O’Donovan, a COTP field director, and one of the adoptive parents, Sarah Thacker, at the airport. The three of us took the six babies to the US Embassy in a taxi. After a month divided between office and cockpit work, I was ill prepared for handling my third of six infants in close quarters. You can kill yourself in an airplane, but you are unlikely to get covered with projectile snot or crushed cheese crackers.

The Embassy checked all the documents for the children, confirmed that they were cleared all the way to the USA. Sarah, myself, and the six kids would all fly on a military transport that evening.

After five hours of waiting and crying (on the kids’ part, not mine), Maura, an Embassy official, finally appeared and abruptly cancelled the flight and said there was no real intention to reschedule. Years ago, I worked in Washington, DC and knew hundreds of Mauras: Ann Taylor suit, Nordstrom shoes, Blackberry constantly humming, little or no real responsibility. Maura had no idea how the 70 children waiting in the embassy were going to get to the States. She seemed immensely relieved when we offered to arrange our own transportation for our own six boys. We called Agape and, within hours, the dispatch team had a donated King Air slotted to pick up our merry little band the next morning.

Maura told us to meet her at the airport at 11:15am, where the embassy officials would hand over the children's paperwork. The Embassy maintains control of the sealed adoption papers until they see the kids board the plane. If the seal is broken, the paperwork is considered “tampered with” upon arrival in Miami.

We arrived with the children at the Port au Prince International Airport in a taxi at 11:15. Within minutes of stepping onto the sidewalk, we were surrounded by an angry mob. They tried to pull the boys away from us and yelled that we were child trafficking. Sarah was knocked to the sidewalk, trying to protect the two babies she was holding. The Haitian police intervened taking the mob ringleaders and all of us into custody. They marched us: kids, suitcases and all, down the airport driveway to the airport police station.

Our Embassy handlers had still not appeared and since they had the paperwork, the police became suspicious that the mob might be correct. One cop, with two bars of rank on his epaulettes, seemed particularly skeptical of our story.

I called Maura at the US Embassy. She was still in her office because “her car had not arrived.” I told her to take a taxi. I explained and stressed the severity of the situation. In response, she announced that she would wait for her driver.

I asked the police officers if I could walk out to the tarmac to talk to our pilots and alert them to our delay. I pulled my pilot shirt out of my pack, with four bars on the epaulettes. Two Bar scowled. I sat back down. Rebecca, a volunteer nurse from COTP, had arrived at the airport to say goodbye to the children with her friend Eric, a pediatrician. They came into the police station and fell victim to our captors as well.

An hour late, Maura and other Embassy officials arrived, US paperwork in hand. We thought we would be free to go. Despite years’ experience with the government, I maintain a remarkable amount of confidence in bureaucratic structure. I foolishly thought this situation was something like a visit to the DMV: unpleasant, time-consuming, and tiring for the feet, but we would get our documents and be on our way.

The Haitian police had a different protocol. Two Bar said the adoption paperwork was not enough. He wanted to see the Haitian Prime Minister's signature— probably just for the novelty of it. The Embassy insisted that they were under no obligation to share the Prime Minister’s signed list with the police.

The police moved us onto the street so that everyone had room to argue. By then everyone at the airport with a badge had gotten involved: not only the embassy staffers and the police on the sidewalk, but the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol (CBP) officers, Haitian Immigration, our pilots, and a guy on the street selling gum. A man in a plaid shirt and jeans showed up, and turned out to be a police inspector, and the ranking cop on the scene. Maura looked at me and said: "I guarantee you'll be on that plane today."

As the testosterone match between agencies heightened, Two Bar threatened to arrest the men from US CBP. A yelling match ensued, between men wearing guns, about who had diplomatic immunity. When the situation had deteriorated beyond recognition, the Embassy staffers finally agreed to go get the Prime Minister’s list. Maura took me aside and said, "I guarantee you guys won't end up in Haitian custody." I think we already were.

Fax or email would not work. Inspector Plaid Shirt insisted that the police needed the Prime Minister’s original signature from locked embassy files. When Maura’s boss returned with the paperwork, the inspector took one quick look and said it was a fake. Apparently he and the PM write each other letters all the time.

Five hours later, the situation had completely stagnated. The pilots said they had to take off. The police insisted on moving us to another jail and continued arguing with our low-on-the-totem-pole Embassy team. They crammed all escorts, two Embassy people, and the six children into the back of two police cars and we bumped through traffic while the new Haiti-Relief remake of 'We are the World' blared on the cop's radio.

At the new police station, well clear of the airport, I realized I had severely underestimated the situation. The Embassy was not going to prevail. Inspector Plaid Shirt announced: the adults are free to go, but the kids are being detained.

Maura looked at me again and said, "I guarantee they won't separate you from the kids." Lady, I thought, you’re ‘nothing and two’ and, if Plaid Shirt throws the high hard one, you are not going to suddenly become Joe Mauer.

Four hours later, the police decided the children would go to a Haitian social services (IBESR)-approved orphanage for the night. We climbed back into the police trucks holding the boys tightly in our laps. No music this time. After an hour’s drive in the dark, we had no idea where we were. The police stopped at a few UNICEF tents set up in a compound and the police started pulling the kids out of the back of the truck into the dark.

Unfortunately, Inspector Plaid Shirt and the woman running the tent facility seemed to be on very close terms. Maria from COTP talked to the woman in charge. Could we stay with them? No. Could we sleep on the ground outside? No. Could we at least feed them and put them to sleep to avoid a dramatic scene? No. The police escorted us out of the compound to the tune of six screaming, terrified children. It was gut-wrenching for me, and I had only 24 hours of emotional investment in these kids. Eric used his GPS to mark the location of the tents. This would be the only way we would be able to find the children come morning.

Rebecca and Eric took us home to the apartment they shared with other volunteer medical workers. They fed us. They gave us their beds. They showed us the hospitality we were trying to show the world but had spent the day forgetting in favor of frustration, anger and fear.

The next day, after an hour and a half drive through the devastated streets of Port au Prince, we arrived to find the children still in the tent. Maria and I spent five hours playing with the kids in the dirt outside.

