by Judy Steel
During this travel adventure, I started feeling different somehow. I spoke to Allan about the pressing need I had been feeling to give something back, and also told him about the strange vision of me holding a black baby that had kept reappearing day after day until I just accepted it. Allan listened as I explained and then suggested I talk to one of our ministers when we got home.
It is difficult to describe the next events in my spiritual journey, but I did feel the need to start writing down what was happening to me and all the thoughts and feelings I was wrestling with. One night I awoke at two in the morning with these words loud and forceful in my head: My soul magnifies the Lord. I eventually went back to sleep wondering what was happening. The next night at 3 am I was again woken, this time with the words: I will lift up my eyes unto the hills – where does my help come from?
I now know these verses are from Luke 1:47 and Psalm 121. They have since become very important and symbolic to me but, at the time, not being a reader of the Bible, I didn’t know what they meant or where they came from. As a child at the convent we had sung the Magnificat: ‘My soul glorifies the Lord’ but that was a very long time ago. I looked up a concordance in Allan’s Bible to find out what Jesus was saying to me. The more I read, the more the Psalms started speaking to me. I stopped watching television and read the Bible, books on spirituality, autobiographies – anything that taught me more.
Before this time I had never concentrated seriously on prayer but it was around then that I had two powerful experiences with it. In both instances my prayers concerned problems affecting friends, one who required physical healing and the other vital help in beating her children’s serious drug addiction. In both cases my prayers were answered dramatically and almost instantly, which left me breathless. Then there was a more personal answer to prayer.
During a routine ophthalmic check-up, a specialist diagnosed a rapidly growing cataract in my left eye. I presumed that if God wanted me working overseas then he would deal with it, and so I prayed to that effect. I sought a second opinion and, after an examination, the specialist said, ‘There is nothing wrong with your eye.’ Discussing this later with a medical colleague, he declared there was no way the first diagnosis could have been a mistake.
I began to feel that I was needed somewhere in the world and had a very strong feeling it was in India or Africa. I felt I had been called and it didn’t feel negotiable. Asking ‘why?’ or ‘what for?’ didn’t occur to me, but I did want to ask ‘why me?’ I was aware of my other responsibilities as a wife, mother and grandmother, but Allan took each step with me. He liked the change he saw in me and encouraged me to follow the call.
I took Allan’s advice and met one of the ministers at Westbourne Park Uniting Church, which we had been attending since Allan retired. It was a busy place with several hundred people at the two morning services. One day I sat down in the church office with Reverend Gillies Ambler and told him that I felt a calling to work with children and babies in India or Africa, and that I wanted him to help me discover where. Gillies was slightly taken aback by my directness, but importantly he was immediately open to the idea. Although he knew little about working in such places, he offered to help find out.
In the meantime, Gillies began nudging this spiritual awakening I was experiencing in all sorts of directions. He urged me to explore and reflect on where it was leading me and arranged mini-retreats to read and reflect. Gillies is a bit of a maverick in spiritual matters and believes God doesn’t always follow orthodox or well-trodden paths. He was open to anywhere this might lead, but also warned that this would mean letting go of control of many things – something that doesn’t come naturally to me.
Despite having said I did not want to be a volunteer, Allan and I started going out with the Salvation Army each week on their soup run. I felt needed and was helping people in distress. We drove up and down streets in the city looking for the homeless and hungry and giving them something to eat and warm clothes. It was humbling learning from those who had nothing. One old man had been a Second World War Russian pilot; we affectionately called him The General. I was told that once his parachute had not opened properly and he had suffered multiple fractures, so consequently his life was filled with pain. I don’t know what happened to him – he just disappeared.
Three months after my outback vision, I was feeling restless at work. I believed that at fifty-five I had achieved all I wanted to at Resthaven and something was calling me away. I surprised everyone at work when I announced my retirement, but I couldn’t really answer their questions about what I was going to do – I really didn’t know, but I wanted to start whatever it was immediately.
