FOREIGN AIDS
Edwin P. Cutler
1992
You want to know how AIDS got started? It was part of a mismanaged package of foreign aid. I didn't realize until later that I witnessed what may be the world's worst epidemic -- worse than the plagues Marco Polo brought back from China.
My name is Paul Brady, and it was back in 1992 at an embassy reception in Zimbabwe, Africa, that I happened upon the awful truth. I sell computer technology, but my weakness is social geography. I often become so distracted by the local people, their living conditions, their religious, superstitious, and philosophical evolution that I forget my great abiding ambition is to sell, sell, sell.
At the reception, there were no name tags, but fortunately I'm good at names as well as faces. There were about forty people in attendance and they were derived from such a varying racial stock that the mix of skin colors suggested an eventual one world mind. Everyone who was invited attended, since in this remote corner of struggling mankind, receptions are the only civilized entertainment -- unless one likes violence.
The number of people suitable to attend such functions had significantly diminished since the revolution, but the fighting was over and the present regime had proven stable enough to attract foreign assistance, and foreign assistance always attracts me -- my major marketing intelligence is gleaned from lists of loans and grants made to third world countries.
My ploy is to demonstrate to the principal person in power that a computer will give him much more than prestige; while collecting and disseminating data on his country's natural resources he can also amass information about any and all opponents, political or otherwise, who might wish to defeat his administration and take over his country. And, since the ultimate goal of every institution is to preserve itself, no matter how benevolent in its original conception, the ruling party, wanting to become an institution, is usually willing to pay dearly to continue its, often egregious, power.
During several days preceding this reception, I wiled away my time exploring the archaeological digs in McIlwain National Park, avoiding lions and trying to talk to the natives without starting another revolution. Determined, now, to get back to the business of selling computers, I straightened my tie, lifted a drink from a passing tray and began to walk about in anticipation of meeting the right people.
"Good evening." I stepped to a reverend looking man who stood alone. He was sipping solemnly on a drink while turning his large head of sandy untamed hair to scan the mixture of guests through a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses.
"Marvelous country hereabout." I selected the one subject that my recent explorations qualified me to discuss. -- I wanted to know who were locals and who were pilgrims; visitors from first world countries who came to influence, to advise, to give -- or to take.
"Oh, yes," he agreed. The head turned to aim the thick glasses at me, and, smiling into my face, he stepped a little closer as if to examine my features one at a time. "What there is left of it," he remarked.
"I'm in computers." I returned his scrutiny. He reminded me of a professor who told so many distracting stories during his lectures that I had trouble falling asleep. He also looked like a trouble-making intellectual. I decided he might be interesting.
"There are no computers in Zimbabwe," he chuckled. "In fact, the only thing left are the survivors, the poor hungry people."
"I did not have the pleasure of seeing the country prior to the revolution." I smiled into the thick lenses and clarified, "I am here to introduce computers."
"Oh, yes." He leaned on his oral crutch, sipped his drink as if he was not accustomed to liquor, and grinned as if he was enjoying it. "I am in genetic engineering," he explained.
I surmised from that remark that he was not from Zimbabwe; but from where, I wondered? To prompt him I speculated, "I was not aware that Zimbabwe had such highly trained professionals."
"Oh, no." This time the left oral crutch. "My country sent me here on a research grant." The horned rims left my face, scanning the room as if searching in a fog. "With the 'er, military."
I tried to watch both his expression and where his nose was pointing. He turned his attention from face to face, like a heat seeking missile launcher.
"How do you win a war with genetic engineering?" I was curious.
"Not a war -- and not a revolution." The scan stopped when the eyes focused on a knot of people surrounding a tall gentleman with a red handlebar mustache in a decorated military uniform.
With eyes still focusing on the group, he said, "Every backward country that has been introduced to modern, life-saving medicine becomes overpopulated. Only when their mores expand to include advantages of our western civilization do they become aware of the need to restrain their basic passions." Turning to look into my eyes, as if to see if I was still listening, he explained, "My research will avoid the devastating surge of overpopulation."
"Intellectually stimulating, but in actuality, let's admit it, there is little we can do to control what goes on the boudoirs of the impoverished, -- even the missionaries with years of experience will admit that."
