DANGEROUS INDIA (Part 2)

(States of Mizoram, Manipur, and Nagaland, India: November, 2000): On our return bus trip from Sielmat to Imphal, we bumped into some surprises. The military had expanded and greatly intensified its presence. Tomorrow the governor of the area will be speaking at a cultural event in Churachandpur. He will be traveling the same road we’ve traveled, and the speaking platform and performance stage were built not too far from the Christian hospital where we are working.

Apparently, the military had been alerted to the possibility of the local underground insurgents making a protest somewhere during the event. Soldiers of the Indian National Army lined the roads, manned machine-gun roadblocks, and could be seen at every intersection, along the edges of the rice fields, and in armor-plated minitanks. Truckloads of the regional Assam Rifles military forces could also be seen wearing full combat gear, with old M-16 rifles over their shoulders or AK-47 automatic rifles in their laps. They certainly were expecting something.

Our bus was stopped several times, and on a couple of occasions, armed soldiers boarded our bus with guns drawn to find out who we were. It’s comforting to know they’re in the area to keep things under control.

It was about an hour after dark by the time we unloaded from the bus at the Imphal hotel. Some of the group said they had heard gunshots during the night quite close to the hotel. But since the Assam Rifles headquarters is on the other side of a water moat not far from our hotel, any importance ascribed to the alleged gunfire was quickly dismissed.

Wednesday, November 1

Drew ate some mutton curry on rice last night, and by this morning he was regretting it and swearing to never look at mutton curry again as long as he lives. We decided it would be the better part of wisdom for him to just stay close to the bathroom for the day. The rest of us piled into the bus and headed to Sielmat to work. The military presence had been heightened even more overnight, but our group took all the pressure in stride and accomplished our respective agendas.

This evening we visited the Imphal Christian school and enjoyed dinner there. As we drove back to the hotel property, we saw military vehicles and armed soldiers stationed outside the hotel gates. Even other hotel guests were talking about the increased military presence.

Thursday, November 2

This morning Drew was feeling well enough to join the rest of the group. We decided to leave the hotel half an hour earlier just to give us sufficient time on the road. Before we pulled out of the hotel driveway, we had determined that we would travel a circuitous route to Sielmat and stay off the main road to save time and the inconvenience of stopping at military checkpoints. The alternate route took us along inferior roads that at times crossed over the tops of the rice-paddy dikes.

But everyone agreed there was no sense in traveling the main road, where the military presence was so strong. We didn’t want to experience any unnecessary delays.

One of the local church leaders with us had heard that a dissident group of university students had blocked and closed the main road and the entry to the airport, which we passed every day. The insurgent group was demanding some specific concessions from the government before they would call off the strike and road closure.

Our group agenda for today included participating in the dedication ceremonies of a newly built church at Lamka, which is situated quite close to the Sielmat hospital. Our alternate route turned out to be very rough and pocked with deep washout spots from the rainy season. I was riding at the front of the bus in the seat adjacent to the driver. We had just made a sweeping curve and started down a long hill. I watched the driver put his foot on the clutch to shift the transmission. The clutch pedal went to the floor, but instead of springing back up and engaging the transmission, the pedal just stayed on the floorboard. The driver kicked at the pedal several times with no result. The road leveled out, and the bus slowly came to a halt, stopping in the middle of a bad stretch of washed-out road.

The driver became a little more animated as he reached down and pulled the pedal off the floor by hand. Nothing happened. The transmission seemed to be shifting fine, but the clutch mechanism was broken and wouldn’t engage. We were stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Mobile phones were nonexistent, and towing companies were a distant figment of past recollections.

We all disembarked from our immobile dinosaur and laid hands on its tail long enough to push it out of the center of the road. After we had brainstormed several impractical possibilities, a man who had passed us earlier in a bus returned with a small, heave-green-colored army jeep that sported a blue plastic tarp over the back, suspended by split-bamboo sticks. He suggested that he could take a few of us at a time to some town about thirty-six kilometers away, where we could catch a local death-trap bus that would likely be able to take us on the back roads to Sielmat. We bought into his plan except for the part where our group would get split up, with some of us waiting and some of us traveling for several hours. That wouldn’t have been safe.

It seemed the only viable option was for all twelve of us to try to squeeze into the jeep with all our belongings. We ended up with five adults in the front two seats and seven squeezed into the back under the flapping blue tarp. The ride certainly became a close bonding situation as we joined hips Siamese style. About an hour and fifteen minutes later, the jeep delivered us to the dusty intersection of a small village. There, the driver of one of the famous, intimidating Tata buses waited impatiently for us to board his bus, which was already loaded with suitcases and other pieces of unnecessary stuff.

By the time we pulled into the town bus barn in Churachandpur, we had stretched the usual two -hour trip into a full six-hour ordeal. The real miracle was that we even made it to Sielmat at all. Because of our untimely delays, the church dedication was rolled back to later in the afternoon.

The dedication, once started, went off without a hitch, and everyone was so proud of the new brick sanctuary building. Visiting church choirs had come to share in the ceremony, and at the close of the regular service, we all filed out into the churchyard, where we were served sweet juice and gummy bread while the youth groups put on a cultural program of ancient dancing in their colorful tribal outfits. At one point, the dancers came over and pulled us white folks into the circle and had us do some kind of a chicken-mating dance with them.

While we were engaged in the festivities, the rest of the world was in chaos. The military situation had taken a turn for the worse and had erupted into tragic violence. At about 3:30 p.m., some of the striking insurgents allegedly detonated a bomb in the ranks of the Assam Rifles military organization. The blast killed one soldier outright and wounded others. It was reported to us and later in the newspapers that when the Assam Rifles group realized that one of their men had been murdered, they retaliated with lightning speed by opening fire on civilians at a bus stop not far from the airport, killing ten on the spot and injuring some thirty others.

It didn’t take long for us to size up the situation and realize we were in a pickle. Now, all the roads back to Imphal were blocked. We couldn’t return to the capital city, but we couldn’t legally stay where we were. Either way we were in trouble. The military was moving with vengeance, and the strikers would try to take advantage of the high-profile incident and the momentum it ignited.

Next Week: Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

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DANGEROUS INDIA (Part 1)

Note: In the next few blogs I will relate a sensational episode from my field journals covering the far flung and hazardous areas of northeastern India. I am dedicating these blogs to Dr. Drew Dixon, who is now a prominent medical doctor with a beautiful family and is heavily involved in a career of helping scores of other people become better off.

(States of Mizoram, Manipur, and Nagaland, India: October, 2000): Drew Dixon, a young college graduate from a fine Christian home in the Denver area, somehow got ahold of one of my travel journals and read it. His plans included going to medical school, but he was looking for some real-life medical experience while waiting to determine which school he would attend. When he read of my experiences with Project C.U.R.E. and our impact on world health, God seemed to tug at his heart and compelled him to learn more about Project C.U.R.E. As a result of a meeting Dr. Douglas Jackson and I had with Drew and his father, Dr. Jim Dixon, Drew decided to work full-time for Project C.U.R.E. He even raised his own money to come on as a stipended volunteer.

