Mulago Hospital

There is a woman named Joyce who works for the Human Rights Network in the same office where the UCICC is located. I'd seen her once or twice and taken her picture, but that's all. Anyway, at one point John Francis and I were editing our new web site, and Joyce came up and announced, "John, I am leaving. I know you won't come with me, so I am taking her, instead." And she pointed to me. "You will come with me, right?"

"Uh, sure," I said. I've been learning to roll with the punches, here. People say they will do something, then don't. Or they say they'll be at such and such a place at a certain time, and they show up hours later. In the same fashion, they will suddenly tell me that I am in charge of something two seconds before I am supposed to have the task completed. I am learning to stay calm and just expect that kind of instant responsibility. Thank goodness for my newsroom training: I am used to making snap decisions under tight deadlines, and it helps in an environment like this.

Anyway, I'm here to serve these people's needs, so if someone wants me to go for a ride, I'll do it. I obediently followed Joyce to her car.

Yeah, so this ride was interesting. Joyce is a nice lady, but a horrible driver. As much as I've said that I never want to drive in Uganda, I'd be more willing to get behind the wheel than ride with Joyce again. And that is saying a lot, because even in the United States I'm a pretty horrible driver. Of course, I didn't know she was a bad driver until I was already in the car. At that point, it was the best I could do to look unphased. I watched the road as closely as possible and tried to calm myself with conversation. "So where are we going?" I asked.

"To visit my friend in the hospital," Joyce answered. "He was in a car accident."

Great.

Mulago hospital is the biggest hospital in Uganda. I hope it's not the nicest. When we got in there, there were gnats everywhere. Some flies, too. Paint was peeling off the walls, and the ratio of patients to personnel was ... overwhelming. People were on gurneys in the waiting room and in the halls. Most of the wards were common rooms; private rooms were reserved for the most serious cases. That's where Joyce's ex-boyfriend Augustine was staying.

I don't know how to evaluate Augustine's chances. When we saw him, he could barely speak above a whisper. Apparently he got into a car accident one day as he was coming back from his university (Augustine is just becoming a medical doctor) and sustained abdominal punctures which have subsequently become infected. He's on antibiotics but has needed a number of surgeries. One of his legs is broken, too. He has been in the hospital for three weeks, now. There aren't a lot of X-ray machines here; I don't think there are any CAT scanners or MRI devices or anything. Onyango has told me stories about people hit by shrapnel who nearly die of infection because no one can find the pieces embedded in the victim's flesh. Even western surgeons are afraid to operate without the necessary equipment.

There really isn't a convenient way to end an entry like this. I guess ultimately I just wish Augustine the best, and I have a heightened appreciation for the work John and Andrea are doing in Mali.