Busy with the World

-Bryce

Traveling again. I’m racing along the tarmac in a taxi with James, a 17 year old back at Pepo for a break from Secondary school. To my right is Goolo, the cab driver. Not a word had been spoken in 20 minutes. We all know the deal. We’re headed to Kambi Garba.

Part of what I’m doing at Pepo La Tumaini is helping to fill in the gaps in their capacity. In this case they need photos. APHIA II EASTERN, the East Africa branch of USAID, has required photos for all the children they give Antiretroviral Aids medicine to. A seemingly small demand, except Pepo doesn’t have a camera. Nor do any of these 899 children have photos available. 28 are registered in Kambi Garba. Not bad I thought.

This is my third trip to Kambi Garba in four days. It’s a small dusty dry village with nomadic tribes. Thorns tangle around dirt yards, hiding dilapidated shacks and the occasional camel. Residents are largely Borana, Somali, and Turkana. None of whom have the friendliest history toward one another.


The first journey resulted in five photos of registered children and 15 photos of children who have been orphaned since the registration list was made. Some street kids threw rocks at us while we got a tour of the local water sources.

“Trash water” Sarafina Kamaro calls it. She’s a community Elder and our contact in Kambi Garba, “Look, it’s full of trash.”

It is. Isiolo river travels through a military base, several villages, then town before here. The water has a stink to it.

“We drink the water, then we get sick. Stomach aches.” She goes on.

“You don’t’ boil it?”

“No,” she answers looking back at the mile walk to her home.


She takes us to a small spring in the side of the river. It’s tucked away in a rocky hole only small enough for a small water bottle. A young girl of about 8 sticks her hand in the hole fills the bottle and empties it into a 10 liter jerry can weighing about 30 pounds when full. It takes awhile.

A day later, the second trip resulted in four photos. Only one of them from the register.
I’m remembering all this when the cab swerves to avoid a herd of goats. Goolo doesn’t flinch. He just turns up the radio. Somali music, I’m thinking.

About 30 minutes after leaving Isiolo town we arrive at the end of the tarmac. This is where the road ends in Kenya. From here it’s dirt roads all the way to Somalia. Small buses shoot like bullets out of the desert leaving dust like vapor trails.

It reminds me of a friend in the U.S., a Somali refugee. He told me with a chuckle, “After the soldiers had killed my family I walked to Kenya. Then they told us to leave. So I walked to Ethiopia. When it got bad there, I walked back to Kenya. You can never take a car! You’ll get shot!” He had the biggest grin on his face.

But the present is different here and construction has begun again on the tarmac. Large hills of gravel and sand loom over a newly leveled path fading into the distance. Children wave from atop the mounds. The Kenyan government is extending the road to some nearby tourist destinations, safari parks and the like. For a while longer, the road still ends in Isiolo.

James and I get out of the taxi and pay Goolo. He nods and speeds away.

We go down some small dirt paths off the main road. They wind to and fro. The thorn fences rise and create a tunnel over us. We have to walk in single file.

“They are called Panya routes. We are panya here!” James lets out with a smile.

“Panya?” I ask.

“Rats! We are rats.”

A tattered looking woman stands roadside as if waiting for us. We ask her for directions and she takes us the rest of the way. Sarafina’s home is a bit of an orphanage. Five women saunter about doing various chores and tending to children. There are near 20 children in various states of disarray. A good number of the Kambi Garba youth are in school, but these children are simply around. They range from 6 months to 10 years. We exchange greetings and start going over who is left on the list.


Selina Nawatan: Nomads School
Shadrak Ekidor: Moved to a different district
Zainabu: Lives in Shambani
Christine Engngiri: Lives in Shambani
Lokale Goko: New Life School
Akuta Ngoko: Has gone on a journey
Kebo Akwara : unknown…

10 more are living in Shambani, a small village just across the river.

“Can we go?” I ask.

