Author: Bruce

My next project was to assist World Health Organization (WHO) personnel in developing an evaluation of schools of nursing in the 13 countries of the former British Caribbean territories, later named the Commonwealth Caribbean. My title for this Pan American Health Organization/World Health Organization (PAHO/WHO) project was “PAHO/WHO Short Term Consultant”.

I was responsible for the development of the entire project under the general direction of the zone nurse, Janet Thomson. The PAHO/WHO project nurse was Nita Barrow. This project -PAHO/WHO Survey of Schools of Nursing in the Caribbean Area –followed the same methodology I had developed for the PPESN in Canada. The first phase, as in Canada, included visits to all countries and territories to interpret the project to ministers of governments, members of board controlling nursing schools, matrons, teaching staff other nursing personnel and, where requested to do so, the local nurses’ associations, general nursing councils and medical associations. During these one-to two-day preliminary visits, we interpreted and distributed a questionnaire designed to obtain some basic information about each school of nursing, prior to the survey. In this initial phase, it was also necessary, as it was in Canada to have an Advisory Committee, a Board of Review, and Regional Visitors. There were three persons intimately involved in the project: The Project Nurse, Nita Barrow, who was recruited from her post as Principal Nursing Officer in Jamaica. Nita Barrow and WHO had tried to convince me to become the project nurse but I was unable to commit myself to working in the Caribbean for two years. Despite pressure to change my mind, I held firm and recommended Nita as having all the necessary qualifications to become Project Nurse. At that time, WHO had a policy that no national could be employed to carry out a project in his/his own country. In the end, we prevailed and, despite the roadblocks, a national, Nita Barrow, was given permission to be a senior member of the WHO team.

The Zone Nurse, Janet Thomson, was a highly competent American WHO nurse stationed in Caracas. The Short-term Consultant was a position I eventually held for almost 10 years. My original assignment was a two-year appointment but I carried on for an additional seven years. For seven weeks in the summer of 1964 and, again, for six weeks in the summer of 1965, I worked on the project. (See p. 16-19 of the report “Survey of Schools of Nursing in the Caribbean Area” and “Spotlight on Nursing

Education: The Report of the PPESN in Canada” p.13-17.)

As noted earlier, preliminary visits were made to 13 countries and 23 schools of nursing. Later, one week surveys of the 23 schools were carried out to collect data for the final evaluation. Air travel to the 13 Caribbean countries, each on its own island~ was a fascinating adventure. We would “take off” across a wonderful, blue, sparkling sea only to land in a very short period of time on another tropical island. This was my very first trip to the tropics but not by any means, my last.

Many memorable events occurred on various stops. One visit, especially, I shall always remember. It is difficult to forget looking for yourself -for almost an hour! Apparently, Nita Barrow had asked a very efficient Chief Nurse in the Public Health Service to look after me, despite the fact that I didn’t feel I needed “looking after.” After she greeted me warmly at the airport, the Chief Nurse asked if I would help her locate a physician from Canada who had been on my plane. Pleased to assist, I recovered my bags and began checking the passports of deplaning passengers. I approached an elegant man with a Canada passport and asked if he was a doctor on a PAHO/WHO assignment. His response, a very rude “No!” I persevered.

Eventually — there were 100 passengers on the plane — I spotted a very business-like person with the appropriate passport and asked, very politely, if he were coming to St. Lucia for an assignment with WHO. He looked suspiciously at me and proceeded to the baggage claim area. In those days, you could move freely through the terminal, so I followed him only to be told that he was NOT with any organization. I reported back to the Chief Nurse who was still chatting with Nita. I suggested that she ask the airport officials to page the doctor over the public address system, lest our Canadian doctor had slipped through our net. Booming over the loudspeaker came the message, “Would Dr. Mussallem from Canada please identify himself to the station manager.” Well! After almost an hour of looking, we had located the missing Canadian doctor!

In the meantime, Nita had been reclaiming her luggage. Unfortunately, her suitcase was a disaster. It was as full of holes as a grate, and was seemingly held together by a few tattered bits of fabric. A young man, carrying a cardboard box, approached us. He told us that he had left Antigua with 12 reptiles and now there were only two in his box. Had we seen any? An airport official wanted to open Nita’s bag there and then but Nita refused. After all, one doesn’t wish to have one’s personal items exposed to public gaze.

Before we began our survey in each country, we attended an elegant reception complete with government officials, clergy, PAHO/WHO personnel, staff, from hospitals, schools of nursing, press, etc. St. Lucia was no exception. This was a very formal occasion with many speeches. After the formalities, the Zone Nurse and Project Nurse spoke outlining the project and, finally, I contributed a few words about my role. I always tried to have “a little special something” in each presentation. On our flight into St. Lucia, I had spotted a rainbow which made a complete circle. Wow! It was so spectacular that I thought it merited waking Nita to see it. (Nita always sat by the window and went into a deep sleep before the plane took off. When we landed, she awoke fresh and rested.) At my prodding, she opened her beautiful, dark eyes and took a good look at the rainbow and then promptly fell into a deep sleep again. I jotted down a few notes thinking that I could use this extraordinary sight in my speech. Eloquently, I likened the rainbow circle to the value of nursing in the Caribbean –encompassing the whole spectrum of society and its commitment to prevention of disease, the maintenance of health, and the education of nurses to meet health goals.

At our welcoming reception, dignitaries spoke, the Zone Nurse spoke, and then Nita spoke. Imagine my surprise when she gave a moving speech based on the circular rainbow she had seen from the plane. There went my speech, although I did manage to scrounge a few snippets out of what I had prepared. Nita Barrow, I should mention, was, and is, one of the most gifted speakers I have ever heard. Although many Caribbeans seem to have a talent for public speaking, Nita is head and shoulders above the rest.

At the time of our surveys, Nita’s brother was Premier of Barbados and one of the most outstanding dignitaries in the entire Caribbean. Nita, however, never took advantage of her illustrious brother’s position.” Well, perhaps on one occasion, and that was when a companion stepped on some sea urchins. Nita asked a police constable to get help and, when he did not obey, she “let him have it”. For such a dignified, calm person, she could “fight like mad” whenthe occasion demanded it.

I recall the extraordinary preparations made for us prior to and during our survey visits. Every effort was made to have all documents and schedules ready and waiting for us. What a wide range of quality and ingenuity we encountered! I remember, with some amusement, the diagrams of the female genitourinary tract presented to us at one school of nursing. Before us were drawings, in color, of all anatomical parts -but with a new twist! Around the uterus, kidneys, bladder, etc. was pasted exquisite lace. Never before or since have I seen those organs looking so festive!