I thought of the lions on the plain when he shook his wavy mane and planted a Cheshire grin where I could not miss it. "We will solve the problem with an adjunct to the immunization shots they long ago learned can save their lives. If a female has already had two children, she shall have no more. We are doing field tests here in Zimbabwe, a little premature, but the military of my government is in a hurry."
"Oh, Harvey! There you are." A happy feminine voice turned my head to find a lovely young lady with ash blond hair at my elbow. Her soft brown eyes looked into mine, waiting to be introduced, then dropped demurely.
"Sweetheart, may I present Paul Brady." Harvey obviously had no problem with names. Then to me, he said, "Mr. Brady, my fiancee, Miss Lambeth."
"Not Lisa?" I was startled.
"Yes, but how?..." she looked into my eyes for an answer.
"You've met?" Harvey was not amused.
"No, but I too have been to the South Pacific."
Lisa smiled, "You caught me off guard, Mr. Maugham."
"Brady, not Maugham," Harvey corrected.
When she grinned at our little secret, I knew I had at least one friend amongst the visitors in Harare, the capital city, formerly Salisbury.
"You write?" I asked, tilting my head to see into her eyes.
"Psychology of foreign diplomacy," she responded, taunting me by once more lowering her lashes.
"Foreign diplomacy? I read that foreign diplomats who insist on democratic elections do not realize that elections aggravate and polarize tribal enmity and competition, often leading to bloodshed at the polls," I commented.
"Mr. Brady is in computers," Harvey explained, urging himself into our conversation.
"A programmer?" The lashes lifted.
"You see only the ghost of a programmer. In real life I am in marketing," I said, drinking the depths of her unavoidable curiosity.
"You are selling now?" she asked, lifting her chin.
"I never work after tea," I replied, matching her lifted chin with a gesture of my own.
"How perfectly civilized." She was pleased, and deftly laced a lovely hand under Harvey's arm. Her other hand took my free arm, and she urged us forward, explaining, "Mr. Brady must meet the other guests, Harvey. We just can't keep him all to ourselves."
Lisa was a natural hostess and each little cluster opened like a flower blooming to let her enter with Harvey and me and tow. I was introduced and computers were discussed within the context of the progress Zimbabwe is on the verge of making. When names were mentioned, Harvey leaned forward and squinted his, "Good evening."
When Lisa laid siege to the military encampment, a twenty-one gun salute was heard and the red mustache parted the ramparts and dragged her inside. Harvey followed Lisa and I followed Harvey.
"Colonel Norton, may we present Mr. Paul Brady. Mr. Brady is in computers." She looked up into the happy face of the adoring older man. Then to me, "Mr. Brady, this is Colonel Norton, military attache from our country for demographic studies in Africa."
We shook hands. We looked into each others eyes. We searched for impending threats and lurking dangers. His bearing was one of command and confidence. It was obvious no attack had ever breached that countenance. But we were not at war, and, when Lisa's lilting laughter broached our gunwales, I smiled and, to make light, offered, "Wandering about in the native quarter today, I saw voodoo dolls and old bones hanging in strange places but no demons in the graphics."
The colonel relaxed, returned my smile, and said, "The demographic demon in Africa is overpopulation and potential famine. With your computer you should know that the census indicate an exponential growth in the number of black Africans since Albert Schweitzer came here in 1905."
"That may be true, but beware of exponential growth. If the number of mathematicians continues to increase at the present rate, by the year 2010 there will be seven mathematicians for every person on Earth." I hoped to dampen his fears, but found instead, that I opened Pandora's box.
"Mr. Brady," the golden eagles glistened on his epaulets, "if we do not limit this growth, we will suffocate!"
"We? Who?" I asked, tilting my head to see into his cold, icy eyes.
He glanced around to see who was listening. He took Lisa's arm and led her aside. Harvey followed Lisa, I followed Colonel Norton.
Alone, he leaned and whispered, "By the year 2040 the number of black Africans will exceed the number of Chinese." He watched my eyes, waiting for an expected look of surprise.
"I don't think we have to worry about the Chinese," I offered, assuming a stern demeanor to disguise my mirth.
"Damn it, man, I'm not worried about the Chinese. They have learned to control their birth rate." It was clear that by now he had decided I was stupid. "I'm worried about Africa!"