We started Drew out in the warehouse to get a feel of the scope of the domestic side of Project C.U.R.E. Very soon Doug promoted him to logistics coordinator to oversee domestic truck transportation and the shipping of containers into foreign ports.

To help Drew get an idea of Project C.U.R.E.’s international procedures and policies, I asked him to accompany me on a trip to northeast India. A ministry organization, headed by John Pudaite, had made application for Project C.U.R.E. to help them complete a hospital in a city called Sielmat, in the far flung northeastern state of Manipur. Additionally, there were a number of other clinics and hospitals in the northeast that John wanted us to visit and assess. We agreed to schedule the needs-assessment trip for late October and early November. I was praying that the India trip would make a life-changing and unforgettable impression on Drew.

The trip required several layers of permission, since our destinations were considered restricted areas for foreign travel. Strangely, the restrictions were set in place not by the US State Department but by the Indian government. For a time, it appeared that the whole trip would be scratched. Civil and military unrest isn’t uncommon in northeast India. Old feelings about secession and gaining independence from India are still strong in the freedom-fighter hearts of the people in Manipur, Mizoram, and Nagaland. India’s military still occupies those areas, even though New Delhi granted them statehood status.

Our flights took us through Bombay, Calcutta and on to Aizawl, Mizoram, where John and Evelyn Pudaite and a small reception committee of government dignitaries were there to meet us. The population of Aizawl numbers about five hundred thousand. We were taken to the local government headquarters to be registered. As I mentioned earlier, the Indian government in New Delhi considers the three states we’ll be visiting restricted areas. The northeast cluster of states doesn’t really feel they should be a part of the rest of India, not only because they are separated physically from India by Bangladesh but also because the languages and customs are different, the people ancestrally look more Mongol than Asian Indian, and their religion is different. Instead of following the Hindu religion, about 80 percent of the people in northeast India are Christians, and they resist being governed by Hindus or Muslims. But any notion of independence is severely punished.

While the rest of our party was arriving in Aizawl and getting organized, Drew and I headed out on a ten-hour jaunt to an area called Lunglei to assess another hospital and several clinics. About half way there we had to stop for the night at Chittalang. Drew and I were awakened about sunrise the next morning by a sound that resembled an air-raid siren. I got up, pulled on my clothes, and went outside to investigate. On the branches of the eucalyptus trees and the broad leaves of the banana plants, as well as on the ceiling of the covered walkway outside our room, was a countless myriad of large winged insects about four inches in length that were green in color and way noisier than any jungle insect ought to be. A very loud whistle emitted from its posterior, and the sound kept going for at least ten minutes straight. I mentioned the annoying bug to our host at breakfast, and he said the insect was just singing. Local folk songs had even been written about the pesky pestilence.

After a long, long day of hard travel, Drew and I made it back to Aizawl and checked into the hotel where the rest of the team members were staying. A big percentage of the group was sick with vomiting and diarrhea. Thankfully, our side trip to Lunglei had allowed us to dodge that bullet.

Monday, October 30

Upon finishing our work in Aizawl, we flew on to the adjoining state of Manipur, India. Again, even though we obtained permission from the Indian government in New Delhi to enter the restricted area, we had to register in Manipur after our arrival on Indian Airlines flight 211.

John Pudaite’s mission compound in northeast India is located in Sielmat, a village about an-hour-and-a-half drive beyond the capital city of Imphal, Manipur. There they have a Christian hospital, a school of fifteen hundred students, a seminary, several quite large churches, and lovely brick homes for staff members. John planned for the team members to stay at the mission compound in Sielmat today through Saturday. Laundry facilities would be available, and kitchen facilities could accommodate the needs of the group very well.

But when we arrived at the Imphal International Airport, the Indian military authorities wouldn’t grant permission for the group to travel from Imphal to Sielmat or stay overnight there. We received approval to travel each day to and from the mission compound, but with the stipulation that we would return to the capital city by night and stay at the Imphal hotel on Tiddim Road. We learned that there had been some civil unrest recently. Certain insurgency groups and university students were making demands upon the Manipur and Indian governments to address the oppressive actions of the Indian military army, as well as certain claims of rape and assault by the regional military group called the Assam Rifles and additional pressures applied by the local Imphal police.

John and Evelyn Pudaite were disappointed that the group won’t be able to stay at their compound. It will definitely be an inconvenience to hire a bus each day to haul all of us one and a half hours one way from Imphal to Sielmat and the town of Churachandpur. But it was agreed that we will simply do the best we can with what we have and endeavor to have a successful week.

The Imphal hotel’s condition and management made it even tougher to adjust. The place is dirty, and deferred maintenance is about to swamp the facility. There is only one sheet per bed and no toilet paper, and the carpets are not only old but filthy. The towels are stained and not thoroughly clean because they have been laundered over the years in cold, dirty water without soap. The grounds have been left unattended except for holy cows, which have been allowed to wander at will and munch the lawn and shrubs. In order to relax in bed, it is necessary to put a piece of clothing over my pillow to block out undesirable smells and unwanted soiling.

Tuesday, October 31

At 6:30 a.m., our entourage left the Imphal hotel in the old beat-up silver bus that we had rented. We were headed to complete the needs assessment at the Christian hospital located in Sielmat. The traffic was heavy, and we had to stop many times for military checkpoints, so it took us two and a half hours to make the journey instead of the normal one and a half hours.

The Christian hospital is far better off than the government hospitals. But they too have some pretty pathetic needs. They have no monitors, EKG machines, or defibrillators, and their lab equipment is very poor. They had made some homemade IV poles out of wood, and none of the staff had ever heard of oxygen generators. Their closest supply source for bottled oxygen is nearly six hundred miles away. Sometimes the bus brings it to them; other times not. But the hospital was clean, and I easily observed that the people who work there care a lot about what they’re doing.

When we finished our needs assessment at the Christian hospital, Dr. Joute and others afforded me a wonderful experience. They had dug a fresh hole about eighteen inches deep and had placed a small-sized rubber tree next to the hole. They had a little ceremony and asked me to plant the rubber tree in front of the hospital. It was a great honor. They also made a plaque commemorating the occasion, and when I was finished planting the tree, they placed a bamboo guard around the tree and very properly affixed the plaque. They told me I must return each year to check up on my tree.

At lunch the Indian Children’s Choir came to where we were eating and entertained us. Last year the group toured the United States raising support and scholarship money. They were great kids. It’s great to have Drew along on the trip. He has a lot of insight and loves the medical emphasis. And it’s wonderful to have someone I can turn the camera over to so that I don’t have to worry about the photo documentation.

