My favorite story from the island.

From May '07

Some people join the Peace Corps so they can discover what they want to do with the rest of their lives. Some people hope to discover their passion, their calling, their ultimate being in life. I am happy to say that I have now found my calling in life; professional victim.
The FAA, FEMA, and DHLS (that’s Department of Homeland Security for those of you not up to date on all of your government agency acronyms) staged a mock plane crash at the airport this morning. Local fire fighters, medical personnel, police, airport staff, and marine rescue staff all participated in a week long training workshop that culminated in today’s simulated disaster scenario.
From the first moment that I heard about this exercise, I knew that I wanted to be a part of it. Certainly I was hoping to get to wear some fake blood and maybe even a stump, but the real reason I wanted to participate was to see the chaos of five different government agencies trying to rescue over a hundred people from a plane crash.
Maybe I should explain why I was slightly pessimistic about our rescue workers’ abilities. The island of Kosrae (population 8000) has one functioning ambulance. And calling it an ambulance is probably a misnomer. The ambulance is simply a van painted white. There is no medical equipment inside; no oxygen, no crash cart, no medications. Added to that, the state hospital has only a limited ability to perform medical procedures on patients. Most major surgeries are referred off-island to either Hawaii or the Philippines. What would an understaffed, under-experienced and ill-equipped group of people do when confronted with a major disaster? Well, I just had to be there to find out.
I found myself at the cargo entrance to the airport early Thursday morning, waiting for the rest of the volunteer ‘bodies’ to arrive. Apparently the guys running the simulation were having some trouble finding volunteers to help out as victims. So the state turned to their favorite source of unpaid labor, the prisoners. Just to make things interesting, the bus that brought the prisoners out to the airport was also carrying about three dozen school children who would be helping out as wounded crash survivors.
The convicts and students filed out of the bus and we all headed over to the staging area where we were divided according to our imaginary wounds. Most of the children were placed into the green group (dazed, but unhurt) and a few were labeled yellow (walking wounded.) I was thrilled to find myself with a red label (severely injured, immobile.) One of the police asked the FAA coordinator what he wanted to do with the prisoners. “There are prisoners here?! Why would you allow prisoners to participate in this exercise? Well, let’s just put them in the black group (deceased) and make sure they don’t hurt any of the kids.”
Before we could take our positions on the runway next to the crash sight, my new red group friends and I had to get into character. I was issued an index card on a string that I wore around my neck. In large print, the card read, “UNCONSCIOUS, PULSE ABSENT, NO REPSIRATION AFTER AIRWAY ESTABLISHED.” Next I put on a large piece of rubbery skin that made me look like my intestines had spilled out of my stomach. As a final touch, I was splattered with large amounts of blood on my arms, legs, face, and torso. I couldn’t stop smiling.
A school bus delivered all of the various colored victims to our places around the runway. Fires were lit in a few metal barrels to signify the start of our exercise, and to give the firemen something to do. I lay down in a patch of grass next to the runway, my rubber intestines spilling onto the ground next to me, and waited to be rescued.
Within a few minutes, paramedics found me in the grass and assessed my wounds. I was determined to be in very critical condition and was placed on a stretcher. Two IVs were taped to my arms. One of the paramedics wet a bandage and placed it lightly over my protruding bowels. Two police officers rolled me onto a canvas stretcher and brought me over to where the ambulance (again, singular) was parked.
Unfortunately, the ambulance immediately rushed off to take a different victim to the hospital, so I was placed in the back of a police pick-up truck. One police officer drove while the other sat in the back with me and held onto my IVs. I stared up at the sky and tried to stay in character while my yellow flip-flops dangled over the edge of the pick-up.
The drive from the airport to the hospital normally takes about 20 minutes, but my driver was determined to make this exercise as real as possible. He sped through the villages, honking his horn to scare off the dogs. The officer in the back with me kept shouting to the driver, “Muhi! Muhi! El mas napwaye! Faster! Faster! He’s very sick!” I was pleased that these guys were so concerned about me, but I also didn’t want to make the transition from make-believe crash victim to real-life crash victim. I would occasionally ‘wake-up’ from my coma to remind them, “Muhi pa wo, tu taran beh. Fast is good, but be careful too.”
We arrived safely at the hospital and I was transferred from the stretcher in the back of the truck to a bed in an exam room. After a very brief exam, (“Guts out. No respiration. Intubate. Call surgery.”) I was wheeled into the surgery room.
At this point I was starting to worry a bit about how far we were going to take this scenario. The head (and only) surgeon came in and unceremoniously informed me that I had died during surgery. My wounds were too severe, and the long drive from the airport while I had no pulse or respiration would have likely meant I was on dead on arrival.
I got up from the gurney, removed my IVs and rubber guts, and wandered out of the surgery room. While still covered in fake blood, I walked through the hospital and apologized to all of the staff for dying. I’m sorry, I told them. It wasn’t your fault. You tried your best. Thank you for helping me.