From
Rabuor, Kenya
Editor's Note: If you click on any of the photos included in this article, a new window will open giving a larger, clearer format of the photograph.
Loss. Kara graciously asked me to write about my experience in Rabuor, Kenya for her online publication. I was there on assignment documenting through video, stills and words, what exactly 11 million AIDS orphans really looks like, feels like.
What did that feel like? It is really hard for me to go there without fighting off tears and gulping down one of the biggest sobs I may ever face.
Ever.
What was I doing? I was in Rabuor Kenya, which is on the north east coast of lake Victoria, western Kenya. I was about 20 miles outside of Kisumu, the 3rd largest city in Kenya. Though I was near such a city I was miles away from anything familiar. I was without a doubt in an entirely different universe.
I arrived March 19, 2004 and worked non-stop until March 23. Working non-stop kept me from thinking about what I was witnessing.
What was it that I was digesting, besides the smorgasbord of food that was laid out on a table at the end of every emotionally damaging day of documenting heart-wrenching situations? Maybe the food was there for me to forget what the hell I just saw. The feast really drove it in that this is not my reality, I am just a documnetarian, collecting stories and regurgitating them in a shiner more subtle package, i.e., "you make things so approachable", that's why I get hired to do this kind of work.
This trip was very hard. I am about to tell you why but before that I want you to know that we have absolutely no idea what is going on out there in the world until we go there. I can tell people the hell that I saw in Kenya and 3 minutes later I can make them cry and after 8 minutes they ask me to stop or ask where can they send money. Watch the video when its edited, come to the exhibition when it's up this year, but man, go see for yourself. Or don't, because I am not sure everyone has the stomach for this. It still won't touch being there.
Left:
Caxton, age 14
Photo by
Amanda Koster
So Rabuor. I won't give a minute by minute but I will tell you about Caxton, his family and then Brian. Then there was a glimpse of the dying man in the advance stages of HIV/AIDS, he officially had AIDS and was just trying to get through his last days. Peeking in his crumbing mud hut made me gag. Seeing how he was spending the rest of his short life.
Right:
Brian at school
Photo by Amanda Koster
I will never forget his expression when I walked up. That smile, someone new was here to visit him. I don't speak Luo, his language, but I could read his eyes. It was good to give him a different kind of day, though I was terrified to be near him. Furious at the world for letting things get this way. That people actually live and look this way. I wanted through osmosis to transmit as much love as I could. We have no idea.
So Caxton (14), Vincent (12) and Irene (9). Their parents died of AIDS, aunts and uncles; grandparents and younger sister have all died. They have... Nothing. Well, they have each other.
Above:
Caxton and family (Irene
left, Vincent right)
Photo by Amanda Koster
When
Ochien'g (my translator
and overall right hand
man) and I arrived at Caxton's
house at 6:45am, we found
him waking up. He, Vincent
and Irene were crawling
out of bed, which meant
standing up from a straw
mat covered by a curtain
on a crumbling mud floor,
surrounded by crumbling
mud walls.
Above: Irene
(9) making 'bed',
putting
away the straw mat and
curtain
Photo by Amanda Koster
Right:
Irene (9), Vincent (12)
and Caxton (14)
work in the shamba
before school on an empty
stomach.
Photo by Amanda Koster
It wasn't the
condition of their house
that did it, it wasn't
the bone-dry pots and
pans that did it, and it
wasn't really the fact
that their home was completely
empty except for the straw
sleeping mat and curtain.
What really affected me
the most, and what is still
difficult to think about,
was not seeing any parents
anywhere. Seeing the kids
walk over their parents
graves on 
their way to
school. Not seeing one
adult figure as they woke,
worked, washed and headed
off to school. No one to
kiss them goodbye, no one
to say good morning, no
hugs, no humming, not even
a warm cup of chai like
I just drank 20 minutes
before.
Left:
Irene stops for a breath form
her work in the shamba (farm)
in the morning, before school,
on an empty stomach.
Photo by Amanda Koster
I 
was
interviewing Caxton and watching
his eyes scan in every direction.
He was nervous. Maybe because
of the interview, although I
have never seen eyes move like
that. He was jittery inside but
his body was still. Maybe Caxton
was nervous about everything.
Nervous about later that day,
tomorrow, next year. There was
no time to play in between working
on his shamba for eventual cash,
someone else's shamba for
immediate food, going to school
every day, and then having enough
strength to do his homework by
the moonlight when there was
no oil for their one paraffin
lamp.