During the afternoon, Drew, John, a couple of other doctors, and I toured the government hospital. You can only imagine what a sad mess we found. Once again, I prayed as I walked the halls that I will never be in an automobile accident anywhere, but especially in India or Africa, where they would throw me on the back of a truck and deliver me to a local government hospital while I was unconscious!

Next Week: Grenades and Gun Fire

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THE FORMAL PRESENTATION

(Dakar, Senegal: October 6, 1999:) Over the past two days we located our 40-foot cargo container, collected and hand carried all our paperwork for approval through over 30 bureaucrats and departments, and personally saw to it that the valuable medical goods were delivered to the government warehouse. That location would be the venue for our official presentation.

The ceremony is to start at 4:00 this afternoon. The government leaders, and the national press with live T.V. coverage will all be here. The pressure is on us now to completely unload the huge cargo container, organize the contents, set up for the festivities, go back to the hotel to clean up, and return here in time for the presentation.

With some extra sets of hands and strong backs, we were able to unload the entire container by noon. We arranged all the contents under some spreading, leafy trees at the front of the compound.  I was sweating like a pony-express nag running out of Saint Louis, and my mind kept jumping ahead to the presentation ceremony. By then it was 2:15 p.m. Mamadou Gueye drove me back to my hotel, where I showered and dressed up for the ceremony.

When we drove back to the warehouse the whole health-ministry world had shown up for the event. I was escorted to the head of a line of dignitaries. National newspaper reporters and television crews were there to cover the story.  I greeted all the dignitaries and the ceremony began. There was a speech in French welcoming everyone to the occasion. Nothing of such medical magnitude had taken place in Senegal before. At the end of the opening speech, I was introduced. I was very glad that I had decided to bring my best black suit, white shirt, and health-ministry tie with me.

I began my speech by telling the people that it was my third trip to Dakar in the span of one year. I was like a teenage boy who fell in love with a girl and had to keep returning to see her. They all laughed and nodded. I finished my words saying, “When I look at the huge empty steel freight container sitting here today, I have sadness in my heart. As I think of the wonderful people of Senegal and see that empty container, I can only wish that we could have done more. But today I also have a great feeling of happiness and joy, because I know this is only the beginning of a beautiful relationship. We love the people of Senegal and want to join you in this special time of need. May God honor and bless us as we look forward to a brighter future. Don’t give up hope, but rather let hope conquer despair as we work together.”

Following my speech, the Minister of Health spoke. The speech was very complimentary of Project C.U.R.E. and our follow-through on our commitments. He expressed appreciation for the medical gifts donated to the free clinic in Diorbivol in May, which were valued at seventeen million Senegalese francs. He then thanked Project C.U.R.E. for the present gifts, valued at over three hundred million francs. Within the span of one year, Project C.U.R.E. visited Senegal three times and gave two sizable gifts. Nothing like that has ever happened in Senegal. What a special day! After dinner I returned to my hotel.

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 8

This morning Mohammed and I, and some of our friends, are back at the warehouse. Today’s assignment will be a challenge.  Everything from the container is still spread out under the trees like we had arranged it for yesterday’s presentation. Usually Project C.U.R.E. sends a container to a specific hospital, and the entire load is delivered to that hospital. But we are going to divide up the donated medical goods, on the spot, between four different hospitals.

At the warehouse we met two of the village men from Diorbivol. They had helped us run the clinic there in May and wanted to help now with the load. I was pretty impressed that they came, because I knew it’s a twelve-hour drive from Diorbivol to Dakar.

In the first twenty minutes of our meeting with the men from Diorbivol, I received ample reward for my entire involvement in Senegal. The men were so excited, they wanted to give me a complete update on the village. They were eager for me to know that because of Project C.U.R.E., the clinic is now open to the public. Before May, the clinic had been closed for six years because there were no supplies to run it, and since there were no supplies, the government health department had even quit sending any nurses to the village. So for six years, the people had to travel many miles by foot or pony cart to the next nearest clinic. But now everything has changed.

The men told me, “Now people from all over come to our clinic. Even people from across the border in Mauritania come by boat to our village for help … all because of Project C.U.R.E.” They also wanted to update me on the people who received help at our May clinic. We had seen over one thousand patients, so I simply didn’t remember many of the cases the two men told me about. But several of them I recalled vividly.

One man had a big tumor on the side of his head and had traveled all the way to the hospital in Dakar for the doctors to examine it. The amount of money they were going to charge to treat him was far in excess of his accumulated worth. So the sad man traveled back to the village and resigned himself to the fact that he would surely die soon.

Dr. Merl Jacobsen and nurse Laurie Tucker had operated on the huge cyst, removed it, and stitched the man’s head back together. The two men from the village told me that the first thing he does when he gets up each morning is look at his head in a mirror. He has a difficult time believing that he isn’t just dreaming. “He is now perhaps the happiest man in the village,” the men said, “because he knows now he won’t die in a short time and leave his family fatherless.”

They related another story of an old lady who had a very large cyst and dangerous infection on the inside of her left thigh. I definitely remembered that woman and her problem. When Dr. Jacobsen cut into the thigh with the assistance of Helen Brown, it literally burst open and shot infected matter across the room. The terrible stench of death filled the small clinic the entire day. It was just awful. But now the old woman is up once more tending to her herd of goats and cooking for her extended family over an open fire.

The reports continued about children who had leg infections from parasites in the river water, but now they can walk again without open sores draining painfully down their legs. Other children who had infections have also been healed. The men concluded their update with these words: “Our new friends from Project C.U.R.E. are all heroes in our village. We talk about them and how they came one day to bring love and help to us. Many of us are alive and well today because of our new friends.”

I had to walk away from them for a few minutes and find a place behind the parked freight container to regain my composure. I thanked Jesus for the opportunity to partner with him in just a small way in his miracles. I didn’t deserve the reward I had just received, so I gave it back to God in the shade of that loaded container.

Now to the challenge at hand. I sized up the situation and what it was going to take to divide up all the inventory. If I told the Senegalese crew what to do and how to divide up the materials, it would take another three weeks to accomplish the task. So I grabbed a couple of the strong crewmen and showed them where I wanted the pallets positioned on the warehouse floor; a separate location for each hospital: Bargny, Diorbivol, Rufisque, and Diamniado. I then took off my shirt and started personally attacking the pallets piled high with boxes.

Soon we had a little game going. I would grab a box, read the label to find out its contents, and toss it to one of the fellows positioned at the different pallet groupings. They would, in turn, hand it to someone else who would stack it on one of the pallets. It was so hot in the warehouse that in no time at all, even my pants right down to the cuffs were soaking wet. The warehouse people and the health-ministry crew were chattering back and forth while we worked. Later Mamadou explained to me what they were saying, “He is a white man, but he sure must not be French. We’ve never seen a white man just take off his shirt and work that hard—never!”