The curriculum in most of the Caribbean schools of nursing was an exact copy of the syllabus in the U.K. These were former British colonies and senior staff were expatriates or recruits from the U.K. Additionally, nurses graduating from Caribbean schools wished to have reciprocity with the U.K. and this could be accomplished only if the U.K. syllabus was followed. When I asked in school after school for a copy of their curriculum, I became very discouraged when all that was produced was a copy of “The Syllabus”. It was music to my ears when I heard, at the 1972 Seminar for Tutors, the Director of one of these schools ask, “When are we going to produce nurses who are qualified to meet the needs of the Caribbean people?”

The one-week survey visit to each school of nursing was an intensive process, usually planned as follows:

Monday was devoted to studying the information provided in the Preliminary Information Schedule and the 21 additional items of written materials describing the program, requested at the time of the survey. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday were spent in visiting the school, the hospital and one affiliating agency, and in interviewing individuals and groups directly connected with the educational program. Each evening and all day Friday were spent writing the report, and Saturday morning the report was read back to the faculty and other interested members of the hospital staff. A total of approximately 65 hours was spent by each visitor on the survey and the writing of the report.

Rule No. 1 was that absolutely no evenings were to be spent in other than writing of the report, discussions, etc. related to the relevant survey. One week, when we were in Antigua, the country where the Project Director was headquartered, I noticed some unusual activity. Maids and porters were kept busy delivering small and large packages which Nita put on top of the fridge. By Thursday, I was becoming really suspicious. I said to Nita, “I hope we are not having guests before we finish on Saturday.” No reply. You didn’t push Nita, no matter what your authority. All day Friday, while we were writing the report at Nita’s place in Sugar Hill Flats, activity increased and Nita divided her time between receiving parcels and writing her share of the report. At 7 p.m., I was still busy writing when guests started to arrive. Nita had recruited the assistance of maids and waiters of friends and, together, they whipped up the best party ever–about 60 people came. After putting the report together in my flat next to Nita’s, I joined in the fun. The main focus was a BBQ with a pig’s head rotated on a spit and cooked to a turn. As Nita’s flat became the main venue for the party, one maid, Valentino, was assigned to wash dishes in my flat. Dear Valentino was so pregnant but, as everything was set up for her there, she managed just fine.

Despite my misgivings, I enjoyed the party immensely. Nita had prepared some absolutely luscious Caribbean dishes and her friends and brought others. Rum and other spiritus frumenti were in ample supply but there was no sign of any intoxication. I had consumed very little myself, as I knew I had more work to do that night on the survey report. Food was laid out buffet style but, from somewhere, Nita had recruited two waiters so everyone was well looked after. We were a friendly, happy group which included most of the Island officials and doctors and their wives from all over the island.

When the party ended at about 11 p.m., there were no words of protest from me. Nita knew I had enjoyed the festivities. The waiters cleaned the flat and Valentino was washing dishes in my quarters. When I returned to my flat -the kitchen was the first room you entered –Valentino said something like, “Dotah mam des a moh n yo ba”. Perplexed, I replied, “I can’t understand you Valentino. Please speak more slowly”. Again, I failed to understand her. Not wanting to be insistent but now very curious. I again asked, “Valentino, please speak more slowly –one word at a time”. Still no luck. By this time, I was so tired that all I wanted to do was to get to bed. The report could be finished in the morning. Slowly, she enunciated, “Dotah ma’m des a man in yo bed”. Comprehension slowly dawned but I still thought I must have misunderstood something. By now, I was screeching at poor Valentino who became so frightened that she turned the small garbage pail upside down, sat on it, and began to cry uncontrollably. I proceeded, hesitant1y to my darkened bedroom and, sure enough, there was a man asleep on my bed. I stepped back, yelling at him to get out of my bed and house. Not a move. I shouted louder; still no movement. Creeping closer to the bed, it became obvious that he was completely unconscious from indulging too free1y at OUR party. I dashed over and got Nita but, even with her assistance, it was impossible to rouse our intruder. I returned to Nita’s flat where we argued for a while as she wanted me to sleep in her bed but I won and slept on the couch. As we readied for bed I rehearsed how I was going to severely reprimand that impossible man who had stolen my bed.

I woke early and walked outside where I could peer in through my bedroom window. The lifeless figure was still there. I returned at intervals but when he hadn’t awakened by 7 a.m., I rapped on the window waking him with a start. I dashed inside and confronted the dazed man, “telling him off” in no uncertain terms. He tried to get in a word of explanation and, finally, I listened. After showing me his identification, he explained that he was from NASA and had been working steadily for 48 hours on the launch of GEMINI. Full of compassion, I invited him to Nita’s flat for breakfast. Nita looked puzzled as I led him in.

I’m sure she was wondering what had happened to the fierce speech I had prepared. After working so many hours, he explained, when his relief finally arrived, he dragged himself to his room at the Sugar Mill Motel–just down the hill from our flats. Too tired to sleep, he heard the noise and music from our party and walked up the hill to see what was going on. Next thing he knew, someone handed him a drink and he was swept into the party. When lack of sleep and fatigue finally caught up with him, instead of going back to his room, he thought he would rest for a bit in my flat before returning to the party. My bed looked just right for a quick nap and that was the last thing he remembered until I banged on the window. Why Valentino let him into my bedroom is something I still don’t know but I presume she thought he was one of our party.

Unexpectedly, Nita and I found out something about the tracking of satellites and, to this day, when a space ship is launched, I remember –and chuckle.

The Board of Review, composed of eight well-qualified senior nurses from eight of the 23 countries had the onerous responsibility of evaluating, in the light of factual information presented to them, the 23 nursing schools. I recall so well their August 1964 meeting held in the open garage of the Barrymore Hotel. Voting on every aspect of every report was awesome –a soul-searching process. Two of the group stood out head and shoulders above the rest and led the evaluation to a credible conclusion. I reflected back on the PPESN Board of Review meetings in Canada and felt sure that the commitment and quality of the two groups was not that far apart. The process was a Canadian one and I was fascinated to note how readily it was accepted by these exceptional nurses in the Caribbean.

The contrast in the settings of our meetings was remarkable. In Canada, we had a suite at the Chateau Laurier. In Antigua, we met in the open garage. Each time there was a tropical downpour –and there were many –we had to recess the meeting, so loud was the noise from the rain. Despite all this, the quality of both groups was, in my opinion, equal.

