Written by Randolph & Barclay Stewart
Photography courtesy of Barclay Stewart

I will be eternally grateful to my friend Randolph Stewart for sharing this letter he wrote on behalf of his son, Barclay, as well as a few email journal entries from Barclay while on his humanitarian adventures in Africa.

Dear Friends and future friends,

find myself writing this letter on behalf of my Son Barclay. He needs your help and would not ask himself. Many of you have followed him through the numerous emails from the jungles of Belize, the pediatric burn and leprosy hospital in Katmandu, the remote and destitute country of Malawi, and stories of his year in Kenyan refugee camps. He is now at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine obtaining a Masters in Public Health in Crisis Zones and how to administer medicine to those poor souls who are caught in the middle of rebels and terrorists and governments that are corrupt and only care about exporting resources to the highest bidder.

His thesis program is supplying personnel and supplies to the Country of Sudan, which has given permission for the convoy of 28 (subject to change) to enter the country and conduct the study, the United Nationals that will supply armored personnel carriers and security guards, the National Institute of Health that is supplying funds for air travel, and the Government of Uganda that is permitting them to land at their airport and cross the border to Sudan. The problem has come with the medical equipment manufacturer that had promised an ultra-sound machine has withdrawn their offer at this late date and without ultra-sound the project can not happen.

The idea is thus: Barclay is working on a survey of the burden of neglected tropical diseases in Southern Sudan. By testing thousands of people in Sudan for parasites and providing a vehicle of treatment (the treatment of parasites is inexpensive and does not require a Doctor), his study will aid the understanding of tropical disease in Southern Sudan, a nation plagued by conflict and without a public health disease surveillance infrastructure. Neglected tropical diseases account for a large proportion of the morbidity and mortality in low-income countries without a developed healthcare provision system. Understanding the number and distribution of these diseases amongst such a vulnerable population is important for strategic planning and development. A healthier population means less dependence on the need for international aid, more funds available for other health problems, greater the ability of a nation to fight terrorism and foreign intervention, and the safer the planet.

Thru his studies in Public Health, and as a future Trauma Surgeon, his goal is to work toward a better world by affecting Global Health Policy. His program will show how testing, training locals and administering treatment with this "mobile mash unit" is inexpensive and can be accomplished with other health testing in these Crisis regions.

I am asking for donations of any amount to fund a used ultra-sound machine that cost $10,000. I am asking you for your donations. I am asking you to pass on this information to others in hope of their donations, pass it on or make calls to your Doctors, clubs, and contacts that could help.

I have attached a letter from Barclay as well as several of his emails and pictures for those who do not know this remarkable young man so that you might look into his soul.

Donations can be made to Barclay Stewart, PO Box 1813, Bluffton, SC. 29910. Online Paypal and credit card donations may also be given - see the end of the article for details.

Subject: Nairobi

Hope everyone is doing well. Sure do miss you guys!

Most days in Nairobi are hot and chokingly dusty. A wet, oily smog mixes with the tan power fine dust to create a sort of inhalable, caustic paste. Everyone is used to it. People walk everywhere as gas is now so expensive (10+ USD per gallon). You can't walk fifteen meters without hearing 'mafuta ni ghali sana' or 'pesa mafuta matatukufa' - gas is ridiculously expensive or gas prices are going to kill us. So we stride endlessly to and from work or home inhaling and exhaling the paste, I have forgotten the sense of breathing clean air.

Last night we were covered in a thick dust storm. Angry winds brought half of the Rift Valley floor to Nairobi. It was already dark, but had it been light I suspect the walls of sand would have halted the path of the sun's rays and it would surely have felt like twilight. The winds made the sound you hear when kids blow air across a glass coke bottle against my open windows. I heard the sand grains bouncing against the walls and my curtains, then sprinkling my floor. I shut the windows, wiped the sand from my eyes, and crawled back under my net to enjoy the mysterious sounds and fall back to sleep.

