Dr. Noeffingway

Everyone is a doctor.

Perhaps fate would have found me a crumpled heap on the floor even without the intervention of India's self-proclaimed GPs, but I can't help but entertain the idea that my body may have been better off had I the strength to ward off the swarm of well-intended advice thrown my way.

Going back two weeks ago, I was temporarily torn away from Rajastan in the name of volunteering and furthering my attempts to transcend space and time. What?  Nevermind. Anyway, I was serving at a course similar to the one that I attended in December in a remote village area 40 kilometres outside of the state capital of Gujerat, Ahmedabad.  Aside from the 20 attendees, beating sun, and a cat living in fear of his shadow, we were in the company of a breed of monkey whose behaviours often times were so uncannily human it was unnerving. The time passed as quickly as the illusion and on the last day I was invited to stay in the home of one of the attendees for a couple of days before I caught my 12 hour train back to Jaipur. This is where the trouble started.

As I leave the course, a wave of nausea overcomes me and the dusty forty minute drive in an auto-rickshaw does nothing to dispel the growing urge to vomit.  This was a fail despite being advised to just stick my fingers down my throat, something that I can safely say will not happen in my lifetime (friends and family can rest assured that bulimia is about as tempting as a Nickelback concert).  A couple burps later and I feel the upset is on its way out.

Wrong. The following day at a dinner party with 5 other women finds me the center of attention, and for once it is not because I am the Western lady.  Now I am the Western lady with a troubled stomach. "You should drink buttermilk" (Oh, God that sounds terrible) "You should have ice cream, it's good for you" (What? I'm pretty sure that's not true, although I would have loved if it was in my younger years).  "Here, chew on this, it's a home remedy" (consisting of Aniseed, Cumin seeds, salt and who knows what else).  A woman pinches pressure points all over my body and doesn't waste her time poking a strong finger into my belly button.  The burp that follows is greeted with cheers of approval.  What just happened?  I feel temporary relief and all are more than happy to pat themselves on the back for their medical efforts.

The next morning I feel terrible, and I later understand why, amidst a night of restless sleep, I kept having a reoccurring dream where I little girl keeps trying to go to the bathroom in front of me.  I thank Jesus, Buddha, and Zeus for the clean, functioning toilet at my disposal.

"You should drink a cup of coffee. Black."  I stop in my tracks. This is where people stop being polite and start getting real.  Improving mastication on a combination of seeds and spices appeared as harmless as it was helpful but now the assistance in the form of "home remedies" reaches destructive territory.  Inasmuch as I adore the smell, taste, and ritual of a morning brew, I've (repeatedly) learnt the hard way that this particular beverage and my sensitive body just won't play nice together and that's on a good day.  I tell her as earnestly as possible that it is not my intention to be a finicky foreigner, but that I simply cannot drink coffee. After having spent the last part of thirty minutes running into the loo my brain is sounding an alarm to the tune of "NATURAL LAXATIVE!"

I breathe a sigh of relief as she departs to run errands and her servant brings me a "special beverage". Here we go again, but it doesn't look like black coffee, nor does the smell betray it's true nature. Oh, but haha, Lizette, the joke is on you because it IS coffee which is made special by extra water, milk and 50% sugar. One gulp has me etching my initials on the bathroom walls for the next hour.

When my hostess returns I resemble Frank Gallagher as I try to lift my head from the ground to explain that I haven't been able to rest because I've had the never-ending desire to see if her toilet still flushes.  She again insists that black coffee is the answer.  Taking in a deep breath I attempt to tactfully explain that coffee is a laxative, that it upsets my stomach which is why I don't drink it, that one shouldn't have caffeine when they have diarrhea, etc.  She simply shakes her head and reiterates that it is good for an upset stomach and brings me a glass.  The fact that she won't entertain my own prior experiences as having relevance slightly astounds me.  At least I googled her suggestion before reaffirming my (*ahem* proven) opinion.  Desperate times call for desperate measures as I am forced to sneak into the bathroom to dump it down the sink.  The obvious issue with this is that my recovery will no doubt be attributed to this sinfully delicious drink. A prayer goes out to all who might encounter the "Bombay blast" in the company of unqualified doctors.

all roads lead to Rajastan

India.

the faces of...