It was during this first sitting of the Board of Review in Antigua, while I was accompanying Mrs. Chagas (Chief Nurse, PAHO/WHO, in Washington), that I had an unusual experience. As Nita, and her car, were already engaged, I volunteered to accompany Mrs. Chagas, by taxi, to the meeting at the Barrymore. On arrival, I insisted on paying for the taxi. Much to my chagrin, when I opened my wallet, I didn’t have any BIWI dollars. The night before, I had visited the bar at the Sugar Mill Flats expressly to exchange Canadian travellers cheques for local currency. The bar was full but I managed to complete my transaction and returned immediately to my suite. That night there was a most horrendous storm which I had hoped would relieve the debilitating humidity. There was a ceiling fan in my room but it offered little respite so, as was my custom in the tropics, I lay on top of the bed without my nightdress. When I attempted to pay our taxi fare, I realized that I had been relieved of my BIWI currency, but said nothing. With alacrity, Mrs. Chagas paid the tab. I was disturbed, however. Why were there Canadian travellers cheques and Canadian dollars in my wallet, but no BIWI dollars.

In the midst of our deliberations at the Board of Review meeting, I suddenly realized what had probably happened. During that unbelievably noisy storm, someone had entered my room, opened my purse, and removed my BIWI dollars. Foolishly, I had opened my purse in the bar that night and, presumably, all could see the contents. The next day, after the meetings, I told Nita about my “robbery”. My news so disturbed her that she had what seemed to me to be an asthmatic attack. On our return to Antigua, Nita reported what had happened to the hotel and, believe it or not, I was put in the Honeymoon Suite –three rooms and three locks! In addition, Nita had two police officers on duty outside my room- very reassuring except that the policemen’s voices kept me awake all night.

Another evening that remains indelibly etched in my memory is the night a hurricane was headed for Antigua. That day, we had completed the survey of the Antigua School of Nursing. (This was done in 1964 as a model for the surveys to be carried out in the remaining 22 schools when I was back in Canada.) The hurricane watch was a devastating experience. I know the Matron of the school believed she had a good school of nursing-but that was far from reality.

The survey was conducted according to plan and, on Saturday morning, the report was to be presented to the faculty of the school of nursing and other interested members of the hospital staff. When I arrived in the room where the report was to be read, I realized we had an exceptionally large audience. I took my place at the podium with Nita on one side and the Regional Visitor (a religious sister) on the other. The Matron, despite my urging. chose to sit behind me. By this time, the room was full to overflowing. On one side of the room were about 20 nursing sisters, dressed in white with their blue belts and stiffly-starched veils; on the other side were 15 or more doctors also dressed in white suits. What an imposing sight! I could detect great tension in the room so I started out by saying a few pleasant words, attempting to put the group at ease. The report sat squarely in front of me … but I did not start reading until I told a small, whimsical story which was received with polite laughter. Finally, I opened the report and, as I began to read, a strong gust of wind burst through the window and howled across the room to the windows on the other side taking with it almost all of the report except for the few pages I managed to hold down. Almost all of the doctors– some of whom were cricketers (I found out later) and many of the young nurses dashed outside to rescue my sheets. Nurses and doctors brought back page after page -some pages had gone into the sea and the tall doctors had waded in and rescued them. They handed them proudly to me saying, “I has page 82 and 19 ma’m, and the Chief of Surgery has four sheets.” I collated the tattered report, keeping my hand steadily on the pile which was still being battered by gusts of wind. Nothing could have put the group more at ease than this calamity. When Nita and I completed reading the report, we went back to our Sugar Hill Flats to correct the report and put it in order for the typist.

I spent most of that afternoon working on the report as Nita had to do some other work for PAHO/WHO. When I was satisfied that it was in proper shape, I wondered how it could be protected should the rumoured hurricane become a reality. As I recalled seeing pictures of a hurricane’s aftermath when all that was left was a stove and refrigerator, I wrapped the survey report carefully –it was the only copy in Antigua and these were the days before photocopiers ~-and put it in the oven. About an hour later, Nita asked, “What is that peculiar smell7” I told her that I had put our survey in the oven in case a hurricane struck Sugar Mill Flats. For the first and only, time, Nita screamed at me. “What’s the matter with you!! Don’t you know there is a gas pilot light in the stove???” Rescuing our treasured document, we put the slightly-singed report in the refrigerator.

As the afternoon wore on, the winds grew stronger and the radio kept blasting out reports of thehurricane heading for Antigua. Nita’s friends and relatives came to our flats, high atop the mounds by the sea, and, one after the other, begged Nita to leave our flats and stay with them  for the night. Nita refused to go but pleaded with me to leave. Stubbornly, I said, “I won’t go if you are staying.” I did, however, move into Nita’s flat.

We telephoned constantly for hurricane updates until all electricity went out and we were left without communication of any kind. I stretched out on the couch and watched as huge trees bent over to touch the ground in the eerie light that preceded the hurricane. Nita sat up all night trying to make contact – with anyone. Impossible. I have never, in all my years of knowing Nita,  seen her so fragile. About 10 p.m., a jeep made it halfway up the hill to our dwelling only to find the road washed out. Junie walked the rest of the way and tried, for the last time, to get Nita and I to leave. We stayed. Finally, at about 6 a.m., there was a beautiful, quiet sky. The devastation was awful but we were fortunate that the hurricane had veered away from Antigua and struck Guadeloupe where it hit very hard. Guadeloupe suffered many deaths and massive destruction so we were fortunate after all.

WHO Expert Study Committee to Advise on the Program for the International School for Advanced Nursing Education (Edinburgh) – 1964

For me personally, and Canadian nursing generally, the three international I projects I completed in 1964 added to the beginning of CNA’s involvement in the world of health and gained for us some stature on the international scene. In addition to my responsibilities as CNA Executive Director, I completed the projects under the auspices of the World Health Organization.

The first assignment was as chairman of the WHO Expert Study Committee advising on the program for the International School of Advanced Nursing Education at the University of Edinburgh. The one-week project began 16 February 1964 and I can, to this day, recall how cold I was when I arrived at my room in the Bruntsfield Hotel in Edinburgh. I thought I would never be able to sleep that first night in my cold, damp room which was 10 feet wide by 24 feet long with a ceiling at least 14 feet high. My bed was a cot fitted with knitted nylon sheets top and bottom, and one comforter. At one end of the room was a very small hot water heater. When I got into bed, the cot was so small and the nylon sheet so tightly drawn that I just kept slipping out. In desperation, I pulled the one heavy chair in the room over to the side of the bed to at least keep me on the bed. The next morning, when I complained that my room was too cold and my bed too small, the management assured me that I had one of their best rooms!

