Tuesday, August 25, 2015

JOURNAL HIGHLIGHTS, Roads I Have Traveled. . . Excerpt # 2 November, 1995

Founder, Project C.U.R.E.
Author, The Happiest Man in the World: Life Lessons from a Cultural Economist


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

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

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

Saturday, December 2
On Saturday I was up early. Ted and I walked to a main street in Andijon and caught a taxi out to the airport for my trip on to Islamabad, Pakistan. On that flight I had a window seat and a great view as we flew south over Tajikistan and Afghanistan into Islamabad.

Sunday, December 3
Sunday morning I dressed and went down to breakfast at the hotel. The Marriott in Islamabad is really nice. My mind kept making the comparison between the Andijon bathhouse procedure and the nice warm shower at the Islamabad Marriott. I went to the US embassy, checked in, and told them why I was there and where I could be reached for any messages or emergencies.

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

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

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

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

Monday, December 4
Dr. Zehri himself came with his driver to escort me to the Sandeman Provincial Hospital. The meeting was held in Dr. Zehri’s office, and there were five doctors who met with me, plus several others who slipped in and out during the meeting. They wanted to know all about Project C.U.R.E. and me, so I decided to give them both barrels. I told them my story about business, writing my book What’cha Gonna Do with What’Cha Got?, doing economic consulting, beginning to ship medical goods into Brazil, and so forth. I also told them that I promised God I wanted to do business the rest of my life that would help other people who were in need rather than becoming richer myself. I explained where we were presently shipping and how much we had shipped just this year. I told them that I considered the entire endeavor a miracle, and that I was the happiest man alive because I had been given the opportunity to be a part of helping people around the world.

Wednesday, December 6
The next morning the Serena Hotel was swarming with military ruffians. It was still raining, and the front parking courtyard was jammed with military vehicles loaded with soaking-wet tents and army gear. The troops seemed to be some kind of special-forces group, all of them wearing red-and-white-checkered and black-and-white-checkered head wear like Yasser Arafat. Some had camouflage pants and shirts, but most were dressed in long white tunics. 


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

Next Week: A Unique Meeting with a World Muslim Leader

© Dr. James W. Jackson   
Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House
  
Dr. James W. Jackson often describes himself as "The Happiest Man in the World." A successful businessman, award-winning author and humanitarian, Jackson is also a renowned Cultural Economist and international consultant, helping organizations and governments to apply sound economic principals to the transformation of culture so that everyone is "better off."

As the founder of Project C.U.R.E., Dr. Jackson traveled to more than one hundred fifty countries assessing healthcare facilities, meeting with government leaders and "delivering health and hope" in the form of medical supplies and equipment to the world's most needy people. Literally thousands of people are alive today as a direct result of the tireless efforts of Project C.U.R.E.'s staff, volunteers and Dr. Jackson. 

To contact Dr. Jackson, or to book him for an interview or speaking engagement: press@winstoncrown.com

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

JOURNAL HIGHLIGHTS: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt # 1 from November, 1995

Founder, Project C.U.R.E.
Author, The Happiest Man in the World: Life Lessons from a Cultural Economist


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

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

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


I left the meeting very pleased with the outcome of our time together and musing to myself about the possibilities of our future involvement in North Korea. As I hailed a taxi to take me back to the hotel, I recalled the verse that I had memorized which had really become a comfort: 
Be strong and courageous and get to work. Don’t be frightened by the size of the task, for the Lord my God is with you; he will not forsake you. He will see to it that everything in finished correctly.
I packed my things, caught the bus to Newark Airport, for my flight to London. I flew British Airways from Newark and landed in London’s Heathrow Airport at about 7:00 a. m. on Tuesday. There I had a layover of about four hours before I continued on to Frankfurt, Germany. In Frankfurt I boarded the Uzbekistan Airways flight for Tashkent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Week: On to Andijon!

