After we arrived, I noticed a well-equipped French search-and-rescue team from another flight in the baggage area. They were dressed for work. Their uniforms resembled those of firefighters. They were surrounded by first-class gear: compact ladders, dogs, stretchers.

I walked through their makeshift camp, just to say hello and wish them well. But finally, after 15 minutes, I had to ask: "What are you waiting for?"

Eric Zipper, one of the team members, said they were waiting for their bags. Like everyone else. News from Port-au-Prince confirms that unloading planes is one of the slowest challenges to delivering aid. I saw it even at this small level. There is nothing worse than imagining thousands of people trapped by rubble and seeing a body-sniffing dog cry out from his cage at the luggage carousel, 200 miles away.

The French team members came to Santo Domingo because they could not find someone to help them in Miami. I soon learned that they had no way into Port-au-Prince, no contacts on the ground, and no one knew they were coming. "Didn't you call the French Embassy?" I asked. They said they got no answer there or from anyone else. They decided to come anyway.

Just two weeks ago, I was in buildings that later collapsed in Port-au-Prince: Hotel Montana, Hotel Christopher, homes, offices. It could be me trapped there now. And if it were, for as long as I held on, I would be asking, "Where is everyone?"

I promised Eric I would help in any way I could to find a flight. They had 2,000 kilos of gear with them, which meant they needed a plane, or a heavy-duty helicopter. Alternately, they could go in with a mini-squad and the gear could come later.

As we walked out of immigration, I spotted a small piece of paper taped to the wall: "UN Reception Center." An arrow pointed up a set of stairs. It reminded me of when I arrived in Baghdad in 2005 and the Iraqis had scrawled out a little sign, "Visa Office," and taped it to a wall. They had set up two desks with nothing but pens, their cigarettes and a stamp.

At midnight Saturday, when we came in, the U.N. desk was empty. There was a paper form for organizations to fill out saying who they are and what they are doing. About a dozen forms left from the day before were sitting on the table.

Also on the desk, written out with a marker, was a sign listing "Useful Numbers." Once I saw that sign, I felt the dread rising. Santo Domingo is not even within the crisis zone, yet coordination is so minimal, so unprofessional, so clearly without leadership that my heart sank.

The "Useful Numbers" sign listed the International Disaster Hotline, Emergency UNDAC, the World Food Program, Dominican Civil Defense and the U.S. State Department.

The paperwork was provided by USAR (Urban Search and Rescue) and INSARAG (International Search and Rescue Advisory Group), a network of 80 countries and disaster response organizations led by the U.N. The list gives a sense of how many hands are in this pot, and why it's impossible to get clear information at any given moment.

By coincidence, there was a commercial helicopter pilot talking to an airport employee in the same room. Bill Doonen, a representative of Evergreen Helicopters, said he could take the French team in. But it would cost about $7,000 an hour, with a four-hour minimum.

"Of course," he said, "it would take some time. We'd have to go through the normal contracting process, defining a statement of mission and so forth, but I'm sure we could work with your company. A couple days, minimum." The Frenchmen, luckily, couldn't understand him.

Along with my friend, Helder Tavarez, a Dominican, we looked over the map of Haiti with the team. They said they were interested in going to Jacmel, a border town in Haiti that some say was hit worse than Port-au-Prince. I suggested they take a boat. Helder described how they could easily go from the town of Pedernales and the port of Cabo Rojo to Haiti.

"OK," Eric said, "but if we take a boat, then the problem is getting a truck to carry all this gear into the town."

"Are you kidding?!" I said. "Hire a dozen guys to carry it! Go!"

Eventually, they left their paperwork at the desk and went off, discouraged, to rest for the next day. On Monday I discovered that they were able to get a boat into Jacmel, with the cooperation of the Dominican government, which will now begin running regular military-led boat trips from Cabo Rojo to Jacmel to support the relief effort.

Part of me wanted to scream, "Too little! Too late!" I knew there was no aid coming in. I saw the same reports as everyone else about "coordination" problems. But somehow, I didn't believe that a 20-person, search-and-rescue team could arrive without welcome, without any communal urgency, with only a hand-scrawled list of names to call. There is no one in charge, that much is clear.

Everyone who is getting in now is doing so through their own audacious persistence, me included.

Bill Doonen, on the other hand, is already starting negotiations with the U.N. "People are doing a lot of humanitarian, charity flights in now," he said. "But that's going to dry up soon. And that's where we come in."