Our Life in Uganda: Part 2
Here is part two of the video series I made. Enjoy!
Have a happy Fourth of July!!
Love Always,
Jennifer Gash
105 Reasons to Dissemble
Every so often, I fail miserably in my effort to be a good example for my children. One such occasion was on the way home from Uganda last week.
An inspirational figure in my life is 104 year-old Herb Nootbaar. Herb and his dearly departed wife Elinor have generously endowed the law school’s Nootbaar Institute, which is the home of Pepperdine’s Global Justice Program under which my work in Uganda operates. Each year, we have a birthday party for Herb in the fall to celebrate and honor his longevity and generosity.
Just before I left Uganda last July, I purchased an ornate walking stick to add to Herb’s collection from around the world. It was a few inches too long to fit into any of our bags, so we paid to have it shipped home along with the checked luggage. Unsurprisingly, the baggage jockeys rode it hard and broke its spirit, not to mention its handle.
Cane Transport Fail
Fortunately, I returned to Uganda in advance of the actual party and returned with a replacement gift – a personalized ornate bowl for the occasion of his 104th.
Undeterred by my previous failure, I decided to renew my efforts to add to Herb’s colorful cane collection. Joline picked out another winner a couple days before our trip home. At the airport, I tried to reason with the ticket agent and explained to her that I needed to carry it with me because it was a gift for a friend’s 105th birthday and last time I tried to bring one home, it broke in transit. Her scowl signaled the length of my odds. Fortunately, a supervisor walked by and inquired as to the problem.
I once again regaled my tale of surprise-birthday woe, to which he responded, “Unless you have an injury that requires you to use a cane, we cannot allow you to carry it on.”
Thinking quickly, I reached down and pulled up my pant leg to reveal the after effects of my knife dual with Tyrion Lannister. Somehow I knew my nine left knee surgeries would come in handy someday. I pointed at the carnage and asked with a devious grin, “Is this good enough?”
He grinned back and said, “You had better be convincing.”
Oh, so it’s a challenge? Game on.
The problem, of course, was that the walking stick’s craftsmanship focused more on form than function. While the handle was comfortable enough, the polished and rounded butt of the stick skated on the tile floor whenever I placed more than a modicum of weight on it. But I hobbled on like a good soldier.
My oldest daughter Jessica could barely contain her stares and giggles, which threatened to blow my cover. Her comment that “this is something Bob Goff would do” strengthened my resolve to do Bob proper honor. (She wasn’t too far off – Bob managed to convince the airlines to allow him to transport a prison door back to the United States during a prior visit).
But my acting debut was not destined to be an easy one. When we arrived at the gate, we discovered we were on the same flight home as two mission teams – one from Jessica’s school Oaks Christian, and another Joline and Jessica had encountered out on the road on one of their mobile clinic days. Fortunately, the waiting area was carpeted, so the cane was behaving under me, but the area was teeming with airline rep’s, including the gate agent who had initially tried to poop on my party plans.
After three weeks of being stared and pointed at because I am white, one would think I would be used to the glare of strangers. I wasn’t. At one point, it got so awkward that Jessica felt like she had to tell her classmates that I was faking an injury to get the cane home. It only got more awkward from there.
Playing my Part
I am used to boarding planes early. Each round trip to Uganda earns me 20,000 Delta Sky Miles, so I am Elite Plus. We, the privileged class, get to board the plane before all of the common folk. That is, of course, except those traveling with children and those who need special assistance in boarding.
As the first boarding announcement rang out, I happened to be in the general vicinity of a seventy year-old lady with a bona fide cane – polished alloy with a holster gripped handle beveled for each finger and tipped with a rubber snout that suctioned to even the iciest of surfaces. So when she hobbled to the front along with the handful of parents towing behind their grouchy little ankle-biters dragging their teddy bears and blankies for the red-eye flight, all eyes turned to me.
So I ducked my head and played my part. Appropriately, the party-pooper was the agent assigned to escort the first wave onto the plane. She didn’t blow my cover and even gave me a crooked smile of quiet respect. As I ambled, the oldster with the Ninja cane chatted me up a bit.
“Sports injury?”
“Um, what?”
“Did you injure yourself playing sports?”
“Oh, that. Yeah. Football. And you?”
“I was dancer.”
“About a million years and a hundred pounds ago?” I barely kept myself from asking as we traveled at a lapped-by-a-tortoise-with-a-bum-flipper pace. By the time we reached the plane, I needed to shave again and had learned she was a nurse/nun who had been out of communication with the developing world for almost four months. I caught her up on the world’s events and still had time to spare.
