The Chief picked us up in his green station wagon, driving quickly towards the hill. I had no idea what to expect, where we were going, or how many people would be there when we arrived. The car was quiet, and as we drove higher and higher my stomach crisscrossed and knotted with nerves.

Finally the car crawled through a tiny space, toilet on one side and bushes on the other, into an opening. I got a glimpse of many people, instantly wishing I could disappear as I looked at Seth. ‘I hope you’re ready,’ he whispered to me. I nodded. Sam stopped the car, and I opened the door.

 ‘Amosiuru,’ I said to the group of people seated in a half circle. They laughed, surprised I was greeting them in Luo and responded. I walked around and shook each person’s hand, Luo greetings fumbling out of my mouth. There were small children there and women making baskets and rope. They motioned to a group of four plastic chairs in front of the group, and I sat. The Chief spoke quietly to me, saying that they were all here and it was up to me now.

I started speaking, nerves so tight they gripped my throat. I said a silent thank you that words were somehow slipping out one after the other. I introduced myself, explaining why I was there and telling them how thankful I was that they had agreed to come. The Chief translated to them in Luo, then looked at me saying they all knew and accepted. He then asked me what was next. I looked around, explaining that I would like to interview each person separately, and they suggested moving our chairs to the other side of the house. We stood and moved, someone carrying my chair for me. I walked on shaky legs behind them, overwhelmed and afraid at what would happen next.

I sat with my back facing trees, a slight breeze blowing against the nape of my neck. George’s house was in front of me, with a thatched roof and a dilapidated toilet in front. Cows mooed and donkeys brayed behind me. I took a deep breath as the first person walked over and sat in the chair across from me.

I had the privilege of listening to 14 peoples’ stories, although they informed me that there were many more should I want to hear them. I was and still am stunned at the depth of struggles these people are facing – unable to fully experience what their day to day lives are like, only to empathize while listening.

They told me the difficulties they have to feed their families and themselves, which they desperately need to do to have the ARVs be effective. During the dry season, clean water to swallow their pills comes from taps that flow at random. They are too far from rivers or the lake to fetch water from there. They walk to Homa Bay – easily an entire day – every 2 months to collect their ARVs, because the other hospitals in the area run out and they cannot count on them. If they have the money to take the one matatu that leaves Kokoth every morning for Homa Bay – it costs them 700 shillings round trip. I asked them what brought them joy, with most people answering me food, and the ability to wake up and feed their families.

I am still struggling with what I have heard, where here it’s not just about battling a chronic illness, but also crippling poverty. I remember meeting with someone from Doctor’s Without Boarders so long ago, to his answer of not providing food to people because they are strictly a medical program, not a social one. I wonder about all those articles I read about human rights and health, the Alma Ata Declaration and how what we preach is so far from what is being carried out. When is providing life saving drugs to someone considered enough, when they are struggling severely to find the food and water they must have to accompany these drugs? What can be done?