We began looking for mission agencies, but doors seemed to be closing rather than opening. Some suggested training, others language school. Some didn’t know of anywhere in Africa and referred me to the Philippines, but that didn’t feel right. I sensed strongly that my calling would involve children and presumed that meant working in an orphanage. Wherever it was, I felt convinced it would involve only one overseas visit and then I would resume my retired life.
After about six months I heard of a couple from the Adelaide Hills, Frank and Michele Heyward, who were going to Uganda in east Africa to build a school, church and clinic. They were completely self-funded: Frank would do the building while Michele would handle the administration and keep the books. I contacted them a few weeks before they left and discussed their plans. They invited me to live with them if I came to Uganda. While there was nothing I could do for the Heywards, Michele told me about a place called the Florence Nightingale Clinic in Nakalubye which she described as the worst slum in Kampala. It was run by a nurse who she said would be grateful for any assistance. The only thing I knew about Uganda was the terrifying years under the rule of Idi Amin but now it seemed politically stable. This seemed the clearest lead I had to work overseas. I still had no real plan, place to work or obvious use of my skills, but it was a start.
For the next six months I did Bible study at Tabor College, a theological college in Adelaide. Although I didn’t complete the course, I felt it was important to learn about the Bible and how to read meaning into the lessons it taught. I also undertook an intensive course in international health and medicine run by Flinders University Emeritus Professor Anthony Radford, a beautiful man who became a friend and mentor. His overseas experience was extraordinary having worked in forty-six countries, including stints in Papua New Guinea, Alaska, Botswana, China, Burma and refugee camps on the Thai–Cambodia border. Along the way he has met Mother Theresa, Prince Charles and Jawaharlal Nehru.
Anthony’s intense three-week course, the only one of its type in Australia, is designed to prepare Christian medical professionals for work in developing countries. Anthony is a great believer in holistic medicine and argues that the best way to tackle illness in developing countries is not with a single doctor, but with a plan to educate and alleviate poverty. Simple things such as hand-washing, birth control, teeth-cleaning and mosquito nets will change many more people’s lives than a team of specialist surgeons. Often these basic health principles are not carried out because of ignorance, illiteracy or poverty. The course emphasised the role community health workers can play, because Anthony’s experience is that the only sustainable programs are ones that can be taught to others, not just implemented by a foreigner who jets into a community.
Between Anthony’s crash courses in leprosy, malaria, basic dentistry, nutrition, STDs and dysentery were lessons in self-preservation. There is a very high burn-out rate for Westerners going into developing countries. Anthony warned stress levels could quickly reach the point where I would forget how to phone home and advised taking a book of phone numbers and instructions on how to dial international codes. He taught us some ways to alleviate the intense homesickness, such as keeping a journal.
Our final project was to break into groups and come up with a community health project, setting an objective and developing a plan of action. Antho
ny emphasised plans that galvanise a community into action and setting goals that can be measured. Although the course was jammed into three demanding weeks, so many of the aspects, good and bad, that were discussed in theory in it would become reality in Uganda.
The next few months sped by quickly. I had thought about what to take with me to give to the children of Nakulabye so I decided to collect t-shirts. With the help of friends from church we gathered about 200 brightly coloured t-shirts. Michele asked the nurse at the Florence Nightingale clinic what instruments or drugs I could bring. I collected what I could from Overseas Pharmaceutical Aid for Life (OPAL), a South Australian charity started by a former police officer Geoff Lockyer, who was outraged at the amount of surplus but safe medicines in Australia dumped by companies. He began collecting the excess and has provided drugs for clinics and hospitals in more than forty countries.
I had retired in October 1998 and by the following April I was at the Adelaide airport nervously saying goodbye to Allan. I had to fly to Perth from where I would fly to Harare in Zimbabwe and then, after two days, onto Uganda. I still knew very little about this country, what to expect from its people or how I could help, if at all.