Just as I finally (and mercifully) reached my seat, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and heard a deep voice say, “Excuse me, Sir.”
Gulp. I turned and looked into the face of the supervisor who had given me the green light to dissemble.
“Good show,” he said and gave me a wink.
I slid my cane to the back of the luggage compartment with a sense of pride and gingerly took my seat. Midway through the flight, I limped down the aisle (just in case anyone remembered my entry) to the water closet.
Leg one of the trip. Check.
Upon landing in Amsterdam, I nearly forgot the cane. A smile and a wave from the dancing nun jogged my memory. The stewardess had stowed her cane in the closet, but mine was at the back of the angled luggage compartment out of immediate reach. I stole a glance around before hopping up on the seat to retrieve it.
I maintained the charade the entire way through the Amsterdam airport until we got to the storage lockers. We stowed our backpacks and my walking stick and ventured into town.
My typical layover in Amsterdam is three hours, but we had six this time through. On my first trip to Uganda back in 2010, my layover had also been long enough to see the Amsterdam sites, but Joline and Jessica had not been with me then. On that prior trip, I had taken a tour of the Anne Frank house and wanted to give Jessica the sobering chance to see first-hand the devastation and tragedy of Hitler’s holocaust through the courageous eyes of this young girl.
It was every bit as emotional the second time through as was the first. While we were pressed for time due to some of our wandering and snacking on the way to the house-turned-museum, it was well worth the one-hour wait in line to get in.
Joline and Jessica at Anne Frank House
Determined not to miss our connection home, we jogged about half of the way back to the train station where we caught a ride back to the airport. Still pressed for time, I got impatient with a group of loafers who were just entering one of two side-by-side upwardly sloped moving walkways that connected the train station to the airport. The one of the right was steadily gaining altitude while its passengers stood clutching the rail. The one on the left, however, was both still and empty all the way to the top. As further evidence of my miraculous healing, I darted left and bounded upward with Joline and Jessica on my heels.
It turns out that the Dutch are rather technologically advanced. They have actually invented (and perfected) motion detecting moving walkways. As we ran north, the heretofore motionless walkway hummed to life and transformed itself into a southbound treadmill. This unexpected development brought a grin to my face, but it brought uproarious laughter to Joline and Jessica. My surgically repaired wheels were more than up to the challenge and I raced to the top against the current in a matter of a few seconds. It took the two ladies in my life at that moment, however, closer to a minute. When they finally reached the apex, a crowd of disapproving onlookers scoffed their disapproval in guttural Dutch, while Joline and Jessica wiped away their tears of hysteria.
We jogged the rest of the way to the lockers, whereupon I retrieved my cane and resumed my palsy.
Twelve hours later, I limped out of LAX onto the sidewalk, stowed the cane in my sister’s waiting mini-van, and declared victory over the airline industry.
Herb will get his intact cane three months from now, and I will have a fun story to tell at the party.
Cane Transport Success
New Namuwongo
You know the disappointment you feel when you are expecting to eat something hot, but it’s cold? Or when you’re expecting to drink a glass of milk, but get orange juice instead? Neither of those is a pleasant surprise. But I had a very pleasant surprise on our final day of clinic in Uganda when we went to the slum of Namuwongo.
Living conditions in Namuwongo
I was expecting to find the same church where we set up clinic last year. The walls of the building were made of loose boards with gaps large enough for children to stick their hands through, the roof was a sagging old orange tarp which cast an orange glow in the church, the dirt floor was . . . well, dirty, and the smell from the nearby latrine filled the room, which didn’t seem to bother the flies. So, my experience last year in Namuwongo was very memorable.
Old Namuwongo Church - March 2012
As our van squeezed between shacks and vendor stalls, trying to avoid hitting small children that were calling out to the mzungus, I was looking for the familiar orange roofed building. When we drove up to the place where it should have been, we found a very much improved building. The church had a new metal roof and the boards had been reinforced and painted blue outside. On the side of the building the words were painted, “Namuwongo Ya Yesu”, which means “Namuwongo for Jesus” in the local language. When we entered, we found that the dirt floor had been covered by a new concrete floor, and the walls had been decorated with beutiful fabric. All of the building improvements had also improved the smell and temperature inside.