© Dr. James W. Jackson   
Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House
  

Dr. James W. Jackson often describes himself as "The Happiest Man in the World." A successful businessman, award-winning author and humanitarian, Jackson is also a renowned Cultural Economist and international consultant, helping organizations and governments to apply sound economic principals to the transformation of culture so that everyone is "better off."

As the founder of Project C.U.R.E., Dr. Jackson traveled to more than one hundred fifty countries assessing healthcare facilities, meeting with government leaders and "delivering health and hope" in the form of medical supplies and equipment to the world's most needy people. Literally thousands of people are alive today as a direct result of the tireless efforts of Project C.U.R.E.'s staff, volunteers and Dr. Jackson. 

To contact Dr. Jackson, or to book him for an interview or speaking engagement: press@winstoncrown.com

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

JOURNAL HIGHLIGHTS; Roads I Have Traveled. . . Excerpt # 3 from July, 1995

Founder, Project C.U.R.E.
Author, The Happiest Man in the World: Life Lessons from a Cultural Economist


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

A great number of the hospital beds did not have mattresses but, rather, a metal or wooden bottom. Many of the emergency gurneys were two-wheeled rather than four and were made out of bicycle parts and wheels. This large hospital had only one small X-ray machine.
I was impressed with their blood-bank and eye-bank setup. The doctor who headed up the eye bank told me that he now had over forty eye donations for their future eye surgeries.

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

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

© Dr. James W. Jackson   
Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House
  

Dr. James W. Jackson often describes himself as "The Happiest Man in the World." A successful businessman, award-winning author and humanitarian, Jackson is also a renowned Cultural Economist and international consultant, helping organizations and governments to apply sound economic principals to the transformation of culture so that everyone is "better off."

As the founder of Project C.U.R.E., Dr. Jackson traveled to more than one hundred fifty countries assessing healthcare facilities, meeting with government leaders and "delivering health and hope" in the form of medical supplies and equipment to the world's most needy people. Literally thousands of people are alive today as a direct result of the tireless efforts of Project C.U.R.E.'s staff, volunteers and Dr. Jackson. 

To contact Dr. Jackson, or to book him for an interview or speaking engagement: press@winstoncrown.com

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

JOURNAL HIGHLIGHTS...Roads I Have Traveled: Excerpt 2 from July, 1995

Founder, Project C.U.R.E.
Author, The Happiest Man in the World: Life Lessons from a Cultural Economist



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

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

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

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

“You aren’t Mr. Browning, are you?”
“No, I’m Mr. Selz, from Utah, USA.”

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

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

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

He said, “I would definitely tell you the Trident Hotel. You could take a taxi from that stand over there. They will take American dollars for the fare.”
 
About that time, their anticipated couple arrived out of the customs area. We hollered at each other, and they disappeared into the crowd. Another twenty minutes went by. I looked back out the window onto the street. There was a bus just arriving that had Trident Hotel written on the side. I left my baggage cart and quickly went back out past the police and onto the street. I waved at the Trident driver. He stopped and got out of the bus. I told him my name was Jackson, and I needed a ride to the Trident. 

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

I said, “Yes. Are you Mr. Browning?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Week: India’s Creative Use of Dialysis Machines

© Dr. James W. Jackson   
Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House
  
www.jameswjackson.com   

Dr. James W. Jackson often describes himself as "The Happiest Man in the World." A successful businessman, award-winning author and humanitarian, Jackson is also a renowned Cultural Economist and international consultant, helping organizations and governments to apply sound economic principals to the transformation of culture so that everyone is "better off."

As the founder of Project C.U.R.E., Dr. Jackson traveled to more than one hundred fifty countries assessing healthcare facilities, meeting with government leaders and "delivering health and hope" in the form of medical supplies and equipment to the world's most needy people. Literally thousands of people are alive today as a direct result of the tireless efforts of Project C.U.R.E.'s staff, volunteers and Dr. Jackson. 

To contact Dr. Jackson, or to book him for an interview or speaking engagement: press@winstoncrown.com