"Africa?"
"Haven't you read Thomas Malthus who said that predators, disease, and a finite food supply place a limit on populations that would otherwise multiply indefinitely. With massive overpopulation we shall see widespread poverty and, with the first major drought, devastating starvation, crime, internal strife and warfare."
"Warfare reduces population." I grimaced, unable to keep my eyes from saluting his decorated uniform.
"Harvey." Lisa turned to her fiancee and, latching onto his arm, started him forward, intoning, "Sound the retreat. Like well bred warriors we shall wait until sunrise to resume this bloodshed. So, merrymaker, lead us off the battlefield to the fountain of Dionysus." Assuming command, she steered us to the bar and, sniffing at my empty glass, asked, "Chivas Regal with a twist of lemon?" Her interest in my welfare intrigued me.
When Colonel Norton spotted the Zimbabwe prime minister at the door, he excused himself and Lisa whispered confidentially, "Power and wealth are the subjects of conversation tonight, but you will never hear the words themselves. Power and wealth are measured the same way freedom is measured. Have you read Professor Jones' Quantitative Philosophy, Mr. Brady?"
"You can't quantify philosophy," I chuckled.
"Do you know the definition of options?" she asked.
"Options?"
"If you have an option you have the opportunity to do something," she said, then paused, and lifted her eyes to mine to see if I was interested.
I tugged on my earlobe and looked down into her wide set, fawn-like orbs -- I was interested.
She continued with, "Freedom is measured by the number of options that one has. For example, education increases freedom by increasing one's options for employment."
"You are trying to quantify freedom?" I was fascinated.
Harvey smiled and patted her arm. "He's not interested in quantitative philosophy, my dear."
"Don't MY DEAR me!" She raised her chin as he had raised her ire. Undaunted, she looked at me and continued, "But some options are mutually exclusive, for example one cannot simultaneously sail to Rio and fly to Rome." She paused to let that sink in.
"Unless one is very wealthy," I offered.
"Ah, ha!" She was pleased. "Wealth is measured by the number of options one can afford to exercise.
"Hm?" I pondered that one. "Earlier, you mentioned power?"
Her eyes flashed and looked around the room. She leaned closer to me and whispered conspiratorially. "Power is measured by the number of options one can strike from another's freedom list. One doesn't have to strike. One need only be capable of striking. That is power."
"Ah, I would be a wealthy man if I but had the power to free you from your commitment," I glanced at Harvey, "so that my options might be increased." I smiled into her soft brown eyes.
"Oh, Harvey," she squealed and tugged at his sleeve. "Pay attention. You just missed a chance to duel for my honor."
"How perfectly civilized," I tossed at them and turned to a commotion in the foyer -- Colonel Norton was reading a telegram.
When Harvey saw the Colonel bite a knuckle then square his shoulders as if recovering from a blow, he excused himself and with ruffled mane rushed across the room. For a moment we watched the two men tug at the missive, a missile hurled here by some distant mangonel. When Lisa followed Harvey, I was torn between the wiles of the way she walked and role of the military in genetic research.
Finally, when Harvey, with Lisa in tow, left the Colonel and approached the host, shaking his hand as if to take his leave, I wandered over myself.
"Mr. Brady," Harvey asked, "Would you be so kind as to drive us to the airport and bring Lisa back after I have left?"
I pleaded my forgiveness from the host. When I explained my mission as protector of the fair, I was encouraged to go along, by all means.
As we walked toward the exit, Lisa offered an explanation for his sudden departure. "Harvey must return to the lab. There has been a problem with the guinea pigs injected with the serum. Colonel Norton will remain here to allay concern."
Harvey worried aloud, "I think the serum injections should be stopped until the problem is evaluated."
As we stepped out onto the terrace, we were assailed by a sky filled with stars, a sky where planets hung like lanterns above the subdued lights of a city which -- a huge, squirming organism caught in a time warp -- is trying to step through several centuries in a single generation. Inspired by the beauty of the earth around us, Harvey added hotly, "That madman insists on continuing the inoculations."
"What madman?" I got in under the steering wheel while Harvey opened a door for Lisa.