The entire first four days in Edinburgh were spent on curriculum development for the yet to be established WHO International School for Advanced Nursing Education. After the first few days, although I was chair of the meeting, I had to intervene to support the North American model of developing aims and objectives based on philosophy. Miss Stevenson, Director of the School, was adamant in her resistance to our “stupid” proposals. She was of the school of thought where a syllabus was followed. The syllabus had no relation to the school’s philosophy (there was none in writing, but one did exist) and, certainly, aims, objectives and anticipated outcomes were never considered. Our meetings became a tense “we” and “they” struggle which I handled as tactfully as possible. Eventually, most of the University’s faculty “saw the light” and became enthusiastic and supportive. We all became such good friends, in fact, that I was invited out one evening to hear Andy Stewart, a favourite of mine. Due to pressures involved in writing the report each night, I regretfully declined but we did agree that Saturday was possible. We had a wonderful evening. One faculty member was assigned to sit next to me in our box seats “to interpret”. Despite the thick Scottish accent, no interpretation was necessary when he sang, “There was a soldier, a Scottish soldier….”

During my week in Edinburgh, I wrote in my room each night using the day’s discussions to gradually develop the curriculum in readiness for a final presentation. After the first day, Miss Stevenson would absent herself “to attend to pressing duties”. Writing in my room was a chilling challenge. It was so cold, I wrapped myself in my Newfoundland seal coat and wore lined gloves. Writing this way was very awkward so down I went to complain, again, to the hotel manager. I was told there would be more heat –there was none. After another hour of frigid room and cold, slippery bed, I complained again. This time, a maid brought me two hot stone pigs. A little better, but still tricky trying to sleep cuddled around the stone pigs. Despite the large chair I had placed next to the bed to restrain me, I kept slipping off my cot. After another hard day of meetings, I decided that enough was enough. I would not spend another night in my chilly room. Down I went, yet again, to see the manager. “If you don’t do something, I shall take a chill,” I warned. Those must have been magic words because, when I arrived back in my room, a large, electric heater had appeared. What bliss!

The final curriculum outline for the International School was completed Friday evening in readiness for presentation the next day to the Director of the School and others from the clinical setting —from both inside the hospital and from the community (public health nursing). I remember that Saturday morning, seated at the head table in the Conference Room with Miss Stevenson, the Director on one side, and Lyle Creelman, WHO, on the other. I outlined the curriculum –starting with philosophy, aims and objectives as developed by the faculty of the school (minus Miss Stevenson) and the WHO consultants. Just before I commenced our presentation, Miss Stevenson said to me, “I disagree with everything you have done. ‘Noon’ will approve.” Facing a roomful of WHO personnel, staff of the university school, ward sisters in full uniform and public health nurses in their regalia, I started off with a full explanation of the project and how we had developed it. After 15 minutes or so, I began to outline the curriculum and our rationale for it. Then silence. Although Miss Stevenson chose not to speak, all the others were more supportive than I could have ever imagined. The chief public health nurse even said that it was the first time she actually knew what the program was all about. Two of the sisters, in their fetching bonnets agreed. Miss Stevenson, with palpable reluctance, agreed to “try it out”. She did and the program became a great success. Reports still refer to our work on the curriculum “way back in ’64”. It was, in fact, more than the development of a curriculum —it was the establishment of the first English-language WHO nursing education program for post R.N. nurses world-wide: the very first program having been the French-language school for Advanced Nursing Education in Lyon, France.

When our presentation was complete, we were invited to explain our proposal for the School of Advanced Nursing (SAN) to the medical faculty. We proceeded to the faculty’s new and modern building and, although it was winter outside, it was a bright, warm day inside. All of the senior, rather imposing members of the medical faculty were seated at the head table, with Lyle Creelman at one end. I was seated at a side table. After the introductions, I was asked to make the presentation. The room was very warm and, when I was finished speaking, sweat poured down my face. I had worn an attractive, pink wool dress which was appropriate for the occasion but not for the heat in that sun-baked room. I eyed the raised Venetian blinds which were letting in the hot sun and decided to sidle, unobtrusively, to the window and lower the blinds. With everyone’s attention elsewhere, I pulled the cord to release the blinds. Unfortunately, it was the wrong cord and only half the blind released with the most awful clatter. I held on to the cord for dear life. The Dean of Medicine came to my rescue saying, “Steady, lass. Steady. What are you trying to do?” Although I thought my intentions were obvious, I hesitantly explained. Lyle looked away in agony but, with the blinds down, the room was somewhat cooler. All of the members of the medical faculty, except one, were not too impressed with our presentation and listened to us with polite disdain. One member of the faculty, however, spoke with great enthusiasm about our new approach to nursing education. After our presentation, we were invited to the office of the President, known in Scotland as Principal. We were offered sherry but I declined. At the urging of the President, who wanted to toast the completion of the project, I relented and hoped that, on an empty stomach, I would not feel the results too soon. The Principal was a fascinating man who, at that time, was one of the world’s top scientists in the field of space exploration. He asked if we had any questions and, of course, I had one. “Was it necessary,” I asked, “for the head of a university to have been an academic?” I was interested as, in Canada, the physician administrators of our hospitals were being replaced by “lay administrators” who were graduates of hospital or business administration programs. The President paused for about 10 seconds … it seemed forever … and replied in a Scottish brogue, “Yes, it is important to have been a professor in a discipline so that you can speak the language.” I have never forgotten his reply and have used it to advantage over the years.

Lebanon -May 1964

After intensive work at CNA following the project in Edinburgh, I was invited, by WHO, to conduct a survey of schools of nursing in Lebanon. I was also asked to give one major speech and to be a member of a panel discussion at the First Middle East Nurses Assembly to be held in Beirut, Lebanon. The CNA President approved these field trips saying that probably no one would notice that I was gone. I was excited to be visiting the land of my ancestors. When the initial correspondence came early in 1963, I shared it with my father. He was so pleased but, sadly, he died in June 1963 and never heard the great stories I could have told him about my visit. Although Dad rejected the land of his birth –he wanted to be a real Canadian and do his best for Canada –he was interested in Lebanon and so pleased that his daughter would see “the old land”.

Although there was a long lead time prior to my departure for Lebanon, communications were very poor. It was difficult to receive WHO authorization for my flight and to be informed about hotel reservations in Beirut. I did put together notes for my speech and preliminary plans for the survey of schools of nursing but the information I received was so slim that I felt ill-prepared. Despite telegrams, I did not even know the name of my hotel in Lebanon —but I decided to go anyway.