New Namuwongo Church - June 2013
But one thing had not changed . . . Pastor Abbey. He was the same joyful and welcoming leader of this congregation that I met last year. The Pastor and I have been keeping in touch via email since I left Uganda. He has been a source of encouragement to me with scriptures he sends me and with updates from his work in the area. He once again welcomed our team and helped us to communicate with the community surrounding the church.
Pastor Abbey and Joline
We quickly assessed the improved building and set up registration, pharmacy, area for doctors (Dr. Jay, recent Ugandan med school graduate Joseph, and nurse Katie from Nashville), and blood lab (located in a small back room that I think was a storage closet). The people were anxious to receive treatment so we got to work.
Jill and Jayne at registration outside the church
Some of our team with Pastor Abbey and some church members who helped us
We were able to give medical treatment to about 150 people (and 31 of them accepted Jesus as their Savior during spiritual care). If we had more time, we could have seen many more. But we needed to leave by 4:00 so Jim, Jessica, and I could make our flight home. Before going to the airport, we had to go back to the guest house to shower and pack our bags, visit two young patients at a hospital where they were having surgery for burns, and have our farewell dinner with the Gregstons and Kyle.
Farewell dinner with Gregstons and Kyle
We have loved our time in Uganda, serving the people in need and reuniting with friends. We are so thankful that God lead us to Uganda and to the Gregston family. Our lives have been forever changed.
Bringing Home an Unwanted Souvenir
Burning the candle at both ends finally caught up with me. Tuesday was a day of meetings at the court and a farewell dinner with Justice K and the seven Pepperdine students working for the courts.
By Tuesday night, I could tell I had contracted something Ugandan. Fortunately, Dr. Jay Gregston has four trunks full of Ugandan medicine and he started me on a cocktail of drugs to try to knock down early whatever I have picked up. I added Ambien to his cocktail so I got a solid night of zzz’s.
Wednesday is wheels up day for the Gashes, but Joline, Jessica, and the Gregstons have squeezed in another full day of clinic work in the slum of Namuwango here in Kampala. This is one of the poorest, dilapidated places in Uganda and is badly in need of medical attention. It is a fitting way to end our 24 days in Uganda.
We are grateful for the many kind notes of encouragement and prayers offered on our behalf. Uganda has become part of who we are and what we feel called to do with what we have been given. We will be back, and who knows, perhaps someone reading this will come with us next time.
Take Your Father to Work Day
In February of 2012, I made a promise to my oldest daughter Jessica. My intent was to fulfill that promise before we left Uganda in July of 2012. To my shame, I failed. On Monday, I finally made good, as I accompanied her (and Joline and the Gregstons) to work.
About five years ago, my son Joshua had surgery on his ear to remove some scar tissue that had accumulated from prior surgeries. Due to a genetic anomaly (must have been from my wife’s side), the upper wall of Joshua’s ear canal was missing a patch of bone. This hole exposed a small portion of the sack holding his brain fluid to the surgeon’s tool that was scraping the inside of his ear canal (behind the ear drum). As a consequence, the sack was punctured and Joshua started leaking brain fluid through his ear. This negative development landed Joshua in pediatric intensive care for a few very tense days.
Along with the rest of the family, Jessica, who was about thirteen at the time, spent lots of time in the hospital with her little brother. She watched the pediatric nurses do their thing with such grace and professionalism that she developed a secret desire to become one of them when she grew up.
But there was one small problem. Her aversion to needles dwarfed my aversion to heights, and that is saying something.
I clearly remember accompanying her to an appointment to have her blood drawn at around that time. Jessica was so irrationally afraid of the appointment that Joline exercised her prerogative to send me with Jessica, rather than accompanying her herself. Jessica cried most of the way to the appointment, and shrieked in excruciating pain when the nurse . . . swabbed her arm before inserting the needle.
“Um, Jessica? That was a soft rub with cotton. You think that hurt, just wait for the fat needle coming your direction. You need to quit your crying . . . or I’ll give you something to cry about.” I was quite adept at compassion in those days.
After a while, Jessica gave up on her dream of being a pediatric nurse because she couldn’t fathom the idea of interacting with needles – on either the giving or receiving end.
Fast forward to February of 2012.
Joline and the kids were planning to work with Sixty Feet in a juvenile remand home during the six months we were here in Uganda, but fate (providence) intervened. God closed the door on that opportunity and opened another one. We had met our Twin Family (the Gregstons) the prior month, who were also going to be in Uganda for the same six months we were there. They graciously invited Joline and the kids to join them on their mobile medical clinics.
