Line waiting for the free clinic at the new Mukongoro church
The first thing we all see as our caravan of three Toyota vans turns the corner heading to the church is the sea of people waiting this morning to get into the free clinic inside the church. Word of the free clinic has spread, and the 200-300 seen yesterday for a variety of ailments has swollen to maybe 500 or more. To have medical care of any kind is rare in these regions and to have it dispensed at no cost is a “miracle”, a blessing. The medical staff and our people who will be helping today need a special blessing themselves. It’s going to be a long day.
The 500 mosquito nets we brought with us for dispensing at the clinic are almost gone and people here clamor for them. That makes me sad. There is no vaccine for malaria, this mosquito borne disease, and it can kill people within 24 hours. However, more commonly, a malaise similar to a bad case of the flu presents itself when infected. Once infected, you are always infected and while treatments of Malarone can control the symptoms, you’re always going to have it in you. Those carrying the disease will have good days, and bad days for the rest of their lives.
All of our team is taking Malarone as a precaution. Still, even the drug has some nasty side effects that I think we’ve all experienced in varying degrees. Cramps, headache, dizziness, diarrhea. We’ve thanked the maker of Immodium time and time again — I sure have.
Patrick, my interpreter, missed his ride to the church this morning from his city, Soroti (north, about 36 km). The new church is our daily headquarters, and we are usually there around 10:00 after our bumpy van ride from Mbale.
I admit to freaking out a little without Patrick being there to greet me. We’ve become friends now and he is such a good interpreter of Okie-English. I’ve thrown him off a couple of times with “y’all”, but he’s always recovered quickly.
Not to worry, the African leaders have found a replacement for me and her name is Beatrice. The names aren’t at all what I expected on this venture. I’m not sure what I did expect, but the Ugandans have very English “given” names. And I mean English, as in British, since Uganda was settled by the British, and only gained their independence from them in 1962. Sharon and I entertained a large group of Ugandan children one day inside the church by letting them print their names in our journals. The Ugandans introduce themselves, and write their names last name first, first name last. For instance, I would introduce myself to you on the street as Underwood Jayne. My name is not one they’ve seen before and they study my name tag very hard when I introduce myself. I think Leo mentioned in his blog that Ferrelyn Oakes has had a woman tell her she wants to name her next born daughter Ferrelyn. Matt had a man promise to name “my SECOND born son after you!” Not sure why the second, but I suppose that’s still an honor. Anyway, Matt is taking some ribbing that his name’ll get stuck on a second born kid.
Here’s just a sampling of a bunch of names of 7-10 year olds who autographed my journal:
Odele Raphael; Naikeso Sarah; Mubiru Ben; Okuru Joseph; Onyapapa Paul; Akol Florence; Okiria Denis; Akode Emmanuel
I’ve also become acquainted with adults John, Joseph, Maria, Margaret, an d Anna to name a few. You get the picture.
Anyway, Beatrice and I got along just fine. She’s just 17 but speaks fluent English. The Ugandan government is stressing English-speaking in the schools now in an attempt to “modernize” (that’s straight out of my tourist guidebook). In an attempt to fast-forward the culture, the public education system is trying to distance itself from Swahili and other native dialects, therefore, most young adults under 25 have a pretty good English vocabulary. The older generation knows some English, but still speaks whatever the primary dialect of the region may be. My guide book says there are 33 different African languages spoken, but one of our African group leaders said there were 52 dialects in Uganda alone. One thing the Ateso-speaking people here have been able to communicate in English over and over again to me is this: “I want a Bible.”
Anyway, Beatrice appears to be a good stand-in for Patrick. But before she and I hit the trail, one of the leaders also assigns a gorgeous young Ugandan to go with us. She’s dressed to the hilt, in black top and hot pink skirt and is carrying a designer handbag. She looks like no other female interpreter I’ve seen. She says her name is “Rossie” and I think that’s cute.
Rossie looking spiffy
The three of us start out and spend the morning visiting large clusters of people. Today it seems hotter and dustier and I start to think Rossie isn’t dressed appropriately for this gig.
Anyway, we speak to around 30 people and many are excited to come to the church dedication on Sunday. They are also excited to come to the free clinic.
Now this brings me to a point where I have to regress in my tale.
On Monday, Patrick and I had visited with sick women and children waiting outside the village clinic in Mukongoro proper. Seriously, here in the U.S. you would not take your animals to this building to be looked at by a “doctor”. It was an open air (meaning no doors or window glass) building of brick and mortar, with a dirt floor. One room. I did not look inside because I felt like the patient needed privacy. What would they think about our HIPA law here!?