The flight was long -Ottawa/Montreal/London, England -with a long wait for a connection to Beirut, via Frankfurt. The planes were slow so I slept most of the time after leaving London. I woke at one point and saw snow-covered mountains. For a moment, I thought I was crossing the Rockies on my way home to Vancouver. Then, I started to worry about how to find accommodation for the first night as we were arriving after dark. When the aircraft stairs were lowered, I was first off the plane. As I walked across the tarmac, I felt very lonely. Unexpectedly, I heard a faint, “Dr. Moo sell um” –the Arabic pronunciation of my name. Relieved, I approached the lady and gentleman and said, ”I’m Dr. Mussallem, from Canada.” A swarm of at least 20 men with flash cameras came out of the darkness and the night turned into a great, white flash of light. An elegant man approached and bowed from the waist saying, “Welcome to Lebanon, land of your father.” He was the Lebanon Minister of Tourism. Next came the Minister of External affairs, then Mme. Sultan, Director of the Red Cross School, and then other government officials. I was whisked into the VIP Lounge where arak and other liqueurs and wines were offered. My passport and luggage tags were handed over to airport officials while I sat with the welcoming delegation and talked, and talked. The Lounge was very warm and I had, as usual, travelled in a woollen suit. Eventually, a baggage handler appeared to announce that my luggage was not on the plane. “Find it!” shouted the ministers, clapping their hands in the typical Middle East clap command. We waited and waited but no luggage arrived. Finally, I was escorted to my hotel, The Orient Prince. A kindly nurse from the American University generously offered to lend me a night dress and slippers. Although she was about twice my size, I didn’t care. I slept soundly. In the morning, I was awakened by the sound of a jet overhead and then heard prayers from the Mosque, followed by the voices of vendors far below my window loudly extolling the virtues of their attractive1y-arranged carts.

At 6 a.m., a waiter, in fez, arrived with my breakfast. He knocked and, at my invitation, opened the door and stood there with my tray, screamed, put my breakfast on the floor — and ran. His startled eyes were as large as billiard halls. When I sat up, I did not realize that my night dress, miles too big, had slipped completely off.

My first day in Beirut was a busy one. Dressed in my now perspiration soaked suit (my luggage arrived two days later), I met with senior officials in the health department. Immediately after each introduction, the official would ask, “Are you Christian or Moslem?” In Lebanon, for every senior position in the entire government, there was always an equally ranking person of the other religion. I was also introduced to my national counterparts. The one that accompanied me everywhere was Christian but, when we went on distant trips to Tripoli and Tyre, my Moslem counterpart came along as well. Her English was limited as was my Arabic. My driver was Moslem. I recall so clearly the exciting ride back from Tripoli along the beautiful coast of Lebanon. There were no guardrails along the road despite the sheer drop into the Mediterranean on one side. I was especially frightened when the driver and my Christian guide got into a heated argument and several times, in his anger, the driver almost drove over the cliff.

There were many things my guides did in the name of my father. We visited the Cedars of Lebanon. “We take you there in the name of your father,” my guides said. On the drive to the coast, we visited the tomb of Kalil Gibran. At that stop, a Lebanese lady was asked to prepare chicken for us. She had just killed the chickens by wringing their necks and spices were rubbed into the meat with her bare hands. When we were ready to eat, I noted that the chicken was not well cooked and I feared that all the bacteria had not been killed. My counterparts and the driver, however, ate their portions – and mine, as I was “not hungry”.

I recall returning to my hotel that afternoon (work began at 8 a.m. and ended at 2 p.m.), to find the lobby filled with men in Arab headdress. The hotel manager said all of these men were relatives –all Mussallems.

My arrival had been reported, in English, French and Arabic, in the 30 daily newspapers. My “relatives” had read of my arrival and had come down from the mountains to welcome me. The oldest man spoke no English but, through an interpreter who accompanied him, told me how he was related to my father. I had no way of verifying this information but I thanked him, graciously, for coming. Likewise, when I was in Zahle, my counterpart called “a cousin” who took me to her home. In less than half an hour, every room in the house was filled with Mussallems or Moussallems (as it is spelled in French). They all claimed to be relatives. Mussallem, in Lebanon, is as common a name as Smith or Jones is in Canada.

The main reason for my visit to Lebanon was to conduct a survey of schools of nursing and hospitals as I had done in Canada for the PPESN. I started with the three main schools and hospitals in Beirut —the Red Cross School of Nursing, The School of Nursing at AUB, and the Moslem School of Nursing –an Arabic School and Hospital. The entire survey process and techniques used were modified from those of the PPESN (see Report, p.94-137).

We then proceeded to Tyre, Sidon and Tripoli. In all, 11 schools of nursing were surveyed. Almost half of the schools were privately run by doctors and standards were very low. Survey results revealed that only two of the schools –AUB and Red Cross –met the desirable standards.

During our travels outside Beirut, tensions were mounting and there was a real threat of war. I remember, so vividly, sitting in the back of our car, alone, traveling to Beirut. My counterpart sat in the front with the driver. Six soldiers stopped the car and –three on each side –pointed their bayonets at us. Tremulously, I volunteered, “I have my Canadian passport.” “Shaddap!” said my companion. I understood Arabic well enough to surmise that my companions were attempting to explain our trip and tell the soldiers that we were all government officials. Apparently satisfied, the soldiers shoved a bayonet into the car as though to push us on –and off we sped.

There were, however, many pleasures in Beirut: looking out over the Mediterranean; sampling the best of Lebanese food; taking pleasure trips on Sunday to remote villages or casinos; and eating strawberries at the St. George’s Hotel patio. (As WHO personnel, I was forbidden to eat the strawberries but I did –only three times. They were worth dying for.) Many quaint items were sold on the streets of Beirut but I was particularly intrigued by the never-ending boxes of Chiclets offered for sale by grown boys. One night, at dusk, a very large boy approached me brandishing his Chiclets. I said “La” (no) but he kept following me, shoving the gum in my face. In desperation, I yelled “Rhou min hown”, the equivalent of “Get to h— away.” He really ran. I suppose he had never expected such language from a lady in European dress.

Leaving Beirut was another sad, if memorable, experience. We left the hotel at 3 a.m. to allow time for all the required clearances. On the way to the airport, we were again stopped by armed soldiers. They made us get out of our car, opened our suitcases and picked through everything — especially the negligees. We could do nothing but keep quiet and watch the charade. Later, as we approached the airport, the sun rose and bathed the beautiful hills of Lebanon with glorious light. Such a contrast from my noisy welcome: men dancing the Dabke in the streets; record players and radios blaring out music; and hordes of people lining the streets –some in Arabic costume, some in European.