At the end of the first week, a Ugandan doctor declared that Jessica and Jake Gregston (both 16 at the time) would need to learn to draw and test blood for HIV and Malaria. Jessica’s feeble protests were ignored. To everyone’s surprise – especially her own – she faced her deepest fears and conquered them. She credits God for giving her the momentary courage it took to pick up the needle the first time and just go with it.
Given my past interactions with Jessica and needles, I was quite stunned to learn of her leap of faith. I was also quite concerned to hear she was interacting with infected blood, which required my own leap of faith not to object. This opportunity she was given to get involved in providing medical care to children in need reawakened her long-suppressed dream of being a pediatric nurse. She absolutely thrived in the pharmacy and blood lab in these daily clinics. She was so proud of herself and wanted to show her daddy how far she had come.
This all brings me to the promise I made.
After a few weeks in the clinic, Jessica asked me if I would be able to accompany her and the Gregstons on a medical clinic one day before we left Uganda in 2012. “Of course, I will,” I promised. But my work was also busy, so I pushed it off until the last week. I was all scheduled to go, but then the clinic was cancelled due to something beyond anyone’s control.
Anyone who has broken a promise to a child knows how crappy it feels, especially for something as important to the child as this was to Jessica. She really wanted to show me what she and the others did all day while I was working with the courts.
Yesterday was spent on Redemption Island in the middle of Lake Victoria.
OK, it was actually wasn’t called Redemption Island. In fact, it wasn’t even an island, but a peninsula. But we did take a boat there and it did provide me much needed redemption.
The morning started out with a boat launch from Fish Central in Gaba. I hate fish. I hate the taste of fish, the smell of fish, and the sight of fish. Stomach acid migrates northward even when I type the word. In fact, my iPhone has an app that changes the word “fish” to “chicken” whenever I type it.
While we waited at the launching point, fish odor washed over me like making me vomit was its job. I held breakfast down, though, but not without some effort at pretending that the fish were simply water chickens. I knew it was a bad sign when the captain of S.S. Rickety Spit was bailing water as we stepped into the boat. His 30 hp motor coughed and sputtered as it tried to push forward the 30-foot wooden craft that appeared to have been fastened together with bailing wire and duct tape during the Amin regime. At least we had life jackets for the thirty-minute putter across the murky waves. Oh wait. No life jackets.
In the boat on the way to the clinic
Fortunately, we made it across without incident, though my back filed a motion for reconsideration when I was told that the ride back would be much choppier.
The patient queue grew at the sight of the arrival of eight mzungus carrying plastic trunks. The Royal “We” set up the clinic near the shore in a church that made the boat look spanking new and a work of fine craftsmanship. I watched and tried not to get in the way as a registration “desk,” a pharmacy, an examination “room,” and a blood lab were established. Within a few minutes, I reached my highest and best use as I planted myself next to Joline at the registration desk. One of the three Ugandan nurses joining us for the clinic was the first intake person. She spoke to the patients in their local language and wrote down their name, age, and gender (not always immediately obvious with kids, given the nearly uniformly shaved heads and failure to observe gender-specific clothing rules) on a registration sheet the patients would carry with them as they moved from station to station. She then handed this form to Joline, who entered the vital information in the log book and then handed it back to the patient after I finished my highly important jobs. My jobs were to weigh and de-worm them.
Little known fact – those who don’t speak your language will be able to understand you if you speak slowly and loudly, at least that is what I read on the internet and it sounded good to me. So I accomplished my first task by pointing to the scale and saying, “P-L-E-A-S-E S-T-A-N-D H-E-R-E.” It must have worked because it only took a few words in Luganda from the nurse for them to confirm they understood what I meant the first time, because after she spoke to them, they dutifully stepped on the scale. For the babies, I used my superhuman subtraction skills to figure out that if the mother weighed 77 kilos with the baby, and 70 kilos without the baby, the baby must weigh 7 kilos. It is a good thing they brought me to the clinic that day because they would have been flummoxed without me running the weighing station.
I accomplished my de-worming duties without even wearing gloves. Fearlessly, I reached in deep (sometimes with my entire hand), felt around until I pinched what I was after between my thumb and middle finger (I usually couldn’t get the kind of grasp I needed using my index finger), and then tugged. Most of the time, it came out whole. A few times I only got half. And a few times I had to physically break in half what I had removed myself. With a smile, I handed the de-worming pill I had retrieved from the jug-sized pill bottle and handed it to the patient. “Gaya,” I said, which I was told means “chew.” Those six and older got a full pill, and those between one and three got a half.
