On this day a year ago, a young woman lay dying, in a cold and spartan house

On this day a year ago, a young woman lay dying, in a cold and spartan house, in a village in South Africa’s remote Eastern Cape Province. AIDS had eaten into her body; she weighed less than four and half stone. Her limbs ached so much that she could barely leave her bed. Her mouth was infected with the thrush that makes it agonising to swallow food. Her name was Prudence Radebe and she was resigned to her fate.
    Today, Prudence is still alive. In fact, she is so full of life that it’s hard to believe just how sick she was. Her weight has shot back up, to sixty-one kilograms. Her skin is smooth and shiny. She carries buckets of water from the well up the hill with no difficulty. And, every so often, she likes to do stretching exercises on the little patch of land behind her house.
    Prudence knows why she is still alive. "Anti-retroviral drugs saved my life", she says, matter-of-factly. I first met her in February last year, when she started taking anti-retrovirals. Since then, I’ve been travelling down to the Eastern Cape every two months to follow her progress. We do a lot of AIDS stories in this part of the world—but not many like this—with a happy ending. Prudence is a clever, cheerful woman, with a loving family—her recovery leaves me with a warm feeling, it shows there is hope amidst the dark, overwhelming despair of the AIDS pandemic.
    Prudence is, above all, lucky. She’d heard that the charity Medecins Sans Frontieres had started an anti-retroviral project in a nearby town, and she applied for treatment. A fluke of geography, if you like—there are almost a million HIV positive people in the Eastern Cape, and only 4,000 are receiving free anti-retrovirals. But Prudence is not just lucky—she had to convince the doctors that she was serious and dedicated. She had to learn about all the complexities of the drugs which she now needs to take every single day for the rest of her life. She discovered that she might build up resistance if she does not take them properly, and that they can have painful side-effects. Today she has the zeal of a convert, her language is peppered with the terminology of AIDS treatment CD4 count, viral-load, voluntary testing, nevirapine.
    If Prudence took you round her village, you would realise just how fortunate she is. This is one of the most beautiful parts of South Africa—thatched huts cling to the steep, green hillsides, and children’s voices echo across the valleys. But it’s a landscape that is haunted by death. Prudence is surrounded by tragedy. I fear the worst for her neighbour, Nontandozela, who’s been in bed for the past six months, too weak to stand. Nontandozela’s sister, Victoria, was also sick and lying in the bed on the other side of the room. Four months ago Victoria died. Nontandozela’s daughters watch in silence. Their faces betray no emotions, but I can’t imagine their fear. The men in the family; the fathers of these young girls have drifted away; nobody knows how to contact them. And nobody has enough money to pay for a taxi to take Nontandozela to the clinic where Prudence started her treatment. If nothing happens, Nontandozela’s days are numbered.