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USA CULTURE SHOCK

 (Dakar, Senegal: October 6, 1999:) For the past couple of days we have been fighting the African bureaucratic system trying to get our ocean-going cargo container released from the Senegalese authorities. It is interesting to observe my friend Mohammed Cissé. He has been living in the USA for the past few years. Now, upon his return, he is going crazy trying to cope with the African way of doing things. His tolerance threshold is very low, and he becomes impatient with his countrymen.

 “Here, everyone makes excuses for why things can’t be done. In America, when we see a problem, we simply figure out the quickest and most efficient way to solve it and get on with what we’re trying to accomplish,” mumbled Mohammed as we were standing in line in one of the hot hallways.

I then related to him a vivid memory from my childhood. One day when my oldest brother’s tennis shoe was untied and the shoe tongue was flopping in front of the shoe, my dad said, “Bill, fix your shoe.”

Bill answered, “I can’t. I lost my shoestring, and the tongue just comes flopping out.”

My dad then sat Bill down and explained, “We don’t say “I can’t” in this house, so instead of insisting that you can’t fix the shoe, I want you to come up with ten solutions to the problem.”

Before long, Bill and my dad had figured out ten ways to fix the shoe using baling wire, an old electrical extension cord, twine, cotton rope, and a few other objects.

Then my dad said, “Next time, it would be a whole lot easier if you simply find one good solution to your problem instead of saying “I can’t” and having to spend time figuring out ten ways to fix it.”

Mohammed and I both had a good laugh over the story, but we both understood that most of the world still follows the “I can’t” model, and more time is wasted on explaining why a situation is impossible rather than just solving the problem and getting back to business.

Mohammed carried the conversation a little further. “When you first go to America from a Third World country, you are totally overwhelmed by the beauty and cleanliness of the cities and countryside. You can’t believe that any place could look so good—and my first stops were in New York and Washington, D.C.! But I was still overwhelmed by the beauty.

“Then,” he went on, “the next thing that hits you is the infrastructure. The public transportation actually works. The trains, the buses, and the taxis run on time and get you where you’re supposed to go. The service stations are clean and convenient, and the public restrooms have toilet paper, soap, and towels to dry your hands.

“Next, you start realizing that the electricity works all day and all night long. And there is clean water you can drink right from the pipes in your house or even at a store. The sewer runs through underground pipes, and you can’t even smell anything even if you try.

“The next thing you start to realize is that things are organized. People don’t realize it, but they too are organized. Things run properly. People get to work on time. If you say you’ll be somewhere at a certain time, people will already be there expecting you, and you had better not be late. People actually live by lists of things to do and know when they are to do each task. It’s a wonderful and beautiful thing to experience, but it’s a shock. A culture shock. And because of the organization and structure, people are confident and move quickly from one place to another with an attitude that they know what they’re doing and what can be expected. When I first arrived in America, I was just amazed.”

Then Mohammed said, “As you probe even deeper, you realize that the basis of the American system, which is totally different from the Third World cultures, is that the country is run by the rule of law. People know clearly what they are to do and what they are not to do. If they decide to do what they should not do, they know they run the risk of getting caught and paying the consequences. But everyone knows that it’s the same for everyone, and they can learn the rules.

“In a Third World society, there is no rule of law. There is a rule of politics and powerful people. But the rule changes all the time. You can never really be confident when you try to operate your life with an uncertain set of expectations. Someone else can get by with doing what you can’t. If you have influence and money, you can do just about anything you want and keep someone else from doing what they want even if it’s the same thing. Operating under a known rule of law also helps the American people move about with an air of confidence. They know what they can do. I don’t think Americans have ever stopped to think out why their society works differently from other societies. They just grab it and go for it, and the factors work whether they understand them or not.”

As we continued our talk, Mohammed pointed out another interesting factor. “In Third World countries, no one has hope. Everyone knows that because of factors outside their control, things could get worse—and sure enough, they get worse. There really is no idea of a bright tomorrow for their families. The families have experienced for generations the same disappointments and cruel setbacks. But in the USA, the Americans have hope. It is a spirit of knowing that if you risk everything on a venture and lose, you could pull yourself together and start over again and make it work. Everyone in America knows their children will experience new conveniences their parents never dreamed of enjoying. I think hope is there as well as confidence because of the rule of law and organization.”

I wanted to add one more unique component to Mohammed’s observations. “No another society in the world is as generous toward others as America. Who is the first on the scene when disaster strikes? Who continues to underwrite the charities of the world even when world organizations abuse American generosity"?

Next Week: The Formal Presentation

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SHIPPING 3rd WORLD STYLE

      I thought you might enjoy peeking in on what it is like to try to ship and  deliver a 40-foot     ocean going cargo container of medical goods into a developing country. Let’s try Senegal     in western Africa. Keep in mind that Project C.U.R.E. will deliver approximately 180 such containers - just this year - into needy 3rd World hospitals.

(Dakar, Senegal: October, 1999:) I’m headed back to Dakar for the third time in a year. Based on my earlier needs assessment, our Denver Project C.U.R.E. people gathered the appropriate medical goods and sent them on their way to Houston by rail and then by ship across the Atlantic Ocean to the Port of Dakar. I was asked to return to Dakar in October and make a formal presentation of the unprecedented gift of medical items to health and government officials. The people of Senegal want a special ceremony because in the history of the West African nation, no organization has ever brought a medical team to serve and then given such a generous gift of love. The value of Project C.U.R.E.’s investment in dollars, including both the medical team and the container load of goods, was well in excess of half a million dollars.

Mohammed Cissé and his brother Dr. Cheikh Cissé met me as I walked down the ladder from the plane in Dakar. Dr. Cissé and Mohammed almost seem like family to me now that I’ve visited Dakar three times in one year.

Monday, October 4

Today proved to be another lesson for me in Third World bureaucracy. It’s so easy to get accustomed to America’s service-oriented business environment. But most of the world’s business still runs on seventeenth-century concepts and methods. This is especially true of Africa. Our objective today was to complete the necessary paperwork and transactions to clear the Project C.U.R.E. cargo container through customs and the Port of Dakar so it will be available for the presentation ceremony later in the week.

Mohammed and I left the hotel after breakfast and walked to the main government building, which houses the ministry of health. I had met Senegal’s minister of health and his main staff people on previous visits. The man highest in rank under the minister holds the position of administrateur civil principal. He is the chief decision maker who makes things happen, or not, in the country’s health-care system. Mr. Makhtar Camara currently fills that position.

Mr. Camara has a military background, but he warmed up quickly and genuinely expressed his appreciation for Project C.U.R.E. coming to Senegal to help. Mohammed and I were ushered into the office of the health ministry’s finance director, where we met Ousmane Ndong. We discussed the necessity of declaring the container load exempt from any tariffs or duty obligations, since it’s a humanitarian shipment. Mr. Ndong agreed with the exemption request. We also discussed the possibility of his office securing a large truck to deliver the container from the docks to the national pharmacy warehouse in Dakar and distributing the donated goods to the individual hospitals and clinics. He agreed to try to find some funds to help us.

