Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #2 North Korea September 1995

(continued) Pyongyang, North Korea: September, 1995: Before going to our rooms Wednesday night, Mr. Rim informed us that we should wear our black suits the next morning. But we didn’t know where we were going until after breakfast, when our entourage of black Mercedes picked us up, and we drove across town and pulled in where there were several hundred military officers in full dress uniforms standing around waiting for something. There were also a few civilians in black suits mixed into the crowd.

It had started to rain, so we stayed sitting in the car. I could feel at least a thousand eyes on us as we got out of the car and took our place in a single line. You have to remember that most of the military had never seen an American man except in training films, where they were taught the best and fastest ways to kill us in hand-to-hand combat. They had no outside TV coverage, no outside newspapers, no contact with what was happening outside their borders. So when they encountered a real live, fair-skinned American man within reach of where they were standing, it was no wonder they at least stared.

While standing in line, Jay and I were temporarily given back our passports. We eventually made it up to the front of the line and stepped under a couple of big blue umbrellas. There, our overseers showed the others their passports and explained who we were and showed our passports. The officials nodded and motioned us through. Jay and I still did not know where we were going. We were queued up in front of a trolley station with a group of about one hundred military and civilians.

Soon a trolley, nicer than any other I had ever seen in Pyongyang and nicely painted a green color, pulled alongside the platform, and military women directed us on board. About three miles away, our trolley pulled alongside another platform, and we exited and began a walk for about another mile. In the meantime the men had asked for our passports back. The pedestrian road led us to a huge new marble complex. We later found out it was called the Kumsusan Memorial Palace. I doubt that a hundred million dollars would have covered the new construction … and it was still being built.

Soon we guessed where we were going. We had been chosen to be some of the first individuals to ever personally view the body of Great Leader Kim Il-Sung lying in state. But we were not through with the ceremony yet. As we approached the new white marble walkway (literally acres of white marble patio), we walked over an area that washed our shoes—too bad if your socks got wet.

After waiting in a single-file line for a long while, we were eventually led inside through a very big set of hand-carved, double-wooden doors, twenty feet tall, through the entry rooms, and eventually into a very large marble room, where at one end was a pure-white alabaster statue about thirty feet tall of Great Leader Kim Il-Sung in a standing position. Three by three, the military marched up within fifteen feet of the statue, saluted, turned, and marched out. The experience made me shiver. Here was a pure-white statue with backlighting of blended red, pink, blue, and white colors graduating from the bottom up in an all-marble room in an all-marble building.

When it was our time to approach the statue, we were lined up side by side about seven in a straight line. We all walked up together, took a bow, turned right, and exited through another set of tall, hand-carved doors. From there the single-file line headed up three flights of marble stairs cordoned off by bright-gold ropes. Coming down the other corresponding stairway was another single-file line—mostly military officers. All the women officers were crying.

As I approached the top of the third landing, there was a sound of huge air blowers. Before we were allowed entrance into the next room, we had to pass through a short hallway where there were high-powered air jets blowing from both sides. Little did they care if it nearly blew the hair off our heads. There was no loose dust on us when we entered the room.

Jay and I had been afforded a great honor that day. We had been placed near the front of the line to view the body of Great Leader Kim Il-Sung. We had been put in a visible place of privilege at the head of many of the military generals and heads of the North Korean government. We were the only Americans to be there and be so honored.

The room was another large marble, black-and-gray, highly polished room, and in the very center was a glass-covered marble display shelf and table with Kim Il-Sung lying in state. Soft organ music was playing some of the Korean patriotic songs, which I recognized from the Friendship Arts Festival. The lighting techniques were extremely effective, and there were four stations around the coffin where we were to stop and bow in respect. I looked to see if the large growth on the back of his head, which I had seen in person in 1993, was still there, or if it had been removed for the viewing. I concluded that it had been removed.

After making a full circle of the body, we exited out the rear and back down the long marble stairways. I won’t take time to discuss my feelings about Kim Il-Sung, but it was a privilege—and I guess kinda fun—being part of world political history. And I really was glad that Jay had a chance to be part of an unusual bit of history.

We walked the mile back to the trolley station and rode the three miles back to the car. I glanced down at my watch as the driver opened the door for me: Over three hours for that homage ordeal.

We drove out of the parking area, with all the military folks still staring at us, and headed on out toward the outskirts of Pyongyang city.  

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #1 from September, 1995

Note: Our diplomatic and humanitarian experience with Pyongyang, North Korea over the years has been an unusual saga of intrigue and fulfillment. The involvement has been highly applauded by our own Department of State as well as the leaders of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK). I would like to share with you some of the saga by letting you read excerpts from my actual Journal entries and photo albums. The Journal segments cover the eight trips where I was involved, my meetings in New York and Los Angeles with my DPRK contacts, and the different incidents where we brought the North Korean leaders to our home in Colorado. More recently, Dr. Douglas Jackson, our current President and CEO of Project C.U.R.E. recently returned from Pyongyang.

Pyongyang, North Korea: September, 1995: The next morning, Jay (my second son) and I ate breakfast at the Radisson and caught the bus to the Tokyo airport at 7:30 a.m. for the three-hour flight to Beijing. 

I had told Jay that DPRK’s Mr. Hyun Hak Bong from the United Nations office in New York had assured me that they had notified their Beijing embassy, and someone would be there to give us any needed assistance we might require during our stay in Beijing. But no one was there to meet us.

After about an hour of fretting, we grabbed a taxi to the Holiday Inn, Central Plaza on Wangfujing Avenue, near the heart of Beijing. The next morning Jay and I worked out quite strenuously in the hotel’s exercise room and then cleaned up, ate breakfast, and prepared for the task of the day: heading to the North Korean embassy. After a bit of an ordeal we received our visas and airplane tickets. Our flight leaving Beijing for Pyongyang was scheduled to depart at 3:00 p.m. The agent at Air Koryo had told us to check in by 1:30 p.m. 

The plane’s flight course was low and sustained, which gave us a great opportunity to view the beautiful mountains, rolling hills, and cultivated farmland of North Korea. That’s as close to a firsthand view of the DPRK as any Americans have gotten since 1953. I had not heard of any American being granted permission to travel the countryside of the DPRK. All were confined to the limits of Pyongyang city. 

I watched closely out the window and tried to imagine what one of the rural health clinics would look like that served the communities of the communal farm areas. My mind wandered, wondering whether Mr. Chun and Mrs. Rim, our micromanagers on the previous trip, would again meet us at the airport. 

