Mark Lee - The Canal House

“Good afternoon, Mr. McFarland. Can you hear me?” The priest spoke carefully, enunciating each word, as if English wasn’t his day-to-day language.

Daniel moved his lips, but no sound came out. The priest nodded to the thin young woman and she sat down on the bed holding a plastic bottle attached to a tube. She slipped the tube through Daniel’s lips and squirted a small amount of water into his mouth. “Again,” the priest said, and she repeated the procedure two more times.

“I’m Father Timothy Lokali,” the priest said. “You’re at Boma Mission, about a hundred miles from the town of Kitgum.”

“Where are the others?”

“Can you swallow a pill, Mr. McFarland? We have three sleeping pills left in the dispensary. I’ll give you one, if you think you can get it down.”

He handed a red pill to the woman. Before Daniel could protest, she slipped it into his mouth and gave him another squirt of water. “Thank you, Ann,” the priest said and the young woman left the room.

“You’ve broken your arm and a few ribs. I’d like to see if there’s more serious damage.” The priest stood near the end of the bed. “Can you wiggle your toes, Mr. McFarland? Good. Now push your foot up slightly against my hand. Excellent. Can you move that arm? I’ve put a splint on it, but it will require a proper cast. We’re out of plaster around here. It’s near the end of the month so we’re nearly out of everything.”

Father Lokali removed a stethoscope from a side pocket in his cassock, listened to Daniel’s heart, and took his pulse. The red pill was dulling the pain and making Daniel feel sleepy, but he tried to keep his eyes open.

“What happened to the others? Where’s Paul Rosen?”

“The three other people in the plane are dead. Tomorrow I’ll take some men over to the crash site. We’ll place the bodies in coffins and bring them back here.”

“The Sudanese army shot them down. I need to call people in Kampala.”

“There’s no telephone here, Mr. McFarland. I’ve sent a boy to the district police headquarters in Kitgum. Right now, you need to rest.”

Daniel wanted to stay awake, but his eyes kept closing. “It’s not fair. They shouldn’t have died.”

“We’ve prayed for them.”

“It’s not fair.”

Daniel slept for fourteen hours. When he woke up, it was morning and a gasoline engine was running somewhere outside the building. He forced himself to push back the mosquito net and sit up. A plastic bottle filled with water was on the floor and he sat on the edge of the bed, taking little sips and trying to readjust to the world. The bed was a crude construction of rope and cast-off pieces of wood with a thin cotton pallet. There was a clay chamber pot near the wall. Daniel stood up, felt dizzy, and sat back down immediately. Take it easy, he told himself. Just take it easy. He used the chamber pot and shuffled back to the bed as the thin woman entered the room.

“Good morning, Mr. McFarland. I’m Ann Gawara. Do you remember our conversation yesterday?”

“A little bit. I’m at a mission.”

“Boma Mission, near Kitgum.”

“There was a priest.”

“Father Lokali. He left this morning and went down to the crash site.” She placed Daniel’s clothes on the bed and he covered himself with the sheet. “We’ve washed your clothes. Here’s your wallet and passport. Your shirt was ripped so badly that we’ve given you another.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve brought you some ugali —cornmeal porridge. Shall I feed you or can you feed yourself?”

“Let me try it on my own.”

She gave him the bowl and left the room. The porridge had a bland taste and gritty texture, but eating it made him feel stronger. Ann returned a few minutes later with a cup of milk. It was still warm from the cow.

“Who runs this mission?”

“Father Lokali.”

“Are you trying to convert people?”

She smiled for the first time. “Oh, no. None of that. Boma Mission is for people who have AIDS. They come here from all over the country.”

“Why are you in the middle of nowhere?”

“Father Lokali started the mission in Kampala and the church gave him this place. It used to be a seminary, then it was abandoned. We have fields here to grow food and grass for the cattle. Once a month, our truck goes down to Kampala to get supplies and more patients.”

“Are you a nurse?”

“No, I’m a patient. I have AIDS, too.”

Daniel had always been confident in his ability to come up with a serious comment or a witty remark; it was an occupational skill. But that morning, sitting in the little room with the bowl on his lap, he didn’t know what to say.

“Are you strong enough to walk?” Ann asked. “Perhaps I could show you around.”

She helped Daniel get dressed. He placed his good arm on her shoulder and they walked outside. Boma Mission was a collection of about twenty dormitories constructed with bricks made from the local clay. Each building was painted a different color. Purple. Scarlet. Lime green. Ann mentioned that a Muslim businessman donated paint to the mission and that Father Lokali thought different colors were more cheerful.

About two hundred men, women, and children milled around the dirt courtyard while a portable water pump filled a steel barrel. Everyone stared at him, and a few men bowed their heads and nodded sympathetically. It was obvious that the plane crash had been a major topic of conversation.

AIDS patients were everywhere, skinny and fragile looking. Several had rashes or boils on their faces and arms. It surprised Daniel to see so many children. As they walked through the courtyard, Ann explained that many of the people who came to Boma Mission had already lost other family members to the disease and they wanted their children to be in a safe place when they died.

“And what do you do with them?”

“If they have surviving relatives and they want to return to their village, our truck takes them home. Most of them stay here. We have a little school. The younger children help the patients and the older ones take care of our herd. One of the cattle boys saw the plane crash and found you.”

A tall man was distributing nystatin tablets for throat infections, but Boma Mission lacked any kind of AIDS medicine. Father Lokali had taken a two-year nursing course in Italy and could handle basic medical problems. A local doctor with a motorcycle visited the mission every Wednesday.

“We have some support from the United Nations and the Canadian embassy. The Canadians give us medical supplies, but we usually run out near the end of every month.”

Daniel started to feel woozy in the hot sun so he returned to the room and went back to sleep. When he woke up, it was late in the afternoon. Two little boys stood in the doorway, watching him as if he was a strange animal. Father Lokali entered the room a few minutes later and sat down on the chair.

“I’m afraid we were unable to retrieve your belongings from the airplane. Everything caught fire after the crash. The three bodies were badly burned, but we placed them in coffins and brought them here.”

“I think we got hit by a rocket-propelled grenade. It destroyed the propeller.”

“And you’re a journalist? I looked at the visa form folded inside your passport.”

Daniel told the priest what had happened. He got through the story fairly well, but when he described the crash he started crying. Father Lokali sat beside Daniel and put an arm around his shoulder. Finally, Daniel got control of himself and pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said.

“For what?”

“I don’t usually cry.”

“How unfortunate for you.” Father Lokali stood up. “One of our patients is about to die. I’ll have to leave here in a little while.”