D-Day

Suddenly I'm awake and its 4am. I was dreaming about somewhere pleasant that I can't remember now. My eyes slowly adjust. Through the open window three beams of moonlight draw bars along the wall. A dog sounds lonely in the distance, its not an angry bark. There's an unusual breeze and I shiver for the first time since arriving. My bed sheet is thin and still creased from the packaging, where did toss my shirt? I try to lie still while anxious thoughts creep around me. My roommates snore loudly and I envy them; I want to be asleep too.

Tomorrow we begin the first of many massive distributions. In terms of distributions past, this one is substantial—but not my biggest. Yet somehow it owns me. The staff is not strong, and the rest of my team have their own responsibilities. I am utterly reliant on a Haitian woman I met by sheer providence. Before the earthquake she was a journalist. Now she is the strongest community leader I've met—and her responsibility is great. By speaking directly to her over the course of the planning phase all the other community leaders have naturally started to recognize her as their boss. Yesterday I met her and another young man (who took it upon himself to be my translator) at the office to review our plan. After we finished she began to narrate pictures she was showing on her laptop of the moments following the earthquake. My mind was still on the distribution plan and I wasn't really listening. Then she showed a picture of her colleagues: she's dead now, and him too, they didn't make it out... she was our secretary, my best friend. I looked at her and realized it was important for her that I know this. Quel est son nom? Genevievre.

Distributions are like pick-up trucks. Work around them long enough and you become familiar with the makes and models. Each one is different, but each one is the same. Trucks breakdown when they aren't maintained properly and the same is true with distributions. Before you load everyone into the back and punch it, you'd better make sure you know how to drive. The staff need to have a strong will, be innovative and take the initiative. Usually you find your future leaders in a distribution—they're the ones really sweating. Once you start, you had better finish or have a damn obvious reason why you can't. Speeding down the highway you cannot waver. Massive populations crowded around means you are constantly being watched, your every action is being interpreted as a sign of fortune or doom. If the the mass perceives there is a problem—true or not—they begin to panic. Then the wheels come off.

The translator looks like Puff Daddy and speaks English with a Brooklyn accent. I wondered why until I told him he had the job: Ok sir, but you gotta know I done some bad things back in New York. All I mean to say is that if you check my history, then you gonna see I was in prison for some time and then the judge sent me back here. But I ain't that kid no more. My Dad's the president of a bank here. I was supposed to be the family doctor, you know? I'm changed, so I'm be honest with you. I smile. Ok, bon vivant, redeem yourself.

All that shaking and yet this dark old house doesn't have a crack in it. Its filthy, but well built. I'm really thirsty but my water bottle's empty. My stomach is churning and I'm not sure if its something I ate or the reality of dawn on the horizon. The roosters are already crowing. Soon the hard-working no-nonsense mamma that cooks for us will arrive and light the burners on her stove to prepare banana porridge. Its delicious and so is her coffee, but something's wrong with the burner. Every morning the house fills with the acrid smell of burnt fuel. Another thing to fix. So get up you lazy butt. Splash water on your face and slick back your dirty hair, then get in that truck and punch it.

But I can't move, not yet. A memory of my first food distribution, in east Sudan, comes to mind. Everything was prepared but me. I was unsure of myself—probably because I hadn't a clue what to do. I had a strong national staff though, and I relied on their ability. Half-way through things got bad, then very bad. I became anxious and my staff sensed it. This caused them to loose confidence and in a rapidly short span of time we were staring into the brink. I called my boss to ask for help and I'll never forget what he said: Joel, you've just got to wade in there, pick the whole thing up and smash it through. I did, and it worked.

I run through a mental checklist for the umpteenth time. Waybills, release notes, beneficiary lists, ration cards. We will feed nearly 25,000 people so (the illusion of) control is critical. My drivers are prepped. We don't use UN transport—its slow and cumbersome and attracts too much attention. Instead I use ugly looking office warehouse type trucks. I'll even use dump trucks to fool everyone in thinking that we're not worth following. Its covert, and so far its been effective. The distribution site will be ringed by the best paid soldiers in the Nepalese Army. The Captain is professional and calm and smiles with his eyes.

Still in bed. Perhaps I just need to remind myself of what will come next, just psych myself up for what will be a very long week. Yes. Pick it up and swoop in with a bit of bravado and a whole lot of energy; not the person I think I am but the person I will be. Part commando, part accountant. My eyes are closed, I'm dozing off again—just a couple more minutes. Then I hear a creak in the kitchen, the clink of a pot. Aaahh, there she is—the burners are lit. I'm sitting up to take a big breath: I love the smell of napalm in the morning...