Jay and I deplaned and cleared the passport and immigration authorities. We loaded our boxes and bags on carts when they arrived on the conveyor belts and headed for customs. The officers began to give me a hard time about the contents of the hand-carried boxes of sample medical supplies and the suitcase containing all the gifts. At the next booth the official was giving Jay an equally bad time and was rummaging through his carry-on bag. The official pulled out a large firefighters training textbook that Jay had been studying, and it looked like the official had the full intention of confiscating it. Fortunately, just at that moment a short man in his late forties stuck his head around the security barrier and hollered out “Jackson” to me. When I responded, he pushed his way past security and came up to the customs officials. He took Jay’s book out of the official’s hand, put it back in the bag, zipped it up, said something to that official, and sent Jay out the door. He then came over to my booth, put my boxes and bags back on my cart, spoke to the official, and sent me out the door. 

Once outside the terminal, it was time for introductions. My curiosity was answered—no, Mr. Chun and Mrs. Rim would not be there. Mrs. Rim no longer worked for the service, and Mr. Chun was now a very important member of the powerful Disarmament Committee dealing with issues like nuclear treaties and reunification. However, the short man who came to our rescue was named Mr. Rim Tong Won, so that would be easy to remember. The deputy vice minister of the health ministry, Mr. Ri Su Kil, was there, and Jong Won Son was also there as an official of the ministry of foreign affairs.

They had two older black Mercedes waiting for us, and as was their tradition, they took our passports and separated us into two different cars. If I hadn’t already gone through that routine before, I would have been spooked, especially since it was my son they were separating from me. 

It was dusk, and the sun had set before we left the airport. The road into Pyongyang from the airport was a beautiful drive. North Korea is very mountainous and green. The long, wide highway was dotted with workers still along the roadsides sweeping leaves off the freeway with their homemade branch brooms. The workers were not in danger from traffic, because you hardly ever see a car in DPRK. Occasionally you might see a farm truck or a government vehicle carrying troops, but very few cars. 

It was almost dark when we rounded a corner on one of the city’s main streets, and I recognized one of the beautiful performing-arts theaters, where I had visited on the previous trip. Just across the street from the theater was the Pyongyang Hotel, an older, large marble hotel built within a convenient walking distance to the river parks and many of the important buildings. We pulled into the entry, and I was ushered out of my car, and Jay out of his. 

The next morning we were scheduled to view and perform a needs assessment on the Kim Man Yu Hospital. A man born in Korea but displaced to Japan at a very early age had become a very wealthy businessman in Japan. Before he died he wanted to do something for his mother country, so he agreed to build and furnish a totally modern hospital facility for Pyongyang. That he did, and it was completed in 1986. When I visited the hospital in 1993, I thought it strange to see the finest and newest equipment available there in Pyongyang. It was used as a showpiece, and the propaganda message to visitors was that the DPRK had the finest medical-care plan for its people and was totally free to all citizens from cradle to grave, and this was the quality of health care that was provided. 

I remembered asking to see one of the rural or village clinics when I was there before. No way. In fact, it was my understanding that fewer than two hundred Americans had been allowed into the DPRK in the past, and none were allowed outside Pyongyang.

The hallways of Kim Man Yu were empty and dark. We were taken to the room where the CAT-scan machine was installed. They turned on the lights and uncovered the control board and then explained that the machine was used in the mornings. Sorry, we couldn’t see it work. The same process was repeated for the ultrasound machine, the angiographic machine, the EKG machines, and so on. But it was apparent that the machines were not used but were just there for show and tell. 

The sad thing was that now those state-of-the-art machines are not the latest equipment available. In the years since the hospital was built, several generations of new technology have become available. Soon show and tell wouldn’t even be a featured attraction.

We left Kim Man Yu Hospital and returned to the hotel, where we were scheduled to have a meeting with one of the most influential members of the Disarmament Committee. There was also such a committee in South Korea, and I had previously met with them while I was in Seoul. The committees were organized to work out the details of reunification possibilities, and in the north to also oversee such issues as the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty. I was eager to meet with the committee members.

They seated Jay and me on one side of the conference area, when to my great surprise the man they ushered in to sit on the other side and represent the Disarmament Committee was none other than my good friend Mr. Chun.

Mr. Chun had been our interpreter, along with Mrs. Rim, for the nearly two weeks I was in the DPRK in 1993. He attended almost all of my meetings with the ministry heads and ambassadors, and the last time I had seen him was in the U.S. in January 1995. 

You can only imagine the thrill and excitement when we saw each other in the conference room. We stepped across the room and hugged each other like brothers. The looks on all the other dignitaries’ faces in the room would have been worth a picture. The whole trip turned on that moment.

At formal meetings like that, each side opens with introductory remarks with the assistance of government interpreters. Then, following the opening remarks, the dialogue goes back and forth, taking turns in formal procedure. After expressing several pleasantries regarding our previous meetings, and after sending his respects and affection to Anna Marie and saying nice words of greeting to Jay, Mr. Chun began to unload to all those in the conference room.

“Since 1993, when Mr. Jackson was here before and to this date, many things have taken place. We of the DPRK find ourselves and the government of the United States in better relations than at any time in the past forty-five years. I want to say for the official record that Mr. Jackson and his great efforts are greatly responsible for those improved relations. He has done a lot for our cause. Mr. Jackson is the first to ever bring from the United States any gift of such significance. Others have talked and made promises. Mr. Jackson has not talked but has rather acted. This government sees Mr. Jackson as a friend and a true man of his word. 

“Since this is the first of such an action, his efforts shall be recorded in the book of Korean history and will never be lost or forgotten. Mr. Jackson is expected to bring contacts and other aid with him; therefore, we see him as our ambassador. Yes, relations have progressed greatly, and Mr. James Jackson had a lot to do with that.” 

Mr. Chun went on to say how much the government appreciated and was impressed by my sending the official letters of condolence to His Excellency, Kim Jong Il, at the time of the death of his father, Great Leader Kim Il-Sung.

I said that it had taken great effort and focus to bring about the shipping of the gift of medical supplies, and in essence we were the first to receive an official license to ship and had successfully shipped the supplies, thus actually breaking through the long-standing embargo.

I presented my case, then, to Mr. Chun about needing to view some rural or village clinics and have meetings with health-ministry officials and local doctors to discover the most appropriate items for future shipments. He assured me that I would have the meetings and would also receive lists that would help me make decisions for the future. 

