Pondering AIDS on the Way to Peddie

Aug 2, 2008

I drove to Peddie today to fill the gas cans for the Landie, and along the way picked up two women near Bodium. They were hitchhiking. I asked where they were headed. “Peddie” one, sitting in the front seat, responded. “That’s where I am headed,” I said. “I can take you there.”
“You are going to Peddie?” she asked, somewhat surprised. Peddie is not a typical stop for white people from Hamburg (or anywhere else), who would usually head to East London or Port Alfred for provisions. In fact, I have learned that many folks in Hamburg don’t even go to Peddie for gasoline, even though it is the closest stop. They will travel the few extra km to Kidds Beach. I am not sure why, but perhaps it not quite so threatening an environment. In any event, I prefer proximity and rather like the hustle and bustle of this small African town.
“Yes,” I responded. “I am going to Peddie.” “Oye, today is my lucky day,” she responded, her bright, white teeth flashing through a broad smile. She muttered something in Xhosa to her friend in the back seat, and they laughed.
We rode quietly for a while, then I asked where they lived and what they do. “Peddie,” the one in the front seat said. “Do you work here?” I asked. It was curious to me why someone from Peddie might have traveled so far to the Bodium area. “No, I work in Peddie,” she said. “I work in the police station.”
“What do you do?” I asked, assuming chauvinistically that she was a clerk or something of the like.
“I am a police officer,” she said. “So is she.” She pointed to her friend in the backseat. I turned to look, and we exchanged smiles.
“Oh,” I said. “I will slow down then.” They didn’t get the joke, or at least did not think it funny. We drove along a little while longer in silence.
“Do you live in Hamburg?” the one in the front seat asked.
“No. I am from America. My wife and I run an organization to try and help people here. We work with a doctor in Hamburg, Dr. Baker. Have you heard of her?”
“No.” she said, plainly.
“Do you know of the health care center, Umtha Welanga? We have assisted with that.”
She remained quiet. From the back seat, the other said, “the hospice.”
“Yes,” I said. It appears the health care center still has not shed its image as a hospice – a place where people go to die comfortably. “Yes… the hospice,” I said. “We are involved in that.” We rode quietly for another couple of minutes, and I asked if they attend churches. Misunderstanding me, they began listing denominations in the area. Methodist, Zionist, Anglican. “Why do you ask about churches?” the one in the back asked.
“I belong to a church,” I explained. “It is why I am here.” I attempted to explain the meaning of Matthew 25:40, how we serve the Lord through serving others, and how those of us who have so much have an obligation to give much more. They remained quiet. The one in the back smiled and nodded politely. I could not tell if I was being unclear, or they were not terribly interested.
“I also want to know what the churches say about AIDS,” I added, broaching this topic for the first time. “Do they talk about it?”
“Yes,” the one in the rear said. “Some talk about it.”
“What do they say?”
“They say you must be in love. You must stay with the one you love.”
“Do they all talk about it, or do some still not want to talk about it?”
“Some do not talk about it. They don’t want to talk about it.”

We drove on some more.

“How else do people learn about HIV and AIDS?” I asked.
“From other people,” the woman in the backseat responded. She explained that she had attended, and assisted with public meetings where people were told about AIDS and how to avoid it. I asked what people thought about AIDS, and where it comes from. The one in the front seat piped up, after remaining silent for some time.
“Foreigners,” she said, almost with a chuckle. “They think it was brought here by foreigners.”
I laughed. “You mean white skinned people from America?” They laughed too. For once, the subtle discomfort of this discussion lifted momentarily. Even so, I was not certain that they did not believe this rumor. “What do you think?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” the one in the front seat said. “They say it came from a monkey, from someone eating the meat of a monkey. That is crazy, I don’t believe that,” she said.
At once it dawned on me. As I tried to formulate a response in my head – that there was this virus called SIV that was transmitted to humans from monkeys in central Africa as a result of their diet of monkey meat, and that it mutated into a blood-borne and sexually transmitted disease that traveled and infected the globe – it dawned on me that this explanation might just seem equally preposterous. Fearing I might do further damage than enlightenment, I simply replied, “yes, the belief is it came from people eating monkey meat. That is what I believe, but no one is certain. It did not come from foreigners, I can tell you that.” She nodded, but remained quiet.
I realized again, at that moment, how far apart our worlds were. We look upon these beliefs that HIV is spread by white people with needles, that it is revenge by the white man on a now free South Africa, or that it is an evil plot from America or Europe, as simply ludicrous manifestations of an uneducated and primitive society. We know they are not true, but we expect South Africans to simply believe they are untrue as a result of the sheer madness of them. And so we offer an alternative explanation, that it came from monkeys. Monkeys are responsible for the demise of modern-day sub-Saharan Africa, not western invaders. You can almost hear the response. “I suppose monkeys were also responsible for apartheid, and for the colonization that led to it?” Suddenly, if not possible, their beliefs about the origin of AIDS suddenly seem quite plausible.

“It is the men,” the woman in the backseat said, after some time. “They drink and get careless, and do not condomize.” I had heard this before.
“Yes,” I said. And seizing on an opportunity to test theories that the unempowerment of women has contributed substantially to the spread of AIDS, I asked whether it was true that once a man wants sex, a woman cannot refuse him.
“No,” she said. “That is not true.”
I remained quiet.

As we traveled on, the woman in the back seat offered her biggest fear about AIDS – that people were just giving up on fighting it. “People just see it as a part of life,” she said. “If they get it, they will die. But they could die of an accident, or something else. It is just another way to die.” I asked if this was because of poverty. That people faced so many other battles in their daily existence, that AIDS just isn’t a primary concern. She nodded, but added that people also just see it as a way of life. We would call it fatalism, I suppose. That there is a certain resignation to death in these parts. But perhaps the better term is reality. Fatalism seems to imply a giving up, even in the presence of some amount of hope. But this is a reality – a hopeless reality that most people are facing.

We arrived in Peddie, and the woman in the front seat pulled out 20 Rand and offered it to me. “No, no.” I said. “I was coming here anyway.” She thanked me, then retreated back into her silence. I noticed that she had remained largely quiet since the discussion of AIDS arose. She simply stared forward at the windshield, and the rough road that was laid out before us. I wondered what had led to her silence. Was she just not interested? Was she uncomfortable? If so, why? Is she, perhaps, positive herself? In this place of such secrecy, one can never know and one can never ask. We parted ways in Peddie. I said I hoped I would see them around again sometime. “Yes,” they laughed. “We see you.”

As I drove away, my understanding of the story of AIDS in South Africa remained the same – following the same fault lines in this discussion as it had in others. Distrust, hopelessness, and men.
-- Alec Zacaroli