The only way of dealing with it was not to think too hard but simply to do one task after another: to do one thing and then to do the next thing.
O’Rourke, Henry, Muhammad, Betty and I gathered by the vehicles. There were somewhere between ten and twenty thousand people on the plain. The sun was breaking through the dust now and there were thick shafts of light, like girders, lighting up great areas of the people.
“This place is just asking for epidemic,” said O’Rourke.
We decided that, while Muhammad and I started on the rehydration and feeding, Henry would check that the water supplies were clean, and set up defecation zones. Betty would organize measles immunization. O’Rourke and Debbie would start a clinic for the worst cases.
“What about the broadcast?” said Betty. It was one-thirty. We were due on air at four o’clock.
“Those forty tons of food are not going to last long here,” said O’Rourke.
Oliver and Julian were still standing staring at the crowd. I made my way over to Oliver. “Come on,” I said. “Come on. You have to go and organize the broadcast. You have got to make it work. Take the Land Cruiser back to the satellite dish and tell them what you’ve seen.”
He looked at me blankly.
“Go on, Oliver,” I said.
Corinna was walking towards us. She was wiping her eyes and looked as though she was pulling herself together.
I looked at Oliver. He was still staring around helplessly.
Muhammad came and joined us. He placed a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and took him a little way away, talking to him.
“I’ll help,” said Corinna. “Tell me what I can do.”
I asked her to drive back to where we had left the food lorries and bring them back here.
“Ask them to wait outside the mountains till we’re ready. Will you be all right with the four-wheel drive?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“I could ask Henry to go instead.”
“No. I’ll be fine. You need him here.”
“Wait, look, I’ll come with you,” said Julian.
“You stay here,” she said. “It doesn’t need two of us.”
“Tell me what I can do,” said Julian.
“We need to organize the food next,” I said.
After a while Oliver and Muhammad came back. Oliver looked better and said he would drive back to the satellite dish and start working out what we should do.
The village headmen were gathering around Muhammad.
“Will these men organize the distribution?” I asked Muhammad.
“Yes, of course.”
I looked around trying to work out where we could start. “Are the people in any sort of grouping?”
“Yes. They have tried to stay in their villages.”
“How many villages are represented here?” I asked.
He spoke to the men again.
“Perhaps five hundred villages.”
“We’ll start with the under-fives. And the most serious cases. And we’ll set up a feeding center here and rehydrate them at the same time. Then maybe we can start getting food out to the rest later.”
“We must feed the mothers too,” said Muhammad.
“Yes, we’ll feed the person who comes with the child.”
“I will talk to the headmen,” said Muhammad. “They will organize it.”
I was trying not to imagine anything except what was before us, and not to imagine it getting worse so as not to let dread come out or panic. I looked around for Julian, and said that we needed to build three enclosures out of stones.
“Yes, right, good,” said Julian, bending down to pick up a large stone. “Here?” He looked as though he was ready to do it himself, single-handed.
“We have to get some people together to help.”
I started to ask the people around us, the ones who were strong enough, but it was hard to explain what we wanted to do.
“What are the enclosures for?” said Julian. And I told him we needed separate areas for the immunization, for giving out the high-energy biscuits and for feeding the really bad cases with a wet ration.
“We need walls round them so everything stays under control,” I said, but I didn’t know if that were possible, since there were so many desperate people. Then Julian started miming out what was to be done, which made the people laugh in spite of what was happening but they understood and started gathering the stones. A man came up who spoke some English and that helped us, because then the Keftians could take over the organization. We were working on the area which was immediately to the right when you entered the mountains, so it would be easy to unload the trucks. Soon about three hundred people were collecting stones and starting to build the walls.
I kept looking over to where all the vehicles were parked at the end of the rocky corridor. The television crew were milling around agitatedly. A thick cable was lying along the track, and they were frantically attaching more to the end of it. Oliver kept driving up and down the corridor, going back to the satellite dish. They were like wasps going in and out of a nest.
