Michael Kearns recounts his adventures in Africa, where he spent a month working to help children impacted by HIV/AIDS.

By Michael Kearns

“To suggest that these experiences were life-altering for both of us doesn't begin to capture the emotional and spiritual impact of our journey,” says Michael Kearns, who—along with his daughter Tia and their friend Mollie Lowery—journeyed to Johannesburg, South Africa last summer to spend a month volunteering at Cotlands, a nonprofit social services agency that cares for children impacted by HIV/AIDS. In addition to the daily responsibilities at Cotlands—attending to the needs of babies, engaging in stimulating playtime with toddlers, reading to older kids and overseeing art projects with the adolescents—the Kearns family also outreached to other areas in Johannesburg that continue to be decimated by the epidemic.

Kearns has written Going In: Once Upon A Time In South Africa, a spoken memoir that he will perform in honor of World AIDS Day on Saturday, Dec. 1, at Highways Performance Space in Santa Monica. The event will also feature the photography of Tia and Ms. Lowery.

In the excerpt below, Kearns describes his visit to the township of Soweto, where AIDS continues its vicious rampage:

Today, on James Baldwin's birthday, a small group of us are in the bowels of Soweto. Before we began visiting various families, we see how Cotlands' Home Health Care operates in this impoverished township. We visit the grannies first, working diligently at their sewing machines. These are HIV-affected grandmothers who make children's pajamas that are available for purchase. But, according to one of the grandmas, it is much more than that. “We need to be here,” she says, glancing at the women and their whirring machines. She is beautiful in the way that tragedy emphasizes a heroine's luminosity. “My 10-year-old daughter died in 1998,” she says. “She was 10 years old. I tested positive when she was born.” She grasps one hand around the small sewing machine in order to hold on. She is dressed in pink, in the midst of making pink and blue striped pajamas. “My daughter left on Good Friday,” she says. “Left” needs no defining. Our small team then sneaks into a meeting room that holds nearly 50 women, many of whom have babies and toddlers in tow. There is a mysterious demonstration taking place in which a blindfolded woman is clumsily attempting to put teensy panties on a white Bratz doll. The instructor is speaking Zulu, so I can only understand a few English words being bandied about: "Sober" is one of them, and “dark” is another. I am nonplussed. Maybe it’s about changing diapers if there’s no electricity? For a family to receive support from Cotlands, they must sign up and attend these mandatory educational sessions. She is fumbling with the doll and the women are beginning to snicker. I look around and all I see are the ear-to-ear grins of these women, some of whom are giggling along with their children. The young lady with the doll fumbles, starts over and fumbles again, eliciting howls of laughter. At some point, the instructor rubs Vaseline on the goggle-like mask. Now I'm completely confused and the ladies are completely hysterical. When we get out of the class, the teacher comes up to me and says, “I bet you are wondering what we're doing.” "Uh, yeah,” I say. “I was.” “Learning to put on a condom without the lights or after having too much to drink.” Oh, I get it now. Condom. Vaseline. Dark.

She became a paraplegic due to a mistake made during childbirth. She is unable to walk. She is HIV-positive. Her baby is HIV-positive. Her husband is HIV-positive. I carry in a small refrigerator so that they can keep their ARVs cold. Thankfully, the shack they live in—measuring approximately 12 feet by 18 feet, with a dirt floor—has electricity. So does her husband’s smile; it’s one of the biggest and brightest I’ve ever seen. Breaking the stereotype, he is a man “who does everything for the family,” according to the doctor whom I’m accompanying on this journey. “He is a saint.” The second shanty we visit on our Home Health Care journey is only slightly larger than the first, but it houses 11 people. Two single beds, no electricity. By the time we get to the third home, a pattern begins to emerge: No matter what the size of the place, it is in presentable condition. Beds are made, the small number of possessions are neatly put in their place, there are splashes of color. There is an undeniable sense of dignity that upstages the squalor. And a sense of gracefulness pervades in spite of what appears to be impossibly grim living conditions. A grandma greets me, saying “Papa!” I'm told that it is a sign of respect. She is caring for her 12-year old grandson who has both HIV and TB. Both parents died of AIDS. Elvis sings from a rickety transistor radio, “Are you lonesome tonight? Do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart?” Pointing to the young boy, the grandmother says, “His mother left when he was only 5 months old.” Left. The grandson comes out onto the street and waves goodbye as we drive to the next stop. Left. I lose track of how many houses we visit when I feel a turbulence in my stomach that I've only seen people experience in movies—a visceral response so deep in my guts, an ache so violent, that I think I am going to throw up. It passes, leaving my insides empty, void, unable to feel any more. Numb from head to toe. The heat is excruciating and I am so thirsty. I remember seeing a half-broken mirror hanging in one of the shacks, looking at my hair in the dusky reflection, and thinking, “I need color.” Before I shut down completely, we visit a two-room shed. If you've ever smelled death, you'll agree with me that it has a distinct smell, the way cinnamon or burning brush has a distinct smell. I smell death. A small boy is in one of the rooms with his grandmother, changing out of his school uniform, like a soldier. His mother is in the adjacent room, swaddled in blankets; she is dying. Virtually paralyzed, she wants to say hello even though she barely has the stamina to lift her head. I hold her hand, warm to the touch. Breathe, I tell myself, breathe. When it's time to leave, after presenting the family with their groceries, I blow the mommy a silent kiss. She catches it and gives me a half-smile and the thumbs-up sign.