Right:
Caxton
Photo by Amanda Koster
Left:
Millicent helping her daughters
at night with homework, with
the light from a paraffin lamp.
About 3% of Rabuor has electricity.
Photo by Amanda Koster
There were so many
more interviews. I saw
and heard what this epidemic
really feels like, one
person at a time. I listened
to Millicent talk about
how the first man she
was ever with, her husband,
ended up working in Nairobi
and most likely infected
herself and, consequently,
her daughter through
birth before dying himself
of AIDS. I saw an orphan
named Brian wake up on
a deteriorated foam mattress
and robotically go work
in the shamba, then to
school where he listened
attentively. I nearly collapsed
from the emotional blow
when he gave me a big wave
goodbye as I packed up
my cameras. I sat in an
office with Caxton's headmaster
discussing the effect that
his outside responsibilities
were had on his schoolwork,
how he is now falling behind.
I listed to Caxton tell
me with intense determination
and an empty stomach
that he really wants to
change the stigma of AIDS
orphans in Africa.
Right:
Millicent, mother of 2 and AIDS
widow,
most likely her and her
daughter are infected.
Photo by Amanda Koster
Left:
Brian eating at home
Photo by Amanda Koster
Then there was Brian. Brian is around 5 (no one knows) and the sweetest boy in the world. I just wanted to scoop him up and give him every single thing that our Americans kids don't even know they have, things they wouldn't even miss. Like breakfast. I wanted to give him as much love as I could find from deep inside my soul. This child lived with his 68-year-old grandmother. His parents are dead; there are no aunts and uncles. He wakes up in the morning, like Caxton and his family and on an empty stomach goes and works hard in the shamba, really hard. He picked up a hoe that was taller than him and ripped up the earth, before school. Needless to say that had the same effect on my heart and I just swallowed that big sob again and kept filming. He has no idea that there is a place where children don't have to do this.
Right:
Brian at school
Photo by Amanda Koster
Then Brian rinses his face hands and feet in murky water, gathers his exercise book and bag and waits for me to pack up. We walked to school together and he was practically skipping. On an empty stomach. Again, I was swallowing my tears. We just have so much to learn.
There
is so much more to write
about. The graves. They
don't use gravestones
because it is too 
depressing
and quite frankly, there
is not enough room. Graves
are people's lawn; they
are walking, playing
sitting weeping over them
every day. This has to
stop.
Left:
Caxton (left) and friends
playing football over
the graves in the yard.
Photo by Amanda Koster
This region in Kenya was hit hardest by HIV/AIDS. And this tribe, Luo, is fighting this disease that is fighting just as hard to kill them.
There
is also no describing the
mighty strength that I
saw. These people won't
give up. Even though some
of the widows I spoke to
know they were infected
they would say, "That
doesn't mean I am going
to die tomorrow".
The widows and children
would work hard and go
about their day, even laugh
about nonsensical things,
like this wacky white woman
that really had no idea
what she was in for. They
also would tear up when
they told me their story
or mentioned their husbands.
I held back the tears with
them.
Right: Millicent
helping her daughters at
night with homework,
with
the light from a paraffin
lamp. About 3% of Rabuor
has electricity.
Photo by Amanda Koster
I had a swarm of photo assignments waiting for me when I returned to America. On one shoot a woman asked me about my tan and then cried within 2 minutes after I told her about Rabuor. She was deathly silent and really fought the tears. She wiped her eyes several times as I rambled on, my words not flowing but spewing out of me, blast by blast like we were there, like I was reporting.
Reporting. That is how I have been dealing with what I saw. It has been much easier to tell people what I learned from those interviews, from those kids rather than for me to just quietly sit and think about what the hell just happened. I tried that once and didn't just cry. I moaned like a girl who lost her mother, who lost any idea of what is good and fair and joyful in this world. I didn't scream, I just felt just a very deep sadness. It makes me wonder where the hell is justice. Not political not religious, just basic sense. None of what I saw makes any sense. From the deepest organ, vein, capillary, breath, drop of blood, electric synapse, every singe piece of my life was sad the moment I decided to stop and think about what the hell just happened.
Believe it or not this helps, thinking that you know a little more now.
More about Rabuor
Rabuor
Village Project - www.rabuorvillage.org
More
about the Author & Photographer
Amanda
Koster - www.amandakoster.com