After the Lebanon survey, I participated in the First Middle East Nurses Assembly where I presented a major address on Research in Nursing, chaired a panel, and gave many press interviews. These were unique events as they were conducted in three languages, English, French and Arabic, with volunteer interpreters. The equipment was rather primitive but, somehow we managed.

ICN in Frankfurt 1965

I arrived back from St. Stephens N.B., on Saturday, 5 June 1965, just in time to prepare to travel to Frankfurt for ICN meetings 10 June to 1July. What a flurry of activity! Meetings with staff, the Canadian Council on Nutrition, CNF Selection Committee, etc. Also important, of course, was assembling my wardrobe for the many working and entertainment functions. I certainly remember the hat I wore for the trip to Frankfurt as were taken as Isobel MacLeod and I boarded the plane. It was an extremely large black hat –about 12 inches high –with massive black flowers adorning the crown. There was plenty of room for a bullet to pass through the crown of that hat without it touching a hair on my head.

On arrival, we began on Saturday with ICN briefings. On Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, there were meetings of the Board of Directors. As was often the case, we strategized with our U.K. and U.S. colleagues. At the Board meeting, the CNA President issued an invitation to hold the 1969 ICN Congress in Canada. Mexico had lobbied hard for the Congress and, I must confess, I was hopeful that they would be successful. The invitations were, of course, put before the Grand Council.

At the opening ceremony in Frankfurt, after each speech by a dignitary, a grand symphony orchestra would play a beautiful rendition. It was magnificent. The music breaks also gave one a chance to catch ones breath amongst all the pomp and ceremony.

A number of critical international issues were discussed at this meeting. These are well documented in Sheila Quinn’s ICN publication.

One of the highlights for Canada, at the Grand Council, was the election of Alice Girard as the first Canadian ICN President. Even though she was the only nominee, it was necessary to follow the elaborate ICN voting procedure where each country, one by one, approached the podium to have their credentials checked. They were then handed a ballot and voted. The whole process took almost two hours. When ballots were tallied, Alice Girard was proclaimed President. It was then my duty to dash over to the communications center and first telephone, then cable, the news to Canada. That took another one and one-half hours as there was some confusion finding the country code as Canada was, of course, spelled Kanada in Switzerland. The next day, the vote was taken on the site for the 1969 Congress. Canada won by a wide margin. Then and there, the CNA president asked that I remain on staff until after the Congress.

I agreed and, later, my appointment was confirmed by the CNA Board.

The next week (20-26 June) was chock full of plenary sessions with many relaxing activities running concurrently. One great day was Sunday, 20 June, when we went sailing on the Rhine. The Canadian delegates were in the lead ship with the Federal Republic of Germany’s President, Ruth Elster. Three other ships followed carrying Congress registrants –about 8,000 nurses in all! What a glorious day. When we reached the Lorelei, I was deeply moved. All during our stay, we had watched the boats sailing up and down the Rhine, with entire families on board hanging out washing, etc. It was a real “working river”.

On Monday, 28 June, 200 Board of Directors and council members were urged to accept the invitation of the West German government to visit Berlin. We were airlifted to Berlin where a very full program of activities had been arranged. It was very political. In Berlin, we were loaded into a bus and, after a short ride; we stood facing a high wall and armed soldiers. It was THE Berlin Wall. Afterwards, we were taken to see a church in the center of Berlin “The Wilhelm” which, except for its stained glass windows, had been completely destroyed by “the enemy”. The enemy was us, we were told frequently by the East Germans. They were both sad and belligerent. Then it was on to the great new hospital where we were told that a special musical concert had been prepared for us. I looked so forward to hearing Mahler, Bach etc, but, when we arrived and the choir of two rows of “interestingly uniformed” nurses began to sing, guess what? Their selection was not Mahler or Bach but “Vot shall ve do mit a dronken sailor?” That was the choir’s only English song, for which I was very grateful.

Following the concert, a tour of the hospital began. Isobel and I decided to skip the tour and found our way to a side door in the hopes of finding a cab to take us back to our hotel. We had hardly left the hospital when a young nurse came after us. She understood no English. Over and over. I tried to explain what we wanted to do but to no avail. She insisted on returning us to the hospital –and I kept saying “nein”. She won the argument.

On my return to CNA, the month of July was a hectic time of trying to catch up on the backlog of work, meeting with staff: meeting with the architect regarding our new headquarters and getting my life in order to be ready to travel to Antigua 28 days later to continue the Caribbean project.

Commonwealth Medical Conference – Edinburgh, 1-14 October, 1965

The day Dr. B. Layton telephoned to ask if I would become a member of the Canadian Government delegation to the First Commonwealth Medical Conference was a pleasant interlude in a continuous, intensive round of work as CNA Executive Director. I was invited to participate because of one item on the agenda –“Nursing Education in the Commonwealth”.

What an exciting professional and personal assignment! I worked long and hard to complete CNA assignments and be ready for this long, overseas project. When finally on my way, I was overjoyed to be seated in a quiet First Class seat –alone. I ate well and sampled many different spiritus frumenti offered. After dinner, I was given blankets and pillows and quickly dropped off into a deep sleep. During my slumber, I could occasionally discern incomprehensible conversation in the aisle but paid no attention. Next thing I knew, I woke alone in a foreign land.

It was frightening! The airplane was on the tarmac, away from the air terminal, and not one other passenger remained on board, Bravely, I rose from my seat and went to the flight deck. The captain said that we had to remain until he could get “some juice” to start the plane. Less fearful but still perplexed, I realized that I was so very thirsty. The Captain asked me to return to my seat and, presently, he brought me some wilted grapes –which tasted like ambrosia. In response to my query, I was advised that we were at Shannon Airport.

Eventually, we got “some juice” and taxied to the terminal where we were cheered by some passengers, although most were still occupied in buying duty-free items. Then, it was on to London — late. At long last, I caught my connecting flight to Edinburgh. On arrival — very late — two gentlemen greeted me at the foot of the aircraft stairs. They wore morning suits -wow!

I was escorted to the VIP Lounge where counters on four sides were loaded with every type of food and drink imaginable – including real caviar! My escorts begged me to at least have some shortbread or haggis –or a scotch or? I simply could not rise to the occasion.

Without a doubt, the Commonwealth Medical Conference was one of the most elaborate and elegant international conferences I ever attended –and well organized too. Our working environment was always bedecked with the most fantastic floral arrangements. The committee room, which seated about 50 persons around a square table arrangement, did not have a gaping, vacant area in the centre of the room. That space was always filled to the limit with huge masses of oversized chrysanthemums, orchids, roses and other exotic blooms.