At three forty-five the enclosures were built, and each one was crammed with children and sick people, sitting or lying on the earth, waiting in lines. The village leaders were arriving all the time with new cases, supporting them or carrying them. Every so often a group of people would suddenly run in one direction, because some of the food had been spilled and everyone would scrabble on the ground, picking up whatever they could find, and eating it. Outside the walls there were crowds of people, pressing forward, looking in. There was the sound of high agitated voices above the wailing. It was difficult to keep calm because outside the walls people were crowded a dozen deep, holding out their children to us to show us that they were dying and begging us to let them in. Fights were breaking out, because it was so unfair to be on the wrong side of the wall.
I kept looking at my watch, then down at the camera crew, but the situation still seemed the same. People kept driving off down the corridor and coming back again. I couldn’t understand what was going on. I thought Corinna and Julian should be down there, rehearsing by now, but they were in the next enclosure, helping with the distribution of the biscuits.
“I think I’d better go down and find out what’s happening,” I said to Muhammad.
As I walked across the slope towards the vehicles, Oliver was coming up to meet me. “It’s not working,” he said, as soon as he was close enough. His face was screwed up in a scowl, self-pitying.
“Why not?” I said, swallowing hard.
“There’s a problem with the dish.”
“What?”
“It’s got dented.”
“Dented?” I was blinking very quickly. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. They reckon a stone must have hit it when they were driving.”
“Is there anything they can do?”
“They’re trying to hammer it out but it’s a delicate job. It has to be absolutely smooth.”
“Will they do it, do you think?”
“To be honest, Rosie, we’re stymied.”
I rubbed my forehead frantically. We didn’t have enough food. There was another Circle Line plane waiting at Stansted. It could be loaded and here in twenty-four hours. We could have airlifts every other day till the crisis was over, but not if there was no broadcast. The lives of all these many thousands of people actually depended on a piece of television equipment which was dented. It seemed a stupid way for the world to be but there we had it. And now there was only half an hour to go.
“Do you know what you’re going to do in the program, if they can get it working?” I said.
“Yes. I’ve worked that out at least,” he said.
“Don’t you need Corinna and Julian here? Where’s Kate?”
“She’s in the Land Cruiser. There’s no point bothering with her.”
I looked over. She was sitting sobbing, pulling at her hair.
“Yes, you might as well send Corinna and Julian down. But you carry on with the feeding. I think that’s going to be more use, to be honest. We’ll call you if we have any joy.”
I tried to carry on but it was very hard to concentrate. I knew that we had just one hour between five and six to blast this horror out to the world and it was our only chance. But there was nothing I could do.
At ten minutes to four, a shout went up from the camera crew. I saw the cameraman starting to point the camera at Julian and Corinna. Corinna was looking towards me, giving a thumbs-up. I stuck my fist in the air, made my way out of the enclosure and started running towards them. As I drew close, panting and stumbling over the stones, Oliver roared out of the corridor in the Land Cruiser.
“We can’t get the fucking signal,” he was shouting as he strode across the sand. “The dish is working but we can’t get the signal. We’re in the shadow of the fucking mountain. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking Vernon. We should have stayed where we were.” He was banging one fist against the other, striding around, uselessly. It was five past four now. The show would be on the air in England, with no link from Nambula.
“Muhammad,” Oliver said suddenly, “is there any way of getting a vehicle higher up?”
“Yes, there is a track but it is very steep. If you go out and follow the edge of the mountain to your left, you will find it after two hundred yards.”
“Where does the track lead to?” said Oliver. “Is there anywhere we can drop the cable down?”
Muhammad pointed to the mountains above the enclosures, squinting into the sun. They were almost sheer: great curves of red rock. “The road is climbing up there on the outside behind the ridge, but you will find there is a place where you can look over the plain. Perhaps you can throw the cable down there, above where they have built the enclosures.”