Outside the building, sick women and children sat on two long wooden benches flanking the doorway, waiting to be seen. Patrick insisted we stop to talk to them about Christ. And he was surely right — we couldn’t pass these people by.
However, listening to us was the furthest thing on their minds. I would have felt just as uninterested if I had a sick toddler needing to see the doctor. “Get out of my face and go away” would have been my exact thought.
Still, we rattled on and had some mild interest, even from the distracted clinic patrons.
But then, an older man on a rusty bike and a woman about my age passed by and stopped to talk to us. We visited and they were interested in what we had to tell them. The woman, especially, was locked in. She said she had a Bible, but she couldn’t see it. Her eyes were bad and she had no glasses. Could we help?
Maybe, I told her. Come to the clinic on Wednesday. They might have someone to check eyes — maybe — I didn’t know. She said her name was Margaret. I thanked her for talking to me and pinned one of the U.S .flag pins I’d brought on this trip (200 of them) on her. She smiled. I thought she was regal-looking in her green dress with her serious expression.
Anna and me
OK–out of my regression, and back to the present. Beatrice and Rossie and I trudged back to the church — several miles I think (although it was probably less than 2) and Anna, one of the women I’d met earlier in the day, walked with us. We walked arm in arm and laughed the whole way. I picked a lantana blossom off one of the jungle of wild shrubs of that genre which grows in abundance along the roads and paths. The pink and yellow blooms matched her dress and I put it in her top button hole, which she thought was hysterical. She was a cute little Ugandan, and I’m thinking, “if we were friends back in Oklahoma, I bet we’d meet at Panera for coffee and talk about our lives.” Maybe she’d be a P.E.O. “sister”!
Finally we get back to the church, hot, tired, dirty. Rossie isn’t looking so spiffy in her tight skirt any more. She’s as hot and tired as I am.
At lunch, Aidah Onenga, Morris’ wife and our Ugandan sponsor, tells someone, “That’s my daughter.” She’s talking about Rossie. Who knew?
Patrick shows up. I don’t know how he got a ride from Soroti, but he’s made it, and he has someone with him. I recognize her. “Do you remember this woman from the clinic”, Patrick asks. I do. It’s the woman who needed glasses. He reminds me her name is Margaret, and I recall her, because she has the same regal features and the same green dress that I remember.
The clinic did not have glasses, and she is obviously disappointed. I tell her to wait where she is standing. Wait here with Patrick! Then I go to our team who is gathering for lunch and ask if anyone has a pair of “readers” they can part with. Carl Bosteels tells me he has a pair back at the hotel in Mbale, and that I can have them.
I’m excited. I find Margaret and Patrick where I’ve left them, and tell her I will bring Carl’s glasses to her tomorrow. Meet me here at the same time as now (3:00).
At dinner that night, back at the Mt. Elgon Hotel, I tell this story and Rhonda Hefton says she also has some “readers” she’ll give up. God does provide. Margaret is going to like any glasses, but Rhonda’s designer frames are going to look way better on her than Carl’s offering.
So, back at our rendezvous point the next day, I’m waiting for Margaret at 3:00. She doesn’t show. At 3:30, there’s still no sign up her, and I think either I’ve been stood up, she doesn’t know the tine, she’s forgotten, or something else has kept her from meeting me and I feel sad. But then, I see her! She has on a new dress. It’s a beautiful bright dress of orange and red and pink and she looks even more magnificent. She’s transferred the flag pin to this outfit. I greet her with happiness, because I truly am glad she’s shown up here.
I take out the glasses Rhonda has sent and put them on Margaret’s face. I open a Bible and she beams. She can see the print. Suddenly, I am wrapped up in two long arms and am squeezed like someone squeezing the last drop out of a lemon. She can see better
Try these on.
and her thrill becomes my thrill, and the next thing I know, I’m crying.
Glasses for Margaret. Joy for Jayne.
Margaret-with-glasses asks me, “will you be at church on Sunday?” I tell her, yes, of course, it’s the big day, the dedication. “Do you like mangoes? Do you like peanuts?” I tell her yes, I love peanuts.
It was a good day. A God day.
Our pale faces are beginning to grow pink, then red. Will someone tell the people in the church that TIME IS UP!?
Uganda Trip 2009 