Tuesday 30 December 2008, 5:30 AM
MSF base in Kapungu, Democratic Republic of Congo
— morning mist, 19° celcius

I get up early. Soaked through. The sheets are so wet that my hand makes its way to my forehead of its own accord to check whether I have a fever. An automatic Pavlovian gesture, as if every sweat reminds me of my vulnerability on a daily basis. A silly reflex response. I realize that the plastic covering of my tent is glistening with drops of condensation. Everything smells damp. Once the first rays of sun appear, we normally bring everything out and dry it.

I feel like I had a nightmare last night, which would perhaps explain my night sweats. But in fact, it’s just a flashback to the previous day. I think back to yesterday, and the 13-year-old girl who, to help her family, sings and supports the sick. Yesterday she went into isolation. That same night, we were called and told that she wasn’t doing well.

Anja, a nurse, and I went over to the isolation centre at 7:30 p.m. Our protective clothing seems more bearable in the evening, thanks to a light wind that keeps us fresh! We wanted to move the new patient Henriette to the “confirmed/likely” zone, which is a high-risk zone. We wanted to do so as quickly as possible, if only to protect the other “suspected” patient.

We went into the tiny room where, despite our best efforts, unfortunately now and then our bodies touched the wall — causing another surge of stress, another endomorphin discharge. I discovered Henriette. She was lying down, but awake. The smell of old blood hung in the air, and the nauseating odour of diarrhea no longer seemed to bother us. In the end, you get used to it.

We asked her and her grandmother if they would like to move to the other shelter. She walked with difficulty and needed help. We laid down some paper padding, placed a blanket over her and gave her grandmother some protective clothing. She thanked us for it, moving towards us, stretching out her hand. And in a protective gesture ... we moved back. My breath stopped dead, and I thought to myself how strangely inhuman this was, how such comforting gestures should not be forbidden — not here, not today, not now!

We left the room. We were disinfected for the first time upon exit, and this then continued for 20 minutes during “undressing” where each gesture must be calculated, meticulously thought out and reviewed. We had a solar lamp but for more security, we lit the car’s headlights. Azaad, our water, hygiene and sanitation specialist, assured us that each of our gestures had been “safe,” as we say in our lingo. We went back to base, and had meetings until 11 p.m. Then lights out. And eyes shut.

Wednesday 31 December 2008, 10:20 PM
In my tent at the Kampungu base, Democratic Republic of Congo
— night, 23° celcius

Today, I went back to the isolation shelter with Esther to check on Henriette’s status. Her state of health had changed — she has hardly eaten or drank anything. We decided to put her on a drip and at the same time take a blood sample, thus reducing any unnecessary handling. Henriette finds it hard to stay sitting up; she no longer talks and her eyes are even deeper set now. We checked her vein and then took the blood.

Our every gesture is precise and calculated — you always know at the back of your mind that the risk is there, in front of you. I don’t make eye contact with the others and dive into my work, hoping that the dexterity of my hands will get me through, at least for today! Once the drip is in place, I look at Henriette and think back to my psychology tutor who always said, “Whenever possible, let your body talk.” That won’t be possible here ... So in my childish reasoning, I tell myself that, in a virtual sense, I have held out my hand, placed it in hers, and said “Be brave” in the local language.

Today is the end of the year, a time for party favours and good wishes ... No caviar or champagne, or even any wagyu (an Asian beef dish) on the menu. But the arrival of the cargo from Kinshasa this afternoon will mean we can open a few bottles of white wine and a little liver paté. Our educator Dieudonné will prepare goat kebabs for dinner. A moment for culture, to focus on some European customs, after the local dances given by the customary chiefs, all help to make us feel good.

I feel as if I have been here for weeks. In a few hours the annual calendar will change, but still, we already know what lies ahead here on the ground in Congo: the same challenges, the same difficulties, and new priorities, an ever-changing strategy ... We already know how the beginning of the year will look. I’m absolutely shattered. Though I’d gladly try my best to stay awake until midnight, I realize that I won’t be able to. What’s the point? I take advantage of the moment to wish everyone a happy Thai new year — sometimes the time difference works in one’s favour — we realize that in Bangkok, it is already 2009! I go back into my tent, and with my computer on my lap I take advantage of some time alone to write my diary. Tomorrow is another day, another month, another year ... But still the same epidemic!

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