The yard erupts with chatter. Women with babies on their backs and hips, old grandmas who can barley walk, a drunken woman from the street jumps in the fray.

“They will not take us,” James translates. “They say the people there are so much for money. They say to forget the children there and just take care of the ones here.”

As I surmise and later confirm with the Chief of the area, Kambi Garba and Shambani have a long standing grudge. No one is clear why, but I’ve grown to suspect water issues. Whatever the problem, they’re not taking or letting us go there.


After taking about 10 photos, we hear yelling from a group running down a road 100 feet off.

“Wait here,” Sarafina lets out then runs off leaving us with a drunk woman demanding I take her photo.

James and I guess it’s another illegal alcohol raid. Walking through Isiolo town this morning, we caught glimpses of some police raids at some local changa huts. Changa being the Kenyan equivalent of moonshine. It’s cheap and poisonous. I know of at least one person who used it to commit suicide.

We eventually make our way to the confusion. Someones cut a camel with a machete. A Turkana man has slashed the leg of an eight-foot camel. There is an angry crowd and some official looking individuals. The camel sits on the ground bleeding. Another stands by its side chewing lethargically. Three weeks later I find out the man who slashed the camel meant to feed his family with it.

A child from the list is at the scene. Another picture taken and name crossed out.

Half an hour later, James and I are walking down the tarmac. We’re heading to New Life. A primary school a kilometer outside of Kambi Garba. We need a photo of a single attending student. The sun beats down and we share a water bottle.

“So what are you doing after school?” I ask.

“Where or what?” James responds.

“Both.”

“I’d like to be… a doctor or a journalist. Yes, I’d very much like to be a journalist!”

My ears perk.

“Yes. I’m even secretary in the journalist club at school. I love it very much. …I’m very interested in people from everywhere. Ai, those journalists get to know things. They are always so very busy with the world!”


A police wagon roars down the tarmac. It’s carrying several of the people from the camel incident. It kicks up dust and we’re alone again.

After another ten minutes we reach New Life School. The gate is chained. Dried plants line the fence. Inside it’s a ghost town. Dusty and empty.

“You. Is the school open?” James calls out to a child milling about near the road.

“Closed,” the kid responds.

“Closed for everything?” I ask.


James gives a questioning shrug, looking a little hopeless. We stand there for a moment soaking in the sun then head back to Kambi Garba.

Sarafina explains she’ll arrange with the child later. We then find out the ride we expected isn’t coming. And we haven’t enough for a taxi or bus. It’s about a eight kilometer walk back to town. We’ve hitchhiked before, but it’s just police and army vehicles today. Not ideal.

A little ways down the road a hulking tour bus rolls by. It’s a 12 wheel, 20 foot high, yellow and green vehicle. More commonly used to help the army traverse rivers. The tired looking tourists look down from a high.

20 photos down 879 to go. I know I’m not going to finish taking the pictures. And I know Pepo won’t either. The occasional volunteer might have the camera and the time. Each of the 899 children need a daily activity report as well. That’s 899 pages a day from a largely illiterate community.


James and I walk past the construction at the end of the road and back towards town. We spend most of our time talking and dreaming of cool milk or water. We go back and forth about whether soda is good for quenching thirst. But neither of us really care what we're going find in town. Really anything would do.

Care Givers

Posted by Bryce

The rocks make the path look more like a riverbed than a road. The ambulance and its five passengers clunk along at 5 miles per hour. We occasionally smash our heads on the roof and windows. Seated in the front is Fatuma, a Home Based Care giver; next to her is Rupert, a volunteer from England here at Pepo La Tumaini Jangwani (Pepo) for the second time; in the back snuggled amongst our cargo are Peter and Raphael, two Orphans living at the Pepo Transitional Living Camp; and myself, just another volunteer today, but in my head a photojournalist without a camera!