After mastering the art of weighing and de-worming (it took me less than an hour to get this down), I decided to share my considerable talents with the pharmaceutical team, which was being co-run by Jessica and Jake. Dr. Gregston and Dr. Joseph (Ugandan) were seeing patients and then practicing the lost art of writing ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics on the patients’ registration forms. Jessica and Jake acted as the interpreters as they and two other Americans on the team filled the prescriptions.
After a few minutes of watching, I jumped in. After a few minutes of counting pills, I realized I had missed my calling by going into law. Counting pills is actually fun, especially when you get to use the pill-counting tray and a little spatula to divide them into piles of five.
“I need thirty Amoxicillin,” came the call.
5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30 – “Here they are,” I would say. And I was pretty “stat” about getting them counted. I could have done that all day.
Dealing Drugs, Uganda Style, with Jessica
But my reverie was rudely interrupted by a sick lady in her late thirties whom the doctors feared might be HIV positive. I followed Jessica and Jake over to the make-shift “blood lab,” which consisted of a bench near the church doorway so the outside light could shine in.
“Shouldn’t I glove up, also?” I asked as they put on rubber gloves and prepared the needle and testing strip. Their annoyed stares wordlessly answered my question.
I couldn’t help myself from delivering repeated warnings to Jessica to “be careful” and “watch the needle – it has a sharp point” as she effortlessly found a good vein in her crook of the nervous patient’s elbow, cleaned the insertion area, inserted the needle, withdrew the blood, and squeezed a bit onto the test strip Jake had prepared.
My kids inherited my lack of musical talent, so this was our version of me being the proud papa at a piano recital.
“How long does it take before we know the results?” I asked as I shined my phone’s flash light on the test strip inside the dark church.
“About ten minutes,” Jake responded.
“What am I looking for?” I asked.
“A single line in the first area would be a positive test, which would be a negative result.”
“Got it. Let’s pray for a negative test and a positive result.”
I watched, and watched, and watched. No line! Jessica had the pleasure of informing the patient she had tested negatively. The patient clapped with delight after the translator relayed the news. Unfortunately, Jessica has had to deliver the opposite news to others along the way.
By the end of the day, just under 200 patients had been seen and treated. This was just one day of six weeks this summer (and six months last year) for the Gregstons as they serve those in greatest need here. You can follow along with their life-changing work at www.dueunto.com. Less importantly, though still very important to me, I had a chance to spend the day with my daughter participating with her in what has become her chosen occupation. Time will tell whether she pursues a medical degree or whether she focuses on the nursing she dreamt of doing so many years ago.
This wonderful day, however, ended rather like it started. The restaurant where we ate served only fish and chips. The literally had nothing else. I ate a plate of chips and held my nose as the others ate what I kept telling myself was water chicken.
Still no Chief Justice, though the chatter is increasing about what will be done to resolve this mounting crisis.
Our Life in Uganda: Part 1
Hi all!!
When we were in Uganda, I made a few photo videos/slideshows. I have been meaning to post them for about a year now, but I never got around to it. I thought, now is as good a time as ever. So, here is the first installment. Enjoy!!
http://animoto.com/play/ALR5DFUOokbtnB5HaLXKMQ
Above is the link to the video.
In three days, my parents and Jessica will be home. This is the longest time I’ve been away from Jessica, and the longest time since I was one that I’ve been away from my parents. I can’t wait to see them!!
Much love,
Jennifer Gash
Catching Up
We returned “home” to Gaba on Thursday night. We had a couple of days off clinic to catch up. Since Jim and I had missed our 23rd wedding anniversary while I was on the road, we went on a long date on Friday.
On Saturday we took a trip to Jinja. On the way we picked up our California friends, Beth and Kate Kirchner, who have been volunteering this summer with various organizations in Uganda. They will continue helping in Uganda, then Zimbabwe before returning home.
Jessica, Kate, Joline, and Beth
At a coffee shop in Jinja we ran into Spencer Bogle (a former Pepperdine classmate of Jim’s younger brother Jerry).
Jim and Spencer
Next we visited our old friend Franco the monkey at Katie Davis’s Saturday program. We also enjoy visiting with Katie and her girls.
Franco the monkey
We ended our day in Jinja with a visit to Ken and Pastor Henry. The local children really enjoyed our visit and so did we.