Next Week: Frank and Open Discussions

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #2 from March, 1996

(continued) Pakistan: March, 1996):  I thanked the senator for such an honor and privilege of being invited to be with them for the evening when I knew that they had been in busy senate sessions all day and would have to return to the chambers to continue their work early tomorrow morning. It was an evening I will remember throughout the rest of my life. 

I went on to tell them about growing up in America, where the pressures to succeed and accomplish were so great and the expectations to attain and personally accumulate wealth were so strong. I told them I was not born into a wealthy family, but in America, if a person really desired to rise above the difficulties and achieve success, it was very possible to do so.

I told them that it was like the man who entered the shoemaker’s shop and told the proprietor that he needed new shoes and wanted to know how much a pair of new shoes would cost. The shopkeeper told him the price of a pair of new shoes would be one hundred dollars. The man agreed and purchased the new shoes for the price. As he was leaving the shop, another man entered and asked about the price of a new pair of shoes. The shopkeeper told him one hundred dollars. 

“But I don’t have one hundred dollars. All I have is fifty dollars.” 

Whereupon the man who had just purchased his new shoes pulled the package containing his used shoes from under his arm. “Sir, I have a pair of shoes here that I would be willing to sell you for fifty dollars.” The second man happily agreed and paid the first man fifty dollars for his shoes. 

Now, each of the two men bought a pair of shoes that day. Each paid fifty dollars for his pair of shoes. One man ended up with a new pair of shoes for fifty dollars, and the other ended up with a used pair of shoes for fifty dollars. 

“When I was young,” I told them, “I determined that I would always be the man with the new shoes.”

I went on to share my experience in business and the art of bartering and how God got ahold of my life and changed me completely. I told them that in order to break the addiction of per­sonal greed and accumulation, my wife and I gave away our wealth, and I vowed to God that I would use the abilities he had given to me to put deals together that would benefit oth­ers, if he would but give me a second chance in my life and allow me to start over again. I went on to talk about Project C.U.R.E. and the personal reward and satisfaction I receive from seeing people, who otherwise would have died, being helped and sent home from hospitals and clinics healed because of God’s love through the efforts of Project C.U.R.E. 

I told them that it was all right now if I did not always have new shoes. I told them that I am, however, still involved in barter and am totally satisfied with what I am now receiving from my share of the barters. “I am the happiest man in the world because I am now exchang­ing affluence for moral influence. Thank God, I was given the opportunity to exchange success for significance.” 

I then told them that without doubt they are the most successful men in Pakistan, or else they would not be where they are tonight. “But,” I said, “I see in your eyes tonight that some of you need to accept my invitation. Some of you here tonight also need to move from a position of success to a position of significance.”

When I finished they applauded for a long time, and I saw tears in the eyes of at least one senator. All came by and spoke and shook my hand as they left. Many of them hugged me. Another senator, who is the chairman of the powerful senate education committee, stood close and said to me and the others standing around the door, “I am frightened when I think of how close I came to missing this meeting tonight. I am inspired … My life will not be the same.”

Before I went to bed, I thanked Jesus for being in that meeting in such a strong way. He seemed to remind me that when he was on earth walking and talking, those were the very Gentiles, the sons of Ishmael, the seeds of Abraham and Hagar that he was referring to when he said that he had come to bring salvation to the Gentiles. 

I feel so humbled and so privileged to have had the opportunity tonight to share with those powerful Muslim leaders. In fact, involvement in the whole Pakistan episode—the traveling, the dangers, the terrible hospitals, the cargo-container movement from our warehouse to the port of Karachi—has been well worth the single opportunity of sharing with the senator and his important friends. I was not the one who manipulated the meeting that dark night in December, flying at thirty-six thousand feet over the old Soviet Union from Islamabad to Amsterdam. God’s love and his great plan are becoming reality, and his faithfulness to the promise to Abraham’s seed is being played out in an ongoing pageant of eternal love and acceptance. 

I may have now played my bit part in this drama and will be allowed to slip off the stage as the next scene unfolds. But I went to bed tonight in the heart of Islamabad, Pakistan, with the satisfying knowledge that I have been true to my commitment to God that I would go anyplace and say anything to anybody as an act of total obedience if he would give me the guidance and assurance that I am, indeed, at the right place at the right time saying the right things to the right folks. The expectations and results are not mine. Those are within God’s jurisdiction, but I can sleep well tonight in Islamabad, Pakistan.

 © Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #1 from March, 1996

(continued) Pakistan: March, 1996: Senator Raja M. Zafar-al-Haq was absolutely true to his word. Before I left for my return trip to Pakistan, I sent him a fax telling him when I would be there and giving him two alternative dates for us to get together. On March 10 he replied and invited me to meet with him on the evening of March 18 in Islamabad. When I arrived in Islamabad on March 13, on my way to Quetta, I called the senator’s office and confirmed our evening together. 

When I returned to Islamabad from Quetta today (March 18), there was a message at my hotel room that everything was set. The senator would be in sessions all day but would personally come to my room at 7:30 p.m., greet me, brief me on the dinner meeting and the persons who would be in attendance, and then accompany me to the dinner. 

In my short life, I have had way more than my share of unbelievable and astounding experi­ences, but today was, indeed, one of the most memorable! The senator escorted me to a room that was beautiful enough to make you gasp. As the door opened, there was a beautifully decorated table with large fruit baskets and lots of puffy, white linen tablecloths. 

A little while before 8:00 p.m., the dignitaries began coming, one at a time, into the appointed room. The senator formally received them and then brought them to me and introduced me as the honored guest of Pakistan. When several guests had arrived, I was directed to sit with the senator on a sofa against one wall of the large room. The other guests were seated in a semicircle facing me. The senator had informed each of the guests about Project C.U.R.E. and my involvement in the international world. Everyone was warm and very cordial, and no one allowed the formality of the evening to interfere with our getting acquainted. 

The senator had invited twelve guests for the evening. Five were senior senators who are heads of import committees and commissions in the country. Three of the guests were either present ambassadors or former ambassadors of Pakistan throughout the world. The other four were nationally or internationally famous doctors. 

As additional guests arrived, we would all stand, be introduced, sit back down, and con­tinue our talking. When one of the ambassadors found out that my travels in the next couple of weeks will take me to Uganda, he related stories of when he was ambassador to Uganda during the time that Idi Amin was taking over the country. They were all huddled on the top floor of the embassy while the revolutionaries were dragging the civilian nationals and government leaders into the lower area of the embassy and shooting them. The dignitaries shared many other intrigu­ing stories. 