At 11:15 a.m., we found out that the paperwork for the container had already been messed up. Customs had presumed that the cargo contained donated pharmaceuticals and had sent paperwork somewhere for review and to test the goods. I called their attention to the official shipping manifest that clearly stated the load contained only consumable medical supplies for the hospitals and clinics, such as needles, syringes, catheter tubes, latex gloves, and so on. We then had to go on a wild-goose chase to retrieve the papers.

Once the paperwork was back in our hands, we had to begin the process all over again. The processing system Senegal employs is terribly archaic. My closest guess is that we had to go through thirty individuals to clear the shipment, and each had to inspect the paperwork and hand-record the information separately in his own book.

If they found the least little problem, real or perceived, they sent us back to a previous bureaucrat or to a new set of paper pushers. If they could send us away, it would keep them from having to enter all the information by hand in their books and give them an excuse for exercising their authority. It was a most disgusting and frustrating process.

The ministry of health, or santé, gave us a full-time assistant, El Hadji Owague, to help us through the process. It even took him a full two days to run through the maze, and most of the bureaucrats along the way were his everyday acquaintances. El Hadji is one of Mohammed Cissé’s former schoolmates and close friends. He told us that it would normally take weeks to process the paperwork, and we were expecting to get it finished in two days!

From the health ministry we went to customs. It too was a circus. From customs we went to the port authority in downtown Dakar. We encountered a problem there and had to retrace our steps to the health ministry for more approvals and big red stamps. The port authority had lost their part of the paperwork and accused us of never giving them any copies. After visiting three different offices, we proved by the numbers in one of their books that they had indeed received the paperwork. But no one wanted to get involved in finding the papers. Finally, we found them on one bureaucrat’s desk, but he wasn’t in the office to sign off on them. No one else wanted to take the responsibility to process the papers, so Mohammad, El Hadji, and I found a little restaurant and had a typical lunch of rice and fish before resuming our wild-goose chase.

Before the day was over, I got weary of climbing broken concrete steps in buildings, where the grimy walls were all painted a government yellow, and walking down hallways of broken and missing tiles. Mohammed and I began to joke about how to gauge the importance of the men in the offices by whether they had fans on their desks, real air conditioners in their windows, or nothing at all.

Finally, in the late afternoon, we made it through the processing and headed to an old building crammed with unused United Nations UNICEF trucks. The man there was a forwarding agent or broker. He didn’t even have his paperwork right, so we had to retrace our steps to get him caught up. I told Mohammed and El Hadji that I would bet the United Nations didn’t even remember that their UNICEF trucks were parked in the old building. Another international UN bureaucrat had probably put them in there and then moved on to Zimbabwe or Somalia.

Before we finished for the day, we returned to the office of the port-authority chief three different times, and three different times we returned to Mr. Camara’s office, plus all the other lines and offices. During one visit back to Mr. Camara’s office, the health ministry planned out the presentation ceremony and location and wrote up a press release for the Dakar newspaper. The officials are genuinely desirous of putting together a respectable occasion to receive the over one-half-million-dollar gift from Project C.U.R.E.

Tuesday, October 5

This morning Mohammed, El Hadji, and I again walked from the Novotel hotel through the narrow streets to the health ministry, avoiding the snarled traffic in the roadways. El Hadji picked up our paperwork, and the health ministry gave us a van and a driver to take us out to the port authority offices, where the container was being stored.

I thought our maze running was over, but I was mistaken. We did bump the quality of the maze up a notch or two, because nearly all the offices there had air-conditioning and even some computers. The big difference was that we were now dealing with a shipping, storage, and forwarding company, which actually handled the containers. Their operation ran a little more efficiently because there is a bit of profit involved in the international process, and people who mess up or just don’t show up for work, which is typically the case with government workers, get fired from their jobs.

Along with the profit aspect, the men at the port office assessed a fee that had to be paid before they would release the shipment. The shipment arrived in Dakar on September 18, but no one in Senegal did anything to get the paperwork process moving until we arrived. By the time we hit the storage area, where the container was physically held, the agents informed us that we had exceeded our grace time, and we would have to pay for two days of storage. I was finally able to talk the top man, chief of port Elimane S. Gwingue, into waiving the charges when I showed him the original Declaration of Donation certificate, which I just happened to have in my attaché.

But the officials still needed funds to move the container from the port holding area to the national pharmacy warehouse. So back we went to the director of finance at the ministry of health to beg for the money.

A little after 6:00 p.m., Mohammed and I arrived at the storage lot and prodded the workers to load our container on a trailer and hook it onto a big semi-truck.

Then Mohammed and I crawled up into the cab of the big truck and actually rode with the drivers to deliver the container to the warehouse in a shanty part of the city. Dinner tonight tasted good, and the hotel bed felt wonderful.

Next Week: USA Culture Shoc

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THE STATE OF THE UNION AND ELECTIONS

“He shall from time to time give to Congress information of the State of the Union and recommend to their Consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient.”     Article II, Section 3 of the U.S. Constitution

That language of the Constitution here is not very specific, but usually, the procedure refers to the President appearing before a joint session of the United States Congress where he highlights the wonderful job he is doing and ceremoniously enlists the aid of Congress to support his upcoming legislative agenda of political and economic priorities. As recent as 1981, President Jimmy Carter didn’t even show up at a joint session, but sent in a written report as to how he thought things were going.

At the heart of the constitutional request, however, is an insistence that there be careful communication between the democratically elected leaders, the qualified voters, and between the designated branches of the government. When the President communicates with the people it is called a State of the Union address (or maybe, an occasional press conference . . . or a Tweet). When the voters communicate with the established government it is called an election.

The communication process is absolutely necessary. If entities or certain power brokers endeavor to highjack or circumvent the flow of necessary communication, then individual ingenuity will generally create a new method to communicate. A successful democracy allows for constituents to group themselves into like-minded ideals or philosophies regarding political, economic, religious, and cultural issues. The like-minded group that represents the largest number of qualified and participating voters is awarded the opportunity to lead the democracy. If a different like-minded group is able to present a more popular idea and garner enough legitimate votes to prevail in the election, then they are given the opportunity of leadership. It’s really pretty simple.

But we should neither be disheartened nor necessarily surprised when the system experiences occasional turbulence, even if it includes trillions of dollars and billions of lives. What is imperative is that we not become sloppy, lazy, or disconnected from the effective process. It is imperative that we reassess where we have determined to go, how we are going to get there, and just why it is deemed so necessary that we prevail in arriving.

Once that is determined and clearly articulated, it is then time to take the pragmatic steps to get the rocket ship on course and to stay on course. That will always require periodic correction burns to alter or correct the truest pathway of the rocket ship to the desired destination. Circumstances will change. People in control will change. Even desired destinations may change. But the final determination of the success of a constitutional democracy will be dependent upon the free flow of accurate and efficacious communication and the ability to make periodic correction burns through the majority of the voters.

