CAPE TO CAIRO - 14

It is midday before we hit the road. Martin Richner, the Swiss manager of Interfreight's Kampala branch, had assured me that we would leave the firm's premises punctually at 8 am. The old Africa hand, who has lived in Sierra Leone for many years, should have known better. The Ugandan customs official didn't start work until 10 am, and the first thing he did on arrival was to stretch out the palm of his hand. Richner has five hundred dollars a month calculated in his budget for baksheesh. Once it has been paid, the official stamps the freight papers for Rwandan coffee and dried goat skins (for export to Pakistan).

"...only smoke Kenyan cigarettes"
The delay gives me the opportunity to become better acquainted with the driver. Paul, a huge Kenyan and father of seven children, is a veteran of the highways. Whether Uganda, Congo, Burundi, Sudan, or Ethiopia there is no country or dirt track in the region that he hasn't seen. Paul is accompanied by Saidi, whose chief task seems to be to operate the cigarette lighter on the dashboard of the Mercedes truck. Says Paul "I only smoke Kenyan cigarettes, the Ugandan ones taste of muck." So much for African Union.

"Ugandans don't need to work..."

The first few kilometers to Jinja, the source of the Nile, takes us through tropical forest and then sugar cane plantations and paddy fields. Now you understand why German development aid workers can be heard sighing over their beer in the evenings: "Ugandans don't need to work - everything just grows for them!" On the side of the road, I see a first wrecked vehicle. A diesel truck has spun over, the driver is sitting nearby, his head covered in blood. Where are the emergency services?

"We know all about it, boss"

The road from Kampala to the Kenyan border is feared as "Death Highway". Hardly a day passes without this ribbon of asphalt, many thousands of kilometers in length, making some horrific news headline. The AIDS statistics along this route which leads from Kenyan port of Mombasa into the heart of Africa, to Rwanda and then on into Congo are frightening. The Swiss manager says he wanted to warn his workforce about the dangers of AIDS. But they just waved him away. "We know all about it, boss" they said. When we arrive in the frontier town of Malaba (below right), Paul and Saidi say demonstratively: "No, no, no girls...". Then Paul grins fiendishly: "But with a condom...perhaps!"

Malaba's reputation as a den of iniquity is legendary. It is a desolate place with mountains of rubbish, stray dogs and pot-holes the size of cars. By African standards, the truckers are rich and much sought after by the young girls in Malaba - girls from the age of twelve upwards. Some fifteen thousand people live in Malaba, not counting the four hundred truckers who drift in and out the town every evening.

"No Smoking", "No Alcohol", "No Prostitution"

"That means sex four hundred times every day, half without contraception. If only half of the truck drivers or protstitutes are HIV positive, that leaves a potential of one hundred new infections every day." Richard, manager of the Jaki Hotel, is a quick calculator and shrewd businessman. We end up at his establishment. The rooms are clean and there is a small restaurant. At the reception, there are signs saying "No alcohol", "No smoking", "No prostitution". In the restaurant I hear somebody saying "The Lord resides in this house that is why we do not allow such sins". Not necessarily a bad thing, because it does guarantee you a quiet night's rest, when the ladies in the next room are not active.

"All gone!"

By eight o'clock we've showered and are ready to go. Saiti is staying in the truck, so I make my way with Paul to the Teso Motel. On the way we drop into the pharmacy on the main street. "Any condoms ?" "All gone", say Edith behind the counter. "But we'll have some more tomorrow". Three codoms cost ten Kenyan shillings in Malaba, that's around 12 euro cents.

"Condomise!"
In Teso, the girls at the bar welcome Paul as if he is a long lost relative. One raises her T-Shirt in greeting. At one of the tables nearby, Judith is drinking vodka out of a small plastic bag. "Small love" costs two hundred shillings - about two euros fifty - or a bottle of beer. A whole night costs between five hundred and a thousand shillings. "Men don't wan to use condoms, they want body-to-body, unprotected sex" says one of the girls at the bar. After three hours and several bottles of "Pilsener" I have had enough of Teso and say goodbye to Paul. "Condomise" I say quoting from a pan-African AIDS prevention campaign. But Paul is far too preoccupied to take any notice.

"Everything's ok" he said the next morning, without any prompting from me. But his breath and his rasping voice suggest that it was a long night. "We know all about it, boss".

I go to fetch my visa for Kenya. On the way I meet Eric (left), a truck driver on his way to Mombasa. "Did you have good night", I ask. "Not bad" he grins. "With a condom?" "Of course."

"Jesus heals"

A bicycle taxi takes me to a field station of the Malaba clinic. I see a sign saying "HIV/Aids orphans project. But the hospital/orphanage is empty, apart from Sister Evelyn.

"There is lots of AIDS here, because there are lots of sinners in the neighbourhood". Not again! Only the previous evening, a public address system blaring out the distorted sound of a group of born-again Christians had got on my nerves.

"What can one do to stop the pandemic from spreading?" I ask Evelyn. Her face lights up "Only Jesus can help". "Is that in the Bible" "Yes, of course. Jesus heals".

In the hotel Father Anthony Wanjola (above right) is waiting for me. It's as if he and Sister Evelyn are in cahoots. "Jesus heals", he says. Peter, Chapter 24, Verse 2. "He who believes in me will be healed" Is there somewhere around here where you can be converted to Islam?

Before I leave Father Anthony dispenses more of his pearls of wisdom. "You know if a man has been without a woman for a long time, then he can - in the heat of the moment - forget to protect himself. AIDS can also be transmitted this way". You could have fooled me!

PS The rest of the story is quickly told. At midday the telephone rings. The plane to Somalia next week is fully booked. The only alternative - a flight at seven the next morning. After eight hours in a taxi, bumping along Kenyan roads, I arrive in Nairobi. In the local paper, I read "Minister XYZ caught in red light district"

Malalaba, December 20th 2003