Our delegation head was Judy LaMarsh – replaced after day two by Dr. John Crawford. Dr. Crawford was 6 foot 4 inches in height and a gentleman of the old school. The other members of our delegation were three doctors who brought their wives along (the wives did not like me) and three others who were not accompanied: Dr. Jack McCreary; Dr. Basil Layton (who had proposed my name as the conference was to discuss the education of nurses); and myself.

Canada was assigned a meeting room at the Conference. The six of us gathered there the first morning and chatted a bit. Dr. Crawford had been assigned, by Dr. Layton, to look after our delegation. He handed us a list of events and told us we could attend whichever meetings we wished -except that I must attend those relating to nursing education. In all of the delegations, there were only two nurses in attendance -Dossieh Kisseh of Ghana and me. Also in the meeting room each morning were our invitations for the day. Wow! There were six to eight receptions held each evening and our great decision of the day was how many receptions we would attend before dinner and how many after dinner.

The three of us (Dr. McCreary, Dr. Layton and I) usually went to the receptions together and thus used only one car and driver. As a matter of courtesy, these social events were compulsory and, after almost 10 days, one became rather exhausted by the social round – not to mention gorged with food!

Dr. Layton, as head of the Canadian delegation, was required to attend meetings to draft the final communiqué. He asked me to attend with him, as an advisor. I was seated directly behind him and was, I believe, very helpful on some matters.

The second morning of the conference, most members of our “working” delegation were absent and not to be found. I was irritated when I learned that they had each taken their cars and drivers that day and had gone sightseeing or shopping with their wives. Other delegations were holding planning meetings each morning to ensure that all important conference sessions were covered. I suggested to Dr. Layton that Canada should get organized as well. To my surprise, he left the organization of our delegation to me! I wrote notes to the Canadian delegates advising that they should meet in the Canada briefing room at 9 A.M. daily to receive instructions. Each morning, I met with Dr. Layton before 9 A.M. to make assignments. So, each day, as each delegate arrived, I handed out their assignment and asked for a brief note on their daily findings. They complied –almost like small boys –and were diligent with their assignments.

Our last meeting in that room is a precious memory. Someone had bought a pseudo medal from a “five and dime” store and attached to the “medal” was a citation for the “Medal of the Order of the Eager Beaver”, I was deeply touched. I kept that medal for many years and have given it, along with my service medals, to the CNA Archives.

The entertainment and social events for the entire Commonwealth group was spectacular. I had seen Edinburgh Castle before but never with all the accoutrements — Highland dancing, haggis, music and all the other facets of Scottish hospitality. When it was time for the Canadian delegates to leave, we would spot Dr. Crawford, whose six feet four inches made him tower above the crowd. Together, we would wait at the gate for our cars to arrive. It was stirring to hear “Canada” shouted out as a limousine, with Canadian flag flying, stopped for us. I did like all of that.

On Sunday, a glorious, sunny day, we were taken, by bus, all the way to Stirling Castle. What a sight! We were greeted, again, with food, flowers and entertainment. What glorious scenery … what great days!

The day before, Saturday, we had had the afternoon free and three of us were taken, via the Canadian limousine, for a four-hour tour of the Scottish countryside. I remember so well the Firth of Forth Bridge and I recited, with great glee, the poem about the Inchcape Rock.

Perhaps the most memorable reception I attended was the one at Holyrood Castle. Our Conference was the very first in the history of Holyrood to use the Castle without the presence of a member of the Royal Family. I saved my fanciest and fluffiest gown – a pale jade chiffon –to wear that night and it looked great. I remember feeling uneasy going down to the hotel lobby that evening, as I had been receiving notes from a man in one of the Commonwealth delegations who wanted to meet me. He did not identify himself in the notes so I showed to notes to Dr. Layton, and he and Dr. McCreary said they would keep an eye on me that night. As I left the hotel, the “three Canadian wives”, who were seated in the lobby, glared at me. One of them had used my car and driver that afternoon and, when Dr. Layton told her she did not have the authority to use the car for shopping she told him that she had as much right as Dr. Mussallem. I suppose Dr Layton straightened her out but, even on our return to Canada, we never warmed up to each other. Oh well.

Our entrance into Holyrood Castle was memorable. Our limousine, flag flying, was opened by a man of the Black Watch –dressed in 16th Century garb. His white gloved hand assisted me in exiting the limousine. Highland music piped us in as we walked through hall after hall of the historic castle and dined as the ladies and knights of old did — but with all the conveniences of modern living. The Scottish entertainment was spine tingling. All in all, an evening I shall never forget.

Reality returned on the trip back to Canada. We were delayed in leaving Edinburgh so we knew our connection to Ottawa would be lost. Dr. Layton, however, knew all the immigration and customs officials at Dorval Airport and he cabled them. Never have I been whisked through an airport more expeditiously.

Freetown & Sierra Leone – Written by Helen Mussallem.  

Until 1981, Sierra Leone was, to me, just a name on the map of West Africa. I had met the country’s senior nursing officer and her assistant in nursing education many times at ICN Congresses. The latter person was afflicted with sickle cell anaemia –the first case I had ever encountered. I soon learned that this hereditary condition was common in many families in West Africa.

My hotel at Manny Lo was luxurious but far out of Freetown. I should note here that Freetown is reached by a ferry which runs on an erratic schedule from the airport. While travelling on the ferry and enjoying the warm sea breeze, I was delighted to note that the matron and the two accompanying nurses were in full uniform. Despite the winds and surf, they somehow managed to stay starchily stiff.

The hospital and the school of nursing were unlike those of other developing countries. The school was rather bare, with a minimum of teaching tools. Likewise, the hospital was barely furnished –but clean. Wards consisted of rows of beds in a large, open room and the “utility rooms” and equipment was in rather poor shape. I could sense from conversations with the Matron and her assistant, however, that the “caring” for patients was paramount even though the curriculum was disease oriented. In essence, it followed the U.K. pattern for the preparation of nurses.

As planned, I delivered three speeches on “primary health care” to the nursing staff, to the entire hospital staff and one which was open to the “general public”. Everyone listened politely, laughed at the appropriate times and applauded enthusiastically. I shall never know if my enthusiasm for the WHO goal of “Health for all by the year 2000” was understood by any member of the audience. I often heard those words repeated but I was never sure if they really understood the concept and how it might be implemented in their own country. Would the students see the vision of this new approach to health care and internalize it? Not likely if the rigid curriculum, as I viewed it, was followed.

