Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #1 from June 2002

(Note: There are so many more episodes to be shared from the saga of North Korea and my many trips into the unique country. Perhaps we can return to more journal excerpts in the near future. Please be assured that all of my field journals for over the past nearly twenty-five years will be included in the multi-volume Roads I Have Traveled . . . Delivering Help and Hope series soon to be published by Winston-Crown Publishing House. But now, I want to share a bit of excitement surrounding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and Project C.U.R.E.’s unique involvement.)

Israel, West Bank, Ramallah: June 6-14, 2002: It seemed like the right thing to do. The dates of June 6-14 opened nearly miraculously, allowing me to commit to traveling to the Middle East. I had planned to be in Republic of Guinea in West Africa on those dates with Seko Diallo. He had even traveled to Colorado and viewed all our facilities. He was so impressed that Project C.U.R.E. could make such a huge difference in the healthcare system of Republic of Guinea. All his paperwork was filed with our office and our flight plans had been made.

Then, on May 15, Seko Diallo called me. He was in a panic. He had just been informed by the US immigration department that he would be allowed to leave the US to host me on the trip to Republic of Guinea but that he would not be allowed to re-enter our country. He could stay here but not go out and then back in on the visa he held. He was beside himself. (I think that’s OK, being “beside himself,” at least he knew his own location).

In his call he begged me, “Dr. Jackson, could we please delay our trip until my attorney can plead my case to the government? I really want to go with you to my country.”

On the very next day, May 16, I received a phone call and eventually met with Mohamed Jodeh, Denver’s main Islamic leader and head of the Islamic mosque.

“Dr. Jackson, the Muslims of Colorado and the Jews of Colorado under the leadership of Rabbi Steve Foster want to do something special together to ease the suffering of the people in the West Bank and Gaza. We need Project C.U.R.E. to join our efforts by donating a considerable amount of emergency medical goods and by being the neutral catalyst for our coalition. Can you help?” I reminded Mohamed of our policy to perform a needs assessment of the institutions prior to our sending any medical goods, but that Project C.U.R.E. would be happy to join the efforts if the details could be worked out.

“Okay,” Mohamed replied, “how about going with me to the Holy Land on the dates, June 6-14?”

I stuttered a little and said, “That’s interesting that you called and more interesting that you would pick those dates. Had you called two days ago my answer would have been ‘no,’ but as of today I can commit those dates to you.”

I had visited Gaza and also the West Bank towns of Hebron, Nablus, Ramallah, and Bethlehem before. I had also visited Beirut, Lebanon, and all the Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon on previous trips. It had not been safe at all to visit even then. But, now, the classification had moved from “not safe at all” to “downright dangerous.” The political situation had grown a great deal more complicated and hundreds of people, both Israeli and Palestinian, had been murdered.

The West Bank was situated west of the Jordan River between the state of Israel and the country of Jordan, and also bordered the Dead Sea. I knew the twelve disciples wouldn’t like me to say this, but it’s really quite ugly in the West Bank as compared even to North Korea. The temperatures can easily exceed 100 degrees in the summer; it’s rocky and dry and doesn’t have a lot in the way of natural resources. 

The Romans were the ones who gave the area the name of “Palestine.” But before that even the West Bank was part of the Hebrew kingdom established and ruled by King David and his descendants. Following conquests by the Babylonians, Assyrians, later the Persians, and finally the Greeks and Romans, Palestine was taken over by the Arabs in about 600 AD. In the 1500s the Ottoman Turks ruled until after the First World War when Palestine was declared a British mandate. During that time the Balfour Declaration of 1917 pledged British support, setting up a national home for the Jews in Palestine, but oddly enough it also insisted that the civil and religious rights of the non-Jews be protected in the area. That represented the same fuzzyheaded thinking that the Brits displayed in partitioning India and Pakistan and leaving Kashmir dangling for folks to later sort out.