Finally all the guests arrived, and we were seated at the large, beautifully prepared table. Every­thing was so exquisite. A full eight-course meal was served by attendants dressed in uniforms and wearing white gloves. The dinner conversation centered a lot around Project C.U.R.E. and health needs around the world. They also discussed the terrible problem of crime in Karachi and other cities and said that it just didn’t seem like the morals taught in the Koran were as effective as they used to be. 

When we had been served dessert and tea, the senator tapped his crystal water glass with his knife to get the attention of his guests. He then leaned over to me and said, “These are my close friends – some of the most powerful men in Pakistan- now I want you to tell them what you told me about God as we were flying together that night in December. He then stood and told all the guests how he and I had met on the airplane and how I had honored them by returning to Pakistan to meet with them. He requested then that I speak about why I would leave the comfort of my home and go around the world to seek out places to help people with donated medical supplies.

Next Week: May the Seeds Planted Become Great Trees 

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #3 from November 1995

(continued) Pakistan: November, 1995: The Pakistan International Airline flight left Islamabad about noon, and I headed for Karachi. Everyone had warned me that Karachi is a city where one needs to be extremely careful. Lots of people from India had migrated there, as well as many refugees from the Afghanistan war. Karachi is a big and dirty seaport city with lots of desperate folks. I was pleasantly impressed with the airport, however. It was quite large and clean and well guarded, and lots of porters were there, eager to do anything for a few rupees. I stayed close to the airport during my transfer. 

When the flight left from Karachi, I was surprised that we didn’t simply head west and then cut eventually back at a northwest angle to Amsterdam. But, rather, we flew almost directly north back over Lahore to the capital city of Islamabad. We stopped briefly there and then flew directly over Kabul, Afghanistan, where all the fierce fighting had recently taken place. 

On the flight I experienced another outstanding serendipity. I was seated next to a distinguished gentleman in a pin‑striped, black suit. Even the plane’s crew came out of the cockpit and greeted him. I turned to him about the time we took off, extended my hand, and introduced myself. Come to find out he is one of the fifty-two-member OIS (Organization of Islamic States) group. He is also a senator in the Pakistan parliament, and in our extended conversation, it came out that he additionally was a past ambassador to Egypt. His name is Raja M. Zafar‑al‑Haq, secretary general of the World Muslim Congress. 

After we had talked about Russia, the war in Afghanistan, the Muslims in Bosnia, and other issues, he wanted to know what I was doing in Pakistan. I told him all about Project C.U.R.E. and my trip into Andijon and Tashkent, Uzbekistan, and my Needs Assessment Study at Sandeman Provincial Hospital in Quetta. I told him that I had greatly appreciated my work in Quetta, especially with Dr. Buzdar and Dr. Zehri. I told him that I felt there was a qualitative difference that I observed in the doctors I work with around the world. Many medical institutions within countries that have been used and abused by governments of Communist dictators have been left nearly bankrupt, morally, emotionally, volitionally, and for sure, financially. A lot of doctors who were involved in those kinds of hospitals in the recent past are physically exhausted, but far worse, they have given up hope that things will even get better. They have lost their way and have no one they could turn to. 

I told him that was where Project   C. U. R. E. could come in and make such a tremendous difference. We would come alongside and help by sending desperately needed medical goods … but perhaps most important, we would bring hope. 

“The doctors see that, really, there is someone out there who cares about what they are going through,”

I said. “Who’s to know, when all is said and done, maybe that bringing of rekindled hope is the greatest qualitative contribution that Project C.U.R.E. can ever make. Medical supplies will immediately save lives. Rekindled hope has the power to save generations.” 

I told that Pakistan leader that he could, indeed, be proud of the culture of his country and the fact that in spite of centuries of hardship, his people, particularly Dr. Buzdar and Dr. Zehri and the other doctors at the Quetta hospital and medical school, had not lost hope. And in spite of the extensive needs they were currently experiencing, they were excited about what they were doing and what the future held for them. They had not lost hope. 

He really appreciated what I had to tell him, and then he asked how in the world I got involved in taking Project C.U.R.E. all over the remotest parts of the world. He pushed my button. I started out by telling him about my being in business and getting caught up in the addictive American philosophy of accumulating wealth and things. And one day God brought me to my senses and showed me that however much I accumulated in my journey, it would not make me a happy man. I obeyed God and paid a price that required giving over sixteen million dollars away, and I started over to put deals together the rest of my life that would help bring relief to God’s children all over the world. 

Mr. Raja M. Zafar‑al‑Haq, the senator, ambassador, and secretary general who was on his way to hold talks on Bosnia and the Middle East, turned completely around in his seat and said, “All of my life I have heard people talk about giving their life away to do good. But I had never met anyone who actually did it. It was always talk. May God bless you and give you good health to continue what you are doing for a long time. And when you know when you are returning to the capital of Islamabad, please let me know, and I will put a group of important people of Pakistan together in my home and let you tell all of them the story you have just told me about God. God bless you.” 

Maybe there was a reason why I went to Uzbekistan and Pakistan during the closing days of 1995. By the time I landed in Amsterdam, flew on to London’s Heathrow Airport, and took off for New York it was December 8 and I was already starting on the third day of being in the same clothes and not having gone to bed. But what I had told that Pakistani secretary general is true. I am so fortunate to get to do what I am doing, and indeed, I am the happiest man in the world. 

Next Week: The Promised Trip to Islamabad

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #2 November, 1995

Uzbekistan and Pakistan: November, 1995: In Andijon Ted and Annette’s house had no shower and no running hot water. But on the backside of the courtyard in the other back corner opposite from the outdoor john was a two-room configuration that was attached to the winter kitchen room. The entry room contained the small hand-operated agitator clothes washer and pertinent supplies and paraphernalia. The entry room also doubled as a room where I would remove my clothes before entering the next room. The next room reminded me a lot of a sauna setup. There was a gas-fired, square-mud, box-type stove in one corner. On top of the stove were two large pots of water. Add all those elements, and I had a wonderful opportunity to create a bath for myself.

I took some of the hot water from the pots, mixed it with cold water sitting in buckets on the floor, scooped a panful of the mixed warm water, and poured it over my head. Next I took my shampoo and worked up a lather my barber would have been proud of, took another panful of warm water, and tried to rinse out the lather with one hand while I poured with the other. The hot water was almost gone, and I needed to finish my shower.