I was roused by the sounds of camels running down the street in front of our apartment. It is always puzzling to see them. It is by no means rare to find camels in Africa, but to see people ride the long lashed temperamental hump backed golden beasts as their mode of transport in the continent's largest city among the transfer trucks, tuk-tuks, pedestrians, and jalopies is a bit funny - you must admit. I got up and began my morning routine - it has been abbreviated of recent due to our lack of water, no morning tea - spit showers - dry tooth brushings - rain dance. Off to work...

I stepped outside to a remarkable and overwhelming feeling. The air was cool and still, the sun curiously bright though not piercingly hot, a fine sand layer covered most things giving a new color to the world, the wind had blown the smoggy paste completely away. I could see as far as the topography allowed. I walked my usual route and saw things I have never noticed. A club shrouded by tall bushes which, 'Iko Kibaki kwake' or Kibaki's hangout (Kibaki - the president who, against popular election stayed in office last December which resulted in mass uprising and the violent killings of thousands of people - funnily the kiswahili verb for 'to remain' is Kubaki!). The lepers and crippled men who beg on the streets or walk on their hands or scoot along with cardboard strapped to one fist while gripping a pipe with the other using it as a sort of mini pole vault were not there (not that I am insinuating that this place is better without them, but if you do not witness such things the world suddenly becomes more hopeful). I took the long way to work, strolled slowly, and marveled at my new surroundings. I now understand the existential crisis.

Upon entering the hospital things turned soberingly back to normal. Dark and hot and putrid once more. Patients had the dust layer covering their faces and sheets - a bit like the ghosts of Pompey. Instead of giving the drugs or proceedures they needed to keep them alive - nurses ran around wiping thier faces and shaking the dust from their tattered and bloodied and bleach spotted green blankets. Hhhmmm. Perhaps that is the old horse before the carraige routine. Se la vi -

On another note - I just received funding for another study. I have attached my proposal which was granted funding by the makers of the water filtration systems and bed net providers.

I look forward to hearing from each of you. In the meantime - take care.

Barclay

Subject: Kenya

Hello to all - I wrote this the other night - a reflection of time in the present and in the near future.

The back half of me is chilled, my front nearly unbearably hot. I am lying on my side staring at the dancing fire as it pops and cracks and sparks around me, blackening the distance and casting shifty orange light on the faces and dangling ornaments of the people around me. My pillow is the left side of the turban wrapped too tightly around my head. My paper is sinking into the sand as my pen pushes on it line by line. I can't see what I am writing.

My task this journey is to begin the groundwork in developing a study site in the northern reaches of Kenya. An arid place of borderless people – Sudan, Ethiopia, and Somalia do not exist here. The only way anyone knows they are in Kenya is by a small, chest level, tarnished-bronze plaque saying "Kenya Ministry of Health, South Horr Clinic."

A chartered 6 seat Cessna sputtered up to me on a sparsely grassed, dirt runway off the Western slopes of Mt Kenya. I climbed into the co-pilot seat and before I realized we had begun to move, we were aloft. The pilot took great pride, shown by a toothy smile, in his skills and knowledge of the land below. We landed near South Horr more than two hours later, though a reflective eternity seemed to slip past. A truck from Feed the Hungry was there to take me to the clinic, a rough drive through a loosely defined road, past swollen bellied children and long dark faces, beautiful framed by colorful cloths gathered around their head.

South Horr is an ironic name for a place raped by famine, drought, and violence. There is nothing here. A small MoH clinic, round stick and mud-walled, grass roofed huts dotting the flat sandy landscape, gun toting herders following camels loaded with tattered sacks, and sand – the blood of the Rift Valley. Lake Turkana sparkles distantly in the flaming sun. Thin bodies move to and from the shore. I met with the staff all day, all two of them. One is a Turkana, a Maasai-like tribe known to be the inhabitants of the "Cradle of Humanity," and the other an Arabic physician, caught somewhere between his nomadic herding past and wearing the smock of modernity. I explained our goals, how we could benefit the clinic and the patients, the intricacies of our study and how the data we collect could have great implications on the way we care for patients in such areas. With unmanageable excitement and a mutual understanding of each other's purpose we retired around dusk to the dimming evening light.

