Zimbabwe Road Trip

Way back in 1999, before Survivor, I lived and played professional soccer in Zimbabwe. News from Zimbabwe at that time was quite unsettling. The once thriving economy was starting to plummet and President Robert Mugabe announced that his government would stick to its policy of removing all white farmers from their land. I was fortunate because traveling to this foreign place transformed my life, in a good way. I witnessed beautiful sunsets, wild animals, rich green forests, family dinners and soccer games on every street corner.

But that’s what was happening on the surface, when you dig just a little bit deeper, this is what lies beneath: poverty, broken souls, starvation, bread lines 3 miles long, overcrowded hospitals and the rampant infestation of HIV/AIDS. And the strongest memory I have from Zimbabwe is the massive number of graveyards scattered all over the landscape. I was a rookie soccer star, white and everything I encountered in this new community was special. My team, the Highlanders Football Club of Bulawayo, was a close knit group of young fitness freaks that played soccer with a cut throat winning mentality and a passion for the game I had never experienced during my career in the United States. If we didn’t win, we didn’t get paid, and therefore many of my friends didn’t eat. When it came time to travel to our away matches, the entire team would pile into a tiny white van similar to an old-school Volkswagon camper. We would travel on long dusty roads for hours and I would stare out the window sweating to reggae music on my yellow Sony Walkman.

Along the side of the road I noticed the graveyards because some areas were perfectly organized while other spots were a complete disaster. On one side, the headstones were lined up proud, one right after another, the lawn was green and freshly manicured. The other side, however, was full of simple wooden crosses, some painted white and some just recycled wooden fragments barely nailed together. They were randomly tossed into a penned off area, piled high and overflowing into the street. I asked one of my teammates, “Why are some people buried like this, and others like that?” Thrown off guard and slightly confused he stared back at me, silent. I’m sure he was contemplating the origin of this silly question because the answer was obvious to him. He quietly replied, “that’s where they bury all the people that die of AIDS.” I too, was silenced. To see a physical representation of everyone that had died of this horrible disease was shocking. People were dying, everyone knew why, but no one dared utter that word or do anything about it. This community that I was deeply a part of was being devastated by the accelerating rush of HIV/AIDS and it was like there was some unofficial Zimbabwean gag order not to acknowledge it.

This crowded ride transformed into a more uncomfortable, claustrophobic journey, bordering on unbearable. I began to think about the five months I had been playing in this country and realized that this was the first time I had a conversation about HIV. This bug had invaded the population killing mothers, uncles, teachers and countless others and this car ride to a soccer game was the first I had heard of it — yet here I was smack in the middle of it. So, you know what I did about this helpless feeling? NOTHING. I shelved it, I put it in the back of my mind and I fell deep into this prevailing culture of silence and denial. I was convinced that HIV/AIDS was not my problem. I was just a visitor in a land far away and figured someone else would deal with it. I was afraid to speak to my teammates about it and remained mute.

When I returned to the United States at the end of the season and shared my stories of the graveyards and what they represented, I caught myself referring to HIV/AIDS as “it.” Even in this article I refer to it as “it.”  All of a sudden I was no longer on the sidelines watching HIV/AIDS destroy lives, I was an active part of the problem. That simple road trip to a soccer game opened my eyes to a whole new way of thinking. To sit back and do nothing is also to act, so act positively by enabling things to happen and not just letting them happen. Zimbabweans are not responsible for the spread of HIV/AIDS, the world is. And until the world makes a concerted effort to curb this issue, HIV/AIDS will continue to navigate its way into the foundation of every tribe around the world.

I’m not trying to be the voice of gloom and doom, just the opposite really. I want to ignite a spark, piss you off about the injustice and start a revolution of consciousness. Just because this disease is not front page news and it’s not World AIDS Day, it doesn’t mean we can't support our fellow man — our teammates — in the game for their lives. If we all make a conscious effort to initiate change in this world, imagine what life could be like, imagine how happy we could be and imagine the gift we could give to people who could use our help.

Photos courtesy of Alice Keeney. www.alicekeeneyphotography.com