Chapter Three
ON THE FLIGHT FROM Perth to Zimbabwe I was given a rare treat by being allowed up to the flight deck. The first officer knew my son David from RAAF days and they were both now flying for Qantas. It was terrific to be able to see where he sits and works. When I returned to my seat I found myself getting emotional as I read through a very moving letter that our church minister, Gillies, had written to me, and I hit an internal panic button about what lay ahead. I opened my Bible for comfort and told myself to trust and obey.
I had a stopover in Harare because Uganda Airways only had one plane and the next scheduled flight to Uganda was in two days. Peter Burkett from the International Police Association (IPA) met me at Harare airport and helped collect my things. Allan is also a member of the IPA, a worldwide organisation whose members offer support and assistance to police officers and their families when travelling. I had checked in with me a box of medication from OPAL. Irritatingly, the package was nowhere to be seen. We spent ages trying to locate it until someone finally told us it was now coming from Singapore via Johannesburg. I was having my first rapid course in how things do (or don’t) work in Africa.
The morning I flew to Uganda I was a bundle of nerves. Regular visits to the loo began at 4 am, and eventually I took some medication, made myself eat some peaches and drink some black tea, and calm myself down by praying. Although still a bit fearful, about halfway through the flight I was overcome by an incredible sense of peace, no doubt a combination of the prayer and the medication!
Entebbe airport near Kampala, the Ugandan capital on Lake Victoria, was all but empty as I walked through customs. I told one of the officers that I wasn’t sure if I had to declare anything and he replied, ‘No, madame, you do not, and I will push your trolley for you.’ He held the door open as I sailed through with my case, two boxes, t-shirts for the children, a carry-on bag and a laundry bag full of books.
‘Hallelujah,’ I whispered to myself.
Outside the terminal I was met by a welcoming party led by Frank and Michele Heyward and their teenage daughter, Hannah. The Heywards have three children but two were grown up and stayed in Australia. Although I had only met them briefly in Australia and didn’t become involved with their work, they opened their home to me to stay and we became great friends. I was introduced to a woman named Alice Zalawango who was about forty, and very excited to meet me. She ran the Florence Nightingale Clinic and was, for better or worse, to become my clinic nurse and teacher of all things Ugandan for the next three months.
The twenty-kilometre drive from Entebbe to the Heywards’ house took over an hour as we battled the traffic along poor roads. As we bumped over the pot holes, I naively asked where the footpaths were. There are no footpaths anywhere in Uganda apart from the inner city. There was rubbish piled high and plastic bags everywhere. I was shocked to see so many coffins waiting to be sold. There are more than one million people in Kampala and it felt like all of them were on the road. Drivers used their horns liberally, and road rules seemed to be used merely as suggestions with cars, motorbikes and boda-bodas darting in and out at all angles and speeds. Boda-bodas are small motorbikes, similar to scooters, and are the most popular (and hair-raising) way of getting around. Frank said the roads were in quite good condition. My overwhelming impression of the city was stark poverty.
The Heywards’ house was in a rural area north of Kampala. My plan was to live there for three months. Michele had gone to a lot of trouble to make my room pretty with curtains and matching bedspread. The house was very simple with cement floors and primitive facilities, but it was safe. I had already heard stories about Uganda’s crime rate and the perils of being alone, particularly at night. The indoor flush toilet was accessed through their bedroom, so a pit latrine in the backyard was the alternative. Next door an orphanage owned by an American housed twenty-two gorgeous children being cared for by five ‘aunties’, each child being funded by an American sponsor. The children regularly made their way into the Heywards’ house along with other boisterous visitors, so I had to quickly get used to the lack of privacy.
Once a woman named Edith arrived to see Michele, and when I introduced myself her response was to ask me if I was saved. She was the first of many Ugandans I would meet whose faith was a powerful force. Christianity is the dominant religion in Uganda but there are also Muslims and those with traditional indigenous beliefs. I quickly learned whatever the religion, this is a deeply spiritual country. It was explained to me that so many lost so much under the brutal regimes of Presidents Idi Amin and Milton Obote that they were sustained by their faith which they clung to fiercely. Over time I discovered how freely Ugandans talk about God and the spirit. This wasn’t restricted to Christians as Muslims were equally passionate about the power of God in their lives.
