It's 4 a.m., an early start to the day. My body can't help but shiver uncontrollably as I lift the blanket because it's a frigid 30 C.

To some in Canada, that is a sweltering day, but for me it's a chilly day in the desert. The evening before, we receive orders that we will be conducting a village medical outreach in a small village called Maywan.

This is my first one, and it promises to be a long day. As I sit eating my runny eggs and toast, I am informed that today will be sweltering.

5 a.m.: I prepare my ambulance for the four-hour drive through the sun-parched desert. After spending 20 minutes ensuring my vehicle will survive the day, I grab eight cases of water and store them in a compartment in the back. I hope that is enough to keep us from getting dehydrated.

Within a half an hour, my medics load their kit up with donated supplies from Canada: painkillers, and mostly stuff to treat basic illness like the common cough. For a couple of these medics, it's the first time they have been outside the wire since they have been here.

6 a.m.: Time for orders. We get a road briefing from the convoy commander explaining the details to and from the village. He is in charge of bringing us from point A to point B safely.

In the orders, we are told in detail about every possible "what if" that could happen, and what we are going to do about it. "All right, guys, we leave in 15 minutes," he yells, "let's have a safe one."

We return to our vehicle. The medics cram into the back of the already-packed ambulance, and our signaler crawls out of the air sentry hatch, rifle armed and ready for business. This is his first time out as well. He will be covering our rear and is keen on seeing the countryside.

7 a.m.: Guards at the front gate give us a thumbs up as we leave the comfort of our wire. I give a bastardized salute, signalling them I will be back safe soon. We scream onto the highway, immediately demanding the road from the locals who try to weave in and out of our convoy. As I mentioned in earlier entries, this is our road, and the only way to stay safe from insurgents is to own the road.

Two hours into the trip, signs of Taliban are present. Stones stacked in three are a tell-tale sign that mines litter the sides of the road. There are no signs of people anywhere, just a few camels in the distant sand dunes, and some dead animals, an unfortunate side effect of an anti-tank mine.

Thirty minutes from our destination signs of life appear, little mud castles and small, curious children running to the road to see what these big green beasts rolling into their village are up to. Some children give us the thumbs up, while others give us a different finger and whip a rock in disgust. You can't blame them, their knowledge of us comes from their parents, and from the influence of the Taliban.

11 a.m.: We roll into a makeshift medical facility built by Canadians. Just as we are ready to set up, a local doctor runs out and tells us not to do so.

He explains that the last time the Canadians set up here the area was bombed by the Taliban the next day. They plea for us not to stay, and we are left alone with a brisk close of the door.

Change of plans. We move to set up at the Afghan National Police headquarters just down the road. As we enter the compound we are welcomed by guards carrying AK-47 rifles.

We unload medical equipment and supplies, as well as a shelter so women can be seen by our female medical staff. In the corner of the compound our civil military co-op team sets up an area with teddy bears, candy and hand-cranked transistor radios.

Our interpreter takes his horn announces to all that can hear that the Canadians are here to see the sick and the wounded. Within minutes the front gate is lined with children, men and women of all ages seeking what little help we can offer.

The compound is quickly filled with women wearing colourful burkas and with robed men. The people have everything ranging from minor cuts and bruises to gaping wounds and diseases that I can't even pronounce. One man is rushed in missing the entire back end of his leg, and is bleeding profusely after being bitten by a dog.

Young Afghani girl receives treatment from Canadian medics.

Our doctor keeps a close eye on a local doctor in training as he stitches the two 12-inch wounds. The old man doesn't even wince.

An hour later my doctor wants me to have a look at a girl who was brought in by her brother in a wheel-barrow.

The doctor was reminded of young Neimatuula. My church was able to raise funds for him to cure a disfiguring cancer on his face. He later died, due to complications with chemotherapy. Because of the outpouring of generosity from my church and from Canadians, we had funds leftover to help other children like him.

I am brought to a burned-out makeshift hospital room where an eight-year-old girl wearing a torn dress sits in the wheel-barrow. The doctor explains to me that the girl was burned in the foot when she was four, and her foot never healed.

When he pulls back her dress a pussy mass of flesh surrounded by flies is revealed. The fleshy disfiguration is as big as her head. The stench is almost unbearable. I can't imagine the pain she is experiencing. For more than four years this beautiful, brave girl has lived with her disfigured foot and the agonizing pain.

The doctor explains that it needs to be amputated if she is to survive. It would cost about $600 US to have it done, and wanted to know if my church could take an active role in this.

Thinking of my church and the numerous things we have done around the world, including the overwhelming support for Neimatuula, I accept the project on behalf of the congregation.

Her brother tells us where they live, and we promise that an ambulance will pick her up the next day. She now waits in a Kandahar hospital for B positive blood, which, if still needed, I will donate myself when I'm back from my current operation.

3 p.m.: We begin running low on supplies and announce to the locals that we will be closing up. Many children and families have to be turned away, while others already seen by doctors stand by a wall playing with their new-found toys and sharing supplies such as shampoo, blankets and painkillers with other families not so fortunate. It's amazing how this culture works. Everyone takes care of everyone else.

4 p.m.: We begin packing up and loading our vehicles, while donating the remaining supplies and some equipment to the Afghan National Police. It was a feel-good day, but on the other side of the coin a disappointment. So many were not seen.

In a country so desperate for any help, there just simply isn't enough for everyone. The world we live in is so blind to how so many innocent people live. I wish everyone could see, hear and smell the pain that lives here.