Sinners and saints

Essays on the west and the rest #1 Bamako 

"Female solidarity, sexual abstinence. Often heard about it, never seen it in practice." Doctor B. sighs as he steps into his bronze 1985 Peugeot. My stomach growls mirroring his clouded mood. We've been in a meeting for six hours straight  and I'm dizzy with hunger. Nobody else seemed to mind. But then, off course, they have been hungry all their lives. Being the only white person in the group, I have enough sense to keep shut about it.

The car roars and puffs before it springs into action. Doctors can make money in this country, but not this doctor. And if he is, Dr. B is not spending it on the car. Even after following Dr. B. for only a few days, the complete map of his challenges is laid out in front of my eyes. The bumps, the dead ends, the vital parts under construction. HIV-Aids is spreading through the country. Not the roaring wildfire like South-Africa, but a slow and steady burn. "If the locals would know anything about biology, bacteria, blood, anything at all, we could drag the discussion out of the morality zone. But as it is, it's easier for NGO's to go along with the taboo’s and implement campaigns promoting 'proper' behavior. They don't understand that the stigma of people with Aids is propagated mostly through these campaigns. If you have it, you are a sinner. The people in your community will never even give you a second look. He manages a more detached tone at the end of his speech. “Do you know what it is like to be living in a social cordon sanitaire?” I'm lucky, I realize while buckling up, that I've been teamed up with a frustrated doctor. Frustration means that you still give a damn, that you have ideals you fight for, that you lose, but you are still fighting. I wonder how long he will last. The statistics are against him.

As we are driving back to Bamako, the road tells the tale of the third poorest country in the world in plainer words than any CIA statistic ever will. There is one asphalt road in Mali. It stretches from the North, deep Sahara, to the south-west, in the lower countries towards the tropics. The road is four meters wide. No markings, no signs, no traffic lights. Thirteen million people in a country the size of Germany, Belgium, Holland and France put together, connected to the rest of the world through this small patch of asphalt.

At each side of the road, an empty landscape stretches before us, nearly invisible through the dusty windshield. Some low shrubs, anthills and the occasional baobab tree pass us by. If you are attentive, you can spot a goat, a chicken, or a horse drawn buggy further down the field. No elephants or zebra's to lure tourists here.

We pass overloaded, 1950's lorries stranded at the side of the road. The drivers are meticulously taking apart the engine piece by piece in an attempt to save their cargo, their livelihoods, their life. Sometimes they are there for days or weeks at a time, and you spot them again on your next journey.  No use in stopping to help them. There are no spare parts to be gotten anywhere in this country. The road made import and export possible. Both a blessing and a curse. Along with cans of pine-apple and cheap plastics from Senegal, the truck drivers brought the HIVAids-virus with them. The prevalence spreads like an ink stain along the road, slowly seeping further inland.

Dr. B. pulls out a stubby non-filter camel, and lights it while he holds the steering wheel with his knees.  The car fills with thick blue smoke. His conversation smoothly sing-songs through the facts and figures of Aids, and I try to pay attention but fail to do so convincingly. Blood sugar level at an all time low, heat smothering my resistance against the oncoming waves of sleepiness. I manage to catch his practical reasoning around the deadly circle in which any person gets trapped. Without any medical facilities in the country, there is a very small chance that people ever discover what it is that is ailing them. If they find their way out of traditional medication and into a testing facility its a miracle on its own. Getting there costs days, and if the outcome is positive, you have very little chance at receiving medication, simply because there is very little of it. If you are one of the lucky ones, and you do get a few months supply of anti-viral meds, you have to travel back every few months to get more. “Only a rich man could afford such an extravagant lifestyle.” Dr. B states matter-of-factly. He’s not all about logistics though, he’s a walking encyclopedia on cultural enablers as well. I loose the sleep battle somewhere in the middle of his outrage over the practice of men marrying their brothers widow after he dies.

"So what will you do now?" Dr. B. asks when he parks the car in front of my office. We both know its not really a question. "I will go to Djenné to start the test phase of the new campaign. We have all the photographs we need, and the proverbs we base the text on." I answer flatly. He knows I would have given the same answer in the morning. But I want him to know that his message has come across despite this unavoidable fact. I shake his hand a bit longer than necessary. Dr. B. pulls away first.

On the stairs up to the office, I run into a lady from USAID. "Ohhh" she says in a heavy mid-west accent, "you've been out with dr. B! Well, he's the guy you need for first hand knowledge!" "You've worked with him?" I ask, not interested but also not wanting to be rude. "No dear, but of course you know that he's got Aids himself you know. Got it when he was operating on someone, told me himself." A strange sensation passed through me, makes me go cold in the insufferable heat. "Fountain of knowledge you know! Fountain of knowledge!" she shouts over her shoulder as she steps onto the road.