Just wanted to share this article written by Jared Waipouri.
This is our goal, our calling to be part of the answer to this. This
is what it takes to bring care and hope to remote island people! The
ship that was working there has relocated to another region, we hope to
help fill in the gap!
Why Ships?
It seems like a simple question, with a common sense answer to those of us who’ve been involved for a while. But to paint a picture for those who may never have been out on the ocean, lets consider an outreach in the nation of Vanuatu.
Preparations begin months before each outreach, with advance workers scouting probable locations based on tips from other NGOs, government workers, and a healthy dose of prayer on the part of the leaders of Marine Reach. Scouting the locations is, in itself, no mean feat. First, we need to get to the part of the country we’re thinking about taking the ship. This often happens using domestic flights, whose schedules are far from reliable, and whose destinations rarely get us to where we need to be. That is not to say they take us elsewhere, but simply that the topography of Vanuatu’s islands limits where airports can be in relation to populations.
After landing, we’ll often hire a truck or local water taxi to take us to our intended destination. Sometimes we need both. Because fuel is shipped to the island in drums, it usually costs a lot more than other parts of the country: sometimes up to four times the normal price.
As quickly as protocol allows it, we’ll be visiting with the community chief, elders and medical personnel. With their blessing, we continue to search out the best spot to bring our ship of hope. This next stage is where things get interesting: we need to confirm that the ship can actually stop safely at the island we’re hoping to visit. So we’ll jump into a boat and trundle around, looking at the anchorages the locals recommend. We’ll be thinking about what it will be like to drop the anchor: is the water the right depth? Is there enough room for the ship to swing when the wind and tide do their thing? Is the swell going to make life uncomfortable onboard for our dentists? Is it going to be safe to get people from ship to shore, and to unload supplies if we bring them?
Next, we’ll look at the medical facilities in the area: is there a hospital, a nurse, a doctor, or only a minimally trained community health worker? If not, is there a community building suitable for us to run clinics? Last, we’ll consider the size of the nearby community: is it so big that we’ll be overwhelmed, or so small that we will run out of patients in a day? Do we need to send transport to other communities to give them access too?
If we’re comfortable that these details work together, we will recommend to the ship directors that we run an outreach there.
Once outreach locations are set, we begin the unenviable task of trying to estimate how much, and what type of supplies we will need. We also begin communicating with our partner organisations, who may wish to send construction supplies to a nearby project, or support specific aspects of the outreach.
A week before our volunteers arrive, we’ll be found at anchor in Port Vila, making sure that supplies are onboard, food and fuel has been purchased, medical registrations finalised, and last minute maintenance is done. Before we know the week has passed, our volunteers will begin arriving in the warm, sticky, often bustling Port Vila international airport. With only a few international connections, this the less costly of two places people might fly into Vanuatu.
From the airport, we bundle our volunteers into the back of our small truck, and set off on a 20 minute potholed ride to the middle of town, where we clamber into one of our small ship’s boats. Known as tenders, these small boats are the connection between ship and land; the few wharves that exist in Vanuatu are rarely where our outreaches occur, and even more rarely available for us when we need them.
As we draw near the ship, our new volunteers begin snapping photos, excited for what is to come, and probably unsure exactly what to expect. In a few hours, having introcduced them to the vessel, her safety features, her quirks, her community living challenges, and her safety obligations, we’re eating in a very full, very energetic mess hall. A few more hours and we’re heaving anchor and heading to sea.
The next morning, having been at sea for 12 hours, we are drawing near to our outreach destination. Volunteers and crew jostle around the decks to see a mountain peeking through the clouds as we round the point into our anchorage. We’ve just arrived in a location whose nearest airport is a 2 hour fast-boat ride away, and where roads take the form of rugged, rutted, muddy tracks cutting their way through dense jungle and over impossibly steep hills. The roads are not connected to the rest of the island, but provide connection within a 10 mile radius of the less mountainous parts at this end of the island. Their impact on the vehicles means that most are driven with utmost care to prevent unnecessary damage.
This is isolated.
Many people have never left their island, much less visited the capital city, Port Vila, some 150 miles away.
So why ships?
Well, the planes flying in and out of the airport, the one that is a two hour boat ride away, they’re little 20 seaters. Not the kind which equate to cheap airfares, or large quantities of baggage.
The local ships which call here are’nt designed for passengers and are painfully slow, sometimes taking days to reach the capital city or Luganville, the nation’s northern hub.
These factors, along with an incredibly limited number of medical professionals nationwide, mean that the most effective way to deliver healthcare becomes a ship. A ship carrying tools, equipment and people to provide everything in a self-contained kind of way.
Slowly, dental clinics are being established in parts of the country, reducing the need for a ship to call there, though they are rarely permanently staffed.
—
Though this description draws on experiences in Vanuatu, the reality across the Pacific remains very similar: limited infrastructure, even more limited trained personnel, and frustratingly underwhelming transportation links result in a profound need for medical and community development ships. The fact is, the need for ships carrying hope and mercy in the Pacific is as acute as it has ever been.
