As some of you know, I require monthly blood tests and before leaving the U.S. I was assured that it could be done here in Mbale; no problem. So I approached Dr Patrick one day saying it was getting to be time for the test. He told me he’d take me to Children’s Hospital, C.U.R.E., they have an excellent facility and the best lab.
I’d already met the administrator of C.U.R.E. and heard about many good things coming from there. The hospital has a beautiful facility and a very dedicated professional staff. The first Dr. I met was a very tall and handsome older man. “You may call me Zephaniah,” he said, as we shook hands. I looked at him and said, “Wow, that is quite a handle.” “Yes, a long name for a tall man.”
I had a chance to watch that kind and gentle man while we waited our turn. His face reflected a great love and compassion for children; he loved joking with them and their parents. The last family that day was from Kenya, they came to thank Dr Zeph for all he’d done for their beautiful little girl. Is that why, I wondered, this hospital is built so near the Kenyan border? So it can be of service to both countries? I’d have expected such a hospital in Kampala. I’ll have to ask friend Derek, the administrator.
Then it was my turn. With a twinkle in his eyes Dr Zeph said, “You’re much older than most of my patients.” I acknowledged the fact but hoped that the clinic would be able to help me. While patiently listening to my telling of what I needed to have done, he slowly started to shake his head. “I’m so sorry but we don’t have the equipment for that particular test here, no one in Mbale does; you’ll have to go to Kampala, for that test.” I looked at Dr Patrick and saw how surprised he was. He’d been so sure that the test could be done here. So we made plans for the next week.
Friday night came with a call, “Anne, my family in Kampala is sick and I need to go there tomorrow. You want to ride along? I’ll take you to the lab, but you will have to take the bus home.” Of course I said yes, while having visions of all the things son Albert told us not to do. Oh well, they’d already been broken and I needed this test. Besides, doesn’t God go with us? Getting to Kampala would take at least 4 hours.
We - Patrick, a friend needing a ride and I - left at 9 the next morning, with me bringing a couple of sandwiches, some sweets and 2 bottles of water. After one hour on the road we stopped at a fruit stand to buy fruits and vegetables for the family in Kampala. Those items are so much nicer at the farm than at the city markets; I even bought a kilo of not quite ripe mangoes.
About half way into the journey you come to what we previously have called “The Ugandan McDonalds.” Don’t get visions of Golden Arches though. This one is a long strip along the highway where people have large vats of extremely hot frying oil. They then take chickens which have been sliced length wise and skewer each half onto long bamboo sticks. Those are then fried in the hot oil, sprinkled with flavoring and offered to customers. Young men and women come running with handfuls of these sticks, hoping you will buy theirs. There were also sticks with what looked like beef or goat but chicken is the most popular. And they offered plates of fried bananas, bottles of water, and lengths of sugar cane. Each person was pushing and shoving more than the next and yelling for you to make a purchase. Make sure your doors are locked and windows opened just a crack should you decide to stop at such a place, they might just get in the car with you. Patrick must have seen my hesitation for I heard him say, “It’s OK to eat the chicken, Anne, just as long as they are boiling hot.”
And hot they were! They burned my lips. I wished they’d had napkins though, the grease was dripping. And they were good, more flavor than most food being served here.
On to Kampala, past Jinja, where you have the head waters of the river Nile, into the crazy traffic of the city. Long before we got there the traffic was often at a stand still. I could see Patrick shaking his head and hear him muttering, “This is why I don’t like coming here.” I just fed him peppermints hoping he’d stay awake enough to drive.
It was almost 3 pm when we got to Ebenezer Clinic. Thankfully, we didn’t have to wait long. I was so relieved and thankful that the test result was good and very surprised it only cost 10,000 shillings, about $6.00. I did have to wait 40 minutes for the results and wondered what Patrick would say; thinking he wanted to get to his family. “No, Anne, I was hoping to get you on the 3 o’clock bus” Oops, missed that one. His wife, Helen, had already called a couple of times, checking on how we were doing. “We’ll have to get you on the 4 o’clock now since that is the last one out tonight.”