I thought about the procedure off and on that day and figured I had it pretty well mapped out. But the second morning experience threw a curve at me because during the night the town gas pressure dipped low enough for the fire to go out in the mud stove, and all the water was cold. I promised God that I would thank him twice for my wonderful shower when I got back to Evergreen.

Saturday, December 2

On Saturday I was up early. Ted and I walked to a main street in Andijon and caught a taxi out to the airport for my trip on to Islamabad, Pakistan. On that flight I had a window seat and a great view as we flew south over Tajikistan and Afghanistan into Islamabad.

Sunday, December 3

Sunday morning I dressed and went down to breakfast at the hotel. The Marriott in Islamabad is really nice. My mind kept making the comparison between the Andijon bathhouse procedure and the nice warm shower at the Islamabad Marriott. I went to the US embassy, checked in, and told them why I was there and where I could be reached for any messages or emergencies.

One scene I do remember very well, as I headed back out to the airport was that of the recently bombed-out Egyptian embassy located just a few blocks from the US embassy in Islamabad. Some terrorists had run a small truck totally loaded with explosives into the Egyptian embassy just a few days earlier. The only thing that was left was a crater in the ground where the embassy had stood. I don’t remember how many people were killed in the explosion. I thought, Some of these foreign places, like Pakistan, are getting almost as violent and uncontrolled as terrorist America.

On the plane I had a whole row to myself, so I was free to slide over and get a view out the window for the flight. Quetta is west and somewhat north of Islamabad. There are nothing but bleak, barren, and dry mountain ranges and desert valleys in that part of Pakistan. Why, for centuries, people had fought for this territory was beyond me. The entire borderlands between Afghanistan and Pakistan appear to be equally as desolate. We flew between two brown mountain ranges to where the rocky valley widened out, and behold … there was the city of Quetta. It is a city with a population of several million, including some of the nearby region, and even from the air as we landed, I could see that it consists, to a great extent, of military bases and ammunition bunkers and vehicles. That certainly confirmed all I had heard about it being a strategic military border town. The military staff college is located there, so all military staff eventually make their way to Quetta to be trained. In the past, Quetta hospitals and clinics had to take care of many war casualties from the border war in Afghanistan.

Inside the airport terminal I was met by a doctor even before my luggage had cleared through. He was very friendly and escorted me out to where a driver and car were waiting to take me to the Serena Hotel. We had a short time to get acquainted from the airport to the hotel. He came into the hotel and waited to make sure I got checked in all right. Then he left me in my room and said he would be back at 1:30 for a meeting.

At 1:30 p.m. Dr. Abdul Malik Kasi came back and brought with him Dr. Shafi Mohammed Zehri, the medical superintendent of the Sandeman Provincial Hospital. They came into the room, and we talked for about an hour. When they left, they said they would return for dinner in the evening. They informed me that there was a big meeting at the hospital planned for 10:00 a.m., and that Dr. Zehri would have someone pick me up about 9:45.

Monday, December 4

Dr. Zehri himself came with his driver to escort me to the Sandeman Provincial Hospital. The meeting was held in Dr. Zehri’s office, and there were five doctors who met with me, plus several others who slipped in and out during the meeting. They wanted to know all about Project C.U.R.E. and me, so I decided to give them both barrels. I told them my story about business, writing my book What’cha Gonna Do with What’Cha Got?, doing economic consulting, beginning to ship medical goods into Brazil, and so forth. I also told them that I promised God I wanted to do business the rest of my life that would help other people who were in need rather than becoming richer myself. I explained where we were presently shipping and how much we had shipped just this year. I told them that I considered the entire endeavor a miracle, and that I was the happiest man alive because I had been given the opportunity to be a part of helping people around the world.

Wednesday, December 6

The next morning the Serena Hotel was swarming with military ruffians. It was still raining, and the front parking courtyard was jammed with military vehicles loaded with soaking-wet tents and army gear. The troops seemed to be some kind of special-forces group, all of them wearing red-and-white-checkered and black-and-white-checkered head wear like Yasser Arafat. Some had camouflage pants and shirts, but most were dressed in long white tunics. 

I was the only one who even slightly resembled European descent in the whole restaurant. My guess is that they were high mucky-mucks who had just returned from some raid mission with the Taliban forces up in Afghanistan. Needless to say, I was quite respectful and careful that I didn’t do anything that might irritate them—like singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Next Week: A Unique Meeting with a World Muslim Leader

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #1 from November, 1995

New York, Uzbekistan, and Pakistan: November, 1995: After arriving in New York City and getting checked into my hotel room in Manhattan I took a taxi to the United Nations Permanent Mission office of Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (North Korea) on 515 E. 72nd Street. My meeting was with DPRK’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Han Song Ryol and Ambassador Kim Jong Su. Even though Han Song Ryol and I had just been together in meetings the previous week when I was in New York, we still had some brand-new things to discuss as a result of my trip to Koreatown in Los Angeles earlier this week. 

I reminded him of the load of medical goods we had sent from our Denver warehouse, which had already arrived in Nampho Port, DPRK (Democratic People’s Republic of Korea). I also reminded him of the two containers Project C.U.R.E. had already shipped from our Phoenix warehouse. I then gave him the good news about the outcome of my trip to Koreatown, Los Angeles. I told him that I had been able to procure the medical supplies sufficient to fill the equivalent of four twenty-foot containers, and that they would be shipped to the DPRK by the first week in December—within two weeks of our conversation. 

I asked, “Do you realize, Mr. Han Song Ryol, that Project C.U.R.E. has been able to ship to your country almost two million dollars’ worth of needed medical goods just in the year 1995?” 

I left the meeting very pleased with the outcome of our time together and musing to myself about the possibilities of our future involvement in North Korea. As I hailed a taxi to take me back to the hotel, I recalled the verse that I had memorized which had really become a comfort: 

Be strong and courageous and get to work. Don’t be frightened by the size of the task, for the Lord my God is with you; he will not forsake you. He will see to it that everything in finished correctly.

I packed my things, caught the bus to Newark Airport, for my flight to London. I flew British Airways from Newark and landed in London’s Heathrow Airport at about 7:00 a. m. on Tuesday. There I had a layover of about four hours before I continued on to Frankfurt, Germany. In Frankfurt I boarded the Uzbekistan Airways flight for Tashkent. 

That flight into Tashkent was another all‑nighter, arriving at the airport at 6:45 Wednesday morning. I was beginning to think that a good shower and a clean change of clothes would really be nice. I had now been traveling in the same outfit Monday, Tuesday, and now Wednesday without a chance to lie down or really clean up. And as it was about to turn out, it wouldn’t be until Thursday morning that I would be afforded those exciting luxuries. 