“OK,” said Oliver, already striding towards the vehicles. “I’ll go up there with some of the lads. Get the camera over there in the feeding center and we’ll drop the cable down to you.”
At twenty past four, with forty minutes to go before the broadcast ended, Julian and Henry were waiting at the foot of the mountains, holding the end of the cable, looking up, hopefully, surrounded by crowds of Keftians. The rest of us were a hundred yards away on the other side of the wall, inside the wet rations enclosure. We were working out where the camera should be, and what we should do. I kept looking around the plain at all the people and thinking how much we had wanted this not to happen. We had brought the cameras to it too late, and still we couldn’t make the program work. A man came up and spoke to Muhammad, and he looked as though he was going to collapse.
“Huda is here,” he said. “Will you come with me?”
It was Huda Letay, the woman he had asked me to find up in Kefti. Muhammad was kneeling beside her, holding her hand, moving the blanket higher over her chest to where the bones of her shoulders stuck out through the skin. Her hair was reddening and frizzy, only clumps of it remaining because of the marasmus. At the other side, Huda’s mother was holding her twin babies. They were screaming and the skin was wrinkling on their legs because there was no muscle underneath. They were about a year old, two little boys, with big eyes. When they stopped crying they had grumpy expressions, which were very appealing. Huda was lying with her head back, her bulging eyes staring up at the sky, moving her head from side to side. I think she knew who Muhammad was because as he spoke to her she made a little noise.
I turned back to see what was happening on the mountain. Julian and Henry were clambering up the boulders which lay at the bottom holding their end of the cable, and looking up all the time. The rock rose in a clear, smooth sweep above them. Then the mountain fell back through another area of boulders and loose rocks, before rising up in a perfectly smooth shoulder to the summit. High above us, standing at the top of the loose rocks, were Oliver and one of the crew boys. Two more of the boys appeared round the side of the rock carrying a large coil of cable on a metal frame.
It was going to be difficult to get the cable down to the sheer drop, unless they carried it over the area of loose rocks, but that was steep and looked as though it would shift if they walked on it. Oliver joined the men bending over the cable and I watched as they started lifting something. They brought it a few feet off the ground and started swinging it. They swung, once, twice, three times, and then they threw it. It was a boulder in a net. It bounced down over the loose rocks, dragging the cable behind it, towards the sheer drop. As it bounced it loosened the rocks below which were falling with it. Six feet from the edge it stuck behind a pinnacle of rock. An avalanche of stones began to roar over the precipice, crashing down onto the rocks below, making the people scatter.
Oliver started to make his way, gingerly, down over the loose rocks and boulders towards where the cable was stuck. Suddenly a whole section began to move underneath him. He was sliding with it towards the sheer drop. Corinna screamed.
More stones were falling over the edge now, Oliver was grabbing with his hands, trying to get a hold, then he flung himself sidewards and caught hold of the pinnacle, kicking at its base. He clung on, as the rocks rushed beneath him over the edge, and as they fell, among them was the boulder attached to the cable, which was snaking down the drop now.
Oliver was still clinging to the pinnacle. I couldn’t see what was happening at the bottom of the mountain, because the refugees were all crowding around. Suddenly there was a commotion behind us. I turned and saw the cameraman blundering towards us, pointing the camera. Corinna was following. “Go go go,” said the cameraman to no one in particular. “Go. We’ve got the link. Go go go. Go go go. Twenty seconds. Stand by.”
The soundman was holding out an electronic box and an earpiece. I grabbed the electronic box, shoved it in Muhammad’s hand, and the earpiece in his ear. The cameraman pointed the camera at Muhammad and the soundman picked up the boom and held it over Muhammad. “You are on a wide shot, yes?” Muhammad said to the cameraman coolly. “If you raise your hand when you are ready for me to speak I will speak.”
I glanced at my watch. Ten to five.