On the drive back to the apartment, my cell phone rang. It was a reporter from CNN, Gary Tuchman. Where did he get the story? The Haitian police. They were accusing us of forging the Prime Minister’s signature. That was a lot of credit for our clever lot: we didn’t even know the Prime Minister’s full name. The interview took place a few hours later. CNN bought us pizza and we discovered that in Haiti that means Cheez-Whiz on bread.

We asked for the Embassy to provide us with transport to see the kids. Maura said civilians can’t ride in Embassy vehicles. I doubted Maura knew what the word ‘civilian’ meant and likely thought her Blackberry came with some military rank.

As the days went by, the children were confined to the tent, where they became dehydrated and developed diarrhea. The tent compound had inadequate supplies and staff to look after the boys. Each day we called every government official we could think of and were repeatedly told that the US Embassy was “working on it.” Each day ended with the children screaming as we had to leave them in the tent. The Prime Minister was apparently on a beach in Mexico, unable to take calls or vouch for his own signature. All seventy of the orphans waiting at the embassy were prohibited from leaving the country until our situation was resolved. It’s hard to buy beer in an earthquake-ravaged city, but we really could have used one.

Back at the apartment, we watched ourselves on CNN, disappointed that they included the ubiquitous cable news commentator. A white-haired Barbara Streisand look-alike with bright blue spectacles opined that the children’s parents should be coming to pick them up. It was little concern to her that no commercial passenger flights had been coming to Haiti since the earthquake, and the US Embassy and the Prime Minister had been clearing children so haphazardly that it was impossible for parents to find timely transportation.

On Tuesday, Maria and I paid an exorbitant amount to get to the tent orphanage by taxi. I walked into the tent to see the boys. No one was there. I looked in the other tents: All older children, no little munchkins. I looked helplessly for the few adults. I couldn’t speak a word of Creole besides “Mesi” and I couldn’t ‘thank’ my way out of this. When the police took the six children from us on Saturday night, our worst fear was that we would come back and they would be gone, or that some of them would. That fear was rapidly being realized.

I looked at Maria panicked. The kids aren’t here. She ran up to one of the adults and asked about the children. I had to suffer the agonizing wait of not speaking the language when an emergency is at hand. The translation came slowly, as Maria tried to get as much information as possible. The kids were moved. Last night. Where? They don’t know.

Maria called our taxi and he had already picked up another fare. I called the US Embassy. Pius Bannis, Maura’s boss, answered on the second ring. This was the first he’d heard of the kids being moved. He said he’d call back.

Maria and I could not spend an hour staring at these infuriating people who would not tell us where they had taken the children. We walked out the gate and onto the street. We were not 100 yards down the dusty gravel when a “TapTap” came by. Maria flagged it down and we climbed into the back. A TapTap is a pick up truck that has two benches in the back. They drive in random routes through Port au Prince and you tap the side of the truck to let the driver know when you want to get out. These rickety trucks are possibly the most smoothly operating piece of infrastructure in all of Port au Prince. We rode to the nearest busy intersection, both on our phones trying to find where the kids had been moved. We called COTP, Agape, Senators, and Congressmen. I called the Embassy twice more. They replied that they were “working on it.” Work faster.

Just as we climbed out of the TapTap into the intersection, another TapTap came along, driving towards town. Maria flagged him down. He was empty. She asked how much to take us all the way to the US Embassy. It’s a one-hour drive. Way past his route. Would be very expensive. Fifty US Dollars did the trick and we were on our way. The driver, happy to have such an affluent load, showed off the amenities of his vehicle, which included tinted windows and cup holders. He cannot have realized that the two women to his right had absolutely no desire to make small talk. Drive faster.

En route to the Embassy, Maria received a call from the Consulate General. He said they had found the children and had been granted custody. The Embassy would go pick the children up in an Embassy vehicle (either no longer illegal for civilian transport, or the United States had granted our orphans much-deserved soldier status). We should meet them at the Embassy.

I immediately called Agape back in Florida and asked the dispatcher to find a plane to fly us out tomorrow, completely cognizant of my “wolf!”-crying status. Within a half hour, I got a call from the pilot, who said he needed a “$13,000 reason” to make the flight. That is about how much it would cost his company to make the donation. I told him our story. I hung up to the sound of children’s voices coming down the hall. When they saw Maria and myself, the ones that could run did. We couldn’t pick up all six of them at once, so there were kids in our arms and kids clinging to our legs. We were all laughing, even baby Albert. The pilot called Agape to confirm: he would be at PaP International Airport at 11:00am tomorrow.

The boys were all excited, but desperately needed their diapers changed. Maura gave us XL Adult Depends (size 64” waist) because the Embassy had no diapers. They came to the kids’ chins.

The Consulate General was suspicious of our private transport arrangements:

“This is a problem we have had in the past: that people arrange their own transport, and then the aircraft does not show up.”

My frustration overwhelmed my discretion. “One: that was not the problem on Saturday, sir. Your aircraft cancelled on Friday night. Our aircraft was waiting on the ground at the appointed time on Saturday. But, your staff told us to meet you at the airport rather than the Embassy, and then you didn’t show up on time.”

I was angry, and frustrated that we had apparently not all lived on the same universe for the last 5 days. I should have known better: Washington bureaucrats and Alaskan pilots never operate on the same cerebral plane. “Two: Do you have another suggestion as to how we should take these kids off your hands? The Embassy is not even prepared to provide us with transport to see them in their tent jail, let alone an aircraft to take them to the United States.”

Besides random inquisitions about transport, the Consulate General also controlled non-immigrant visas for the US Embassy. Maria was an Irish citizen. In a great quirk of immigration law, Irish are allowed to travel into the US without a visa if they are on a commercial flight. But, if they are on a private plane, they have to have a visa. I asked if the Embassy could grant Maria a visa so that she could see the children into their parents arms. The last five days of ambiguity and fear had taken more of a toll on Maria, who was the only family some of these kids had, than it had on the rest of us. She would return to Haiti the next day to resume her work at COTP.

