LEPERS, MESSIAHS* - PART 1

Can You Believe This Disease Still Exists?

BY CONOR CREIGHTON, PHOTOS BY STEVE RYAN

* Now, we used the word “leper” here because we wanted to reference an old Metallica song. But you should know that people with leprosy consider that word really offensive. It carries a stigma that they’ve been trying to beat for years, and it’s outdated and ignorant. So next time you meet someone with leprosy, you are under no circumstances to call them a leper.


When I arrived in Nepal, my ultimate destination was the Lalgadh Leprosy Hospital in the southeastern Terai Plain. But first, some Nepalese infighting necessitated delicate consideration of how to get there. You see, the Madheshi tribe, in an effort to get their calls for autonomy recognized by the official government, had been organizing strikes along all the highways. The last group of people to ignore these strikes was a bus load en route to a wedding. The vehicle ended up being burned to the ground with the driver and his assistant still inside. I would be heading down the same route, so we used a white jeep with white flags attached to the front and back, a giant red “H” for “hospital” painted on the hood, and a Madheshi local behind the wheel. Our camouflage worked and we made it to our destination, where a bunch of leprosy patients awaited me. Out of the frying pan and into the chronic infectious disease.

Lalgadh is the busiest leprosy hospital in the world. While the incidence of new leprosy cases is dropping significantly in India, South America, and Africa, in Lalgadh they still see a steady stream of up to 12 new cases a day. When we arrived, a patient named Makessor Mandal was in for a routine toe amputation. It was his fourth. Makessor has had leprosy for 20 years. Although cured now, his feet have been left completely anesthetized. He can stand in an open fire, tread on broken glass, and have a sugarcane spike the size of a cigar driven through his foot and never know about it until the flesh starts to rot and he’s woken up one morning by a repulsive smell coming from the end of his bed. Makessor was here this time, again, because someone told him his foot stank.


While planning my trip to the land of the leprosy, I really expected that I would vomit the first time I saw a toe amputation. And now, here I was, about to put my theory to the test. It was a hot day, the lights in the operating room were low, and the smell of iodine was so strong that it felt like we were swimming in the stuff. But after a few fast dashes of the blade, a strong tug on the tiny white bone, and a thumbs-up between patient and doctor, it was all over. That’s it? Dr. Krishna placed the toe on a small tin tray for Makessor to see. It looked like an offering or a donation or the last cocktail sausage at a party, the one that never gets eaten because of absurd etiquette. Makessor smiled, like he was proud of his useless toe as it sat there. “We’re a bit like a prison for young offenders,” Dr. Krishna said, as he sewed the remaining skin up with a coil of fishing line, “We take them in, we treat their wounds, we care for them till they’re better, but we know they’ll be back sooner or later.”

“When were you here last?” he asked Makessor, who looked down at his foot and thought hard. “Last year,” Makessor said, “for the little toe.”


TO BE CONTINUED
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