to the bathroom." And in
Africa, they spent much of
their time at home chasing
out the iguanas.
Their meals are, well, ba-
sic. Bottled beverages. Water
boiled, Dr. Mainster says, "to
within an inch of its life."
Fruit. Rice. Some bread.
They don't lug cans of tuna
with them, either. When the
Mainsters travel, they take
one suitcase and one carry-
on each — enough clothing for
a week.
But it isn't food or accom-
modations that concern Dr.
Mainster. He is there to help
the "lines and lines of people
waiting for surgery" from the
moment he arrives.
The work varies from na-
tion to nation, from patient
to patient.
"I'll fix broken bones, take
care of a cyst, see somebody
with a gunshot wound," he
says. He has helped children
with harelips, often to the ut-
ter amazement of local hos-
pital workers who have told
him, "We never do that in
this country."
Once, he had barely dis-
embarked when he was
called to the hospital to per-
form a Caesarean section. As
always, the facilities were
anything but modern.
"Ninety-nine percent of the
hospitals are primitive in
every sense of the word," Dr.
Mainster says. "So I do what
I can with what's available."
What is available rarely
means X-ray machines or
anything but local anesthe-
sia. In Liberia, the hospital
was a wooden cottage. Vacci-
nations commonplace in
America are a rare privilege
in New Guinea.
In war-torn nations, men
and women often carve their
own wooden legs after their
limbs (which never receive
medical treatment) are blown
off. Or maybe their faces were

Phoebe and Harris Mainster,
left, and with daughter, Jill.

burned by napalm and, like
one patient Dr. Mainster
saw, they haven't closed a
mutilated eye for more than
20 years.
They communicate their
pain by pointing and with
gestures. "It doesn't require
a lot of translation," Dr.
Mainster says. "Little of the
work is subtle — more often
it's something like a large tu-
mor, in which case (the pa-
tient) tells me about it, I feel
it, and that's the diagnosis."
The work can be frustrat-
ing for other reasons, as well.
It means turning some away.
It means not being able to
perform brain or open heart
surgery because of inade-
quate facilities.

"You have to recognize that
you can't cure the whole
world," Dr. Mainster says.
"You do what you can."
A critical aspect of Dr.
Mainster's volunteer work is
bringing medical education
to the community. His goal is
to train local physicians to
continue the work after he
leaves; "I want to teach a doc-
tor something he didn't have
before."
Just how important that
can be is evident in Cambo-
dia, where Dr. Mainster
worked last year. The physi-
cians there had no training
in surgery, though they were
needed to perform operations.
They were all that was left.
Most intellectuals, such as

23