“No.” said the Consulate General, “That reason is not compelling enough for me to grant a visa.” Apparently the US State Department required more than a $13,000 reason.

Just for fun, I asked if the Embassy would provide us with transport from where we were staying to the airport. Nope. We would have to meet them at the Embassy.

It took our taxi over an hour to get to the Embassy on Wednesday morning, a distance of less than 5 miles, not that surprising in a rubble-filled city. We stumbled up to the front gate, carrying kids and kicking bags. No. You cannot come in this way today. The guard pointed 200 yards down the street. We explained that we couldn’t walk with these kids on the street. There were child-attacking mobs on the street. The guard insisted and pointed again. We asked for someone to help carry our bags. No. Embassy employees are not authorized to carry luggage. Are Embassy employees authorized to do anything in this country besides ride in Embassy vehicles?

By employing a form of stubborn refusal often used by women and children against men, we got one Embassy guard to help carry one bag to the next gate. Juggling six children and stringing out down the sidewalk, we stumbled into a parking lot full of Embassy vehicles. Lots of shiny Suburbans: worldwide vehicle of the US government. Consulate General Moore was waiting for us.

The CG insisted that Maria, Sarah and myself all climb into the third seat of the Suburban, then the kids were piled in on top of us. In the seat two-thirds the size of the one in front of it, there were nine people. In the next row up sat Consulate General Moore and the US Consulate General for Hungary, who is in town and out for a sight-see. In the front were the driver and an empty seat. The kids were all screaming. They were piled three deep and very uncomfortable, stepping on, kicking, and hitting each other to find a space.

When we were half a mile down the road, Sarah asked from below three kids, “You do have the paperwork, don’t you?” the CG looks at Hungary, who looked to the front. “Where’s Pius?” asked the CG. “Pius was supposed to bring the paperwork. We’d better call him.” The driver asked if he should turn around. Larry, Mo and Curly are too busy looking for Pius’ phone number. No one had it. They decided to send him an email, using their government-issued Blackberries.

I shoved a kid off my arm toward Maria so that I could get to my bag. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through recent calls. I dialed Pius’ number and handed the phone over the kids and over the seatback to the CG. “It’s ringing.” I said over the crying, crowded children.

We backtracked to retrieve the paperwork that these 2-year-olds could probably have kept better tabs on themselves. We left the Embassy again, this time in a two-car convoy, Pius following with the paperwork, while three adults and six kids still remained crammed in the back of the first Suburban. Exhausted by the crying, the CG gave the kids juice and Pringle chips to shut them up. The immediately threw them all over themselves, us and the vehicle. We pulled onto the tarmac and the Embassy suits got out to wait in the shade and play on their Blackberries.

Right on schedule, the airplane sent by Agape pulled off the runway. CG Moore told us the kids had to walk in single file. We picked up kids and bags and left him to explain the concept of “single-file” to a two-year-old covered in Pringles. The Haitian government charged the pilot over $350 for the privilege of landing and taking off in their country, making his contribution to these children $13,350. We climbed aboard and Maria strapped in the kids. They started screaming when they realized Maria was getting off the plane. There was nothing to be done. Her visa wasn’t compelling enough to the adults on the tarmac.

US Customs and Border Patrol in Miami took two and a half hours to clear all six children. One of the officers that had been present at the fray in Port au Prince on Saturday had since been transferred back to Miami. I asked him, “What the heck happened?” He said an anti-American grudge of one cop started it, as far as he could tell. Two Bar. And when Inspector Plaid Shirt showed up, he basically wanted to make the boys “disappear” back into the system. Why? Because you guys were not supposed to enter the airport through the front door, you were supposed to go through the back, with the Embassy. He was going to show the US Officials who had the power. It seemed like an awful fierce punishment for going in the wrong door.

After all the kids were cleared and fingerprinted, we delivered them to five sets of parents who couldn’t contain their excitement. One mother took her baby and me in her arms at once. She was sobbing. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You’ll never know. Thank you.” For a hug like that, I’d fly through mountains, Alaskan weather, and Haitian police stations all over again.

Stuck in Folsom Prison...

I spent the last week flying supplies out of Santiago into Haiti with a hysterical Canadian named Rick. The flying was much more like the flying I usually do... short trips around mountains and weather, and I enjoyed it very much. We shuttled orphans, delivered food and shelter. I got to see some of the smaller towns that Agape regularly services. We stayed with a local ministry team in Santiago that has been putting up anyone that asks since the earthquake.Couchsurfing at a whole new level meant th

at 28 people were our housemates on the first night. The first night, Rick had got a piece of metal in his eye from his plane's rarely opened (due to Canadian temps) airvent, and there just happened to be an opthomologist staying at the house that had just come out of Haiti with all his tools. The doc had him drugged and sorted in no time. Two eyed pilots are much more valuable (that said, I tried to get him to wear an eye patch, but he was having none of it.)

Leaving the Canadians to their own devices, I was to jump on an outbound Agape flight on Friday. They called and asked if I would be willing to escort some orphans from Children of the Promise Orphanage in Cap Haitien through the bureaucracy in Port au Prince and back to the states on the US Embassy plane. Sure, these kids have all be in the adoption process for years and have been cleared to the USA by the Haitian Prime Minister. With another pil

ot team in a C-414, I picked the kids up in Cap Haitien, where their orphanage (Children of the Promise) is, flew them to PaP, and then sent the other pilot and his plane on their way. I met Maria, a COTP field director, and Sarah, one of the adoptive parents; and we went to the US Embassy. They checked all the documents for the 6 children, confirmed that they were cleared all the way to the US, with Haitian permission and US visas.

Since the Idaho/Baptist/orphan debacle, no children have been allowed to fly out on private planes, so everyone is moved to the US They told us to wait for the embassy plane-- a military transport-- and then they would shuttle us to the airport. We waited. For 5 hours. Then an embassy official came out and said the flight was cancelled. No plane guaranteed tomorrow or the next day either. In fact, we might be done flying those planes. You're free to arrange your own private transport. Let them know and they'll approve it.