"Colonel Norton," Harvey moaned. When I started the engine, he asked, "How do we get to the airport, Lisa?"
"I know the way," I offered and headed out of town on the paved road to the airport. Because of his prestige in the community, we managed to place Harvey on a plane to Casablanca, where he will make a connection home, and soon stood watching lights of the plane mix with the stars. Like a feather blown away by the warm African wind he was gone.
With the same stars above, I walked Lisa to the car. As we approached the cozy sedan, I asked, "Think we can find our way back?"
"You seem to know your way around," she remarked and turning gracefully slid in the passenger door when I opened it for her.
"Learning one's way around is simple. New experiences are like taking a picture; each moment is an exposure, and you carry the imprint around with you the rest of your life." I started the engine.
"Has your mental camera been taking photographs today?" she wondered aloud.
"Yes, indeed, but I anticipate the most interesting exposures are yet to come."
"Does that make you happy or sad?" she asked. Then assuming a schoolmarm frame of face, explained, "Happiness is pleasant anticipation with a high probability of success, while sadness is pleasant anticipation with a low probability."
"My anticipation is certainly pleasant, but the probability of success is up to you."
"What do I have to do with it?"
"Guess."
"You shouldn't say such things when Harvey is not here to defend my honor." She blushed.
I drove out of the airport lot, starting along the starlit road back to town, where, to change the subject, I empathized with her concern for the project. "I hope Harvey's problem is not too serious."
"Don't worry. Harvey may be blind to what goes on around him, but he is very good at genetic engineering."
I commented, "For some reason, the country people are drawn like moths to the flame of city lights," and pointed to where the little shelters, the homes of the people became more numerous, as we neared the town.
"More like flies to a dump," she shuddered, but her lustrous eyes glowed like embers in a banked fire as we approached an intersection where a few natives lined the roadsides with glowing torches, she whispered, "I'm glad you came along to see me safely back."
As we drove by, I kept a wary eye on the hungry looking lot and asked, "Since I'm learning about demons in Africa, does that mean my options have increased and hence the liberties I might take?"
"Freedom, Paul. The more options you have, the more freedom you have," she said.
I stopped the car at the cross road and stated, "One road goes back to the reception and the other goes to my hotel."
"Ah, HA!" She brightened, delighted to find someone to share her interest in this new, measurable philosophy. "You have a dilemma," she stated the obvious, then explained, "Two equally desirable but mutually exclusive options present a dilemma, but, beware, a dilemma often leads to frustration."
"You wouldn't want me to be frustrated, would you?"
"The recommended procedure for dealing with a frustrating dilemma," I sensed she was still quoting her Professor Jones, "is to make a choice and accept that the other option will be lost forever. You then relax and see if you like your decision," she instructed.
"Great! I'll make a choice and see if you will go along with it." I turned away from the reception and headed toward town.
"Since you're doing the driving, I guess I must let myself be taken where you wish." She emitted an exaggerated sigh.
"Sounds like I have the power to alter your option list," I said and, lifting an arm around her shoulders, drew her closer on the long bench seat.
"Oh, deary me," she giggled, quite out of character, but did not resist.
I stopped the car in the hotel parking lot and turned her face up to mine. Looking into the fawn-like eyes, now half covered by heavy dew-laden lids, I asked, "How long will Harvey be gone?"
I felt her tremble as she mumbled, "At least a week. It takes two days to get out of here and two days to get back and he will have research tests to make. He said the problem was something about the guinea pigs acquiring an Auto Immune Deficiency Syndrome. He nicknamed it AIDS."
"AIDS? You mean all these women they've been inoculating with that population control stuff could lose their immunity to sickness and disease?"
"Even worse, soon after the female hamsters evidence this AIDS, the males also get sick. He said it seems to be something that is sexually transmitted."
"I see," I said. Then worried, "Since we have agreed these primitive people, like the hamsters, have a tendency to copulate copiously, this well intended gesture of foreign aids could possibly precipitate a crisis amongst the entire native population."
"Amongst the native population, yes," she agreed.
Having dismissed the problem as not applying to us, and, happy that the probability of my success seemed to be increasing, I leaned to kiss her upturned lips.
Please send your thoughts to spaceship79@hotmail.com re: foreign aids
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