Regrets, I have a Few...
Last Thursday, as we walk through the slums of Nyalenda, meeting the people and discussing their daily struggles, Walter and Tony ask if I mind visiting Eric, a friend of theirs. Of course, I don't mind. We cross the creek and pass a mud house with a thatched roof, then a second mud house and finally, in the back, is Eric's mud house. They show me the thatching, made from the stems of Papyrus. We hear singing and hand clapping, rather mournful. “Eric has AIDS,” Walter tells me. Eric is 26 and has been showing signs of the illness for several months, has been bed-ridden for a few weeks, but his family is in denial. They believe demons are visiting Eric. Their spiritual leader is here, exorcising the demons with his songs and prayers and hand-clapping.
Walter and Tony visit Eric often. They work diligently to convince him to go to the Voluntary Counseling and Testing (VCT) Center to be tested for AIDS. But the stigma of AIDS is still too strong. Eric can see no benefit in telling everyone he is infected and actually thinks it will cause people to shun him and talk about him. Walter and Tony accept Eric, though, and they know just how greatly ARV drugs can impact Eric's quality of life. The drugs are now being given free by the Kenyan government (at least that's what the government says) and they can restore health, cause weight gain and prolong life.
While we stand outside the mud house, in a compound in the heart of Nyalenda, Walter and Tony decide we should come back another day. We settle on Wednesday of next week and complete our tour of the slum's water ways.
Today Walter pops his head into my office, a lovely surprise in the middle of a busy day. He's looking for Tony but cannot find him. Walter shakes my hand and gives me a hug and takes a seat. He's preoccupied, but we talk about our holiday weekends.
“Remember Eric?” Walter says. “Yes,” I say, “we're still going to visit him tomorrow, aren't we?” Walter rocks in the chair and makes a tisking noise with his tongue and says he's just been to the hospital and Eric is dead. Walter tisks and rocks and says, “Dead. Dead.”
“I'm so, so sorry, Walter,” I say and watch as his mind throws idea on top of painful thought. Eric was part of Walter's organization, one of the guys dedicated to improving their neighborhood and the lives of their neighbors. He talks about Eric's intelligence, his widowed mother who is left with one son. They'll probably take Eric back to their home place, about 20 km from Kisumu, to bury him. The body will be at the morgue soon, he tisks. “Dead.”
I suggest Walter name the shelter he plans to build in Eric's honor. He nods agreement. “This is a lesson to me,” he says, leaning forward. “I won't wait with my other friends, I will insist they go for testing and medicine.”
“Do you have many other friends with AIDS?” I ask.
“Several. Too many.”
I'm called into a meeting so Walter and I walk to the front. I tell him I'll let Tony know the news as soon as our meeting is over. “Please find out about the funeral arrangements,” I say.
“What about the camera?” Walter asks in a panic. “Will you bring it tomorrow?” The three of us had already discussed documenting the slums' water source and latrines, the children and widows, so I reassure Walter I'll bring the camera.
Walter is tall, about 6' 1”, and slim. He leans in with earnestness and says, “We missed an opportunity.” I instantly know he is talking about Eric. One more day, just one more day, and we would have a photo of Eric.
Walter needn't worry. I'll bring the camera tomorrow and we'll photograph the neighborhood and its people, his friends with AIDS. We'll photograph all of them, too many of them.
Walter and Tony visit Eric often. They work diligently to convince him to go to the Voluntary Counseling and Testing (VCT) Center to be tested for AIDS. But the stigma of AIDS is still too strong. Eric can see no benefit in telling everyone he is infected and actually thinks it will cause people to shun him and talk about him. Walter and Tony accept Eric, though, and they know just how greatly ARV drugs can impact Eric's quality of life. The drugs are now being given free by the Kenyan government (at least that's what the government says) and they can restore health, cause weight gain and prolong life.
While we stand outside the mud house, in a compound in the heart of Nyalenda, Walter and Tony decide we should come back another day. We settle on Wednesday of next week and complete our tour of the slum's water ways.
Today Walter pops his head into my office, a lovely surprise in the middle of a busy day. He's looking for Tony but cannot find him. Walter shakes my hand and gives me a hug and takes a seat. He's preoccupied, but we talk about our holiday weekends.
“Remember Eric?” Walter says. “Yes,” I say, “we're still going to visit him tomorrow, aren't we?” Walter rocks in the chair and makes a tisking noise with his tongue and says he's just been to the hospital and Eric is dead. Walter tisks and rocks and says, “Dead. Dead.”
“I'm so, so sorry, Walter,” I say and watch as his mind throws idea on top of painful thought. Eric was part of Walter's organization, one of the guys dedicated to improving their neighborhood and the lives of their neighbors. He talks about Eric's intelligence, his widowed mother who is left with one son. They'll probably take Eric back to their home place, about 20 km from Kisumu, to bury him. The body will be at the morgue soon, he tisks. “Dead.”
I suggest Walter name the shelter he plans to build in Eric's honor. He nods agreement. “This is a lesson to me,” he says, leaning forward. “I won't wait with my other friends, I will insist they go for testing and medicine.”
“Do you have many other friends with AIDS?” I ask.
“Several. Too many.”
I'm called into a meeting so Walter and I walk to the front. I tell him I'll let Tony know the news as soon as our meeting is over. “Please find out about the funeral arrangements,” I say.
“What about the camera?” Walter asks in a panic. “Will you bring it tomorrow?” The three of us had already discussed documenting the slums' water source and latrines, the children and widows, so I reassure Walter I'll bring the camera.
Walter is tall, about 6' 1”, and slim. He leans in with earnestness and says, “We missed an opportunity.” I instantly know he is talking about Eric. One more day, just one more day, and we would have a photo of Eric.
Walter needn't worry. I'll bring the camera tomorrow and we'll photograph the neighborhood and its people, his friends with AIDS. We'll photograph all of them, too many of them.
posted by Cindi at 1:45 PM
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