In 1949 the newly formed United Nations voted to partition the area into two states, one Jewish and one Arab, with Jerusalem maintaining an even different status of its own. When Israel actually became an independent nation in 1948, the Arab states that chose to oppose the UN action declared war on Israel, which they did again in 1956, 1967, and 1973. Israel’s victory in 1967 was so decisive that it moved to occupy the West Bank (which had belonged to Jordan), Syria’s Golan Heights and Egypt’s Gaza Strip, and the Sinai Peninsula. East Jerusalem was also taken over and occupied by Israel.

At the 1979 Camp David Accords, the Sinai Peninsula was given back to Egypt and the status of West Bank and Gaza was placed on the table for later negotiations. But peace negotiations during the 1980s really went nowhere, which led a frustrated Arab side to declare an independent state of Palestine in 1987. The uprisings known or referred to as “intifada” became clashes of greater and greater severity. The West Bank and Gaza became flash points of violence between the Arabs and the Israeli forces of occupation.

A peace conference between Palestine and Israel took place in 1991 and finally resulted in the Oslo, Norway, agreements of 1994. The agreements called for an end of the 17 years of occupation by the Israeli forces in the West Bank and Gaza. It also allowed for eventual self-rule in Gaza and the city of Jericho in the West Bank.

As the Israeli soldiers withdrew, the Palestinians had to replace them with their own policeman. In 1994 Yasser Arafat, chairman of the activist Palestine Liberation Organization (P.L.O.), was elected head of the Palestine National Authority. Additionally, an 88-member Palestinian council was elected.

Expectations were high on both sides, and the West Bank and Gaza economics started to sputter into a higher gear and Arabs from around the world started to build homes and businesses in the West Bank and Gaza. 

However, Israelis started their own expansion program of building settlements throughout the West Bank. The hopes of accord fostered by the Oslo agreements soon soured and violent terrorist attacks in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and even previously unaffected areas like Netanya, escalated the feelings of betrayal and distrust. Peace seemed a long way away.

In 1999, Israeli Prime Minister Ehad Barak went further than any Israeli leader before him in offering concessions to the Palestinians in order to reach peace. The outside world was surprised at the extent to which Barak had gone with his offer. Surely the Arabs would all agree to practically returning to the borders prior to 1967, where 94% of Gaza and West Bank would become the basis for a new separate Palestinian state, along with a joint rule agreement for jurisdiction over Jerusalem. 

But, the world was to be even more surprised at Arafat’s flat refusal of the proposition. What in the world was Arafat thinking?

Next Week: Arafat unable to control Islamic Jihad terrorist organizations. 

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

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Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #5 from September 1995

(cont: North Korea)  On our way to breakfast, they informed us that as soon as we finished, the cars would be waiting for us to go to Nampho. Again, I could hardly believe my ears. Nampho was their strategic port city, and for reasons of security and defense, I don’t believe any other American had ever been allowed to visit the spot.

We headed west through Pyongyang and a little south toward Nampho. Nampho is about sixty-five or seventy miles out of Pyongyang. We passed the tight security checkpoint line that encircled the city, about ten miles out. The checkpoint ensured that no one would wander outside the city, but more important, if you were just a worker, you could not have access into the city. You could only go into the great city if you were requested, and then only with an official pass. You had to be the best little street sweeper, or the best crew worker before you were privileged to go into the city. Travel, even across town, was never encouraged, and if for some reason you needed to meet with other family members who lived in the city, those members would, more than likely, have to travel outside the great city to meet with you. (And they say that Socialism is classless!)

The farther we got from the city, the more we saw the ox carts carrying loads and the oxen pulling the plows in the field. In preparation for winter, the villagers were spreading their kernels of corn on the concrete road to dry them in the September sun. The display reminded me of a huge yellow quilt bedspread.

We passed the famed North Korean iron-ore mountains and steel mills. I was shocked at the deferred maintenance everywhere. They had the plants operating with bellowing smoke, but the metal buildings and structures were badly rusting, the machinery was out of the 1950s, and the crawler tractors were probably left over from the Korean War. And everywhere I looked, things were old and unpainted and in bad disrepair.

Driving through Nampho, I saw the docks where our cargo container of medical goods would be unloaded. It would have been fun to be there the day of its arrival. 