Gash & Gregston families with Ken and Pastor Henry
Visiting with the local kids
On Sunday we visited with friends at Gaba Community Church, then picked up our friend Henry (who is in his second term of Secondary School) from his boarding school to go shopping and have lunch. He needed a formal outfit for his end of the term leaving party. It only took seven guys to help him pick out the perfect suit, tie, shirt, and shoes.
Jim helping Henry shop
We then met the Gregstons at the Garden City Mall for lunch. We were happy that John Niemeyer (who knew Henry from Restore Leadership Academy) could also join us for lunch.
Gregston & Gash families with Henry
After lunch, Henry went back to school and we joined the Gregstons on a visit to Mulago Hospital, where a little boy named Jamil (who they have been helping) is recovering from eye surgery. On the way home, we stopped by the National Theater Craft Market to do a little shopping. Back at the guest house we visited with Shakib (another little boy the Gregstons have been helping) and his family. If you want more updates on Jamil and Shakib, please visit the Gregstons’ blog at www.dueunto.blogspot.com.
This is our final week in Uganda. We will have mobile medical clinics in Bethany Village on Monday, Konge on Tuesday, and Namuwongo on Wednesday. Then we will leave for Los Angeles on Wednesday evening. It’s hard to believe our time is almost up. But we are looking forward to seeing Joshua and Jennifer again!
Looming Constitutional Crisis in Uganda
Article 144 of Uganda’s Constitution requires members of the Supreme Court to retire upon reaching the age of 70. The Constitution also provides that the involuntarily retiring justices shall serve three additional months in order to finish their judgments and wrap up affairs. There are no exceptions and the retirements occur by operation of law. There are no exceptions.
Chief Justice Benjamin Odoki served as the lead drafter of Uganda’s 1995 Constitution, earning the widely used moniker “Father of the Constitution.” He became Chief Justice in 2001 when his predecessor aged out.
On March 23, 2013, Chief Justice Odoki turned 70 and officially “retired.” Today, June 23, 2013, the three months he continues in office expires. As of tomorrow (Monday), he will no longer be CJ. As in the United States, the President appoints justices to the Supreme Court. As of today, no successor has been named.
And no one seems to know when the President will act or whom he will appoint. When we wake up tomorrow, Uganda will be neck deep in a constitutional crisis.
There has been some chatter about a possible extension of Chief Justice Odoki’s term, but there is no obvious constitutional escape hatch. Once upon a time, the Ugandan President was limited to two five-year terms under the Constitution, but that provision was revoked prior to the 2006 election, allowing President Museveni to be elected to a third term. And then in 2011, to a fourth term. But no such amendments have been tendered to Parliament to allow the CJ to continue to serve.
The Constitution does allow the President to appoint, when necessary, judges to serve on short-term contracts. There has been some chatter suggesting that President Museveni could invoke that provision and appoint Chief Justice Odoki to serve as a contract judge, and then re-appoint him Chief Justice for a specified term. But it is not at all clear that the Ugandan Constitution would permit a contract judge to be the Chief Justice. Such an appointment would almost certainly guarantee a constitutional challenge, which would be easily filed given the almost non-existent standing requirements for the filing of such a challenge in Uganda.
In any event, it will be interesting to watch this unfold from inside the country.
Chief Justice Odoki has been an excellent Chief Justice and the country would benefit from his continued service. If the baton is passed, however, there are some highly qualified and talented judges ready to fill his sizable shoes, if need be.
OK, back to life in Uganda. Jessica, Joline, and the Gregstons arrived back into Kampala late Thursday night after a very tiring, though utterly satisfying, ten-day mobile medical trip around southern Uganda during which they treated over fifteen hundred patients in community clinics.
Friday morning was spent sorting and repacking medications in and among the six trunks they use. I was a heap of help.
“What is this for? What does this one taste like? What does ‘suppository’ mean? Oh wait, it is called Rectol, so I think I might know where it goes.”
Their patience with me quickly evaporated, so they sent me with Dr. Jay to go to the nearby clinic and carry boxes. With my octogenarian back, I wasn’t much help there, either. Regrettably, my face made a brief appearance on the “Useless” Wikipedia page. An exclamation point was added to this during a phone call with a lawyer friend in DC who works with families who run into challenges in the adoption process here in Uganda. The case we discussed appears to be intractable, and (in my humble opinion) for what is likely a good reason. As much as I want to help orphans find homes, and find them immediately, not every would-be adoption involves an actual orphan in need of a family. My prayer is that those who, for all the right reasons, are trying to help a child will do prodigious research and investigation in advance in order to ensure that the child they seek to adopt is among the large group who are truly in need of a loving home. With all due respect, children who are living in poverty within a family should not be included within the group identified to be in need of adoption. Exit soapbox.