When I left Denver for New York, it was my understanding that when I arrived in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, I would be met by a representative of the CAFE (Central Asia Free Exchange Inc.). They coordinate different world-relief agencies with efforts throughout Asia. It seems to be a highly regarded network to know. I had been told that it would be very difficult for me to fly into Tashkent for the first time and try to get through the regulations and get out to the city of Andijon when I didn’t speak the Russian or Uzbekistan languages. 

Earlier in November on my trip to Los Angeles, Dr. Woo Sung Ahn asked if I would meet up with some of his Korean friends who were doing missions work in Uzbekistan with the Korean community now living there. He had even given me some medications to deliver to two of the Korean missionary’s wives upon my arrival.

I must detour here a little and explain what North Koreans are doing clear over in the western section of the old Soviet Union. When Stalin took control of the USSR, he determined to strengthen the security of his eastern borders. Many Koreans had moved into southern China and eastern Russia to escape the atrocities of the Japanese invasion and occupation of Korea during the 1920s. Stalin did not trust those Koreans in his country. So for security reasons, he killed many of them and rounded up all the others and put them on trains to be transmigrated into Uzbekistan as forced laborers. A large majority of them died of starvation or disease from the inhumane conditions, but thousands made it and settled into work communities in Uzbekistan. 

Since the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991, Koreans from the USA and South Korea had sent over one hundred missionaries to these communities and had great success. The Koreans had been displaced and neglected but had made friends and, in some cases, intermarried with the Uzbekistan people, who also over the years were trying to survive from their common enemy, the much-hated Russians. Dr. Woo Sung Ahn and Elder Kim were scheduled to return to Tashkent just a few weeks following my trip in December. They had wanted me to meet some of the leaders of that endeavor while I was in Tashkent and had arranged for them to also meet me at the airport. 

After my long, clumsy ordeal of clearing passport control and customs at the Tashkent Airport, I went outside and found the Koreans. Dr. Shinn is the overall director of the missions effort. The Koreans and I met successfully, but the group from CAFE was nowhere to be found. I really began to be thankful for the last‑minute agreement that I had made with Dr. Ahn to meet the Koreans at the airport. 

The late-November morning in Uzbekistan was very nippy. The sun had not come up sufficiently to burn off the morning fog, and ice had formed on all the mud puddles around the Tashkent Airport. The Koreans and I stood outside talking and waiting for the CAFE people to show up. They never did. Dr. Shinn had to leave for an appointment, and Herbert Hong suggested that we get out of the cold, go to his house, and eat some rice for breakfast. 

We drove across town in his little car and pulled into one of the Soviet concrete apartment buildings on the outskirts. As we got out of the car to go into his apartment, he said he hoped that I didn’t mind, his children were at home from school that day and were very sick. There had been an outbreak of diphtheria and typhoid in the community, and eight people in his area had recently died from it. He was hoping that his children were not sick from that or the large outbreak of hepatitis A that the US was trying to help fight. Suddenly the rice and soup for breakfast did not sound so appealing, but I went on in and joined them for breakfast. The hot tea felt good. 

Maybe I was supposed to buy a ticket in Tashkent and go on to Andijon and be met there. I mentioned that possibility to Herbert. “Oh no, it would be impossible for you, a foreigner, to make it through the process of locally buying a ticket on a domestic flight and clearing all the requirement points to get to Andijon by yourself. The country of Uzbekistan is not in any way set up for foreigners to travel. No one just comes to leisurely travel around Uzbekistan.” 

I had a chance to read the medical-alert message that had come to the parents of the school children. It was printed on bright red paper with the bold heading “MEDICAL ALERT.” It told about the diphtheria and hepatitis outbreaks and also informed parents of the following: 

People in our community now have scabies. This is a highly communicable disease affecting the skin. Other names are “seven year itch” and “skin lice.” Small insects lay eggs just under the skin. When they hatch, they show themselves in small, red bumps with tiny white or grayish blister‑type “heads.” When you scratch them, the eggs get under your fingernails and are transmitted to other places your fingers go. The first bumps usually appear between your fingers or toes and spread from there. It is spread only through skin contact, and the itch is most annoying. If you experience these symptoms, please contact the nurse for treatment and let the school know. 

Herbert’s two daughters were in bed most of the time I was there, but the son was quite active and enjoyed climbing on this new visitor, wanting me to play with his toys. I began feeling like I needed to scratch all over, especially between my fingers and toes and also right in the middle of my back. 

Next Week: On to Andijon!

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #3 from July, 1995

India : July, 1995, (cont.)  At 8:00 Wednesday morning, Samuel called me from his house in Salem. He had already talked to Benny and said that Benny would stop by the hotel at 11:00 to make sure I got back to the airport in good shape. Benny had taken off work and had ridden the train for over seven hours from Salem to Madras to meet me at the plane. Now he would deliver me to the airport and then head back to Salem on the night bus, which would arrive sometime the next day. As I left Benny at the Madras airport, I thanked him and gave him a box of English toffee for his family. 

Samuel was at the airport to meet me, and we drove for another hour and a half to Erode were I was to do the Needs Assessment Study for Project C.U.R.E. The hospital was directed by Dr. Vizia Kumar. For years the hospital had also run a nurses’ school. The patient load was about 2,500 per month, of which less than 50 percent of patients had any means to pay. Their per capita gross income for the year was less than $150. The hospital tried to charge the other 50 percent of the patients some amount that the market would bear. The hospital received no government assistance because it was a Christian organization in an area of India that was 98 percent Hindu. The London Missionary Society started the hospital in 1903, and in the hallway there was a plaque that made a big deal out of the fact that in 1933 electricity was brought into the building. Even today there are rows and rows of kerosene lamps on shelves for use during frequent power failures.

What did the hospital in Erode need from Project C.U.R.E.? Everything! They did have a Siemens X-ray machine that looked pretty good but was only a 200 milliamps (mA)—not very powerful. They had one EKG machine, but it wasn’t working. The emergency room needed to almost start over again with different equipment. The hospital, overall, was perhaps cleaner than some of the bad ones we had assessed in Africa, but not much better equipped. Most of the equipment and fixtures were, without question, pre–World War II.