Luckily, I've been working with a flight organization. I call Agape and the dispatch team had a donated plane available within hours to send down the next day.We scrounged up somewhere for us three adults and the six kids to stay, and organized approval with the embassy for our private charter flight. They were all thumbs up. They told us not to come back to the embassy, but to meet them at the airport at 11:15am, and they would hand over the children's paperwork to us for them to clear in Miami. The embassy insists on maintaining custody of the paperwork until the children board the plane to the States.

We arrived at the PaP International airport in a taxi at 11:15. No embassy people. Within 5 minutes, we were surrounded by an angry mob. They tried to take the children from us and yelled that we were stealing the country's children. The police intervened. The police took all of us and the mob ringleaders into custody. The embassy had still not arrived, and since we didn't have the paperwork in our hands, the police were suspicious that the mob was right.

An hour later, the embassy arrived, US paperwork in hand. The police said it wasn't enough. They wanted to see the PM's signature. Back to the embassy, get that piece of paper. Nope, its a forgery... you'll have to get a new one. And guess what... the PM doesn't work weekends. There was clearly a testosterone match going on between agencies.

The woman from the US Embassy looked at me and said: "I guarantee you'll be on that plane today." Our pilots had arrived and threw their hats in the fray. Everyone at the airport with a badge got involved: now not only the embassy, the police, and the pilots, but the US CBP, Haitian Immigration, and a guy on the street selling gum.

The woman from the embassy looked at me and said, " I guarantee you guys won't end up in Haitian custody."As the situation stagnated between various opposing forces trying to prove they had more power at the expense of six scared little kids, most of the people left do do other things and the pilots said they had to take off. The police insisted on moving us to another station and continued arguing with our low-on-the-totem-pole embassy team. They crammed all the adults and the kids into the back of a police car and we bumped through traffic while 'We are the World' blared on the cop's radio.

Once they had us securely in their custody away from the airport, the police announced: the adults are free to go, but the kids are being detained. Right. Like we're going anywhere. The woman from the embassy looked at me again and said, "I guarantee they won't seperate you from the kids." Lady, that's three swings,and the first two have not made contact.

The police said we could go to a government approved orphanage for the night... Haitian jails don't accommodate crowds of two-year-olds. The embassy said we could ask permission from the orphanage to stay with the kids.Back in the police trucks. No music this time. We stopped at a few UNICEF tents set up in a compound and the police started pulling the kids out of the back. We followed them into a tent, where the kids were put on mats on the ground... where they would sleep, eat, and wait. The people at the orphanage never even asked their names. And Maria, who has been with most of these kids since they were babies, asked repeatedly that they be fed-- they had no meal since breakfast. Finally, a woman brought them a box of cornflakes.Could we stay with them? No. Can we sleep on the ground outside? No. Could we at least feed them and put them to sleep? No. The police insisted on escorting us out of the compound to the tune of six screaming, terrified children. Children of the Promise has friends in PaP and we are staying with them. The medical team at the apartment has given up their rooms and beds so that we don't have to sleep on the floor. Unlike our kids.

The Best Laid Plans...

I have been working with Agape Flights for almost 2 weeks. We have sent almost 80 flights and 180,000 pounds of supplies into Haiti to provide emergency relief to the victims of January 12th earthquake. The donations are coming in faster than we can empty the hanger, and we have rented a 50 foot shipping container to take non-emergency items down to Haiti in the next week.My time at Agape has been rewarding and exhausting. Emotionally, the weight of each day's work is overwhelming. Even in the hanger, the intense implications of paperwork and cargo are ever-present. However, people have continued to work with smiles and continue to volunteer more time and more resources. My next trip into Haiti is scheduled for Thursday on a KingAir donated by a pilot from Punta Gorda, FL. Thus far, my entire experience has been overwhelmingly positive with one exception. I was scheduled to fly co-pilot on a flight last week when the pilot announced that he wouldn't fly with a female. Unfortunately, in this industry, sexism is not a stranger. However, it is disappointing that peoples' prejudices come out even in the midst of humanitarian disaster, and it felt like a sucker punch when I am down here volunteering my time, just like he is. There are plenty of male jet jockeys around to step up, and I'd rather be in a 'modern' cockpit anyway.
One of the biggest challenges is passengers. The Haitian government is still not charging customs on supplies and persons brought into devastated areas, but they are cracking down on people who are trying to leave. Many of the people that are trying to get out of Haiti right now are volunteers and aid workers that went in after the earthquake. Many people are trying to get back to their families and jobs, or even trying to return to the States to get more medical relief supplies. We are coordinating with other aid organizations to get people on outbound cargo flights. Available seats are limited, customs are a hurdle, and the airport is a confusing place to try to find the appropriate flight in. Agape is also trying to move as many orphans as possible into the US from Haiti. We work closely with Children of the Promise, who have an orphanage in Cap Haitien, a town in the north part of the country. Many of the orphans there are nearly through their 2-year paperwork process and have parents waiting in the States. The sooner we can get these orphans cleared through the final stages of their multi-year adoption process, the sooner we open up spaces in the orphanage for newly-orphaned children from the earthquake, and then they can begin the adoption process. The Haitian government keeps changing the procedures for clearing kids from the country. Just last week, they decided that every child had to be brought to Port au Prince to be 'ok'ed through the Prime Minister before being allowed to leave the country. What a great idea... fly a bunch of orphaned kids to do paperwork in a city where the airport is a mess, most of the population is now homeless and hungry, and the infrastructure is a-shambles. In the last week, we have shuttled 12 orphans with escorts from Cap Haitien to Port au Prince to make 2 consecutive days of appearances at the PM's office. Friday, former President Clinton decided to make a "good will" visit to Port au Prince. All air traffic, in what can operationally be referred to as 'airplane soup,' was held clear for the President's aircraft to land and taxi. The Prime Minister spent the day Friday entertaining his guest instead of signing orphan paperwork. Of course, the PM doesn't work on weekends, and the kids had to spend Saturday and Sunday on the streets, or where ever they could find shelter to wait for a Monday appearance. Thankfully, 10 of the 12 managed to pass all the paperwork hurdles and get out on a plane to Miami late last night. We hope that the other 2 will follow in the next days. Meanwhile, we are shuttling 11 more orphans from Cap Haitien south.Wes, upon his arrival at Agape, instantly became an invaluable help staging and loading tons of cargo in the hanger. He will fly his first mission to Haiti on Friday, Lord willing and the creek don't rise. Bruce and Alice Shaw, in Sarasota, are still being our generous hosts, and if I wasn't so comfortable, I'd feel like I was imposing. I have committed to at least one more week of work at Agape, and will keep you posted. The situation here and there change constantly--for good and for ill. This is a great exercise in thinking on my toes. The Agape Staff have started to ask if I couldn't be convinced to consider a long-term position. I'm glad to be here, but Florida is wanting in the departments of ski races and short airstrips.

