Christmas among the lepers
Bit of a crummy day off, and not just because I've still got a lung-wracking cough.
We spent some time this morning playing with the porch kittens, who're getting less feral with every day that we provide them with food. There are two of them left out of the original four, and they're smart and curious long-limbed, long-tailed little beauties. Their mom, whom we've dubbed Marlene for her heavy-lidded "I vant to be alone" look, drops them off at our feline soup kitchen, and then retreats and looks on indulgently as they scamper around our feet. As we sat on the porch steps in the sun today and watched them tumble over each other, it struck me that they're probably goners within three weeks of our departure.
We get a constant stream of tough-luck kitties that cross our porch -- filthy, with suppurating sores, or oozing eyes. They're too wary and quick to bring to the vet, even if we could treat all of them. But it's amazing how they improve with a few weeks of decent nutrition, before they ultimately disappear, presumably under a car, or to a feral dog, or dashed against a wall by a bored building security guard.
I question whether it's a good idea to even teach these kittens that it's ok to trust people -- even these guys already have leg and hip injuries from god knows where -- but I'm hoping they'll get tame enough that we can take them in for vaccinations before we go (sadly, they'll still be too young to spay/neuter). It's the least that we can do, in every frustrating sense of that phrase.
In the afternoon, I went out to the shops, while K stayed home and on-line to try to find a New Year's hotel on the beach (any beach) that hadn't quadrupled its rates for the occasion. I don't go out on the streets without K that often here, and I was reminded why within minutes, what with the kissy noises, the staring, the being followed, and "accidentally" brushed up against. I gave up within an hour, and returned home to fetch K, who obligingly accompanied me on the rest of my itinerary.
As we were walking along a strip of pavement next to our building that's a prime sleeping-spot for the neighborhood's homeless, we both glanced down at a new and unfamiliar sidewalk resident sitting on the curb. She was dressed in a long white kurti and had unusually short hair -- a widow, presumably. She had also just finished unwrapping a bandage around her foot, and was displaying something at the end of her ankle that looked like raw hamburger with bits of bone and worm in it. I've seen what must be close to the entire catalogue of possible human injury/deformity while in India, and have actually been rather surprised by how subdued my reactions have been. But this was the closest I've come to throwing up in public. K and I paused in the next block and discussed. We both felt the need to do something. But what?
The woman was surrounded by at least four of that block's "regular" street dwellers, most of whom know and watch K closely, as he's usually pretty free with his change. If we tried to slip her more than the usual handout, there'd be very little chance she'd get to hold on to it. We could hail a cab and take her to a hospital -- but without being able to communicate with her (or even on the slim chance she spoke English), there'd be no way she'd willingly go with us.
Over dinner with our friend T tonight, we described the situation (going easy on the description of the wound). She suggested we send our maid to talk to her/accompany her to the hospital, which is an excellent idea. However, she also pointed out that, based on the description, the wound was probably leprosy, and that we should all just stay well away.
Interestingly, K and I both had the same reaction, probably gleaned from about the same state of mid-1990's knowledge: "Oh, people used to think that leprosy was contagious -- silly T -- and that turned out to be wrong." Even more interestingly, when we googled it later, we discovered that T was correct in her facts (if not in her advice), and that organizations such as the WHO and CDC suggest medical opinion has moved on, and swung back, from its earlier position.
But we don't know it's leprosy. And that image is staying burned across my retinas. So, we'll all go out and try to chat with her a bit tomorrow. She is, of course, one of about two dozen people sleeping rough within sight of our front window. Rationally, is an attempted intervention more warranted in this case than for the muddy 10-year-old who lives on the adjacent traffic median, and who spends her time stringing jasmine flowers together into mini-garlands for sale, biding her time until she can turn tricks?
I don't know. I suppose it's the least we can do.
We spent some time this morning playing with the porch kittens, who're getting less feral with every day that we provide them with food. There are two of them left out of the original four, and they're smart and curious long-limbed, long-tailed little beauties. Their mom, whom we've dubbed Marlene for her heavy-lidded "I vant to be alone" look, drops them off at our feline soup kitchen, and then retreats and looks on indulgently as they scamper around our feet. As we sat on the porch steps in the sun today and watched them tumble over each other, it struck me that they're probably goners within three weeks of our departure.
We get a constant stream of tough-luck kitties that cross our porch -- filthy, with suppurating sores, or oozing eyes. They're too wary and quick to bring to the vet, even if we could treat all of them. But it's amazing how they improve with a few weeks of decent nutrition, before they ultimately disappear, presumably under a car, or to a feral dog, or dashed against a wall by a bored building security guard.
I question whether it's a good idea to even teach these kittens that it's ok to trust people -- even these guys already have leg and hip injuries from god knows where -- but I'm hoping they'll get tame enough that we can take them in for vaccinations before we go (sadly, they'll still be too young to spay/neuter). It's the least that we can do, in every frustrating sense of that phrase.
In the afternoon, I went out to the shops, while K stayed home and on-line to try to find a New Year's hotel on the beach (any beach) that hadn't quadrupled its rates for the occasion. I don't go out on the streets without K that often here, and I was reminded why within minutes, what with the kissy noises, the staring, the being followed, and "accidentally" brushed up against. I gave up within an hour, and returned home to fetch K, who obligingly accompanied me on the rest of my itinerary.
As we were walking along a strip of pavement next to our building that's a prime sleeping-spot for the neighborhood's homeless, we both glanced down at a new and unfamiliar sidewalk resident sitting on the curb. She was dressed in a long white kurti and had unusually short hair -- a widow, presumably. She had also just finished unwrapping a bandage around her foot, and was displaying something at the end of her ankle that looked like raw hamburger with bits of bone and worm in it. I've seen what must be close to the entire catalogue of possible human injury/deformity while in India, and have actually been rather surprised by how subdued my reactions have been. But this was the closest I've come to throwing up in public. K and I paused in the next block and discussed. We both felt the need to do something. But what?
The woman was surrounded by at least four of that block's "regular" street dwellers, most of whom know and watch K closely, as he's usually pretty free with his change. If we tried to slip her more than the usual handout, there'd be very little chance she'd get to hold on to it. We could hail a cab and take her to a hospital -- but without being able to communicate with her (or even on the slim chance she spoke English), there'd be no way she'd willingly go with us.
Over dinner with our friend T tonight, we described the situation (going easy on the description of the wound). She suggested we send our maid to talk to her/accompany her to the hospital, which is an excellent idea. However, she also pointed out that, based on the description, the wound was probably leprosy, and that we should all just stay well away.
Interestingly, K and I both had the same reaction, probably gleaned from about the same state of mid-1990's knowledge: "Oh, people used to think that leprosy was contagious -- silly T -- and that turned out to be wrong." Even more interestingly, when we googled it later, we discovered that T was correct in her facts (if not in her advice), and that organizations such as the WHO and CDC suggest medical opinion has moved on, and swung back, from its earlier position.
But we don't know it's leprosy. And that image is staying burned across my retinas. So, we'll all go out and try to chat with her a bit tomorrow. She is, of course, one of about two dozen people sleeping rough within sight of our front window. Rationally, is an attempted intervention more warranted in this case than for the muddy 10-year-old who lives on the adjacent traffic median, and who spends her time stringing jasmine flowers together into mini-garlands for sale, biding her time until she can turn tricks?
I don't know. I suppose it's the least we can do.
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