Georgianne Nienaber Author Photographer

The Book of Numbers

It has been four years since I have been in a cholera treatment center in Haiti and five years since the United Nations infected the Mirebalais River by dumping raw sewage from the Nepalese encampment into the waterway. The river system is forever contaminated and cholera will never be eradicated from this island nation that had never before experienced the deadly disease. What followed was lying, an attempted cover-up by the United Nations, and a slow response to a disease which has now killed almost 10,000 and infected 731,000 since October 2012. But truth won out with the help of a courageous Brazilian Ambassador who was fired from the Organization of American States for speaking out.

I stood outside the Nepalese camp on the banks of the Mirebalais River in 2010 and saw the sewage pipes before they were buried with rock. We knew then what was going to happen and also knew we were completely powerless to stop this new plague.

So I found myself again this morning feeling completely helpless as I stood before THE BOOK of numbers at the hospital in St. Marc’s, where five years previously I walked through buckets of bleach to disinfect my boots before entering and leaving cholera ward. The ward is still there and it is still receiving patients—196 admissions so far this November and two deaths. The book holds twenty names per page and is several inches thick. I hate that book. It is an evil book, and I walked through bleach again today on my way to see it.

The charge nurse and I were looking through the names and dates and adding numbers when my friend and translator, Andre, called me into the ward. A young girl suffering two days into the disease told Andre, in Creole, that she wanted the angel (me) to come and speak with her because God sent the angel and if she could only speak with the angel she would be healed. 

I felt like the biggest fraud in the universe; helpless; stupid and just a little bit evil myself. I am no angel and if there is any speck of angel in me it is of the fallen variety. 

For only the second time in my career of witnessing these things I felt emotion. Usually I feel none and fear there is something wrong with me because I am numb most of the time. Maybe it is a blessing for those who are sick and dispossessed and wounded that witnesses do not cry. The last things they need are more tears.

Seeing someone on a cholera cot is to see someone completely exposed and vulnerable. There is a hole cut in the center for the constant and interminable diarrhea and a bucket nearby for the vomiting. The hospital gown is stained because it cannot be changed fast enough.

All I could do was hold her hand and say that there was nothing I could do, but that I would tell her story. There was nothing, nothing I could do and I looked her straight in the eyes and said so. She said it was OK and that she felt better already. Maybe a lie; maybe the truth; I don’t know.

I am fulfilling my promise by telling you.

Know also that the hospital does not have enough supplies; not enough rehydration fluids; and too few rapid detection tests. 

Millions and millions of dollars sent to Haiti and a few boxes of rehydration fluids stand between these people and the morgue. 

Cry.

 

 

 

 

 

Flying With St. Justaine

American Airlines flight 201 is boarding at Gate D24; Miami International. Complete and creative chaos ensues as no one pays attention to boarding order or seat assignments. Flight attendants are in a frenzy of activity, shifting people around to their assigned seats and a woman refuses, saying it will be too difficult for her to move, so negotiations begin with the person who had the “right” to the choice seat in hopes he will accept lesser seating. He defers to the very ample woman who took his seat and accepts another. It is clearly a capitulation to age and perhaps the look on her face---meaning the woman who pilfered his seat.

While all this is happening, an elderly man slides into the seat next to me. I am on the aisle in 12C. He takes the middle, 12B, and the flight attendant moves him to the window, 12A. He seems nervous. I can’t tell if he is embarrassed he was asked to move, or just unfamiliar with the particulars of flying. We greet each other with smiles and quickly determine that we will have no verbal means of communication. He speaks only Creole, so we do not have the option of struggling through my pigeon Francais.

As the 737 rumbled down the runway, St. Justaine, as I learn later is his name, makes the sign of the cross. He is as nervous as I am, so after greeting the Bird Nation and asking permission to be in their space, I hedge my bet and kiss the crucifix I wear. St. Justaine’s gesture to the Trinity gave me permission to do the same.

I try to assess him. He has a tremor. Very slight in build. Old, but impeccably maintained clothes and shoes. The fabric of his brown trousers is shiny with age and he wears a black watch cap and a wedding ring. I wonder if his wife is still alive. We both try to sleep. He nudges me awake and is gesturing to me; asking for something. He moves his hand back and forth, back and forth. I think maybe he needs a pen and I produce one. He smiles. I found the answer. Not quite. He needs help filling out the customs and immigration forms. He cannot read. Now we are stuck because we need to communicate verbally and have no way to do so. He hands me his ID and that is when I learn his name. St. Justaine.

I flag down a weary flight attendant, and she does the paperwork. St. Justaine keeps thanking me, but I have really done nothing.

Time to land. As we bump through the clouds on the final descent, St. Justaine is gripping the edges of his seat. I am nervous also and we smile our way through it.

The usual mad scramble ensues to disembark and the ample woman, who could not move, moves swiftly enough into the aisle and disappears. 

I finally make it to the jet way and feel a tap on my shoulder. It is St. Justaine saying goodbye. 

Welcome to Haiti.