We drove on west and out of Nampho along the Taedong River toward the sea. As we approached the sea, there were several miles of partitioned salt fields between the road and the sea where they were processing their own salt. As we came around a small mountain and past an old, rusted-out concrete batch plant, there loomed two more giant marble gateways that formed an arch effect across the road. The huge statues that faced each other were of workers being led by Great Leader Kim Il-Sung, depicting the conquering of the sea and the victory of the Worker’s Army. 

In 1981 the government decided to build a sea barrage some eight miles long to span the mouth of the Taedong River. The idea was to not only make a land bridge to connect the northern province to the southern province and eliminate the long trip inland around the wide mouth of the river, but also to separate the seawater from the fresh river water. High tides on the sea would send damaging waves back up river and wash out crops and dwellings. By building the sea barrage, it also allowed the separated freshwater to be stored at a designated level and pumped back up the river as far as needed for irrigation. But the sea barrage did not allow the ships to move up and down the wide river, so a series of four sets of locks was designed to handle the boat traffic. The sea barrage was wide enough to accommodate not only a highway but also a rail line. Estimates were that it would take a minimum of ten years to accomplish the construction. But one advantage of being a dictator was the option Kim Il-Sung would have to throw as many of his twenty-seven million workers as possible at any project he might choose. Thirty thousand workers and five years later, the job was completed. It had become one of the strategic developments of the recent past. However, one of the weaknesses of the Socialist’s division of labor was that when you take rice farmers and have them build huge concrete structures, you may have a problem with quality control. The structure in just this short time already showed signs of flaws and was in need of repair.

We got lots of good pictures of the project and were even shown a chronicled video of the process. (It was surprising, but this time our overseers had not been so fussy about our picture taking. Last time they hadn’t wanted me to take pictures of buildings, common people, or vehicles, and especially not anything that had to do with the military or the Korean People’s Army.)

On the return trip to Pyongyang, I had time to do some reflecting. I had now been in so many of the developing countries, which for the past fifty years had tried every variation of Socialism imaginable—Zimbabwe, Kenya, Zambia, Brazil, Peru, Colombia, Bolivia, Venezuela, Ecuador, Romania, Russia, Mexico, Cuba, China, Germany, Austria, Israel, Denmark, Belgium, India, and others, and even in some measure Ireland, Canada, England, and the USA—and all had gotten caught up in social projects, wealth redistribution, reversal agendas, and welfare markets. In their feverish pitch to create a brand-new world of absolute dreams, they had all neglected one thing: the power and basic principles of economics. And now, once the wealth of previously created establishments had all been redistributed and they had discovered that you couldn’t keep dividing up nothing, the grand and glorious revolutionary dreams were coming unraveled, and to greater or lesser degrees, the experiments were now falling apart while the drivers tried to double their futile efforts to keep the ungreased wagon wheels from falling off the wagons. 

I watched hundreds of North Koreans on my way back to Pyongyang walking along the roads or sitting along sides of the fields, or in groups under trees—not a car or a bus in sight, not a shovel or a hoe in their hands, no place to go, and absolutely no motivation to get there if they could go. And really, why should they be motivated? Their group leaders gave them food, government clothes, a house, parades and dances, signs with slogans of hope, and the assurance that they had it better than anyone else in the world. It is true, in one sense, that there is no unemployment. But the other side is equally true: There is no employment either. 

Pyongyang is a gorgeous propaganda city with no graffiti and very little crime, but outside the city, it’s ox carts, candles, and cholera. Oops! Sorry for the musing … back to work! 

When we returned to the hotel, my good friend Chun Song Gap, the senior man at the Department of Disarmament and Peace, was there. It was so good to talk with him. He had already received the transcripts of the Los Angeles summit I had attended, and we talked in detail about the positions taken by the DPRK as well as the US State Department. We talked about the embargo and the need for Project C.U.R.E. to continue to ship the terribly needed medical supplies. He related to me some incidents indicating that his government was now very serious about getting the liaison offices set up in Pyongyang for the US, and Washington, D.C., for the DPRK as the next step for lifting the embargo. 

He said, “We are very much looking to you to help build those bridges of friendship.”  

