progressive plunge.

 

 

The train from Varanasi to Bharatpur was quite the experience to say the least. Train stations always prove to be a test of character, exposing the best poverty and filth that India has to offer. While I thought the smells couldn't get much worse than inside Varanasi, my expectations were trumped come our three hours of waiting for the train. It was as if I had a cloth soaked in an equal blend of urine and nail polish remover, attached to my mouth and nose...absolutely atrocious.
We finally got on the 14 hour train to find that we had been placed in the smack middle of a group of Korean and Japanese tourists who couldn't have been more excited to be riding on a train, and oh did they make that fact known.
Now, earlier that day we had given into the lure of street food, chowing down on samosas, poris, and pokaras. Forest found himself quite fond of the green spicy sauce and rightfully loaded it onto all the delicacies...this was perhaps the biggest mistake of the trip.

A few hours into the journey he began to feel worse for the wear, and became quite good friends with the lovely 3rd class train toilet. We had no strong antibiotics on us, and he was forced to let the sickness come in full force, with only me and the Koreans to try and take his mind off the pain and a tiny dirt coated mat to sleep on.

I have lost count, but probably have had close to 16 bouts of various stomach infections since my arrival. I still have no desire or want to ever be burdened with these, but I do have much more of a tolerance for them, especially when it comes to the pain. Sometime around my fourth or fifth I learned ways of coping, and self diagnosing, but I still remember the horrors of my first hit;  it left me feeling like I was going to die, unable to do anything except lie in bed and come up with ways I could speed that process along.

Forest's bacterial infection was a progressive plunge, and seemed to hit faster than usual. By the time we arrived in Bharatpur it took all his strength to ride in a bumpy rickshaw without a minor bowel movement (quite the accomplishment actually). We ended up staying at the Falcon guest house, run by the most large and in charge Indian lady I have ever met. She was very adamant about what needed to be done to make Forest feel better, and our first day consisted of lying in the sun, trying to nap while also sweating out the bacteria, a lot of writing on my half, and the day peaked with Forest forcing down a cup of mysterious tea she concocted, which she refused to let us in on all the ingredients of.

Forest still was not feeling any better the following morning, and had reached the point where death was sounding like a mighty fine option, so we decided we should go to the hospital to get diagnosed and get good medicine. 

We walk into the lobby and the first thing I notice (aside from all the faces blatantly staring) is a sign directly above the desk that says 'telling the sex of the fetus is strictly illegal and forbidden'..not your average American joint. We were the only white people in the place, and by the looks of it, had been the only white people in the place for a long time. While they ran tests, we sat like animals in the zoo, equally enamored by the people who were obsessed with us. Many of these patients had come on bare feet, walking who knows how long to see the doctor. My mind ran away, coming up with the types of illnesses that many of these people probably had, including the lady sitting suspiciously to me.

The doctor recommended he go on a drip to get back lost fluids, and we were lucky (and rich) enough to get our own room, right next to the operating theatre, complete with one tiny space heater and some seriously nasty blankets. Yet regardless of all that, the biggest culture shock came when the nurse (who spoke zero English) motioned for me to come with him. I figured we were going to pay the bill or talk to the doctor, but we waltzed right outside and to the chemist stand next door. I handed him my drug list, and he handed me all the drugs, including the ones for the drip as well as numerous syringes, in a  plastic bag. These are things that in the States, you wouldn't be able to touch, and I was lallygagging along the streets of Bharatpur with the bag around my wrist like it was Little Red Riding Hood's basket of goodies. 

After two hours pent up in the dirty room with frequent visitors peeking their heads inside to see the white people, we wanted nothing more to get out of there when the doctor called us into his office. Of course he immediately offered us chai. Now I am no doctor, but for some reason I do not think that someone who is coming off of the drip should have sugar or caffeine...

We told him a five minute synopsis of our life stories, he did the same, and also reiterated numerous that he does treat a lot of Westerners each year, when we asked how many he answered curtly with 'oh about ten or so'..

Glad to know we are two of the ten helping him reach his 2012 quota.

The sequence of pictures following captures the downhill battle quite effectively:

We got out of there as quickly as we could, and by 4 Forest was feeling good enough to venture into the national park, which we had been hoping to spend amble time in. Wanting to see the most we possibly could, we ended up hiring a cycle rickshaw to take us around, and were surprisingly able to see a decent amount of birds and wildlife. Our guide was eager to please, and quite keen to become best friends with us, insisting we come to his house later for whiskey and mutton (sometimes I really like Indian hospitality). Sadly we had to opt out, because our train was leaving at 1 am.

look familiar?

As we were packing up and getting ready for yet another 14 hour train, Forest started to feel much better. Here is the thing about stomach infections: the point in which you know they are over is when you can fart and not be afraid that you are going to shit yourself. Forest forgot that minor detail, and was a bit to excited about the fact that he felt better and well, he accidentally squeezed one out prematurely, which resulted in an accident; yes, he pooped his pants.

It took us a solid hour to get over the hilarity of the situation and the emotional roller coaster of the past 12 hours. By the time we got on the train we were more than ready to sleep soundly.

 

The next morning I woke up feeling horrible, and certain that I was next in line. We pulled into Haridwar, both of us overheated, exhausted, and quite ill, with barely enough energy to walk out to the parking lot to get a cab. I put on my pissed off 'I live here, don't mess with me' face and got us a ride into Rajaji National Park, forcing the man to stop at a chemist so I could be put on antibiotics immediately. As luck would have it, we just so happened to be in the car of a devout Hindu who brought his leftovers from breakfast along to feed the cows on the street. 

When I am sick, there is only one thing I want to do: attempt to sleep. Feeling like death, sitting in the back of an ancient, non ac ambassador cab for 20 minutes while our driver runs around trying to escape the mad rush of cows he just brought on, and the cows forcing their heads into the window is not my idea of a fun time, let me tell you. (but it did play into my theory that my life in India should be a reality show)

For two more days we lived like senior citizens, lining our pills up each night before dinner, drinking 3 re-hydrating salts a day and eating entirely tasteless food. However, it did the trick, and within a day, we were both beginning to feel like real people once again.