“Ten seconds till they come to us,” said the cameraman.
“A really wide shot first,” ordered Muhammad, “so that the viewers can see the whole plain.”
I could hear angry voices coming out of his earpiece.
“But I am the man on the spot,” said Muhammad indignantly. “You must play music over the wide shot then fade it when you come to me. You have music there?”
There was more angry shouting from his earpiece.
“They want one of the celebrities,” said the cameraman. “Corinna, come on love where are you?”
“Let Muhammad do it,” Corinna said.
The cameraman looked at her.
“Let Muhammad do it,” she said again.
“Yes, let him do it,” said Julian.
I looked up at the mountain. Oliver was slowly hauling himself back up towards the crew on the end of a rope.
Muhammad was speaking to Huda and her mother, and watching the camera out of the corner of his eye. The camera was panning round the feeding center as Muhammad had ordered. Huda was weak, but listening to what he was saying, nodding slowly. The cameraman started to raise his hand and Muhammad looked at Huda for a count of two then slowly turned to stare straight into the lens.
“Nearly twenty years ago,” he began, “Dr. Henry Kissinger made a proclamation to the World Food Program in Rome. ‘We must,’ he said, ‘proclaim a bold objective: that within a decade, no child will go to bed hungry. That no family will fear for its next day’s bread. And that no human being’s future and capacity will be stunted by malnutrition.’”
He paused, and helped Huda to sit up higher.
“For six weeks now, the United Nations, the EEC, the aid agencies and the Western governments have known that tens of thousands of people in the highlands of Kefti had no more food. They knew that they were traveling here to seek help, walking day and night with empty stomachs, watching their children and old folk die on the way. The Keftian people were starving to death as they walked but still traveling in hope that they would find sustenance here on the borders of Nambula. And what have the UN done in that time? What have the Western governments sent? What is waiting for these people here? Nothing.”
He gestured out towards the plain and the cameraman followed his arm.
“Year after year you have seen—and you will see—pictures like these on your screens. Year after year your governments, your organizations, with their grain mountains and colossal budgets, fail to help us in time. Year after year, you, the ordinary people like us, are asked to reach into your pockets to save us when it is too late. And now we are asking you to save us again. Why?”
He turned to Huda.
“This is Dr. Huda Letay, who was my college friend when we studied economics together at the University of Esareb.”
He waited for the camera to find her. Huda’s head was rolling on the earth. Her mouth was open as if in a scream.
“She is twenty-seven.”
Muhammad reached round and put his arm behind her shoulders. He beckoned the microphone to come closer. Huda’s mother laid the twins beside her. And Huda raised her head to speak. “These are my children,” she said, in a voice that was scarcely a whisper. “One week ago their sister has died of hunger. Four days ago their brother the same.”
The soundman was looking at the cameraman, trying to get the boom lower, closer to her head.
“Yesterday their father too.”
She was leaning closer to the camera now, staring straight into the lens. A movement caught my eye. Kate Fortune was standing behind the camera, gesticulating, wearing her peach turban.
“Half the world is rich and half the world is poor,” Huda continued. “I am not resentful of you, who live in that rich half, only I wish that I and my children live there too.”
She paused to cough. The babies had begun to cry, and the soundman was still trying to get the boom closer.
“I was born in the wrong half of the world,” she said. Her voice was hoarse now. “I do not wish to die. And if I must die I do not want to die like this, without dignity, lying in the dirt like a beast.” She started to cough, and closed her eyes, leaning back against Muhammad’s arm. He eased her up a little, whispering to her.
She opened her eyes again and lifted her head. “I was born on one side of the line and you on the other. I will die here. My children and my people need food and so I must abase myself and beg.” The coughing overcame her again. “We need help from everywhere and every place. Really we need that help. Not for to dance or to feel . . . comfortable, only to live.”
And then her eyes closed and she sank back against Muhammad’s arm again, coughing, then lying still as he stroked her head.