The boys and I joke, as we clunk along to the directions from Fatuma. She is from the area we are headed. It is a small section of Isiolo town, where a number of people suffering from HIV/AIDS are interspersed throughout the community. Fatuma is one of 79 Home Based Care givers aiding Pepo to provide food and care to those incapable of helping themselves. In the month of September alone, the volunteer based organization was able to provide such care to 794 individuals. Today is just a fraction of that. It’s also an example of the context this care takes place in.

Already drawing a large crowd, we stop in front of a dilapidated wooden fence and exit the back of the vehicle. I hop out and the boys start to hand me the small bags of supplies we’ve prepared. Rice, wheat, flour, cooking oil, sugar and a few others are all tied neatly into clear plastic bags. There is no mistaking we’re delivering a fair amount of quality food. In the eyes of onlookers, it is food that’s going to someone who would or should have been died already. We're getting as many glares as curious and excited glances.

This communal divide, acceptance of Pepo’s mission and anger over their use of resources has been with the organization from the beginning. Whether with angry religious groups in the past or local law enforcement in present. Not a week prior, a police officer was voicing this to Pepo’s Director, Khadija O. Rama in front of a 14 year old boy with Aids. “Why do you help them? They have Aids and deserve to be dead already,“ he criticized, speaking loudly enough for everyone around to hear.

Looking into the crowd now, I get the feeling that the same sentiment is running through some onlookers. Fatuma’s curt actions and lack of eye contact seem to confirm this. We carry the parcels of food to a wooden gate. Before we enter, a woman dressed in a torn black shirt approaches us and angrily asks, “Na meme?” Meaning, “and me?” Fatuma ignores her and I follow suit. Inside are two rectangular homes and lying between is a small shack. We’re greeted by a woman in her 20’s. She chats with Fatuma in kiswahili. Then, like the clumsy American I must look, I drop a bag from my tower of food. It explodes on the ground showering the dirt with dry beans. I give Fatuma a shameful look and let out, “ pole sana.” “Very sorry,” a phrase I’ve learned well. She gives me an indecipherable look and disappears into the shack. I sheepishly help the young lady blow the dirt off the beans and land then in another bag.

The inside of the shack is dark and cluttered. A bed lies on the side on which an elderly lady props herself. She’s thin, ill, and anywhere from 85 to 300 years old near as I can tell. We greet with a handshake and talk as Fatuma translates. She explains her name is Khadija as well and doesn’t know her age. She’s been in Isiolo for more than 40 years and calls it home. We're not sure where she has come from. It’s a short conversation. Khadija takes a breath and gives us a tired smile. Fatuma gives me a glance and it's time to go. We exchange goodbyes.

Back at the ambulance the crowd still lingers. The boys open the back and I climb in. Laughing, Peter says something in kiswahili while pointing outside. Raphael translates, “You want ride on the outside of the car? Hold on the back?” I give them a smirk and egg them on. “You want me to?” I get up and make to open the back door. In unison they jump up and shout in a half laugh, “No! No! Don't!” They realize I'm joking as well and laugh. “Don't do that!” Raphael tells me, “ You'll get stoned!” I raise my eyebrow and they giggle. The vehicle jerks forward and clunks along. Raphael stares out his open window, then closes it tight.

We make several more stops, including one to an exuberant woman in a wheelchair living in a complex of about 40 Borana men seeming to be getting ready for mosque. Eventually we run out of food and return to the Pepo compound for more. A number of the transitional living children and home bases care givers are organizing and packing food in a concrete sitting area. They laugh hurriedly as O. Rama teases them with orders to hurry because people are hungry. It's during this time that I realize the emotional contrasts. At any given location we can be a welcomed sight or a hated presence. One moment, I'm being told off by a girl of around 15: the next Nasir Mohammed, the program coordinator and Christopher, a Danish volunteer speed by. Their motorcycle chugging under the weight of its food parcels. They wave, then zip around a corner, which immediately erupts with a herd of panicked goats. Five minutes later, I'm meeting another grateful recipient. It's all a bit of a blur.