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

Journal Highlights: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt #4 September 1995

(continued) Pyongyang, North Korea: September 8, 1995: Mr. Ri Su Kil, the deputy vice minister of the ministry of health had been with us every minute since we had arrived. He was ultimately in charge of all four thousand clinics. So we had no problem with full access when he gave the word to let us inspect them. The facilities were all very clean, orderly, and well organized, and the staff members all wore whites and even “chef hats,” as Jay called them. Yes, the facilities were tidy … but, wow, were they ever third-world. In all my travels, I had not seen more outdated equipment. I guessed that most of the equipment was reclaimed pieces from the Korean War in the 1950s. That included the diagnostic equipment, operating-room equipment … everything. 

I didn’t know if their pride could handle it, but Project C.U.R.E. would probably have to bring doctors and technicians over to train some of their people to go out and train the rest of the medical staff in the four thousand clinics how to use instruments we take for granted. The process would have to be slow and gentle, because these folks had believed the Juche idea for so long that they really thought they had the best health-care system in the world right now. The borders had been so tightly closed and information kept out so successfully that it was not going to be easy for them to adjust to reality. There were two or three informational generations totally missing. My heart really hurt for the people and their future. How would they handle it? 

When we pulled away from the facility, it started to dawn on me how unusually rare this trip had been. Jay’s and my eyes had already seen more than could have been expected, and I was reminded of the Bible verse, “To whom much has been given, much will be required” (NRSV). There was a scary amount of responsibility that accompanied that privilege of being the first. 

Back out through the town we went once again … back up the beautiful canyon, back over the road washed out by the high floodwaters, back past the Buddhist monastery, back past the Palace of Gifts, right on up the winding road that grew narrower and steeper with each mile. We pulled off the road where there were a few houses clustered and a stone building with the ever-smiling face of Great Leader Kim Il-Sung plastered on the front. The driver honked the car’s horn, and a girl in her early twenties popped out of nowhere and got into the second car. The girl was to be our guide, and we were headed to Manpoktong Mountain. The girl had grown up in the mountains, there along the river, had passed the entrance tests and gone to the university, and was assigned to go back to her home and act as guide for people privileged enough to be able to climb the mountain. 

Manpoktong means “ten thousand waterfalls.” The mountain was gorgeous, with white and light-gray granite, and where there was topsoil, it was covered with heavy undergrowth and trees. 

After pushing our way up a very narrow and steep concrete road, our driver brought the car to a halt in a small, paved cul-de-sac. It had just started to rain lightly, so each of us was given an umbrella and a walking stick, and our guide told us, through Mr. Rim, that it was going to be very slippery and especially muddy and slick where the rains had washed away the trail. 

The mountain rose 9,909 meters, nearly straight up. Our first trek would take us more than 500 meters up in rapid elevation. The girl had to take us on several detours but always got us back to the trail. I asked her when she had first climbed the mountain. She said she was too young to remember. 

All the time we were climbing, we could hear the crashing of the waterfalls. Our first stop delivered to us an astounding site. She told us that if we thought that was great … just wait. Kim Jong Il had visited the site and had instructed the workers to carve steps in the granite face in some places and install chain handrails to make it easier and safer for the people to climb. 

When we reached the concrete pavilion about two hundred meters from the top, it had really set in to rain. The heavy clouds moved in, and we were enshrouded by rain and fog. We decided to wait there for it to clear so we could take some pictures. 

I eagerly admit that I had seen few sights that rivaled the ten thousand waterfalls of Manpoktong. When the clouds passed and the sun came out, the view was the best of all possible dreams. I had seen Niagara Falls and Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, but for rare beauty of an undisturbed nature, this was special. Of course, as a disrespectful entrepreneurial American, my first statement to Jay was, “Man, if we could relocate this thing between Denver and Colorado Springs or Denver and Idaho Springs and develop the twenty thousand acres around it, we would be set!” 