Even when NASA sends a rocket to the moon, they know the rocket will eventually get a little off course because of extenuating circumstances in space. The first set of guidance instructions will need to be enhanced and reaffirmed.

NASA Mission News reported on February 8, 2011, that its Stardust spacecraft marked its twelfth anniversary in space with a rocket burn to further refine its flight path. The half-minute trajectory correction maneuver adjusted the path with a blast that consumed 2.4 ounces of fuel and altered the spacecraft’s speed by 1.3 miles per hour. The spacecraft had already traveled 3.5 billion miles since its launch.

We have just come through an interesting political campaign, elections, and inauguration here in the United States. We are presently experiencing a midflight correction burn. Now is not the time for the constituents to get weird. It is imperative that we not become sloppy, lazy, vengeful or disconnected from the effective process. If we are to continue to maintain the successful endeavor of our constitutional democracy we must now double our efforts regarding our careful communication between the democratically elected leaders, the qualified voters, and between the designated branches of the government.

There will always be need for midflight correction burns to reach the ultimate destination. The tricky part comes in recalculating the correction burn from your incorrect position. No one will argue the necessity of getting back on track, but how many ounces of fuel will it take, what new angle will be required, and what new speed will be necessary? Those are the real issues for serious consideration right now. In the days ahead, listen attentively to what the leaders are saying to you with their State of the Union messages, news conferences and Tweets. Then, in just a few short months you will be able to radically communicate in perhaps the most powerful way known to civilizations – you can participate in the election and actually vote.

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WHY HELP PEOPLE YOU DON'T KNOW

(Journal: L’viv, Ukraine: September, 1999) From the cancer ward, we moved to the prison cells holding the tuberculosis patients. The emaciated bodies of the men packed into those rooms told stories in split seconds of lives being lived out in centuries. Some of the TB patients were too weak to even sit up to receive the gifts. Meeche simply laid the items on their beds close to their heads.

On our way out, I gave the hardened nurse with the kind eyes my card and had Meeche explain to her that if she would like, I would be willing to work with her in the future to see that she receives essential supplies for her clinic, such as needles, syringes, bandages, ointments, and catheters. She tried to communicate with us that in the prison clinic, she really has nothing at all to work with.

We returned down the steps, out through the maze of locked doors and hallways, and into the room with the dirty window. The guard behind the window slid our passports back out under the glass one at a time. When we got outside into the sunshine, I slipped the flash attachment off my camera and deliberately put it back into my brown camera bag as the guards watched. I was careful not to take any pictures once we left the prisoners cells. I knew the guards appreciated my not pressing my luck.

As we drove out through the heavy steel gates and back out onto the street, I was trying to sort through a lot of thoughts and emotions. Previously, I hadn’t thought too much about medical conditions in Third World prisons. I suppose it would be a full-time job just supplying medical goods to those wretched, hopeless places throughout the world.

Wednesday, September 22

Lloyd and Biggy came to the hotel at 6:30 this morning to take me to the L’viv International Airport. The old Russian military plane started up its two noisy prop engines, and away we flew to the capital city of Kiev. From Kiev, my Lufthansa flight took me to Frankfurt.

Why would Project C.U.R.E. go to the Ukraine to help people we don’t know? We have to walk a fine line in places like Iraq, North Korea, Cuba, Pakistan, and other parts of the world we would never have the opportunity to enter if we weren’t a purely humanitarian organization. “A full cup takes a steady hand!” I’m very aware that one glaring mistake on my part, and someone seeking vengeance against America could kill me at any time.

But Project C.U.R.E. is so much more than a humanitarian organization. It would be sufficient reward if we just gave a cup of cold water in the name of a loving God to people in the eighty countries where we work. But we have distributed millions and millions of dollars’ worth of life-saving medical goods in the name of God and have fulfilled a role not many people easily distinguish. It’s subtle, but it’s the most effective form of promotion. We create and lend influence and clout where it matters most. And Project C.U.R.E. is better at it than any organization I’m aware of.

The Hurleys, the Kangs, and the Pyatnichkos in Ukraine have been pouring their lives into ministering to the people of Ukraine. But their efforts are limited in many respects to the arithmetic of one plus one plus maybe one more. But by enlisting the help of Project C.U.R.E., their efforts suddenly have the potential of expanding exponentially. They themselves, plus their noble desires, are infused with clout and influence and credibility, which will literally catapult their effectiveness by quantum bounds.

When Project C.U.R.E. goes to a location, meets with top government officials, and suggests that millions of dollars’ worth of life-saving medical supplies could be pumped into their country, the officials totally drop their defensiveness and accept Project C.U.R.E. They know they’re responsible to care for their citizens, but they don’t have the money or the means to supply that medical care. And here Project C.U.R.E. comes offering help so they can become heroes to their own people. It would be foolish and counterproductive for them to refuse our help.

Perhaps the key element in the whole process is that Project C.U.R.E. refuses to take credit for the help. Instead, we strategically transfer our clout and resources to those already on the scene. If those officials should question whether our offer of help will be backed up with action, all they have to do is wait a brief period of time until the first container arrives with the valuable cargo inside. Suddenly the local entities that have been struggling for recognition and acceptance in the community become heroes, and the doors swing wide open on a local and national level, and avenues of permission, acceptance, and clout are made available to them.

God has been eager to bless Project C.U.R.E. and multiply the effectiveness because we have been willing to empower local organizations and institutions to become incredibly effective as we keep a low profile rather than seeking the limelight ourselves.

The Hurleys, the Kangs, and other ministries have been trying to break into the Ukrainian culture and the professional and political framework for years, but they are seen as outsiders. But with the assistance of millions of dollars’ worth of medical goods for the common people, an enhanced image for local and national leaders, and personal accomplishment for the hamstrung medical community, the Hurleys and the Kangs will be celebrated as people who are able to make miracles happen so that everyone can become winners.

It’s no wonder that in Andijon and Tashkent, Uzbekistan; Dushanbe, Tajikistan; Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia; Santa Cruz, Bolivia; Nouakchott, Mauritania; and a thousand other places, the formula has worked so well. Because of this unique formula, God is being honored, his kingdom is getting more exciting, and eternity will be different from what it might have been.

Discouraged workers are getting to take a second breath, and burnout is diminishing because God has chosen to bless Project C.U.R.E. with such a simple piece of the puzzle. In the business world, we refer to it as leverage, in which a small object placed in a strategic position can move a very large object with a desired result.

Why would I be willing to leave the home and family I love and travel all over the world to help people I don’t even know? Because I want to be faithful to the gift of the simple formula he gave Project C.U.R.E. to bring multiplied results to his kingdom. Many churches will never understand what we do, and many folks miss the spiritual connection between a humanitarian organization like Project C.U.R.E. and eternal goodness. But the impact of Project C.U.R.E. around the world is empirically measurable. God is blessing our work, and those subtle results will be the only rewards needed forever.

