We
had just broken through the stifling smog of Nairobi’s
snarled, sputtering traffic and were heading north towards
the town of Nakuru on a cement-barrier divided roadway. Our
driver, Kenyan-born Jack Opondo, had been making up lost
time at a steady clip of 50 MPH in the lane next to the concrete
wall.
That’s when we saw the man running full speed right
down the middle of our lane, straight for us. His rose-colored,
full-length coat flapped behind him. With no room to swerve
and traffic pushing up fast behind us, Jack did the only
sensible thing when a running man is about to crash through
your windshield. He simply said, “Jesus.” He
wasn’t swearing. He was calling for help. The man feinted
ever so slightly right, as if nudged aside by an invisible
hand. We missed him, or he missed us, as it were, by a matter
of inches. We spun around, stunned, and watched him disappear
into the grills and headlights behind us.
This man seemed a perfect metaphor
for what our three-man crew is doing here. We are willingly
hurtling ourselves full speed toward what we consider Africa’s
three biggest crises — AIDS, genocide, and hunger.
Perhaps we are just as crazy. We’re in Africa shooting
a documentary film and writing and photographing the accompanying
coffee-table book, but we don’t
know where the stories will lead us, exactly. All we know
is that both film and book will raise awareness about these
issues and show positive solutions to what many consider
intractable problems.
Our travels
will take us to places like a brothel at the heart of the
AIDS crisis in a filthy, disease-infested fishing village
in Uganda where AIDS is believed to have begun its spread
to the rest of Africa in the early 1980s; to Sudan and
a refugee camp crowded with 61,000 people including
15-year-old children who were born and have lived their entire
lives here, in danger each night from raiding horsemen who
kill and rape; to a famine-conscious community in the southern
highlands of Ethiopia where we stand at grave’s edge
watching a coffin being lowered into the ground containing
a woman we had seen alive 100 miles away the day before and
whose 8-year-old son, now an orphan, watches too, hunched
over, sobbing; and to a clinic where we sit with another
orphaned boy, this one 14, with arms no bigger than the fragile
spoke on a wagon wheel, as he waits nervously for the results
of the HIV test....
|