Why Ships?
It seems like a simple question, with a common sense answer to those of us who’ve been involved for a while. But to paint a picture for those who may never have been out on the ocean, lets consider an outreach in the nation of Vanuatu.
Preparations begin months before each outreach, with advance workers scouting probable locations based on tips from other NGOs, government workers, and a healthy dose of prayer on the part of the leaders of Marine Reach. Scouting the locations is, in itself, no mean feat. First, we need to get to the part of the country we’re thinking about taking the ship. This often happens using domestic flights, whose schedules are far from reliable, and whose destinations rarely get us to where we need to be. That is not to say they take us elsewhere, but simply that the topography of Vanuatu’s islands limits where airports can be in relation to populations.
After landing, we’ll often hire a truck or local water taxi to take us to our intended destination. Sometimes we need both. Because fuel is shipped to the island in drums, it usually costs a lot more than other parts of the country: sometimes up to four times the normal price.
As quickly as protocol allows it, we’ll be visiting with the community chief, elders and medical personnel. With their blessing, we continue to search out the best spot to bring our ship of hope. This next stage is where things get interesting: we need to confirm that the ship can actually stop safely at the island we’re hoping to visit. So we’ll jump into a boat and trundle around, looking at the anchorages the locals recommend. We’ll be thinking about what it will be like to drop the anchor: is the water the right depth? Is there enough room for the ship to swing when the wind and tide do their thing? Is the swell going to make life uncomfortable onboard for our dentists? Is it going to be safe to get people from ship to shore, and to unload supplies if we bring them?
Next, we’ll look at the medical facilities in the area: is there a hospital, a nurse, a doctor, or only a minimally trained community health worker? If not, is there a community building suitable for us to run clinics? Last, we’ll consider the size of the nearby community: is it so big that we’ll be overwhelmed, or so small that we will run out of patients in a day? Do we need to send transport to other communities to give them access too?
If we’re comfortable that these details work together, we will recommend to the ship directors that we run an outreach there.
Once outreach locations are set, we begin the unenviable task of trying to estimate how much, and what type of supplies we will need. We also begin communicating with our partner organisations, who may wish to send construction supplies to a nearby project, or support specific aspects of the outreach.
A week before our volunteers arrive, we’ll be found at anchor in Port Vila, making sure that supplies are onboard, food and fuel has been purchased, medical registrations finalised, and last minute maintenance is done. Before we know the week has passed, our volunteers will begin arriving in the warm, sticky, often bustling Port Vila international airport. With only a few international connections, this the less costly of two places people might fly into Vanuatu.
From the airport, we bundle our volunteers into the back of our small truck, and set off on a 20 minute potholed ride to the middle of town, where we clamber into one of our small ship’s boats. Known as tenders, these small boats are the connection between ship and land; the few wharves that exist in Vanuatu are rarely where our outreaches occur, and even more rarely available for us when we need them.
As we draw near the ship, our new volunteers begin snapping photos, excited for what is to come, and probably unsure exactly what to expect. In a few hours, having introcduced them to the vessel, her safety features, her quirks, her community living challenges, and her safety obligations, we’re eating in a very full, very energetic mess hall. A few more hours and we’re heaving anchor and heading to sea.
The next morning, having been at sea for 12 hours, we are drawing near to our outreach destination. Volunteers and crew jostle around the decks to see a mountain peeking through the clouds as we round the point into our anchorage. We’ve just arrived in a location whose nearest airport is a 2 hour fast-boat ride away, and where roads take the form of rugged, rutted, muddy tracks cutting their way through dense jungle and over impossibly steep hills. The roads are not connected to the rest of the island, but provide connection within a 10 mile radius of the less mountainous parts at this end of the island. Their impact on the vehicles means that most are driven with utmost care to prevent unnecessary damage.
This is isolated.
Many people have never left their island, much less visited the capital city, Port Vila, some 150 miles away.
So why ships?
Well, the planes flying in and out of the airport, the one that is a two hour boat ride away, they’re little 20 seaters. Not the kind which equate to cheap airfares, or large quantities of baggage.
The local ships which call here are’nt designed for passengers and are painfully slow, sometimes taking days to reach the capital city or Luganville, the nation’s northern hub.
These factors, along with an incredibly limited number of medical professionals nationwide, mean that the most effective way to deliver healthcare becomes a ship. A ship carrying tools, equipment and people to provide everything in a self-contained kind of way.
Slowly, dental clinics are being established in parts of the country, reducing the need for a ship to call there, though they are rarely permanently staffed.
—
Though this description draws on experiences in Vanuatu, the reality across the Pacific remains very similar: limited infrastructure, even more limited trained personnel, and frustratingly underwhelming transportation links result in a profound need for medical and community development ships. The fact is, the need for ships carrying hope and mercy in the Pacific is as acute as it has ever been.
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