In the afternoon, however, I regained my footing by taking Joline off for an eighteen-hour anniversary date, which we had missed while she was on the road. We checked in at the Golf Course Hotel and took a real shower — the first in quite a while without having to hold the anemic-spraying shower head with one hand. From there, we went for a couple’s massage at the Emin Pasha Spa. We followed that with dinner and a movie (Olympus has Fallen). The rest of the date falls into the category of “what happens in Kampala . . . stays in Kampala.”
The next morning, we set off early for Jinja. On the way, we picked up Kate and Beth Kirchner, twin sisters we know from home who are here for a couple months serving several different organizations. They are teachers and are looking to relocate to Uganda at some point down the road. Our goal was to introduce them to our friends at Amazima to explore some possibilities. Mission accomplished.
On the way back from Jinja, we stopped off at a church to visit some friends of the Gregstons. While there, we got to hang out with some really cool kids, most of whom loved my daughter Jessica.
Jessica and her Fan Club
One of them (appropriately named Jonah) was convinced he could take me for a piggyback ride. Unfortunately, he badly miscalculated how much a beached whale weighs. On the good side of the ledger, he only blew three discs so his spinal surgery should only be a half-day affair.
Jonah Carrying his Whale
On Sunday morning, we got to attend Gaba Community Church again, which is where we worshiped when we lived here in 2012. It was good to be back. I remain amazed at the energy expended in worship by the locals. One dude burned more kcals during the singing than I expend during the P90X “Cardio X” video. But let’s be real, I pull up a chair and activate the “ff” button out pretty early into the video anyway.
After church, we picked up Henry from school and took him shopping for his first proper suit. Joline is describing the shopping experience a bit more in her upcoming post, but suffice it to say that the shop merchants smelled our mzungu money from a kilometer away and ensured they met their profit quota for the month.
Henry (in his school uniform) with the Gregstons, Joline, Jessica, and Me
On Monday morning, I will have the long-overdue opportunity to fulfill a promise I made over a year ago.
A Different Kind of Kamp’ing’ in Uganda
On Wednesday, I had my first Kamp’ing’ experience in Uganda and did not like it at all. I loved camping as a kid. As an adult? Not so much. There is something about being the one responsible for setting up the tent that sours the entire experience.
For the past three and a half years, I have devoted significant efforts in Uganda to expedite the time it takes to get to trial for juveniles confined to remand homes in advance of trial. Many of those who plead guilty or who are convicted after a trial are released because they have already been confined in the remand home for longer than the sentence they receive. But those who are given sentences longer than the time already served are sent to the National Rehabilitation Centre (British spelling intended). This Centre is commonly referred to as Kampiringisa. (See how I cleverly apostrophized the word to make it Kamp’ing’??)
For about two years, I have been intending to visit Kampiringisa with Sixty Feet, who sends a team out there every Monday and Wednesday, but the timing never seemed to work. Well, it worked on Wednesday. With the Pepperdine team safely back in Los Angeles, and with Joline and Jessica still on the road here in Uganda, I finally had a chance to join the Sixty Feet folks for a visit.
It was as bad as I had heard. Not only are there more than thirty juveniles serving sentences there, but there are also about eighty other kids there on “care and protection” orders. “Care and protection” means they are there not as prisoners, but as homeless kids. Some of them are there because their parents don’t want to look after them anymore, or because they were causing trouble at home. But most of them are from the Karamojong tribe, and they have arrived at Kampiringisa after being rounded up by the local governmental authority when they periodically clear the streets of begging children. Most (perhaps all) of these kids are on the streets begging as a result of being sent or sold by their parents to work as part of group of beggars for an adult handler.
The Karamojong (or K-jongs as they are called) are considered by the other Ugandan tribes as the lowly outcasts of society. Indigenous Ugandans can easily distinguish them from the others and routinely single them out for mistreatment. It is quite sad. The same is true at Kampiringisa. The other children don’t interact with them, and the local government authority won’t let Sixty Feet provide mattresses for them to sleep on, so they sleep on the concrete floor. When food is served, they are served separately and last. They are the most malnourished among the inhabitants of Kampiringisa. Sixty Feet takes active steps to counter this, including relocating many of them to another location (with express, written approval) to be nourished back to health.
