ABUJA, NIGERIA We land on a stifling clothes-stick-to-your-body kind of night and are greeted at the plane by drivers and our escorts military police. They will be a constant presence as is the topic of AIDS on this 10-day mission as we traverse bush villages assessing medical needs.
Roger Matthews, founder of Detroit-based World Medical Relief African Partners, has allowed Fr. Clarence Williams, CPPS, director of the archdiocesan Office of Black Catholic Ministries, and me to accompany his crew.
The eight military police, all armed with AK-47s, and five drivers are on government assignment to protect our party of eight. It is not one of the safer parts of the world. But it is one in need of much help.
Most in our group have exceeded the life expectancy in Nigeria. It's now at 45 years for men and 46 for women, according to the World Health Organization.
Those we will meet on this trip part of the Church universal are brothers and sisters in Christ for whom living conditions are like those in the aftermath of a tsunami or hurricane every day, every week, every year in one of the most turbulent places in the world.
For most, there is no access to running water. There is little or no access to basic medical needs. Medical supplies are sparse. Emergency nighttime surgeries are performed by propane lanterns when there is access to propane. Anesthesia is often not available. Neither are X-rays, nor heart monitors, nor oxygen machines, nor vaccines, nor basic supplies we can buy at our corner drug store bandages, cold medicine, blood-pressure cuffs and aspirin.
Matthews, through World Medical Relief African Partners, has shipped more than $14 million in donated medicine and donated or recycled medical equipment and supplies to this part of the world in the past two years. It's like using a Band-Aid to stop a hemorrhage.
Part of the reason for this trip is to determine that equipment already shipped is being used properly and maintained.
On a grander scale, this trip is about the daunting task of initial visits to bush villages, at the request of government officials, and trying to work out a plan for places barren of medical help.
Nigeria, where malaria is still the No. 1 killer, is now living under a veil of the threat of AIDS. Every single person we speak with knows someone who died from HIV/AIDS or someone who lives with HIV/AIDS.
"You are Welcome"
Our days start just after dawn. Travel in the dark is not wise in the areas we visit. In some places it is not even possible because of roadblocks, checkpoints run by military imposters, bandits and the lack of lights on the road. Periodic sand storms blowing in from the Sahara also made driving in the day difficult.
We wear bandanas covering our nose and mouth when traveling into the bush. It helps, but arriving hours later, our seating positions are clearly defined by the silt-fine sand coating covering the interior. It is easy to see why there are so many cases of asthma in this country.
Wherever we arrive, we are warmly welcomed. In the 16 years since Nigeria has returned to democracy after military rule, "You are Welcome," has been adopted as its motto. We hear it often. Matthews has helped some of these villages before. There are stethoscopes and nurses' uniforms in Enyibichiri because of him, cold pills in Abuja because of him, and a teaching hospital in Benue State because medical equipment is on its way because of him. In other villages, rugged drives of many hours off the main roads, there is hope because of him.
People in villages offer the gift of their smiles, a peek at a healthy newborn, impromptu song and dance, and in a few villages cases of bottled Coca-Cola. Matthews has seen the cases of soda pop before, warmly thanks them and says it is for them. They smile in return. He's given them a gift they can now offer again.
One bishop we visit insists his secretary go out back and get us something. We drive off with his gifts a very plump live turkey and his blessing.
"Did you see the white woman?"
The afternoon sun is starting to cast long shadows as we make it to Tse-Adeke, a bush village of 1,500-2,000 in Benue State. Some of the children watch warily as our caravan pulls through rows of thatch-roof huts to the center of the compound.
A translator shares the greetings from the chief and Matthews's introduction of the visitors. (Though English is the official language, there are more than 250 native languages spoken in Nigeria.) As the translator relays the message that Matthews is here to help bring medical supplies message, the crowd of hundreds erupt in cheers.
A handful of children have gathered staring at my camera. As I turn to look and smile, they flee and keep an eye on me from afar. A man approaches, does a short bow, eyes my camera and asks, "Snap me?" I am more than happy to oblige. Some of the children return, hesitant to make eye contact, but smile for the camera.
After the meeting, Pius Adakali, 35, son of the 55-year-old chief, Sylvanus, is introduced. Nigerian custom says two people can speak only after being introduced by a third person. "We are more than happy to know of your visit," he says. Most of the village gathered at 9 a.m. hearing we would visit, he says. But as it is now almost 4 p.m., he apologizes for those who had to leave for their long trek home. His face breaks into a large smile as he eyes my camera and asks, "Snap me?"
That night, reviewing that day's digital pictures, it's easy to see why the children had been especially wary. They had seen something I hadn't. In all of those hundreds of people, I am the only white person.
There were now four things that made reporting on this trip difficult: very little time in any one place; needing to be introduced before speaking; becoming the story rather than reporting it; and being cautiously honored at being the first white person many of them ever see.
The next day I smile politely at a group in one hospital after hearing one nurse ask another, "Did you see the white woman?"
And I move cautiously through a huge village crowd in Enyibichiri well, as cautiously as possible with a military police officer with an AK-47 slug over his shoulder pulling your arm.
A little boy of maybe 6 years does a double take as we pass and then stands stock still with his mouth wide open, his eyes almost as big. "He probably thought your skin fell off," Matthews explains and laughs.
And so began this journey among brothers and sisters halfway across the world. By the time we leave we will see that those who survive on so little have so many treasures to share.
Marylynn G. Hewitt, SFO, is the managing editor of The Michigan Catholic. Contact her at
mgh@aod.org.