I sat for as long as I could with my back to the fire hoping not to burn out my night vision so that I could savor the colors changing to dark. All the flamed orange shadows purpled and became embossed by a thin line of clear sky above them which rested under the rolled edges of thunder clouds maliciously teasing this waterless land, only to give life in some less deserving place. The calico patchwork of night blues and grays, purples and blacks faded into a cold open abyss and I turned to the fire, surrounded by Turkanas and a few more herders.

We all sat around the fire, save the direction of the blowing smoke. The gusts flatten the flames, causing them to lick and illuminate the sand. The gusts would stop and the flames would stand up violently in relief and rage upward with spiraling towers of smoke. We passed around a goat skin covered gourd filled with camel milk diluted with its urine. The milk was sweet and a bit off, malt in color and warm. It was nice to be a part of them, connected to a time that has existed for centuries, a timeless tradition of fireside sitting and passing sustaining liquid, quenching something much more than my gritty, dry throat.

As the night became cold the doctor threw to me two cloths. One I wrapped loosely around my head, matching his. The other I wrapped around my shoulders, torso and upper legs. I prayed for the least of these and my family and my friends, you, and the sanctity of night. My head pressed against the fine, hot sand – the air gradually cooled around my face and ears until the heat was swallowed by the cold wind above my head. I turned again away from the fire, deeply satiated and smiled, connected to that infrequent "greater than myself."

The night has become cold. The abrupt relative loss in stimuli brought me immediately to memories of home. I miss each of you and my friends so deeply. It is a scarily deep feeling. I want nothing more than to be beside each of you, cheering on your successes in great humility. However, the thought of leaving this enchanting, rich, and impoverished land saddens me - as if I am knowingly about to lose my loved one. I am 25 and sitting in the lap of my dreams. I am doing what I have always thought I would never be able to accomplish, though still lacking letters behind my name. If it were so, my death tonight would be wholly welcomed, as my first purpose has been realized. I yearn to soon have a quiet mind so that I can birth a new dream, one that I can spend my next 25 years realizing.

I will miss soured camel milk, the endless skies, the way when women gather in their kangas an intentional squint gives way to a kaleidoscope of colors, the importance of a greeting, the blistering heat, the way people look twice at my unadapted skin, rows on rows of rusted green sheetless beds filled with tangled legs and arms, the nightly bickering of zebras and locusts, the ritualized gratitude for a plate of food fingered hurriedly into my mouth, the gamble of water, the taste of dust, watching sunken eyes return to their observant position after rehydration, the urgency of famine, the guilt of poverty, my incredible friends, the power of not carrying a weapon when they surround you, a palpable purpose infinitely greater than myself, the raging war between wildlife and humanity, streams of sweat leaving trails on dusty black faces, the spontaneous birth of unexpected song, waking to distant muezzins, sticky mango dripping from my chin and fingers, breaths choked by hot exhaust giving meaning to fresh air, the list is endless ...

I look forward to seeing all of you in a couple of months. Until then, may peace surround you. Send my love to all . . . Barclay

Online Donations for the Ultrasound Machine:

Go to:   http://www.justgiving.com/malariaconsortium/donate (the organization that is coordinating our logistics and procurement of resources)

2. Select your donation amount and click 'Donate'.

3. On the next page, select whether you want your donation to be 'one time' or 'monthly'
If you do not live in the UK, check the box 'I am not a UK taxpayer'
Fill in your email address (your receipt for tax purposes will be sent to this address)
If you have never donated at this web site before, you will need to create an account with your name - it is easy and harmless.

When finished, click 'Donate with a credit/debit card' or 'Donate with PayPal' and fill in your credit card information and complete the transaction.

7. E-mail Barclay at: barclay.stewart@lshtm.ac.uk with your NAME ONLY, not the amount unless you feel comfortable doing so

8. The list of names that donated will be turned into the malaria consortium and the amount of money given by those names will be transferred to our study account to purchase the Ultrasound machine.

9. The Malaria Consortium is a registered Non Government Organization and the receipt will provide evidence needed for a charitable donation.