From Erode we drove about another one and a half hours to Salem, the city where Benny had said he lived. Salem was a city of two or three million people, and the headquarters for Samuel’s ministry. Samuel and his wife run an orphanage and a school for three hundred abandoned kids. Samuel’s great-grandfather was the first Chris­tian convert in India. He was royalty, but when his family found out he had converted, they repeatedly tried to kill him and have him killed because of the shame that it brought on the family name. Finally he ran away and was raised by missionaries from England. But for four generations now, all of the offspring have been Christian and involved in ministry. The orphanage and school are located outside the main area of Salem on a twenty-acre plot of land. 

As we drove up to the orphanage, the driver stopped the car and Samuel said that we would walk from there. As we walked in through the gates, I had a surprise awaiting me. Lined up in two straight lines on either side of the entry drive were about three hundred kids. They were very quiet and orderly, and several came and put a large ornamental neck­lace over my head. Then the children began singing and throwing flower petals on Samuel and me. They were not in the least rowdy, but they certainly enjoyed welcoming their guest.

Samuel and his wife live in a house on the complex. They have two children of their own. One daughter who is finishing high school, and a son who is also off at boarding school. However, personally, they had adopted five other children ranging in age from one and a half years to seven years. They were all abandoned babies when Samuel and his wife received and adopted them. Quite a family! I stayed there in Samuel’s house in an upstairs guest room.

Thursday, July 13  At about 4:15 a.m. I was awakened by roosters crowing. I went back to sleep until about 5:30, when I began to hear voices of lots of happy kids. Breakfast was served for Samuel and me at 8:00. But just prior to our eating, the air was filled with a three-hundred-voice kids’ choir gathered in a building next door to eat their breakfast. They were singing a prayer before they ate. I couldn’t resist … I had to go next door and see all the kids. They were lined up sitting at long tables. In India most of the people use no silverware service. So in front of each child was a large metal pan, about ten inches in diameter, filled with hot cereal and fruit. The kids were greatly enjoying themselves as they scooped up the cereal by hand and ate it. 

The driver took us first to the large regional government hospital. This one hospital served over twenty million people in Salem and the surrounding area. Seventy-five thousand patients passed through its doors monthly. As our car drove up to the side door, it was apparent that the hospital staff knew we were coming—a delegation of doctors and hospital officials was waiting for us on the curb. The procession was led, then, up a flight of stairs to the hospital director’s office. They presented me with a large, thick research packet, which laid out the activities and goals of the hospital. I asked enough questions to fill out my assessment forms and then asked if they would mind if I took pictures as we toured the hospital facilities.

The hospital was quite typical of a large African or Asian government institution—pathetic. Samuel told me as we walked that they had really cleaned it up when they heard that the American was coming. All of the services at this hospital were covered by the government and were free to the people. So it tended to collect some pretty sorry cases. Some parents here in India will actually cripple their children in order to give them a competitive advantage at begging. But, of course, only a very small portion of the injuries are intentional or self-inflicted. 

A great number of the hospital beds did not have mattresses but, rather, a metal or wooden bottom. Many of the emergency gurneys were two-wheeled rather than four and were made out of bicycle parts and wheels. This large hospital had only one small X-ray machine.

I was impressed with their blood-bank and eye-bank setup. The doctor who headed up the eye bank told me that he now had over forty eye donations for their future eye surgeries.

As we passed the hematology section, I noticed a small ward where they had four dialysis machines in operation. The machines were exactly like the ones I had sent out in different container loads. I asked if they kept those machines busy. The doctor told me that those four machines were used almost continuously for victims of poisonous snakebites. I stopped and looked at him with surprise. “Snakebite victims?”

He said that this area produced a lot of chickens and eggs. Where there were lots of eggs, there were lots of viper snakes—very poisonous. “A lot of people are bitten by the snakes,” he told me. “Most would die without the dialysis machines. The machines purify the blood before the venom overloads the kidneys and shuts them down, thus causing death.” What a great use for a dialysis machine!

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #2 from July, 1995

India: July, 1995, (continued):  I had another instant flashback. I was in Kenya, on one of our safaris. The guide was pointing out how the cheetahs and female lions watched the eyes and behavior patterns of the gazelles or waterbucks. The ones they picked out to ultimately attack were those with a flaw, a weakness, or a lack of confidence that could be detected.

About that time in the midst of my flashback, a couple of desperate-looking, dark-skinned Indians with shabby clothes began looking at me and my luggage with a little more interest than was com­fortable. I thought, No way. If out of desperation you’re looking for panic or lack of direction in my eyes, you’ll have to find it in some of the other passengers’ eyes.I walked straight for an abandoned luggage cart in the street, placed my two bags on the cart, as if it had been planned for a year, and then turned the baggage cart back toward the terminal and the crowd. There was another entrance to the terminal, but it was blocked by Indian police. I pushed my way through the crowd, smiled, gave a hand gesture to the police, and walked past them back into the building. I wasn’t supposed to go back in there once I had left the security area, but I had to return to the beginning of the line of placard holders and start over again. 

By now a lot of people were coming out of customs. I searched the line again, but nothing. I backed my luggage cart up against a wall, put my foot on it, and nonchalantly studied the crowd. Over an hour passed. No one. So this was Madras, India, city of ten million? The only thing you can predict about desperate people is that they are unpredictable. I decided to stay in the building for the time being. Several other tattered folk came close, looked over my luggage, sized me up, and moved on. Where in the world was Browning? 

In the crowd, pushed up against the fence but with no placard, were a kindly appearing gentleman and his wife, both about sixty-five or seventy years old. They looked European or American enough. I pushed my cart again through the crowd, right up behind the couple. I reached over a row of short Indians and laid my hand on the old man’s shoulder. 

“You aren’t Mr. Browning, are you?”

“No, I’m Mr. Selz, from Utah, USA.”

“I’m Jackson from Colorado. We’re kind of neighbors when you consider that we are halfway around the world and in time zones they determine in thirty-minute intervals.”

We chatted awhile. He and his wife were Mormons from Salt Lake City and were just finishing their fifteenth month of an eighteen-month mission to Madras. They were at the airport to pick up another older couple needing to fulfill their missionary work for the LDS (Latter-day Saints).

I mentioned my predicament and asked for his advice on a good hotel near the airport, in case my situation came down to my needing a hotel.

He said, “I would definitely tell you the Trident Hotel. You could take a taxi from that stand over there. They will take American dollars for the fare.”

About that time, their anticipated couple arrived out of the customs area. We hollered at each other, and they disappeared into the crowd. Another twenty minutes went by. I looked back out the window onto the street. There was a bus just arriving that had Trident Hotel written on the side. I left my baggage cart and quickly went back out past the police and onto the street. I waved at the Trident driver. He stopped and got out of the bus. I told him my name was Jackson, and I needed a ride to the Trident. 

