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.
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.
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