The chief nurse recognized my enthusiasm for primary health care and arranged for me to see a primary health setting several kilometres inland. We set out on a hot, hot day. I was in the front of the car with the driver and the matron and her assistant –again in full uniform –sat in the back. About one hour out of Freetown, we heard and saw a loud explosion of steam from the radiator. The car stopped suddenly. For a while, the driver just sat but eventually, he opened the hood –still spurting steam. Having driven a car since the age of 10 and having been loaned a second hand car during my student days, I had some, scant knowledge of auto mechanics. I had even had a similar experience with a burst radiator hose in a huge Essex. This seemed similar but, unwilling to interfere, I sat quietly with my companions until the driver announced we were stuck as he had absolutely no equipment for repairs. Ready for action, I got out of the car and asked to see the problem –a broken radiator hose alright and all the water was gone.

Looking around, I spotted a small stream way down in a gully and asked the driver to fetch some water. He refused saying he had no container. We did have our water rations for the day but how was I to fix the burst hose with no tape of any kind. I had an idea. While the matron kept the driver from following me, I went to the back of the car and removed my pantyhose. Triumphantly, I returned to the front where the hood stood open and instructed the driver on how he was to repair the burst hose. His eyes got bigger and bigger. He simply could not understand what I was talking about but, together, we wrapped the burst hose with the pantyhose. I then used all our precious water –about three to four litres –for the radiator. Thankfully, the car started and we managed to drive the five or six miles to the next village. There, a temporary patch was applied and my handiwork discussed to the amusement of the villagers.

Prior to reaching our destination, we stopped to pick up the public health nurse for the region. When we finally arrived, I emerged from the car to the sound of many women singing around large pots. The pots, to my amusement, reminded me of the ones in Sunday school books that showed the natives boiling the missionaries. The public health nurse explained that these women were midwives whom she was teaching to sterilize the blades, knives and cord, etc. used for deliveries. I asked what they were singing and was told that it was a song of thanks “to my mother for having brought this wonderful woman into the world” (me). I was especially touched as it was 14 March (1981) –my mother’s birthday.

Glancing to one corner of the clearing, I saw the elders seated around a rustic table discussing plans for health care. Nearby a group of young men was being taught by a “trained health teacher”. He was teaching them how to carry vaccines, packed in dry ice, and administer them to villagers in the remote areas of the country. The teacher asked me to address the group and he would translate. I started off by telling them about the WHO goal of health for all and noted that my home was far away and that it was covered with snow and ice. The translator stopped and, when I asked if there was a problem, answered, “Yes, we don’t have words for ice and snow”. Ever inventive, I suggested he tell them that the temperature in my country was cold like the dry ice in their vaccination kits. They all laughed hysterically. I was then asked to come and see their new project — a compost heap with boards on four sides! This was a new and exciting venture in this part of Sierra Leone.

“Could I go out to the little huts I could see from the compound,” I asked. They discouraged me as there were “biting snakes” in the area and I would have to wear high leather boots. I went! Along the path, mothers held their children out in front of them. When they saw me, they pinched their children’s cheeks and said something — always the same-sounding phrase. Curious, I asked for a translation but my guides were reluctant to interpret saying it was a bad word. “What bad word,” I asked. “White woman, white woman”. That was a bad word! That was me!

Ghana

Arrival at the airport in Ghana was almost as spectacular as arriving in Nigeria. After the strenuous lectureship in Nigeria, covering cities and villages, I returned to the Government House residence for VIPs with a serious flu-like condition with fever and a hacking cough. The “government nurse”, who came at my request, confirmed that I was ill and should not travel the next day. I had to travel, however, so tight was the schedule for visits to the seven countries –Nigeria, Ghana, Liberia (not Commonwealth but squeezed in by the Secretariat), Sierra Leone, The Gambia, Malta and Cyprus.

I was transported to the airport in great style but the trip took hours through the city’s congested traffic –possibly the world’s worst. Peddlers approached our car continuously hawking all types of wares. The most amusing were young girls with radio/stereo/recorders on their heads –the music going full blast. I coughed continuously. At the airport, I left the first class lounge and boarded the Royal Dutch Airlines jet, again first class. I leaned back ready to soak in the calm of this luxurious style of travel. The aircraft was cool and clean and special gifts of Dutch chocolates and mementos were offered. En route, we stopped only at Abuja(?). It was an all too short hour of luxury.

When we landed I peered from the plane and saw dozens of immaculately dressed nurses in starched aprons, bibs and frill caps. The other first class passengers were asking the hostess what was going on but I said nothing. As I disembarked, the 30-nurse guard of honour stood with military precision. What a thrill! Then I was presented with the customary bouquet. I felt like royalty! Unfortunately, my beautiful bouquet was full of ants which crawled all over my front as I posed for pictures.

The route to my lodgings was interesting. We passed through many guarded gates and finally reached my luxurious quarters –built for use by President Nkrumah. He was a large man so the bed was double, double size. At night when I coughed constantly the whole, massive bed shook.

After completing my lectures on “Continuing Education, An Essential to Nursing Strategy and Networks in Primary Health Care” in Lagon, I was scheduled for appearances in various cities and villages in Ghana. To my delight, I found I was to travel by private, government plane with Capt. Reynolds as pilot and accompanied by the chief nursing officer. For each trip, my companion and I boarded the plane and were settled into our special seats. Only then were the other Ghanaian passengers allowed on with all their goods and chattels. Before takeoff, Capt. Reynolds would come back to ensure that we were comfortable and to give us instructions about seat belts, etc. I was very impressed with his decorum and his concern for us.

At one stop in Northern Ghana, I gave my lecture in a large school packed with students, villagers, etc. I had difficulty being heard as the large yard was filled with innumerable guinea hens, which made such a loud racket that I had to shout to be heard. I was told the hens came only once a year and brought good luck. After shouting for about 30 minutes, I thought I would lose my voice. I did take time out for coughing.

When we returned to the airport, we could see that here was a problem. A young man had taken photos with his camera and immediately the military police pounced on him and seized his camera. Neither the young man, nor we two, had realized that we were in a restricted zone. The young man pleaded for his camera –without success. We boarded the plane and I asked my companion to seek Captain Reynolds’ help. When she refused, I boldly walked up to Captain Reynolds when he boarded the plane and relayed the whole story. He sprinted from the plane, talked with the military police and returned with the camera, giving it to the young man. Only the film was removed. My reward was the boy’s most appreciative ear-to-ear grin.

The day after our return to Lagon was a national holiday and we, and other dignitaries, had special seats for the festivities. I was fascinated by the huge umbrellas carried by aides and used to shield the tribal chiefs from the hot sun. The parade started and who was the smart, slim, air force officer leading the entire parade? Our Captain Reynolds.

Later, after my return to Canada, I heard that he had been elected President, an office which he has held to the present day.