As he was putting my bags into the bus, a young Indian fellow called him over to the side, and my ears flapped when I heard the name Jackson. The young man came onto the bus where I was sitting, stuck out his hand, and said, “Jackson?”

I said, “Yes. Are you Mr. Browning?”

“No, my name is Benny. Mr. Browning could not make it, so Samuel asked if I would meet you. but I didn’t know how I was going to meet you.”

Then he went on to tell me, “I already made reservations for you at the Trident Hotel, and I knew if I waited for you to get on the Trident bus, I would be able to meet you.”

I didn’t even bother to ask him how he thought I was supposed to know that there ever existed a hotel by the name of Trident before I met Mr. Selz. It was impossible that Benny would have known that I would be getting on that bus!  But the next thing he said still had me wondering.

“You were the first person to come out of customs security, weren’t you? I saw you but did not expect you to come out first.  I just watched you. You were so confident, and it appeared that you knew what you were doing and where you were going. You looked like you had a plan, and I guess I was looking for someone lost and in a panic.”

I thought, Oh boy, maybe sometimes those gazelles and waterbucks need to be eaten!

Benny did not stay at the hotel. He was going to stay at his sister and brother-in-law’s place about an hour away from Madras. I didn’t know when Benny finally got to bed, but by the time I got checked into the hotel, it was about 1:30 a.m. Wednesday. I went to my room, and there was fresh fruit and biscuits on a small table. So when the attendant came up with my bags, I ordered a pot of hot tea. Two o’clock in the morning or not, it was time to relax with a good cup of tea.

Next Week: India’s Creative Use of Dialysis Machines

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #1 from July 1995

(I have been traveling extensively internationally since 1978. It is always dangerous. I was told one time that desperate people in foreign countries do not see you as black or white, but they see you as green; the color of money. You have what they desperately need and you are vulnerable. So many times I have had to depend on God to rescue me, although I did not always understand how he did it! I share this example of India with you.)

India: July, 1995: India’s population of one billion people amounts to about one-sixth of the world’s entire population. Yet it is only one-third the size of the United States. But why should Project C.U.R.E. get concerned about India? Good question! Perhaps it is because there are over four million people there with leprosy. Perhaps, it is because over one million Indian toddlers die yearly of malnutrition. Or maybe it’s because 80 percent of Indian new­borns are now expected to be HIV positive. How is that for justification?

About a year and a half ago my son, Dr. William Douglas Jackson, was introduced through his friend Dave Sattler to an energetic, young Indian man named Samuel Stevens. Doug was living in San Diego at the time, and Samuel, a long-time friend of Dave’s, had traveled to Califor­nia on a speaking tour. During Doug’s meeting with Samuel, Doug told him about Project C.U.R.E. and the exciting things that were happening with donated medical goods be­ing sent around the world. Samuel was overwhelmed. He was involved in trying desperately to refurbish two antiquated hospitals in India and build out of nothing one brand new hospital. 

The trip to India was then planned and coordinated between Samuel and Project C.U.R.E. for July 9 through 21. 

The first segment of the trip took me from Denver to San Francisco on United flight 405. At 2:05 a.m., I boarded Singapore Airlines flight 001 from San Francisco. My route would take me to Singapore via Hong Kong. The flight segment from San Francisco to Hong Kong was over fourteen hours, and then another three-plus hours from Hong Kong to Singapore. A same-seat trip in excess of seventeen hours gets to be kind of long. From Singapore I boarded Malaysia Airlines flight 622, which would take me to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, north of Singapore about one hour’s flight time. From Kuala Lumpur, I again changed planes to head for Madras, India. 

An interesting thing happened just before takeoff. The captain of the flight came on the intercom and announced that flight time from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, to Madras would take just over three hours. Then he said something I had never heard before: “There is a two-and-a-half-hour time change from departure point to arrival.” It was now 9:40 p.m. The captain continued, “You may set your watches to 7:10 p.m. Madras, India, time.” 

Perhaps my body could handle thirty-minute incremental time changes … or maybe not. I thought I was programmed for sixty-minute time-zone changes. I had been notified by letter prior to my leaving Colorado that a Mr. Browning would be meeting me in Madras. The letter stated that I would probably not like arriving in Ma­dras for the first time without being met by some friendly face. So I was anticipating walking out of the secured customs area and seeing a friendly person carrying a small placard saying, “Welcome to India, James Jackson.” 

When the plane landed, I grabbed my two carry-on bags and headed for immigration control. I was second in line, not bad for a crowded flight on a huge extended Airbus model-400 aircraft. Oh yes, and there was another advantage of not checking in luggage. After leaving immigration I did not have to wait for the luggage to be unloaded from the plane but went straight to the customs line, where they looked at my honest counte­nance and waved me right through without checking anything. 

Well, I was at least five to ten minutes outside the customs door before anyone else from the flight even appeared. I entered the unsecured area where the disembarkers (I would use the word debarkers, but it sounds so K-9) were separated from the eager throng of excited family members and friends. As was almost always the case, there was a fence separating the crowd from the arriving passengers. Pressed up against the fence and hanging over the fence were the people carrying the signs welcoming those who were arriving. 

I was the first through the line. My eyes raced over the crowd and along the fence now to spot my name and the friendly face. Then I had an instant flashback. About two weeks earlier, Anna Marie asked just what I would do if I went to some country, and no one knew about my arrival and things grew hostile? I remembered tell­ing her with a smile, “No worry, baby. If I have a return ticket and a credit card, I’ll make it home just fine.” Dummy! Now I was thinking about that and not smiling. 

The waiting crowd with signs extended out through the doors and the airport lobby and into the street area outside. It was past midnight. Ours was the last flight. I was quickly outside, into the street, and no sign, no Mr. Browning, no smiling face. Now I was out where the beggars and lepers lined the concrete, and lots of people were sleeping on the sidewalks and streets. I had another instant flashback. I was in Kenya, on one of our safaris. The guide was pointing out how the cheetahs and female lions watched the eyes and behavior patterns of the gazelles or waterbucks. The ones they picked out to ultimately attack were those with a flaw, a weakness, or a lack of confidence that could be detected. 

About that time in the midst of my flashback, a couple of desperate-looking, dark-skinned Indians with shabby clothes began looking at me and my luggage with a little more interest than was com­fortable. 

Next Week: Where is Mr. Browning?

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House