Return from Round One

Yesterday, Rook Nelson and I flew his Twin Otter from Sebastian, FL to Port au Prince, Haiti, on a non-Agape Flights mission. We were loaded with over 4000 lbs of tents and two passengers, who were going to help distribute and set them up. The donation was from New York and was being delivered to Son Light Missions. The passengers were wearing firefighter shirts. I asked them if they were firefighters. No. Haitians love uniforms.

We ran through some bad weather on the way out of Florida, and were thankful for each other's presence so we could split the workload. After a fuel stop in Exuma, Bahamas, we flew into Haiti. Air traffic control within 50 miles of Port au Prince is a nightmare. Imagine trying to squeeze all of LAX's traffic into Homer, Alaska. The controller can't possibly speak to all the inbound traffic, and chances are, you won't be able to key your mike without someone else stepping on you. We were able to tuck under the clouds, and then get to the airport on a visual approach, all the while trying not to have a mid-air collision with a C-5 or a UN helicopter. Getting clearance to land was nearly impossible. One pilot flies the plane, and the other pilot madly tries to make radio calls. There is one runway, no taxiways, and three ramps, which are only connected by the runway. The harbor is guarded by various battleships, red cross vessels, and cargo ships. From the air, it is difficult to make out any specific earthquake damage, however, you can see that EVERYONE is outside. The streets are teeming with people and tents and debris.

The US military has set up a perimeter around the airport, and many aide and relief workers, along with the military of various countries, have set up camps on the airfield. Near our parking space, 50 or so pallets of Red Cross Emergency supplies were sitting behind a barbwire fence, with no apparent access or use for anyone. Aircraft are coming and going constantly, fairly equal numbers of military and civilian planes. The person we were delivering the tents to (you have to have someone to receive items, you can't just dump them on the field) went off "in search of a truck." We knew we were in for a wait, and did so as patiently as possible, knowing there were storms building on our return route every moment we spent on the ground. Eventually, we let the ramp guys unload the plane and stage the stuff across the ramp for the elusive truck to collect. Rook's Saturday cargo had been unloaded and reloaded in Agape trucks within 15 minutes of landing. He wasn't expecting much of a wait. After they unloaded the plane, one of the rampers came up and asked me if we had any water we could give them. I handed over a half-full two liter that was our personal supply in the cockpit. They all thanked me profusely.

When we were finally ready to leave, three girls ran up and asked if we would give them a ride back to the States. They came down to Haiti as volunteers and none of the charter planes that brought volunteers in are coming back. The only good way to get out of Haiti is to find a bus to the Dominican Republic, then buy a commercial ticket out. All commercial flights out of the DR are booked solid for 3 weeks. Rook and I exchanged a glance, asked to see their passports, and shrugged our shoulders. They're Americans, they really want to leave, and we're going back to America with an empty plane: what's the big deal? Someone wearing epaulettes ran up and told us that, as of Friday, they re-opened immigration and customs for passengers

to Haiti (until then all controls have been suspended since the earthquake). A $10,000 fine and having your aircraft put on the US Border Patrol's black list is the big deal. We off-loaded our passengers, told them good luck, but it seems Haiti wants to keep them and the US doesn't want any people coming back across the border.

As we were sorting out the passenger drama, a man in a vest came up and told us we had to come in and file a flight plan. We both knew that we could file on the radio, even from in the air if we chose. But Vest Man was insistent. I stayed on passenger duty, and Rook went inside to sort out our flight plan. Once in the building, Vest Man explained that his family is hungry and living on the street- could he please have some money? Rook handed over a "flight plan" with a twenty dollar bill and came back to help me expel the stowaways.

Completely empty, the Otter had no problem with a short intersection take-off, greatly reducing our wait-time for the frantic runway. We headed back north. As the sun set, Miami Center radioed us to say that the Bahamas, where we needed to land again for fuel, doesn't allow flight after sunset. We spoke to Nassau control, and they confirmed that it would be illegal for us to land at Exuma. Multiple choice tests are so easy: (a) illegal landing on runway in foreign country, or (b)running out of fuel and crashing into the nighttime waters of the Bermuda Triangle. As we touched down in Exuma, it was growing dark and we got called up to the tower. We got a hand slap and were refused permission to take off. According to the radar, the entire coast of Florida was laced with embedded thunderstorms. So, we weren't going anyway. We apologized for breaking the law, and then enjoyed the rest of the evening drinking Dark & Stormys (fittingly) in a hotel bar.

Well rested, we finished our flight back to Florida this morning. I said goodbye to Rook. I hope it doesn't take an international disaster to get to see him again.

I drove back across Florida to Agape Flight's hangar and checked up on my work at dispatch. Two planes went out in my absence: the DC-6 and the Embraer. The week is filling up with flights, but most amazingly, the hangar is, once again, chuck-full of donations.

Haiti Relief Update

I've finished my 4th day at Agape Flights in Venice. Yesterday, I dispatched 2 planes, a Twin Otter and and an Embraer, carrying at total of 7500 lbs of relief supplies, to Port au Prince, Haiti. The Embraer landed on Friday night, had just enough time to fuel and reload, and for the pilots to take a short overnight nap, and then they took off Saturday morning at oh-dark-early. I am becoming adept at the paperwork required by US customs. Competency doesn't make the regulations anymore reasonable though.

