'The Silence of the Savannah' by Patrick Treacy

June 20, 2009 - PRLog -- Evenings in Kenya are enchanting. It is then that the sun takes on a light of deep red before setting, and barefooted women clothed in loose kangas stir up a light murram dust as they meet us on their way homeward for the night. Sometimes they stand by the roadside balancing wooden creels upon their heads, and wait with quiet dignity until our large army truck has passed. Their noble features do not immediately signify this is done in an effort to protect the babies they carry on their backs from the deafening noise of our vehicle which will be remembered long after the faint echo of their steps has faded down the corridors of time. We are travelling east from Mombasa, through the lands of the Chagga, to the border town of Moshi, which lies in the Tanzanian foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro. As dusk falls the swollen rim of the sinking sun runs rivulets of scarlet colour into the skyline and silhouettes the acacia trees on the hillsides around us. This is the unchanging magic in the landscape of Africa, and it is our signal we have travelled enough for the day. We turn the lorry off the dusty track and drive about two hundred yards into the bush to find some shade and set up camp. In the distance we can hear some voices from a nearby manyatta, and the sound of barking dogs disturbs the stillness of the dusk.

Chris, our New Zealand driver is one of those people attracted to Africa because of the daily adventures and challenges it provides. He sets up a small table under some the shadow of some coral trees and shows some of the the girls how to prepare a hash of ground meat and vegetables for us to eat. Before long, blackened pots are steaming over the crackling bushfire and we look forward to another meal under an African sky. The setting sun hangs like an orange fireball just above the horizon generating a canvas of colour that seems to light up the edges of the clouds and set them on fire. The air is still quite warm and I lie for a while watching the first stars twinkle into life in the firmament above us. Then come the sounds of the African evening, the chattering of some vervet monkeys in the trees above our heads and in the distance the faint cackle of some far off hyena beginning his night prowl. As twilight begins to fall, some children from the nearby manyatta join us, at all times remaining a safe distance from the camp. They laugh enthusiastically amongst themselves, never venturing to enter our mysterious compound. Above us, some grey clouds begin to obscure a rising moon whilst the fire starts to fade to red coals. We sit for a while, listening to the nocturnal noises of Kenya and try to identify some of the animals that surround us on the nearby hills. Chris can readily distinguish the cough of a leopard from the roar of a lion and in the dying firelight the men exchange stories of previous adventures before settling down for the night and the coming of the new dawn.

Morning comes quickly, and we are awakened by the shrill screams of about twenty black-faced vervet monkeys that have joined us on the flame trees surrounding the camp. I arise promptly, before the rising sun attempts to give me another lattice tan through the mosquito-netting above my head. One of the Australian girls claim that the village children have stolen a camera from her tent during the night, but Chris assures her that it is a simian crime and he uses a catapult to keep the temerarious animals a safe distance away from the camp. After eating, we break camp and follow the red dirt track back to the main road. About twenty miles out, we come across a large truck lying precariously on its side. The cargo of mangoes and pomegranates have been hurled from their crates and are spilled all over the roadway. A man has been thrown to the ground as the vehicle rolled over on its left side, and he is bleeding from his injuries. The driver appers to be still trapped between the dashboard and his seat and some other lorry drivers are attempting to release him. I am riding up front in the cab with Chris, and am eager to stop and tend to the accident victim.

"Don’t be mad", says Chris. " You’ll see lots of these accidents before we hit Harare, most of these people carry the AIDS virus and you’ll soon learn it's better to drive on by".

After much protest I get him to stop, and state that I alone will handle the injured victims. Julie, an Australian nurse who is travelling with us, is willing to assist me. Together we pull the passenger away from the truck to a small grove of trees by the side of the winding road. He has an open head injury and he is very seriously injured. Once or twice, I think he might survive but when the first trickle of blood appears from his mouth and he has difficulty breathing, I know he will die here by the roadside. We try in vain to comfort him and protect him from the ever-present flies. I satisfy myself about his prognosis and go back to the  truck for enough analgesia to palliate his suffering. He dies about a half an hour later surrounded by other lorry drivers on route to Moshi

For a long time nobody on the truck speaks. We have all been shaken by the death of the African lorry driver in the accident and by our drivers apparent indifference to the event. We tell him that it goes against our deepest ethical judgement not to want to help somebody just because they were at risk of carrying the HIV virus. He understands, and says we haven't lived in Africa long enough to think like he does, to just close our eyes and walk away. He says our attitudes are those of the tourist he has to protect, the product of sheltered western backgrounds and this makes us all feel uncomfortable with ourselves. But he also respects the fact that I am a doctor, trained to remain objective and not to be influenced by some preconception of the illness. In the coming weeks I learn that HIV is epidemic in this part of Africa, and is largely considered by the white population to be a black persons’ disease. Standard methods of controlling the disease are almost non-existent, mainly because Africans consider the use of condom’s to be a white man’s ruse, secretly meant to control their spiralling population. Later, we pass many empty villages, abandoned stores and vacant huts that are a testament to the destructive power of the plague whose path we follow. There is an eerieness about these deserted hamlets, and in the restless winds that stir the blue savannah grasses I listen expectenly to hear the noise of barking dogs, or the distant sounds of children playing ..... but no sound comes!

# # #

The author is a travel writer with Ireland's 'Social and Personal' Magazine and an invited video contributor to many travel websites including TripFilms, Backpacker magazine and National Geographic's 'Everyday Explorers'. See website www.patricktreacy.com