Journey through Cholera: Spencer Platt

I have come here to take pictures for the news agency I work for. I am on a deadline and must not linger in the hospital. A French nurse and a Canadian press officer lead me on a tour of the premises. I stop to look at a young boy whose head is silhouetted in front of a small window. At these moments it is easy to forget where one is. Like lying in a bed at a strange hotel after a frantic evening arrival; how did I get here and what am I supposed to do now? This boy, who is suffering from a Victorian disease, sits silently next to a woman who I assume is his mother. Suffering is horrible and ugly, but the wordless tenderness between this boy and woman has a beauty that is difficult to describe. I take some pictures and gingerly make my way through the ward towards the exit. I have lost my companion somewhere in the recovery ward and it is only when I hear him call my name that I see him walking by a row of white tents which have been neatly folded and dismantled in preparation for an approaching hurricane.

The gold dust from the Haiti fundraisers, the glamorous film actors committed to little else, the cameras and editorials, the well meaning charities have become lost somewhere along this road to Petite Riviere. Maybe it was near where I dropped my phone in its brown leather case as I exited our truck to shoot images of flooded homes. Maybe this tangle of good intent never got past the legions of unemployed men loitering on the road through Cite Soleil. Their faces a sundry mix of confusion, fear and hate as they swagger past the women selling Chinese sandals and large green mangos across from the United Nations outpost. More likely it was the three hour flight from New York to Port au Prince, a flight that daily ushers one in comfort from the hissing of espresso machines to the din of children’s cries jostling to carry your bag for a bit of change.