The Twin Otter is an airplane from Skydive Chicago, one which I am quite familiar with. The first day I arrived at Agape, they asked if I knew anyone that would be interested in donating planes. I used to fly skydivers, so I got ahold of my old boss, Rook Nelson, (using the complexities of Facebook) thinking that he might have an idea of someone that had a skydiving plane around. He wrote right back, saying, I'm available, and I have my Otters in Sebastian, which is just on the other side of Florida from Venice. Rook donated two round trips, with a 4000-pound load capability for each one. I haven't seen Rook since I left his company to go to Alaska, almost four years ago. When he taxied up the ramp at Agape Friday night, he jumped down from the Otter, gave me a big hug and said, "I always knew I would see you again, I just never guessed it would be here." Me neither.

This morning, Rook and I were supposed to turn and fly the Otter back to Haiti with a doctor, a nurse, and a huge load of medical supplies, food, and water. However, by the time the plane returned from Haiti last night, after getting delayed on the ground in Port au Prince, and then by US Customs in Key West, a ground fog had rolled in at Venice. Rook and his co-pilot, Jeff, Agape's chief pilot, couldn't land. They diverted to Punta Gorda. By the time I drove down to pick them up, it was 1am. We would have to drive back to get the plane at 4am to fly it to Venice, load, refuel, turn around, and make our Air Force appointed slot time of 1:45pm in Port au Prince. Because we knew we would both be exhausted with only an hour or two of sleep, and the round trip is an 11 hour flight, we cancelled today's trip. "Everyone's a safety officer."

Rook flew his plane back to Sebastian today, to pick up a load of tents being donated by a company from New York. He got there to find that his co-pilot hadn't shown up. He called me. I'll cross Florida again in the wee hours of the morning, to climb into the Otter for my first trip to Haiti. We'll depart the Sebastian airport, weather allowing, at 8am. You can follow our progress at FlightAware Just enter "N10EA" in the box on the left that says: "Flight/Tail #:".

I am afraid I have become much too useful at Agape, but they will survive dispatching one day without me. I am continually impressed with the generosity there. Every time we make a dent in the pile of pallets in the hanger, more donations pour in. We have loaded a DC-6 donated to depart out of Miami tomorrow morning, and our hangar is miraculously still full. We need more airplanes! I am still enjoying the wonderful hospitality of Bruce & Alice Shaw, of Homer & Sarasota, who are making me comfortable and facilitating my travel around the state.

I'll send a report when I get back to the country, and my computer. Pray for tailwinds and friendly border guards.

Agape Flights: To Haiti

I am currently involved in an effort to fly relief supplies into Haiti, as part of the recovery effort from the massive earthquake of January 12th. I am working for an organization called Agape Flights, based in Venice, Florida. I promised updates as is possible, and, as I am just getting going, and time allows me, I will take the liberty to be longwinded...

"Agape" is the Greek word used biblically for God's unconditional love. Agape's regular mission is to run supplies and mail, on a one-flight-a-week basis, to missionaries in Haiti, the Dominic Republic, and the Bahamas. Since the earthquake (in the last 14 days), Agape has stepped it up to: 60 flights with 120,000 pounds of emergency supplies and 25 medical personnel into Haiti, and the evacuation of 8 Haitian orphans. Their hangar has been flooded with donations and volunteers. Everything from the most useful to the most unbelievably useful has been donated.

Two days after the 'quake, one volunteer was answering phones and kept saying to the insistent person on the other end, "I'm sorry, Sir, we are a FLIGHT organization. We don't take BOATS." And when Agape's director walked by, she just handed him the phone: "please talk to this man, he has a boat." When he had the director on the phone, the man said (in what I like to imagine as a surly Alaskan fisherman voice): "I don't have a boat, I have a SHIP!" Realizing the need for his organization to be flexible, the director heard him out. This individual donated the use of a entire container ship, which Agape filled chuck-full of supplies and the man drove (does one "drive" ships?) it down to Port au Prince, where the port had been destroyed by the earthquake, but his SHIP had a full size crane to unload the much needed relief materials. When his hull was empty, he said, "while I'm here, why don't we use the crane move some rubble?", and thus was an instrument in helping with infrastructure, including help to repair the port. If only Mick Dundee were there to say, "That's not a 'boat.' THIS is a boat."

I started my full-time work for Agape today, and I am very excited for what the next weeks will bring. It will make my mother happy to know that I am still in the United States. Unfortunately, Agape's main aircraft had a mechanical failure in Haiti the day I was in transit from Alaska, so they have lost their main relief vehicle for the immediate future. This requires that they rely solely on donated aircraft to accomplish their missions into Haiti.

In the meantime, volunteers are sorting pallets of food, water, and medical supplies; answering phones; and squinting up at the sun to watch inbound donated planes on final approach.

I started my day learning the sorting line. As fast as we can sort boxes, new piles of donations build up. Everything is sorted into "food," "medical," and "other," and then further sorted into categories of most immediate need. I was sent to the food sorting section and soon distracted my table with a debate of whether canned tomatoes should go in the 'vegetable' or 'fruit' pile. I know, I know... I'm new at relief work. They traded me to the medical supply line, who immediately questioned my credentials. Denying "RN," I claimed to be a volunteer EMT. In the eyes of the retired heavy equipment operator staring into boxes of everything from prescription drugs to catheters, this promoted me to MD. They asked me to pick out everything that needs to be sent right away. Fortunately, I can recognize the most emergent stuff as what we carry on the ambulance, and so muddled through this project. I'm just elbows deep in drug sorting, when someone comes down from upstairs and asks for an aviatrix like myself to help in dispatching flights. I spent the rest of the day learning the dispatch process for getting flights safely to and from their destinations and through the hands of customs officials. I found out how we go about collecting planes and pilots to accomplish the tasks at hand. I also started learning the paperwork ropes for when I need to start actively flying the missions. Due to the mechanical failure, my personal flight mission is on hold, and I have decided to help wherever they need hands.