My first experience with Christianity Ugandan-style, at a church in a Kampala suburb with about 2000 in the congregation, was an eye-opener. I went along with the Heywards, who worshipped here until their own church was built. The service lasted three hours; I was later told this was a short service so I made a mental note to bring something to eat and drink next time. The music and singing was beautiful and reflected the love of the congregation so much that I found myself immersed in the spirituality of the moment. However the atmosphere changed for me when the sermon began and a woman screeched from the pulpit for almost an hour. I’m familiar with evangelism, but this would take some getting used to. Eventually I moved away from the Pentecostal-style services, preferring instead the Church of Uganda which was Anglican and its services were in English. In a week the church was to be used for the wedding of a friend of the Heywards’, Fred, and his fiancée, Florence, with the reception to be held in the garden at Frank and Michele’s home. The couple already had three children and their fourth was due in three months. It is so expensive for Ugandans to get married that many can’t afford it. I was automatically invited to the wedding because I was a friend of the Heywards so, as per the local custom, I gave the couple 20,000 shillings (A$20) which sent Fred into a speech of praise to God.
Before anyone can marry in Uganda, they must have what is called the ‘introduction’. It is more important than the wedding itself because it involves paying a dowry. This wedding introduction began with a bone-crushing drive to Florence’s village, where there had been much work done erecting a shelter and bringing chairs in for us. The men were formally dressed in long, white robes called kunzu and suit coats, while the women looked elegant in their traditional dresses known as a gomez. It has many metres of fabric which are folded over and over in a pleat on the left side and held in place by a bright brocade sash. I decided I needed to get a gomez and some dangling earrings from the market for such occasions.
The introduction ceremony took hours and there was much drama, p
lay-acting and Bible reading. Florence came in looking splendid, surrounded by her sisters and aunt. She did not speak to Fred and he was not allowed to say anything all day. Eventually we were served a meal of meat soup, beans, greens and rice, served on a banana leaf and eaten by hand. A girl came around both before and after the meal with water to wash our hands.
The wedding was held in a church in Kampala the following day, so we decorated Frank’s car with bandages made from old sheets and tied bougainvillea to it. I was getting used to the flexible nature of African time and the phrase ‘TIA’ – ‘This is Africa’ – often uttered when things run behind schedule. The wedding was supposed to be at one o’clock but it was 1.45 when twelve of us piled into the Pajero and took Fred to the church. We need not have hurried because Florence arrived at 3.30 and the ceremony went until five. The reception at Frank and Michele’s was a riot of colour and music, with three different singing groups and many speeches. It ended with ten guests sleeping on the lounge room floor.
A few days later I went with Michele to meet Alice at the Florence Nightingale Clinic to see if I could help in any way. My feelings were mixed. I was excited, nervous and wondering what I was doing here. The 24-hour clinic stands in the middle of the Nakulabye slum. It is a seething mass of humanity where 80,000 people live in poverty and sickness. When it rains it turns into a bog, the open sewerage drains overflow and rubbish that is never collected piles up.
The clinic’s work mostly revolved around mothers and babies but occasionally people with minor wounds would be attended to or those who suspected they had AIDS or STDs would come in to talk discreetly to Alice about it. The clinic delivery room was about two metres by one, with a cement floor, screened area and a battered examination couch. In another passageway was a mattress where the mother could rest for eight to twelve hours after delivery. I was told most births take place at home and only the problems end up at the clinic, but in reality there were many normal deliveries there. The bathroom was a pit latrine out the back. Alice had spread the word about my arrival and many mothers came to see me, asking for advice for their children and themselves. They pushed their babies forward for treatment and I immunised some as young as five days old with vaccines that were readily available. I found myself terrified at the responsibility.