But it's easy to understand why a food distribution can cause such varied welcomes. In Isiolo those living below the poverty line vastly over shadow the 10 percent Aids prevalence rate. So deciding who receives aid is a complicated matter. Each individual receiving home based care must go through a rigorous application so someone else can decide whether Pepo is able to support them. Indeed, it's not as if Pepo has this food regularly. This distribution only came when an organization operating under USAID, delivered the food supplies. Without meeting the informational requirements Pepo wouldn't be able to help the individuals at all. So the question of who gets support is always so simple to ask, but difficult to answer. In a poverty stricken area like Isiolo, it's hard to discern those with wealth and those who have only the will to obtain the resources to help. Of the 794 home based care recipients, this day’s shipment will reach less than 40 individuals. It's a figure that is sometimes hard for the community to see. Pepo isn’t saving the day, it’s just helping to get through it.

Dealing with this situation is a regular routine. It is just more pronounced when Pepo has to make such a large appearance. But in the end, we exhaust the supplies without much incident. Our day now over, the ride slowly ends. Peter and Raphael stick their heads out the windows to shout and wave at some schoolmates passing the vehicle. I’m tired and wary of the fact that we have violated the Ambulance donor’s usage agreement. It is to be used to help children and the sick to the hospital, not help them in general. We stop in the middle of a deserted road and Fatuma hops out. We open the back door and hand her the last of the remaining bags. Wheat, flour, beans, rice, sugar, cooking oil, salt, and a small box of tea bags are her incentive for the past month of home based care work. “My home is near” she informs. She gives another indistinguishable look, then lets out a sly and knowing smile. I realize all my revelations today are just old news to her. Fatuma heads off and so do we.

The Basics

Posting by Bryce

The wind in Isiolo isn't a force of nature, it's a movement of human will. It rolls through the desert with all our intents...whether they wish harm, give hope or await for either.
On our third day at Pepo la Tumaini Jangwani we took part in a food distribution. Maize was given to some local tribes whose land was unfarmable due to lack of water. It was amazing to see how happy the people were to receive a few pounds of dry food. We soon learned that this experience was a precursor to a coming crisis. That same day UNICEF called a surprise security meeting
to inform Pepo of policy changes.
For the past two and a half years UNICEF has been providing food to over a thousand households through Pepo la Tumaini.
This constant supply has lead to a dependence on UNICEF. The policy change has dictated that the food be no longer supplied to those over five years of age. Hence, the food these people have depended on is gone.
To compound the problem, the Kenyan government has been giving out free AIDS medicine, which requires proper nutrition to work properly. Given the UNICEF support, Pepo la Tumaini put a large number of HIV/AIDS patients on the medicine. Now, with the pulling out of nutritional support, the majority of the patients will relapse causing an uncontainable amount of severe AIDS cases numbering in the thousands.
The looming crisis helped to remind us that we can only move forward if
our most basic needs are met. Having made relationships with the
people who will soon be left in the wind and its intents, I'm coming
to a realization. I have found the sense of injustice that fuels so many
documentary photographers.
I've heard the people of Isiolo referred to as the forgotten people.
Driving to their camps, I might have believed it. But when we saw how
they cared for each other and the positive change Pepo la Tumaini is
bringing, we realize that they have only been forgotten by the
affluent. We can so easily forget the trust that interpersonal
connection brings and the ease at which human dignity can be violated
by turning one another into statistics.
Over the past few days, I've come to understand the importance of
community based efforts. Only by being one of the people you are
helping do you understand their needs. The work at Pepo la Tumaini
Jangwani is both inspiring and heartbreaking. Everyday Khadija and
the other volunteers come to terms with the mortality of hope. And
everyday they find that moment of happiness from the people they help.
It's a moment that is just as meaningful as any report, but as
intangible as the wind.