A letter from London

When my UK mobile ?“twinks?” twice, it?’s text from home (partner Ida Jooste): ?“Hectic! Have to finish story, up all night and now must fetch Lindiwe at 5 tomorrow a.m. She has missed all her ARV appointments due to ignorance and lack of transport.?”

When I left Durban for London earlier this month as a 50th birthday surprise for my close friend Steve, who is battling with cancer, I felt I really needed to put some distance between me and the AIDS cliff-face that so many of us are hanging onto in SA. By bicycle it was that I pedalled off to the London University College Hospital; Steve uses the National Health, not because he cannot afford private services, but because the treatment is so good!

Barely two weeks before, I spent a long night in the Addington Hospital Admissions section with Lindiwe and Ida. They had been there since 9 a.m. hoping to see a doctor and get Lindi admitted. She can hardly walk anymore, and the Mahatma Gandhi Hospital had succeeded in scaring her and her whole family through minimal communication, lack of human feeling and a general impression that people seldom leave there alive. This may appear to be anecdotal and over-the-top ?… but a little fairy whispered to me that the TAC has had so many complaints about it that they are ?“looking into it...?”

We were sitting there together on the cold, hard wooden benches, seeing ever more gogos pushing 23-year-old women, thin and bended and cold and oh-so-ill, around in wheelchairs. We watched in muted silence as a dazed and bleeding drug dealer, who?’d swallowed a rock of cocaine was brought in by undercover narcotics police and given star treatment, with emergency bells ringing and white-coated doctors whisking him off to have his noxious ?“tumour?” removed. Four hours later, Lindiwe saw a doctor. ?“No beds available,?” he said. ?“They?’re all full of AIDS patients.?”

Having found Steve at the hospital sooner than imagined possible, I had some time to catch up with the technology deals on the high street. I walked out of the main door, straight into Zackie Achmat. Ida and I had had no success in making contact with him for a few weeks, so this was great timing. We walked through the streets of London, talking about issues close to our hearts and celebrating impending home-comings. As I mentioned that I?’d heard distinct strains of isiZulu in the LU Hospital corridors, Zackie said we should make a film about where SA nurses, doctors and porters are going to.

Since then I?’ve been reflecting on some ironies and paradoxes between ?“here?” and ?“there?”. Whilst behaviour change, preventative interventions and nutrition are critical factors for the improvement of national health in Africa, in the Northern ?“advanced?” world, the attitude of ?“Don't worry, if we break, the doctors will fix us?” prevails. This was illustrated by the sight of three pale, hairless, gowned cancer patients huddled in the cold outside the entrance of the University College Hospital, smoking. The South African version of this is the imprinted image of grannies pushing their 23-year-old granddaughters in wheelchairs.

Another friend, who is a senior Community Health specialist in Scotland, confirms that the troubling increase in sexually transmitted infections in teenagers shows that any fear of HIV has almost disappeared up here in the North. After seeing the movie ?“The Motorcycle Diaries?”, it?’s one I can recommend, as it touches all of us, everywhere, who are involved somehow in the AIDS war.

I do feel that my being here has made a marked difference to the life of an old friend and to the other creative, eccentric 50-year-olds who have come together to celebrate Steve?’s life. In these few days, we have all shared the unspoken bond of accepting another human being for what he is, rather than for what we would prefer him to be.

This is something we all need to remember: Anything can happen.

This is an edited version of journal writing sent to the Media Office by award-winning film-maker Andre ?“Budgie?” Smith.