"I'll give you some shanti" mutters one of my companions through gritted teeth on the sleeper train from Varanasi to Khajuro.  This immediately becomes the mantra that captures our daily struggle. India's landscape and it's inhabitants contain layers upon layers of character, depth, and splendour.  However, this is almost always interlaced with strong elements of that which we are naturally averse and that which we have been protected from in our lives (with good reason).  It's likened to falling deeply in love whilst simultaneously being punched in the face.  The second I finish wiping the blood from my nostrils, I return to composing sonnets/mixed tapes what have you.

Varanasi was a name that rolled off the tongues of many especially during the last month of my travels.  I naturally took this as a sign to abandon my return flight to Delhi and instead enter India via bus to ensure a visit to the city described as both dark and captivating.  After a fleeting second of shut-eye at the Korean Monastery in Lumbini (the birthplace of Buddha), I found myself at Sunali, the Indian/Nepali border town.  The stark difference between the two countries divided by what effectively is a line on the ground will never cease to amaze me.  Not 10 seconds within “India” when it becomes apparent that the ground is considerably more littered, begging children are tugging at our clothes, a stationary mustachioed man starts heckling us, and the officer at passport control cannot be bothered to look up from his newspaper to do his job (I have to thrust my passport in his face to receive a responsive grunt and the appropriate forms). Ah India, how I had almost forgotten.

The 10 hour drive from Sunali to Varanasi was marked with varying scenery, new facial features, and who else but The Beatles. I was basking in the glow of homecoming.

varanasi

Upon reaching our destination, we were thrown into a chaotic whirlwind of rickshaw armies (NEVER take out your guide book in public places), death defying traffic, hustlers and street vendors trying to get a leg up on the next guy.  A far cry from chilled out Nepal, but embraced as part of the experience unique only to India.  Varanasi was postcard perfect with it's array of ghats lining the holy but (pardon me) somewhat foul Ganges River.   Parts of the river are apparently septic; however, despite this, it is considered a privilege to be cremated on its shores. The cremation and the preceding ceremony are open for the public to see with no qualms as the men paid to tend to the flames prod at limbs and feet like firewood.  Witnessing the event from start to finish was remarkably intense and required an evening of rest and internal recovery.  Varanasi was much more gentle during the days that followed.  Banana milk, bindis, crashing a conference at Varanasi University (all in the name of free delicious food), and days spent on varying rooftops while watching the city fly kites made up the chapters for rest of the week.

It was my cue to hit the road the moment the shopkeepers and chai boys became familiar faces.  Although not what I had originally planned, the next destination was Khajuro, a quiet town known for its detailed erotic temples.  The temples were indeed a sight to behold but temple hopping and sight seeing isn't how I envisioned passing my time in India.  Having said that, there was one powerhouse of a site whose daylight presence was both commanding and exhilarating....

Arriving at 4 AM the next day in the swarming tourist hole that is Agra we playing the waiting game. Waiting in line for the Taj Mahal felt just like queueing up for a stadium show ("Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we've all been waiting for.....").  Sleep deprived, delirious (pretty sure we saw Michael Jackson), and wildly excited we finally burst through the gates a few hours later.  It was everything I dreamt it would be and although I was suffering with a fever on the train ride over, I was gleefully energetic, bouncing around from shutter clicks to shouts of joy.  The added bonus was the drunk "guide" (he had a badge and everything) who told us where to take the best shots and had us positioned in ways that I haven't seen since the Saved By the Bell era. Think balled fist on chin, Uncle Rico style.  Once the endorphins started to come to a steady halt we reluctantly dragged ourselves around the seedy "must sees" of  Agra (the Red Fort where I got sick and a jewelry shop where the owner was intent on going to hell), killing time before the 7 hour bus ride to Jaipur. No matter how INCREDIBLY exhausted we were, there was no way were we spending a night in a city whose only redeeming feature is the palace we already branded and ate for breakfast.

part of the best birthday surprise

Jaipur, the capital city of the state of Rajastan that provided my first real thrill in India at the end of October. A friendly face, a car ride, and an actual bed that would be mine for the following three days. Bliss squared.  Rajastan was where I ached to return and three months after our first introduction, my wishes were again fulfilled. A new adventure commences yet again.