One morning in November 2001, two officials from a Kenyan AIDS organization picked me up from my hotel in Nairobi and took me on a drive. We drove and drove all day, over muddy tracks, through endless pineapple and coffee plantations, rural villages and slums, through all of Africa, it seemed, to arrive at a small field, perhaps half an acre, with some weeds growing in it and an old woman standing there with a hoe.
I had not expected this. I was reporting on AIDS programs for an American foundation, and most of the other projects I had visited were either medical programs, AIDS awareness campaigns using billboards, radio or television spots, or traveling roadshows designed to promote AIDS awareness or condoms or HIV testing. I was about to say something when one of my guides spoke first.
We are very proud of this project.
So I said nothing. About twenty women had saved up for two years to buy this land. All of them were supporting orphans whose parents had died of AIDS, and they hoped the land would produce enough food for about fifty people in all. On a nearby hill, one of Kenyas vast corporate-owned coffee plantations loomed like the edge of the sea. The old woman kept glancing at it as though it might sweep her away. I was moved by what I saw, although I didnt understand at the time how this project was supposed to fight AIDS. This book explains how I came to do so.
The worldwide AIDS epidemic is ruining families, villages, businesses, and armies and leaving behind an immense sadness that will linger for generations. The situation in East and southern Africa is uniquely severe.In 2005, roughly 40 percent of all those infected with HIV lived in just eleven countries in this regionhome to less than 3 percent of the worlds population
Why is the epidemic in East and southern Africa so severe? And why has it been so difficult to control? I started thinking about this in 1993, when I quit a postdoctoral job in molecular biology at the University of California and went to Uganda to work on an AIDS vaccine project. My results, like those of many others, were disappointing.
For more than twenty years, scientists have been trying to make such a vaccine, and most experts predict it will take at least another decade.
I continued to work on AIDS as a writer and consultant for various development agencies after I left Uganda, and I continued to wonder about what might be done to arrest the epidemic, and whether some other device or program might substitute for a vaccine. In 1996, a combination of three antiretroviral drugs, taken for life, was found to dramatically relieve the symptoms and extend the lives of HIV-positive people. At the time, these drugs were patented and extremely expensive, and for years they were out of reach of the millions of poor African patients who needed them. Before long, a worldwide network of AIDS activists began to pressure pharmaceutical companies to cut the prices of these drugs and urged international donors to raise billions of dollars to fund AIDS treatmentprograms in developing countries. As a result, millions of Africans with HIV are now receiving treatment.
In this book, I do not deal at length with this extraordinary struggle, a story that has been ably covered by other writers, some of whom are activists themselves.
To date, the closest thing to a vaccine to prevent HIV is male circumcision, which was shown in 2006 to reduce the risk of HIV transmission by roughly 70 percent.
As international concern about the epidemic has grown, along with foreign-aid budgets for programs to fight it, a global archipelago of governmental and nongovernmental agencies has emerged to channel money,consultants, condoms, and other commodities to AIDS programs all over the world. During the past decade, I have visited dozens of these programs and spoken to hundreds of people. I never found a panacea, but I did learn a great deal. I learned, for example, that AIDS is a social problem as much as it is a medical one; that the virus is of recent origin, but that its spread has been worsened by an explosive combination of historically rooted patterns of sexual behavior, the vicissitudes of postcolonial development, and economic globalization that has left millions of African people adrift in an increasingly unequal world. Their poverty and social dislocation have generated an earthquake in gender relations that has created wide-open channels for the spread of HIV. Most important, I came to understand that when it comes to saving lives, intangible thingsthe solidarity of ordinary people facing up to a shared calamity; the anger of activists, especially women; and new scientific ideascan be just as important as medicine and technology.
Like many newcomers to Africa, I learned early on that the most successful AIDS projects tended to be conceived and run by Africans themselves or by missionaries and aid workers with long experience in Africain other words, by people who really knew the culture. The key to their success resided in something for which the public health field currently has no name or program. It is best described as a sense of solidarity, compassion, and mutual aid that brings people together to solve a common problem that individuals cant solve on their own. The closest thing to it might be Harvard sociologist Felton Earlss concept of collective efficacy, meaning the capacity of people to come together and help others they are not necessarily related to. Where missionaries and aid workers have, intentionally or not, suppressed this spirit, the results have been disappointing. Where they have built on these qualities, their efforts have often succeeded remarkably well.
Its easy to be pessimistic about Africa. Headlines from the continent chronicle apparently endless war, tyranny, corruption, famine, and natural disaster, along with a few isolated nature reserves and other beauty spots. Certainly there are many war-torn countries in Africa and many poor, sick people who need assistance. But sometimes helplessness is in the eye of the beholder. There is also another Africa, characterized by a striking degree of reciprocity, solidarity, and ingenuity. Time and again,African people have relied on these qualities to save themselvesand at one time, the entire human familyfrom extinction. Now, faced with the scourge of AIDS, some of them, including the farmer I met in Kenya, are trying to do so again.
Most of the black Africans who now live in the region covered in this book are descended from Bantu farmers who began migrating from western Africa several thousand years ago, across the continent and then south.On the way, some of them encountered other African population groupsthe San and Khoi of southern Africa and the Nilotes of the Sahel, for examplewith whom they exchanged aspects of language and culture and with whom they sometimes intermarried. Subgroups splintered off from each other and adapted to local circumstances.
Their story is, with some exceptions, not about the accumulation of great personal fortunes and the founding of cities with palaces, cathedrals, and libraries. It is a story of relatively small groups banding together to survive on a harsh and dangerous frontier, of natural disasters and political and economic crises.
Survival was not inevitable. The ancient, infertile soils of Africa could not sustain large permanent farming settlements, and the development of towns was further prevented by infectious diseases that spread rapidly as soon as populations reached a certain threshold. When farmers cleared large tracts of land to grow crops, malaria bloomed in the sunlit mud; as herds expanded, the animals succumbed to tuberculosis and sleeping sickness, which spread to their owners.