It has been a fantastic start to a project that I was a bit wary about. My heart skips thinking about all the people I met today that are stopping their lives to do mundane tasks, in hopes that they will help care for someone they will never meet. And, everyone gives their time, hands, hearts and backs with smiles on their faces. I've been there one day, and I've seen people give imperative supplies, time, multimillion dollar aircraft, and thousands of dollars worth of fuel. One local elementary school raised $24,000 in relief funds in 4 days. I share all of this so that you may know, no matter what you may hear on the news: people are good, and their generosity is heart-warming.

Some of you have asked me to let you know how effective and timely Agape is at their relief effort. For that answer, bear with me for one more story. A week ago, a doctor and a nurse showed up at the hangar, wanting a ride to Haiti so they could treat victims. Until there was a plane with available space, they offered to help sort supplies. They worked on prioritizing and shipping medical supplies for two days, and then the doctor got on a flight, followed by the nurse a day later. The plane, as are all Agape's flights, was met in Port au Prince by local missionaries, they drove the doctor into the city in their own small pickup, squeezing through the rubble-filled mess like only a local vehicle could. When the doctor arrived at a hospital, he found the only supplies on hand were from Agape. He recognized his own and the nurse's handwriting on the boxes they had sorted. Why were Agape's boxes the only ones at the hospital? Every flight is met by local missionaries, who live and work in Port au Prince year round. Those people immediately take the supplies from the airports, in their own vehicles and get them straight into the hands of people that need them. At the time of these medical deliveries, the roads were still too demolished for big military trucks to get through. But, for people with small pickups, that knew their way around town, it was passable. The doctor was able to use the missionaries to get word back to the nurse, still at Agape's hangar, of what other supplies were immediately needed when she followed him down.

I am thrilled to be here, and am thus far impressed with the organizations policy of using the network they have in place to best serve the needs of the emergency. I do not yet know when I will make my first trip to Haiti, but it looks likely for this weekend. Meanwhile, I have been the ecstatic recipient of the unbelievable hospitality of friends. I have been given a ride across the state, a car, comfortable housing, and delicious food by wonderful friends, eager to help in anyway they can. A local salon owner even offered me a free massage "to help me relax from my efforts." I kid you not. However, I am pretty relaxed right now, watching people help each other, and getting to be a part of it.

Thank you for all your words of encouragement. I will keep you posted as my time here unfolds. I have made an initial commitment of two weeks with Agape, possibly more. The immediate stage of emergency is changing into finding a regular system that will alleviate the recovery needs within Port au Prince and surrounding communities, however, the disaster is still at hand, and just yesterday another survivor was rescued.

College Kids: The best time wasters the world has to offer

In college, I was FANTASTIC at wasting time. I just had so much of it, I had to improve my skills over the course of four years. In high school, they made me go to school 6 hours a day, and then, participating in "extracurriculars": add two more hours. Factor in eating, sleeping, talking on the phone and watching Friends, and I'd have a schedule as busy as any working adult.
If you really want to challenge your procrastination skills, you have to go to college. Two, maybe three, classes a day. Live, learn and eat all at the same location to cancel out any commute time. Sports and such things are courteously reserved for those who aren't at school to learn, so the scholastics don't have to waste any time on the courts or fields. You live with everyone you talk to, so cancel the time spent on the phone. Thus, the college bound 18-year-old is burdened with a 2-3 hour daily schedule, that is, for the most part, optional.
What would you do if your schedule, in the space of 3 months, was cut from 8 hours a day, to 2? This is a questioned reserved otherwise for retirees. So, I'll tell you what you do: You make sure neither of your 2 classes start before 11am. You skip breakfast, because you don't go to sleep until 3am. Besides the time spent consuming your 2 meals, you talk to your neighbors, you party, and you play on the Internet. (I use the word "play" not to demean collegiates, but because 99% of use of the brilliant tool we call "the Internet" could be classified as non-essential. Excepting, of course, Facebook.)
Fortunately, at college, you are surrounded by thousands of other 18- to 21-yr-olds, all burdened with the same schedule. Helping each other, you can fine tune your Internet surfing skills and consume all the best music, movies, networks and other entertainment the World Wide Web has to offer.
My skills have slipped, I am sad to say. No matter how hard I try to stay in touch, as years fill in the gap between me and university, I have a smaller and smaller clue as to what "the buzz" is. Occasionally, I contact some coeds for a reminiscent glimpse at what I would know if I spent a better part of my time trying to kill it with other clock spinners. It can be painful. You learn that your iBook G4, that you spent a fortune on a few years ago and thought made you look like a Mac-loving hipster, is really "so 2006" and you might as well be lugging around a green-screened Apple IIGS. But, most of the time I spend with my college-going cousins is filled with pearls of wisdom, as time spent with those that the Internet was truly made for only can be.
I couldn't attempt to share with you the benefits of a few hours with a 17-22 year old. However, I can reveal my newest toy: "Senuti". It will probably be inoperative by the time I post this, going the way of music-sharing methods of the past generation. However, it took talking to a college kid to learn that there is finally a way to upload music off of someone else's ipod into iTunes. I have doubled my music collection in the past 2 weeks. It's as exciting as someone giving you a mix tape. And that hasn't happened in a while either.
Of course, I don't have enough memory on my antiquated machine to hold any more music. But the option is out there. It makes me feel cooler. Younger. Like I could waste a bunch of time I should be writing hunting through friends iPods for tunes. Or blogging about it.

The Sky is Falling! The Sky is Falling!

We were on an EMT call yesterday when earth started to fall from the sky.  This particular flavor of earth was volcanic ash. It came down in a fine, brown mist that stunk of sulphur (or, as a fellow EMT put it, 'smelled like Satan').  Visibility was reduced to less than a quarter mile as the ash cloud rolled into Homer around 1:30pm.

They had been warning us for weeks that Mt. Redoubt, a 9,000 foot volcano 75 miles Northwest of Homer, AK, was set to erupt, and the volcano finally did deliver on Monday, but the wind was blowing to the north, and all the selfish people of Homer danced a jig because the volcanic ash poured down on the interior of Alaska, near Talkeetna, instead of on us.  