That’s why I do what I do when I’m far away from home. What an honor and a privilege!

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HOW DO YOU DELIVER HOPE IN UKRAINE?

(Journal: L’viv, Ukraine: September, 1999) By that time, Meeche was down the corridor with the lead guard. The guard with the most stars on his epaulets gave a head motion to the man holding the door-opening mechanism. The top of the door had a steel bar that slid in a groove. The groove was positioned so that it was lower on the face of the door where the bar latched into the door casing. With the help of gravity, the latch always slid in a downward angle when being locked. Another sliding bar was located toward the bottom of the door. The guard always kicked that bar open instead of bending over to move it.

Once the top and bottom bars were slid into an open position, a strange mechanism that looked more like a socket wrench than a key was pushed into a square, steel-latch box and turned. The cell doors were solid steel plates but were covered with wooden strips to soften the appearance of the hallway.

Once the cell door was yanked open, there was yet another locked door with steel bars. It was quite an ordeal just to get into the cells. When the first set of doors was opened, it suddenly dawned on me what we were seeing. Meeche hadn’t indicated, nor had Lloyd, whether he knew that we were only visiting the hospital cells of the prison.

Once the doors were opened, the stuffy, stale, humid air came rolling out into the hallway. There was only one barred window in each cell, and the windows were tightly shut. Beds were placed in the cells so closely that they nearly touched. As we entered, nearly all the patients were asleep, which immediately raised my suspicions that the officials probably kept pretty good discipline through the liberal use of injected chemicals.

The first bed in the first cell held a young man in his late teens or early twenties. He had a strange-looking shoulder joint, and there were large nodes growing straight out from his shoulder. I bent over to take a closer look and then looked at the nurse. She indicated that I was in a cancer ward by whispering the word oncology. I pointed to the nodes, and she shrugged her shoulders as if to say she didn’t know. I decided to take a chance. I pulled out my camera and slid the flash attachment onto it. I looked into the woman’s soft eyes and motioned that I wanted to take a picture of the strange shoulder. She nodded her head in agreement.

Then the nurse pointed to the worn, soiled bedclothes the sick prisoners were wearing. I asked Meeche what she was trying to tell me. She wanted to know if we could bring clean gowns, blankets, and sheets. They had none. I pointed at the bedclothes with my camera and snapped a picture. The guards all looked at me when the flashes went off in the dimly lighted room. But none of them said anything because they knew the nurse was working with me.

By that time, many of the men were out of bed, standing up to receive the quarter loaf of bread, sugar packet, and candy from Meeche. With each disbursement, he also placed in the hands of the prisoners a small Bible written in Ukrainian. I kept snapping photos. I figured I would continue until someone told me to stop.

If I close my eyes, I can still see the looks on the faces of those pitiful, cancer-ridden, male prisoners as they received the gifts and the Bibles. My stomach turned as I looked in the corner of the stuffy cell. A two-sided wall stood about four feet high in one corner of the room, suggesting some sort of room division. I peered over the wall and saw the same number of red plastic pans on the floor as the number of prisoners in the cell. There in the corner was a sewer trap they could squat over to relieve themselves. I tucked my camera under my arm and worked my way toward the door and back into the hallway.

The next four or five cells were pretty much in the same dreadful state. The only difference was that as we proceeded down the corridor, the patients’ conditions were more severe. One man had a wad of gauze stuffed into a cancerous hole in his neck in an attempt to stop the drainage. The nurse indicated the middle-aged man had throat cancer.

I inquired about treatment for the cancer patients. She told me through Meeche that they didn’t have access to chemotherapy or radiation. I presumed that the cancer we had seen was pretty much the prisoners’ death sentence. I relished even more the smiles and hands clasped together in a gesture of thanks as the men received the bread, candy, packs of sugar, and especially, the Bibles. I thought to myself as I continued taking pictures of Meeche and Lloyd handing out the gifts, These men are on their own death row, no matter what crime they committed that landed them in this awful place. The only hope they have now will have to push its way off the written pages of the Bibles they are holding in their dirty hands.

At the end of the corridor were two cells on the left-hand side. The heavy doors were bolted and latched just the same as those on the previous doors—first the heavy steel door veneered with wooden strips, then the steel door with bars. But behind such ultra security resided not men but women prisoners who had cancer. The first cell was filled with younger women. Some were in their early thirties. Some were too sick to even lift themselves out of bed to receive the gifts. I pressed my luck and kept on shooting pictures.

Some people say Ukrainian women are the most beautiful in the world, with their straight, proud postures, slender bodies, long legs, fine features, and fair skin. But those women, as young as they were, had been drained of everything in life but hopeless despair. They knew they were going to die in that cell. A couple of them had wild eyes like a frightened colt. But a couple of them could have been the mothers of my grandchildren.

The next room took the starch out of me. We were met at the door by an old woman wearing a faded, red scarf tied under her chin. She wore a ragged dress and was barefoot. A gauze pack covered most of the left side of her face from under her left eye to her jaw. On the table next to her dingy bed were metal food utensils with crusty soup in one and cloudy, tan water in another. When Meeche gave her the bread, sugar, candy, and Bible, the old woman melted into tears. She held on to Meeche’s arm as she sobbed. She reached up to wipe her tears away and put her hand back down when she ran into the gauze bandage. Lloyd handed out the rest of the gifts in that cell.

My heart was broken into tiny pieces. On this crisp September day, someone brought ten minutes of love to that old Ukrainian woman who was dying in prison with cancer. She had no way of telling that the autumn sun was warm today, or that there was a cool wind blowing gently, twisting and turning the oak and chestnut leaves and tugging at them until they fell softly to the ground. She had probably lost track a long time ago as to whether it was Tuesday or September or nearly a new millennium. But someone had entered that prison cell and opened those heavy steel latches so the love of God himself could pass over the steel threshold and wrap tightly around her in her lonely misery. I prayed that God would help her find truth, light, and hope and even a sense of freedom as she read the pages of the book she held so tightly in her hands. She was holding on to the bars of the inner door as the guard slammed shut the outer steel door with the wooden strips and kicked closed the bottom latch.

I don’t know what the old woman did to get thrown into that prison or just how long she has been there, but a feeling swept over me as I stood staring at the closed door that I would somehow like to take her place and let her go free.

Next Week: Why Help People You Don’t Know?

IRON GATES AND PRISON WALLS OF UKRAINE

(Journal: L’viv, Ukraine: September, 1999) Lloyd and Biggy wanted to keep pressing on. We next drove to a very poor part of L’viv, where they wanted to show me a soup kitchen they established for orphans who have been left on the streets to fend for themselves. The soup kitchen was on the back side of a blockhouse complex, up on the second level. The small space included two rooms and a hallway. One room was where they cook the soup. Women were standing, tightly squeezed, between two stoves. On the stoves were two caldrons of steaming carrot, onion, and beet soup. In the hallway, two old women sat on stools scraping clean the vegetables to be dumped into the soup.

