Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [113]
Over the next few days, Father Rooney took us on a whistle-stop tour of clinics built by World Mercy, and we also opened a new one. He took us to several other places that had been funded by the Vatican. He carried money from World Mercy in one pocket and cash from the Pope in the other. Needless to say, Father Rooney was extremely popular, so at every camp the villagers pressed forward, crying, singing, and reaching out, desperate to touch him and us. The children were adorable and enthralled by the strange white women in their midst and by the bubble gum I took along. I unwrapped some and showed them what to do with it; they’d clearly never seen anything like it. Several followed us around blowing enormous pink bubbles, although I must confess that some swallowed the gum whole.
That trip to Africa was such a culture shock in every way. The villages were drought ravaged; they had no pure drinking water and little food. Sickness and malnutrition were endemic. Most of the rivers were contaminated with parasites that caused disease and blindness. I watched worms a foot long being taken out of screaming babies as their mothers held them down. It was so warm, yet the people wrapped themselves up in layer upon layer of brightly colored clothes. Women with babes in arms walked for miles with pots on their head just to get a bucket of water. World Mercy’s new, clean wells were transforming lives.
At night, the villagers put on elaborate displays of dancing, and our funny little Irish host with his pale, bald head would leap into the midst of these statuesque people and jump up and down energetically. They’d always prepare some sort of feast for us and offer the “best” parts to Father Rooney. In one village they’d saved an elephant heart for him for two months, without refrigeration. I cried, “You can’t eat that, Father!” but he told me he couldn’t possibly disappoint them, and then he got sick.
In another village deep in the bush, we were entertained in a grass hut by a chief and his many wives. Sitting cross-legged on a dirt floor, I watched as the number one wife washed some cups in dirty water and then poured hot tea into them from on high. The stream of brown liquid hit each little cup perfectly. I didn’t dare risk even tasting it for fear of infection, but I took my cup with a smile, placed it on the floor next to a nun who lived in the village, and whispered, “Will you please drink this for me?” Fortunately, she did.
Just as we were leaving Mauritania, there was a coup d’état. Father Rooney explained that these were quite common in that part of the world and suggested we get to the airport as soon as possible. Despite his apparent calmness, I never saw anyone drive so fast. We managed to get on the last flight out of the country. God only knows what Frank would have said if I’d ended up trapped there. I could just imagine it: “She’s stuck where?” I’m sure he had people following us wherever we went, but I don’t think even Jilly and his friends could have done anything about the complex politics of Africa.
For our last two nights in Senegal we stayed with some priests and a monsignor and were surprised to find that they lived life to the full. They had plenty of vodka, loud music, and good food. They were a lot of fun and very different from the nuns we’d stayed with at the start of our journey. What an experience. Leaving Africa behind, Father Rooney and I traveled on to Rome, where I was presented with the prestigious Dames of Malta decoration in a Vatican ceremony dating back centuries. Then I was granted a brief audience with Pope John Paul II. Frank had met Pope Pius XII in the 1940s (as had Dolly) and told me how special that was, but I don’t think I fully appreciated how much it would mean to me. When I saw John Paul walking down