Well, apparently Mt. Redoubt frowned on such selfishness and let forth another  belch yesterday around 9am, throwing a plume of ash, steam, smoke and other smelly stuff to 60,000 feet.  The wind was blowing straight across the Cook Inlet towards Homer. When the ash started to fall, someone told me to put 'pantyhose' over the air intake on my car. I have been in Alaska two years and have yet to spot a pair of panty hose. They are certainly not stocked, and are possibly even illegal in the state.  I guess I will just change my air filter and hope for the best.

The ash fell for a couple hours, and then the sky turned blue and the sun came out to reveal that the whole world was covered in a gritty layer of brownish grey.  No flights were arriving or departing Anchorage, let alone Homer. The senior citizens and Y2K-type fanatics had cleared the shelves of the grocery store. My aunt called to tell me to start digging an outhouse to preserve water.  

Redoubt has erupted 3 more times since yesterday morning. We can't tell if what is falling right now is ash or snow. Al Gore's Internet claims that the ash is rolling towards Anchorage this time.  She's still kicking, but the majestic Mt. Redoubt has already covered an area the size of the I-94 corridor from Minneapolis to Chicago with a layer of ash, grounded hundreds of airplanes, stopped thousands of cars, and forced a whole bunch of people to walk around with bird flu masks on.  

Amazingly, if you check out CNN or FOXNEWS, they aren't really covering these eruptions. Usually, Alaskans are used to being ignored by the rest of America in all cases except those of political idiocy and corruption, but this time we're taking second chair to a national disaster in North Dakota? That seems a little insulting.  Besides, if it's not on Foxnews, how will my mom know to worry that her daughter has moved to the next Pompeii, or to ask how my outhouse is coming?

Honduras

I just got home from a country where you have to put your toilet paper in a bin next to the toilet. Anna and I were only in Honduras for five days, but we managed to see Mayan ruins, drive treacherous roads through mountain forests, see coffee beans being dried, snorkel with squid, and even enjoy some karaoke.  

We were met at the airport by a woman with a sign that

 read, "ANDERSON STEPHANIE."  Turns out she worked for the company I had rented a car from, and they didn't have an office at the airport. Oh, and she doesn't speak english. Oh, and the rental documents are all in Spanish. Please sign these three credit card slips, carte blanche. Gracias, here is a crappy American car, we're glad you Americans showed up to drive it.  Anna took a few years of Spanish in high school from someone that was reading it out of a book. And, I lived in a tourist town in Mexico for a few crazy months. Thus, our combined command of the language is as daunting to us as anyone trying to understand us.  We have trouble even asking directions to the bathroom.  Anna approached some Muchachos with fistfuls of money to swap dollars for Lempiras (or "limps" as we came to know them), and then we were on our way.

Driving in Honduras involves dodging everything: buses, semis, cows, horses, bikes, dogs,

chickens, potholes the size of Connecticut, ill-placed speed

 bumps, tractors, children, people peddling wares in the road, etc.  Our little Chevy maneuvered around and up and down the

 mountains through all the bumps and jostles, but not in the time frame we had planned from the comfort of our American interstate highway system.  It took us 4 hours to go from San Pedro Sula to Copan Ruinas... a journey of 200km (120miles).  

Copan Ruinas is home to my favorite Mayan ruins. This is not only because they have some of the best preserved hieroglyphs in the Mayan world, but because they are the only Mayan ruins I have ever seen. The ruins are an amazing testament to the Mayan culture, and we took lots of pictures of rocks trying to capture even a little of the scale.

We shared our tour of the ruins with a British couple, Kate and

 Justin, and somehow convinced them to track down the local hot springs with us. We should have known from our experience with the road that a 20km drive would take longer than a 20 km walk, but we pressed on through the hills and villages to find boiling springs pouring into a small river. This served as a local bath tub and bike wash, but we wallowed along with the locals and the sweltering fishes.

The next morning, Kate and Justin bravely hopped in the car with us for the drive to La Ceiba. Once we passed San Pedro Sula, the road surprised us by flattening, straightening out, and widening into multiple lanes. The police stopped us once, M16s hanging from their necks, but were frustrated by my Spanish enough to hurry us along.  We made the ferry dock in La Ceiba with time to spare and all four of us headed for the Bay Island of Roatan.  After one and a half hours and a little seasickness, we arrived on Roatan and were promptly attacked by taxi drivers competing to drive us to West End, the tourist town at, you guessed it, the west end of the island. Kate took no nonsense and got us a sweet deal.  

Have you ever noticed the weird things you see and people you meet in the simple task of

 finding a hotel?  Walking around a town and asking for room prices can really be an exhausting experience, and West End was no exception. The cabbie wanted a commision for walking us to a hotel, one hotelier practically cried when she told us she was booked for the night, one manager said she wouldn't serve people with backpacks, and one place was crawling with people not wearing shirts. We ended up at a fantastic spot, Half Moon Bay Resort, but didn't really realize our luck until the sun rose the next day and we saw the snorkeling right off our front deck.

Roatan was a place full of tourists and divers, and I was really surprised how much like a Mexican resort town West End was.  Kate quipped that diving is really just about looking cool and wearing the t-shirt and there was plenty of posturing going on along the streets and at the bars.  After two days of snorkeling, we had to head back for the mainland, but instead of heading straight for the airport we decided to make one more stop.

Tela is a beach town an hour outside of San Pedro Sula. We began the hunt for a room again and were told, while looking at a dingy, stuffy, run down hotel, that we'd better book now because it was Saturday night and Valentines day. Anna questioned the romantic demand on this particular option, but the joke was lost in translation. We ended up at a budget hotel, reasoning that we had to get up at 4am.  Lucky for the other budget travelers, they had to get up too, because after we went to bed early for our early wake up, a few late night arrivals parked our car in.  

Faithfully, some people from our office-less car rental met us at 6:30am and we made our plane. We rolled into George Bush International in Houston and flashed our passports at customs. None of the immigration officers say "Welcome Home" anymore. They're all too suspicious. We even got questioned for not having enough luggage... it may now be illegal to NOT bring suspicious items into the country.  But at least there's the toilet paper... flush! down the toilet. Must be home.