There was one more steep climb above the pavilion of some one hundred meters to a footbridge that went across the falls just below the primary cascade. Our trip down the mountain was more precarious than the one up. When we reached the cul-de-sac, the cars were there and so were a couple of other people. They were the waiter and waitress from the hotel dining room. Mr. Jong had arranged for a picnic lunch to be brought to us at the foot of the mountain. However, it was again raining hard enough that they all made the decision to go back down toward the river and see if we could find a dry spot. 

They picked a spot under a high bridge, where previously they had a docking spot for riverboats. All of that was washed away, but there still was a sandy, dry area with the high bridge as a roof. 

I need to tell you … that was no ordinary holiday picnic. They had brought along two charcoal burners and all the trimmings. Soon the chosen spot was transformed into a beautiful linen banquet setting. White tablecloths were spread on the sand. Dishes, cups, glasses, and even sterling-silver chopsticks. When the fires were ready, we all gathered and sat on marble slabs they had rounded up. I had no idea of the names of all the different oriental dishes that were prepared for us. I was afraid to even ask about the meat dishes, but I did recognize several types of fish, beef, and calamari. 

Mr. Jong said that the head minister of foreign affairs had already called him a couple of times since we had arrived there by train, making sure everything was going all right and that the Jacksons were happy. He said that it seemed that word had gotten around the Pyongyang officials regarding the gift and the Jacksons’ work for reunification, and they were declaring Mr. Jackson an “honored patriot.” 

One of the most personally significant things that happened on the whole trip took place around those charcoal pots at that picnic setting. Mr. Ri Su Kil began to relax and unload his emotional basket. He kept saying, maybe four or five different times, how when he heard that the Americans were coming to Pyongyang, and since he was representing the health ministry, he would have to be with us and just didn’t know if he could personally handle it. 

Then, as if he couldn’t keep the emotion bottled up anymore, he said through Mr. Rim, the interpreter, “I just didn’t know if I could be with Americans, because the Americans are my enemies. I am now fifty-three years old, and the Americans killed my father and all my family in 1952. It is the Americans who have their troops in South Korea today, and that is the only thing that is keeping the two halves of my country from coming back together. The Americans have been my enemy all my life. And now Mr. Jackson comes and spends these days with us, and I like him. Today he has become a brother to me, and he is an American. Please, Mr. James W. Jackson, do not only bring to us the greatly needed medical supplies but also bring something more important to us. Please talk to someone about taking the American army out of South Korea so that we can be one country again.” 

I assured Mr. Ri that I would continue to do all I could to bring that dream to pass, because indeed he was my brother and my friend. I proposed a toast to our friendship and told Mr. Ri that when the day of reunification came, I wanted to have him come to my home in the mountains of Colorado and meet a lot more wonderful Americans. I toasted him with a glass of mineral water, and he told me jokingly that he would not even consider it if all I offered to him when he got there was mineral water. 

Well, the US State Department had wanted me to build bridges of friendship between the USA and North Korea. It was my humble opinion that we were making headway.

 © Dr. James W. Jackson    

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

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

(continued) Pyongyang, North Korea: September 8, 1995: At 4:15 a.m., the lights in my room came on. That was the North Korean version of a wake-up call. It seemed like it was awfully early, since I had stayed up past midnight trying to keep up with my journal writing. No hot water had been turned into the pipes, again, so the ice-cold shampoo and shower helped to wake me up quite completely. 

At a little after 5:00 a.m., a knock came on the door, and Mr. Rim said they were ready to take us to the train station. As I indicated before, no American to my knowledge had been allowed to go outside Pyongyang city. But we had found favor enough now for them to invite us to go on a train for a nearly four-hour trip north to the Mount Myohyang area in the county of Hyangsan. I was thrilled beyond belief. I had seen trains pull out of the downtown station when I had visited Pyongyang before and wondered what it would be like to ride on one of them. In fact, on that trip I had inquired if anywhere in their country they still might have steam locomotives in operation, and Mr. Chun had said that there were steam trains up in the northern part of the country. But at that time I never even dreamed I would ever leave Pyongyang, except by air to Beijing. 