While I waited, Patrick went to do some errands. On his return I heard him say, “Anne, how are you with taking the boda-boda? (the motor cycle taxis) We don’t have much time left. I’ll never get you to the bus by 4 o’clock if we go by car.” I still can’t believe I said “OK” while visions of Kampala traffic were playing in my head. As in the U.S., you often have concrete barriers at the center of 4 lanes of city traffic, giving the boda-bodas another wall to squeeze by or make two lanes into 3, while also dodging potholes. That becomes even more fun when you get to a traffic circle where every vehicle is for itself, trying to squeeze into a possible opening, often touching each other.
When I realized we were coming to a circle and my driver decided to swing around the truck that was so near the wall, I just shut my eyes and prayed all the harder. I’m sure I also must have squeezed his shoulder for that is usually how I hang on. Around town in Mbale I usually tell the drivers that I’m new and scared, and they better take it easy but there I didn’t have time. At the same time, my phone started ringing and didn't stop for some time.
We got to the bus yard with 5 min. to spare. Patrick, who was on a boda behind mine, hopped off, paid the drivers and yelled, “Your phone is ringing.” I could tell it was Helen and heard her say, “Oh no” when she heard where we were but I had no time to reply.
The bus yard was a sea of humanity, all pushing and shoving toward busses, many also yelling at the top of their lungs. On taking a closer look I noticed that the majority of those frenzied people were vendors, trying to sell their wares to the travelers; some even going on the bus while they were still waiting to leave. I’m so glad Patrick was with me to get me a good seat, one where I could stretch my legs. From there I could watch the final loading procedures, hardly believing my eyes by what I saw people bringing on board; TVs, (boxed or not), computers, bedding, (mattresses were tied to the back) , bags of clothing, you name it, it was there; one lady even had a live chicken under her arm. (Its legs were tied.) Every seat was filled and the rest of the space was crammed with stuff, even most of the isle. And then came the man with a wheel barrow loaded with sheet metal, some of it rusty; that also all went into the bottom of the bus. Unbelievable!
(At our Sunday evening Bible study the gentleman from Whales said, “That bus yard is the best example of purgatory I can think of”, when he heard where I’d been. He’s Roman Catholic.)
Finally we were off, and yes, I was the only muzungu (white person) on board. I had a Child Evangelism lesson book on my lap, thinking to study a lesson for the next day. Then I heard my neighbor say, “I’m a Christian, may I see your book? Of course he could.
I watched as he read and wondered if he understood what it meant. He seemed fascinated with the pictures and the verses in bold print, at times there was confusion so I asked if he understood what he was reading. Slowly he said, “No, I don’t.” That was the beginning of a lesson from Eph. 2 : 8,9. I don’t know if it all sank in but the young man kept on explaining to his very pregnant wife and saying to me, “Now I tell her.” Long after it was dark they were still discussing. Pray for the Holy Spirit to really open the Word to them. They left the bus one stop before mine and thanked me profusely.
What I didn’t know about bus services: they do stop at “McDonalds”, the same chicken place as in the morning, and people were still running and screaming to make sales (I had my own sandwich), the bus also makes potty stops. When we got to the outlying areas, the bus stopped and people started to get off, including my seat mates. I said goodbye but he said, “This is just a quick stop.” In the dark, one could not see anything but I remembered the many vegetable farms along the road in the morning (Free fertilizer, right guys?).
The bus was also stopped at 4 different times by police, who looked very important with their big guns on the shoulder. They walked around the bus, talked to the driver through the open window and then waved us on. Curiously, they never checked the driver’s license. At the first stop one policeman did come aboard to see if any passengers had to stand for the ride, that is a so called, big no-no.
We got to Mbale by 8:30. I looked around for a boda-boda, called Sam to meet us at the gate and by 9 p.m. I was home. Sam gladly paid the driver.
This day was one I have to remember - people have called me crazy but I see it as experiencing life the real Ugandan way. :)
Blessings, Anne
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