All of this I had been told in advance of my arrival. When we arrived, Kelsey (lead Sixty Feet intern) gave me a tour of the property. Sobering doesn’t even begin to describe it. Whenever new inmates arrive, they are put into a cell for about two weeks in order to break their spirits. There is no bed and no toilet facility, only a plastic can in the corner of this eight-by-ten box. They are not let out at all during this two-week period. From there, the prisoners are transferred to the “black room” where they stay about thirty days, until they are adjudged sufficiently docile to be able to roam the premises. In the padlocked black room, there are about twenty beds, toilet facilities (a hole in the ground), a television, and a place to bathe.
The Black Room (photo from internet -- I took no pictures on this visit)
Situated throughout the rest of the property are a smattering of buildings, some of which are used for administration and sleeping, and some of which are abandoned. The children mill around all day. Some play soccer with plastic bags tied up with string, some cook posho and beans over large pots, and others just sit and stare into nothingness. The K-jongs stay together in small groups.
After the tour, Kelsey and I joined the others in the medical clinic they set up each Monday and Wednesday. Any kid who is sick or injured gets treated by the combined American and Ugandan nursing staff. For close to an hour, I held a very small girl with an ear infection. She weighed less than ten pounds, but was between eighteen months and two years old. She was badly malnourished and the nursing staff feared she had AIDS. She didn’t even have the strength to cry (or wince) when they pricked her finger and tested her blood. We held our collective breaths as we awaited the results. Negative. Thank God.
Her ear was oozing puss, so the Ugandan nurse twisted some cotton and thoroughly cleaned it out. The devil’s-tailpipe smell of what came out raised the bile in my stomach to dangerously high altitudes. I barely kept it down. She didn’t even whimper. Later, Sixty Feet requested and received permission to move her and older brother to another location where they can be nursed back to health.
From the medical clinic area, Kelsey and I returned to the black room and played cards with the kids for about an hour. Everyone in Uganda, it seems, plays the same card game, which is a variation on Crazy Eights.
I left there more convinced than when I came that something needs to be done about Kampiringisa, and it needs to be done quickly. At the very least, those serving sentences for crimes (such as defilement of children) should not be allowed to roam around young kids brought there for “care and protection.” Perhaps that will be one of my next projects . . .
Thursday was a day of meetings, including one with Regent Professor David Velloney and Uganda Christian University Professor Brian Dennison. They are jointly running a summer program at UCU that has ten students, six of whom are from Regent, two are from Trinity, and one each from Florida State and Southwestern Law Schools, respectively. We all had lunch at a local Chinese restaurant and talked about Pepperdine’s efforts to advance the rule of law here in Uganda.
I also had a chance to catch up with the lawyer who served as local counsel for my oral argument on behalf of Henry in March. Third-hand hearsay suggests that we might be getting a ruling by the end of July.
Joline and Jessica arrive back in Kampala tonight, so it will be good to finally be with them for the first time in nearly two weeks.
Mbarara Mobile Medical Clinics
We’ve spent the past couple of days in Mbarara. I must admit that we’ve been on the road so long that I’m not sure exactly where we are on the map or on the calendar. The places and days begin to run together. It’s good to have photos to remember and to share with you.
We held a clinic in the community of Itara (near Mbarara) at the Africa Renewal Ministries school. We saw school kids that were sick as well as community members.
Itara community members going into clinic
School kids taking a break from class
The road to Itara is lined with banana trees and small houses. We had another opportunity to meet some of the locals when the van overheated again.
Taking a time out for van to cool down
Boy holding child among banana trees
Today we held a clinic for the community in Mbarara at a church near the main part of town.
Clinic at church in Mbarara
We were joined by a former pastor from Alabama named Ken who runs a ministry to help train pastors in Africa. He was in charge of spiritual care for the clinic and ten people accepted Jesus Christ as their savior today. Ken did a great job explaining the gospel to the community members including some Muslim women. He is pictured below on the left – the only mzungu in the group.
Spiritual care with Pastor Ken
The church building was under construction but the lack of doors and windows actually provided lots of light and air, so it was quite pleasant to work there. We had plenty of room to move around. Some of the church members even had space to cook our lunch in the back corner of the building.
This gives new meaning to church potluck
Jessica and Jake spent much of the day in the blood lab, which they set up at the front corner of the church. This hands on experience has been life changing for them.
Jessica & Jake make a great team in blood lab
We will work a half day clinic at the church tomorrow. Then travel back to our home base in Gaba. The van spent the day in the repair shop, so we hope to make it all the way without having to stop. I’m looking forward to being “home” and seeing Jim.
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