The station was very neat and clean and mostly directed by military women in the station and out on the platform. We passed up the general open-seating cars and were directed to board the last passenger car, which was old but a nicely complemented wooden coach with private compartments. It was still dark outside, but the first rays of sunshine were beginning to crack through in the east. There were four berths in each compartment of the passenger car, two upper and two lower, with a small table set for tea located under the window and between the two lower berths. The beds were made up for sleeping, but at that hour we chose to sit. 

It was really strange. Jay and I had come to the station in separate Mercedes cars, and we were shown to two separate compartments. There was no effort to keep us apart once we were on the train, but it just kept pushing my paranoia when it was not clear whether the gesture was for their safety or for our comfort and as a compliment to us.

The train pulled out of the station on time, of course, and my eyes were kept busy drinking in the sights seen by so very few in the past fifty years. The sunrise was beautiful, but Jay and I had picked up the feeling that it would be frowned upon if we were observed taking a lot of pictures. We passed the port at Nampho, where the container would arrive, and about one hour into the trip. I looked out the train window and then turned to Jay and pointed to him and quietly told him to quickly grab the camera. About a half mile from the train tracks was a whole hilltop covered with antiaircraft guns, missile launchers, and other weapons. The missiles were in a defensive position pointed south, and I presumed they were protecting something on ahead to the north. Sure enough, up the track about five miles was a large chemical plant and refinery. It made sense that they would be defending the installation in case of an attack from the south. 

Having personally owned a real live steam locomotive and consist (all the passenger cars, the Pullman cars, the caboose cars, and additional rolling stock) that we used to lease to Hollywood movie makers, and still owning a small narrow-gauge steam train that today is on loan to the Forney Museum of Transportation in Denver, I had a great interest in locations where steam locomotives were still used. I was keeping my eyes and ears wide open in hope that I might catch a glimpse of some live steam power or the shrill sound of a steam whistle. 

Jackson on MGM movie set with Jackson Brother’s steam train, staring William Holden, Vince Edwards, Cliff Robertson and pictured here with actor Claude Akins. Train was featured in movies such as Cat Ballou, The Professionals, and The Devil’s Brigade.


 I kept moving from my compartment window out into the narrow-windowed hallway of the coach looking for telltale signs of steam power. As the train slowed, approaching one of the village stops, I thought I spotted an overhead water facility with a pipe and spigot about four inches in diameter. That has to be for filling a boiler, I thought. I couldn’t spot any live steam, but as the train slowed down, what I did see burned a hole in my memory. There on a siding was a passenger train that had pulled off onto the siding to let our fast train past. It consisted of about ten very old-style wooden coaches. The windows and doors were all open, and the people who were aboard were headed into Pyongyang for the national holiday celebrations. Most were clutching small colorful flower arrangements, which they were taking to place before the huge bronze statue of Kim Il-Sung situated in the city square. 

The people were so packed on that train that literally they were hanging out the windows and sitting on the steps of the coach entrance, hanging on to the handrails so as not to fall out. But what was so riveting was the looks on their faces—the sadness, the emptiness, almost as though they were confused or abandoned; no smiles, no chatter. As we slowly passed the many windows and doorways of the coaches and I studied the eyes and body language of the passengers, I myself felt drained. Then the train, once past the siding, picked up speed and raced on north. 

Just before we entered the next village, I spotted them! Yes, indeed, there they were … two old locomotives under a full head of steam sitting on sidings attached to a consist of freight cars. Steam was coming from the turbine generators on the top and hissing from around the main driver pistons in the front. It appeared to me that they were hand-stoked coal engines of either a 2-8-0 or 2-6-0 configuration. By the time I grabbed my camera to capture them on film, we were past them. 

Jay came out of his compartment and excitedly hollered, “Did you see that?”
I said, “Yeah … rats … I didn’t get a picture!”

Later he told me that he spotted another in a switching yard while I was out talking to Mr. Ri Su Kil and Mr. Rim Tong Won. Actually, Mr. Rim had asked me where I was born, and I told him Idaho. And he said, “Oh yes, I rike berry mush the story of Idenhoe; good story.” I didn’t have the heart to correct him, so I just smiled.

Next Week: North Korea (continued)

© Dr. James W. Jackson   

Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House

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   

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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   

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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   

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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   

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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   

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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   

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