3. Contagions

Botswana

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There’s only one place in Africa where four nations’ borders come together—the “Four Corners.” There, in the middle of the Zambezi River, the borders of Zimbabwe, Zambia, Namibia, and Botswana all converge a little upriver from Victoria Falls. To its west lies Chobe National Park, a flooded water world that is home to the largest elephant herd in Africa, which is estimated to number more than one hundred twenty thousand. It’s a crossroads for animals and people—and contagions.

Scott’s Story

I was with my guide in Chobe and we were watching a large elephant herd pass before us when I asked him my favorite question, “What’s the strangest thing you have ever seen?”

“It’s a tie,” he replied. “But both were caused by contagions. One I can tell you about, and the second I can still show you.”

“Let’s start with the telling,” I said.

“I was with some young, rich Englishmen on a safari, and all of them were very drunk. We were off the beaten path, driving along the Chobe River, when we came across a huge hippo, dead and decaying on the bank. Dead animals in Chobe were common. What was strange was the scavengers were missing. No crocodiles. No hyenas. No jackals. Not even vultures. Usually, there would be scores of them. That’s when I knew that something wasn’t right.

“We pulled up next to the carcass to take a closer look. As soon as we stopped, the Englishmen all bounded out of the Land Rover. I yelled for them to come back to the vehicle. They refused. Then the drunkest one climbed up on top of the bloated hippo, flexing his biceps, and posing for pictures. No sooner had the camera clicked than the skin of the animal gave way beneath him. In an instant, half the Englishman had disappeared into the hippo carcass. He sank all the way up to his belly button.

“‘Help me,’ he screamed. But his friends thought it was all hilarious. They pointed and laughed and snapped pictures as the Englishman struggled to climb out of the hippo, rolling onto the dusty ground. He was covered with black blood and rot and smelled even worse than he looked. I brought the Englishman a towel and told the others to stay away from him. Then I radioed for a ranger.

“When the Chobe ranger arrived, he walked around the hippo, carefully inspecting its mouth, nostrils, and anus.

“‘Do you see the blood coming from the orifices?’ asked the ranger.

“I nodded.

“Then he said the dreaded word, ‘Anthrax.’

“Even the young Englishmen knew what that meant. The ranger took the Englishman away in the bed of his truck. They went straight to the nearest hospital for disinfectant and antibiotics. All of us were given protective doses, too, just in case.”

The second half of my guide’s story came later that evening, as we drove toward Victoria Falls. He started by showing me the Four Corners ferry crossing, where semi-trucks were lined up for miles waiting their turn. The villages around the crossing catered to the delayed drivers’ every need. They sold beer and food, and well, other things, too.

My guide took me for a walk through the nearest village. Kids surrounded us and pulled at our shirtsleeves.

“Look around,” said my guide. “What’s wrong with this village?”

I took in the scene. Kids, and more kids. And some old people here and there.

“Where are their parents?” I asked.

“They are missing,” explained my guide. “You see, the women here used to sell themselves to the truck drivers. The truck drivers gave them AIDS, and then they infected their husbands.”

He walked me across the other side of the village to its cemetery. Rows and rows of fresh graves climbed the hillside.

“There are the parents,” he said.

This was one of the AIDS villages, where almost everyone was wiped out. The year was 2005—when AIDS deaths peaked at more than two million annually.

“There are many ways to die in Africa,” said my guide.