A high-energy, short Ukrainian fellow named Meeche is in charge of the soup kitchen. How he ever gets fifty kids packed into the other room challenges my imagination. But he showed us how the stray kids not only eat there for free but also gather consistently to sing religious songs as Meeche accompanies them on the guitar.

Biggy left us at the soup kitchen, and Lloyd and Meeche took over the tour from that point. Meeche asked if I would accompany them to the prison. I agreed. He quickly walked to the kitchen and grabbed a long, plastic-handled knife. In the small hallway, he stopped to sharpen the knife on a stone.

I couldn’t resist chiding Meeche for being crazy enough to think they’d let him into the prison with the long, sharp knife. He just laughed as he stuck the knife into his little canvas bag.

In a lower part of downtown L’viv, Meeche pulled his old station wagon over to the curb and then motioned for us to follow him. He grabbed a very large cardboard box from the back of his wagon. We went down the block and around the corner to the left. Then we took two steps down from the sidewalk and right into a state-run store—a leftover relic from the Communist days. People were jammed into the store, pushing and shoving to get to the counter.

Meeche talked to the extremely unmotivated woman in her old, state-issued, dirty smock behind the counter. She was so obviously used to saying no that her head was shaking no even though she agreed that Meeche could buy some government-subsidized loaves of bread. He had her give him enough loaves to fill the large cardboard box, and then he purchased a case of packets containing about two cups of sugar each.

With our treasures, we paraded back to the station wagon and climbed back into the vehicle. Meeche backed up across the street and positioned the station wagon right in front of a couple of solid-steel gates. Soon a stern-looking uniformed man with a gun came out and opened the frightening gates for us to drive through.

When Meeche had parked the car earlier, I had noticed the tall walls on one side of the street, which stretched the length of a couple of blocks. But I never realized that it was the site of the old prison we would be visiting. But once inside the outer gates, there certainly was no question that we were in a very secure prison. On the inside walls were guard posts and razor-wire fences.

When we stopped, Meeche jumped out of the station wagon and popped open the back doors. He reached into his canvas bag and proceeded to whip out his long, sharp knife. I was hoping the guards wouldn’t shoot him on the spot. But they just stood around and watched as Meeche pulled out the large box of bread and began cutting the oblong loaves into four pieces each. He then gave the pieces to Lloyd to stuff into a large, green, plastic bag.

Quite a group of guards had gathered by that time. I had my brown camera bag slung over my shoulder and had taken pictures of the store where Meeche purchased the bread, as well as the large steel gates of the prison. Meeche told me the guards would definitely not allow any photo taking inside the prison. I certainly could understand the reason for that. Lloyd said he once got a few feet of video-camera footage before they shook their heads at him.

When the bread was all cut and sacked, and Meeche and Lloyd picked up the case of sugar along with miscellaneous sacks of candy, the entourage of guards accompanied us across the open compound toward a steel door with bars. We went up about four steps into a dirty waiting area that was tightly enclosed and had a dirty service window on one side. There, we were asked to shove our passports through a crack under the glass.

Once our passports were checked, a heavy door at the other end of the room clicked, and the front guard ushered us into a long hallway with steel-bar doors on either end. After going through another secured hallway, we entered an open courtyard. The smell as we walked outside was strong enough to gag me. On the other side of the courtyard, we walked past a cage that held big black guard dogs. Another solid steel door opened in the middle of a wall, and we entered with some guards in front of us and some guards following us.

Our pace was slowed because we had to follow two other guards up a flight of stairs as they accompanied a prisoner back to his cell. The prisoner was about twenty-two years old, could hardly move one foot in front of the other, and looked like death warmed over.

Once on the second floor, we were introduced to the prison nurse, and she invited us into her clinic. She was a short, hardened woman in her early fifties, and her hair was a weird shade of peroxide blonde. But her kind eyes surprised me. I immediately wondered what kind of woman would be a nurse in an old Communist prison, where she had absolutely nothing available to treat her treacherous patients.

Next Week: How Do You Deliver Hope in Ukraine?

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A CHANCE TO LIVE THE LIFE

(From my Journal: Africa: Malawi, Tanzania: October, 1998:) For many years I have been intrigued by the life of Armand Hammer. I read his biographies and his thick autobiographical work. As just a young doctor, he had visited the starving people in the Ural Mountains of Russia. In the early 1900s following the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, Hammer, of his own volition, scraped together one million dollars to buy grain and shipped it to the needy areas of Russia, asking nothing in return.

Armand Hammer caught the attention of Lenin, the new Russian leader, who eventually invited Hammer into a relationship with Russia that lasted for many years. Except for the period of time when Joseph Stalin made it unsafe for anyone to be in the Soviet Union, including the Soviets themselves, Hammer kept returning, keeping a doorway of communication open between the USA and the Soviet Union when every other avenue was sealed off by the Iron Curtain.

I ran across a segment in Armand Hammer’s autobiography that I believe gives great insight into his thinking and behavior. He once said, “The first thing I look at each morning is a picture of Albert Einstein I keep on the table next to my bed. The personal inscription reads, ‘A person first starts to live when he can live outside of himself.’”

People who live fulfilled lives here on Earth learn somewhere in their journeys that they must move past the experience of living their lives just for themselves into a position of living their lives to help others. In my book What’cha Gonna Do with What’cha Got?, I kept pounding away on the ideas that our true measure of greatness will always be determined by our care for others, not accumulation for ourselves, and also, that the motivation behind our accumulation should be the recognized opportunities for distribution. In other words, living beyond ourselves or outside the tightening circle of our own personal concerns is our only real chance to live a fulfilled and satisfying life.

In another place in my book, I tried to explain the concept that what I hoard I lose… what I try to keep will be left and fought over by others … but what I give to God and others will continue to return forever. And since our greatest fulfillment in life is realized through our giving, Albert Einstein’s inscription on Armand Hammer’s signed photo that “a person first starts to live when he can live outside of himself” really makes a lot of sense.

As I stand back and look at what has taken place in the short history of Project C.U.R.E., I can see that the real significance of Project C.U.R.E. just may well be in giving many people an opportunity to become involved in living beyond themselves. They find an avenue of expression and service that is centered on helping others. They start looking out instead of always in. They may become involved in sorting medical supplies or loading a cargo container or packaging pharmaceuticals, but they begin thinking about the people who will be helped by their efforts. They do it for others, but soon something unexpected happens within. Their selfless behavior begins to work as a worth-building situation within themselves, and hidden inside the package of giving of themselves, they find true reward and fulfillment. I believe there is something miraculous and wonderful about trying to give ourselves away.