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.

Maji (Water)

Posting by Jordan

Dear friends,

We have been in Isiolo about a month now and our current task is to visit the different villages to try and understand the main problems affecting the local peoples. Isiolo is a very remote, sparsely populated region of Kenya with so many tribes and languages that it is difficult to keep track of everyone (the main tribes are Boran, Turkana, Samburu and Meru). Fortunately, each tribe has a “center-point” that serves as a meeting place and communication post from where the rest of the village can be called and informed.

We have visited a few center-points now and, although the tribes are very different, the experience is much the same. Since we are partnering with A Wind of Hope in the Arid—one of
the few organizations that has gained the trust and support of all tribes—we are welcomed with much fanfare: boisterous women are inevitably the first to greet us, dressed in the most striking colors, always leading the others in a melee of singing and dancing. We form a circle for a while—us “wuzungu” doing our best to mimic the local flavor—and are eventually pulled into the middle by joyous women who have a great time teaching us the traditional dances. The site of us white wuzungu hopelessly attempting the dance brings a chorus of laughter and we are eventually called to be seated. The group forms another circle, with the 2-3 three elder men sitting to the side, as if to declare their status and uniqueness, and we are welcomed with a prayer and asked to speak.

We question the villagers about the main problems facing their community. Despite the diverse tribes, the answers we are given—just like the welcomings—are also much the same. Indeed, although many communities mention HIV/AIDS, lack of food and run-down schools as problems, there is always one underlying challenge, one root cause that is inevitably mentioned: maji (water), the epitome of what we take for granted in the West. Simply turn a lever, press a
button or twist a hinge and there it is, pure, distilled and ready for consumption. Yet, who of us can imagine walking for hours on end, in the blistering desert heat, with the galling weight of 5-gallon buckets of polluted water on our heads, only to return again the following day? This is the reality for many here in Kenya.

The situation in some villages is ironic: They have the water, they have the land, but they have no way of getting the water to the land. When we visited the Turkana tribe a few days ago they told us: “We don’t want any more hand-outs! No more food! Just find us a way to access the river water and we can start farming.” Indeed, the African villagers understand the principle of sustainability, much more than we ever could.

Isiolo is a region like much of Africa; It straddles the line between desert and savanna. Yes, it is dry… very dry. But only a few miles away there are lush forests and ubiquitous agriculture. If we listen to the scientists, places like Isiolo are becoming even drier, and the weather more extreme. This is what the people see here. Years of drought have decimated crops and livestock, gradually destroying decades of work and preparation. And when the rains finally came, it took the form of the worst floods even the eldest of elders had ever seen, washing away most of the remaining food sources.

So, the people here struggle in desperation. Many in the West know that malnutrition causes emaciation, vulnerability to diseases, brain damage and, eventually, a slow and agonizing death. This is all true. However, the effects on a community are even more devastating: tribes war over cattle and other scarce resources; men and women receiving AIDS medicine are made even worse by the powerful drugs; groups of young men rape women in sad attempts to restore their power; parents sell their young daughters into prostitution in order to put a little food on the table; and whole villages become completely dependent on outside resources.

This latter point—dependence—takes many forms, none of which are beneficial. In one village, a windmill was constructed to pump water from the ground. But, as soon as the windmill stopped working, there was no one to repair it. So it sits there, turning and turning but doing nothing.

In another village, UNICEF told the locals to start digging trenches, promising to return to lay the pipes and bring water to the impoverished community. So, the people worked, around the clock, digging and digging, women and children, men on AIDS medicine, some who even died in the process, hoe in hand, thinking not only of themselves but of the future of their community. One villager mentioned how he didn’t care if he ever saw the water himself, but the thought of his community receiving this life-giving elixir sometime in the future was enough to keep him working. It’s been three years now… The trenches are still there… as are the people… waiting….

This is what makes our work so challenging. All of the false promises have created a palpable atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. But we are slowly being accepted. We try to not make promises we can’t keep, and to listen to the people themselves for solutions to their problems. So far, it looks like we can solve many of the problems with only a few thousand dollars per village: a simple solar or manual water pump with some pipes can bring water from the rivers to the villages, and water-purifying bags that use solar heat can make the water potable. At this point we are researching all of the different options, so please, if anyone has any experience in this area, send us an e-mail and share your thoughts, comments or ideas. Specifically, we are trying to find the cheapest, most efficient way of either transferring river water or extracting ground water.

In the US, we have seen the impact of extreme weather. Hurricane Katrina was an ample reminder of how quickly a city—and a nation—can be brought to its knees. Climate change is something affecting all of us, simply as a result of being residents of the same planet. Yet, it does not affect all of us in the same way. As devastating as Hurricane Katrina was, it does not even compare to the impact that is being felt here in Isiolo, or in other developing countries. In Isiolo the problem is insidious, continuous and worsening, with no relief in sight. In the West we at least have our basic needs met, and I have begun to realize that without this, you can have no peace, no trust, no unity, no prosperity. All of the problems mentioned earlier—the wars, the child prostitution, the HIV/AIDS, the malnutrition, the suspicion—these are not African problems; they are human problems. We would surely act the same way if we were faced with such a situation. The Samburu tribe in Malitano put it very clearly: “If you solve the water problem, you solve all of the problems.”

- jordan

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.