The Skinny on India

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Namaste, (Friends & Family)

Hospitable:

It must have been nine or ten o’clock in the morning before I pulled myself from the bed that lay flush with the cool tile floor. Most of the night had been spent riling in discomfort from the japati that had been rolled with old flour. Only a fool would keep putting himself through such unnecessary steps. Then again, I never was the sharpest tool in the shed.

As cold water flowed from the showerhead and down my body, I learned into the wall. The heat of the day had already begun to build and the chills down my spine only served to relax my still sour stomach. I wondered to myself how long it was going to take before my body finally adjusted to its new surroundings. Two weeks? Three weeks? Four weeks? Maybe more? Either way did not matter. It could not last forever. I just had to tough it out. But toughing it out takes on a different meaning when you realize that you are pissing blood.

It took me a day to decide. Hospital or no hospital? I had heard stories of people leaving the hospital sicker than when they arrived. If what I had seen so far in India was a testament to the hygiene ahead, then I might as well be taken out back and shot, like a broken down race horse. I could try and ride it out, but once I went north the standard of care would go even further downhill as things got more remote. And if it turned out to be something serious, then I would be up shit creek without a paddle. After weighing my options, I decided that the next morning I would get into a tuk tuk and make my way down to the nearest hospital. If the doctor had a bone going through his nose, then plan B was to find the nearest liquor store, down a fifth of whiskey, rent a gun, and buy a bullet.

As I sat in the waiting room, I watched intently. Patients, doctors, administrators, the guy mopping the floor, everything seemed in order. Upon arriving, I had even been rushed to the front of the rather short, but undefined queue. The desk clerk who had checked me in had given a rather wriggled smirk when he had read my name. You know? The one that might have resembled little Cindy Lou Who on Christmas day, when the Grinch had returned all the presents. He had promptly asked if my name was, “Gates.” I responded, “Yes.” Another smirk, then pause. “You are from America?” I answer, “Yes.” A look that let me know he was connecting the dots. Finally, “You know Bill Gates?”

O.k. Lets stop and think for a second. I could tell this poor schmuck the truth and say that I had once sent a high school graduation invitation to this guy whom I shared a surname with, but had never met, as a joke, hoping to get a graduation present (you know something small, like a Ferrari) or I could tell a flat out lie, risk embarrassment, and possibly legal action all for what? To be cool? So I decided to do what any sensible person would do. “Yes. He is my uncle”, I responded. (What? You know that is what he wanted to hear. Why would he ask otherwise?) I could just see star struck warm fuzzies wrap around him like a hit of brown sugar heroin to a junky. Now, I will give him props for trying to keep his cool, but when you start picking up the phone and calling everyone in the hospital and telling them Bill Gates’ nephew is in the house, someone is going to notice. Call me crazy, but maybe this had something to do with me getting pushed to the front of line.

After seeing the doc (who gave me her mobile number), getting blood work processed from a technician (who took two viles; 1 for testing, 1 for eBay), and pushing an elderly woman out of the way at the pharmacy to receive my meds, I was ushered up stairs and in front of 3 waiting pregnant women to get an ultra sound. It's good to be king.

While all of this fast efficient health care beats the States any day, I had to sober up and face the facts. As the doc smeared my paper white belly with ultra sound jelly, I bit my lip and said, “I want you to give it to me straight doc. How long do I have? Six months? A month? 24 hours?” You would think something so stupid and predictable would get a reaction. Right? Nothing. As Doctor Sheba Vijay Singh (I don’t remember her real name) made small clockwise circle with the ultra sound instrument, she remained silent and glued to the screen.

Speculation began to creep in. What if it was Rocky Mountain Spotted Camel Fever, Bombay Bird Influenza, or even worse, Mumbai Monkey Syphilis!?!?!? How would I explain that one? As I lay there coming up with excuses of how I had contracted some rare sexual disease that only primates with opposable thumbs had, the doc broke the silence, “Hmmmmm.” I immediately jumped the gun, “Shit. I knew it. I never should have turned my back on them beady eye bastards at the monkey temple. If I get out of this alive…” “Looks like you need to drink more water before I can get an accurate reading,” the doc interrupted. I just laid there, staring at the ceiling, blinking. Well, that was awkward. Not much to do now, but put my shirt on, pick up what pride the guy sweeping the floor had not collected, and shuffle out the door without saying a word. Forty-five minutes and 3 liters of water later, I was given a clean bill of health and directions to the nearest bathroom.

In all seriousness, my experience with the hospital in India was a very positive one. I received excellent care, never had to wait more than 15 minutes, and the total cost for 2 doctors visits, blood work, medications, and an ultra sound was only around $150US. Which leaves me enough money left over for a Domino’s pizza and some beer.

Ganga on the Ganges:

You know, even sometimes I am surprised. Though I have been around the block a time or two, something’s still make me raise my brow. Once again my concentration was on keeping my resolve as the heat and the people rubbed shoulders with my sanity. The faint smell of gasoline fumes and body odor was only matched by the fact that Ahmed (again, not his real name), an Indian Special Forces commando on his way to assignment, had been leaning against me for the past 6 hours. However, the fact that he had the physique of a fortune 500 accountant made me doubt his occupation.

I had been zing zagging on the deluxe local bus that was; well, anything but deluxe for almost 10 hours now. It was about all I could take, so I decided to make my way to the exit door that was constantly left open, much the way a school bus sliding door remains ajar between stops, for some air. As I hung my head out the door, praying for a light pole to pass by within close proximity at 100 kilometers an hour, I was interrupted by something in the air. A faint, but distinct smell caught my attention. As I scanned the bus and the roadside, the culprit was revealed. Indeed, the entire roadside was cultivated with marijuana.

Oh happy day. There are very few moments in life that compare to the current; the birth of your first born, the day that you meet your soul mate, the second coming. Visions of dreadlocked Rastafarians, reggae music, and Willie Nelson filled my head. Had Willie Nelson ever visited northern India, I have a feeling that he would be a yoga guru rather than a country singer now, if you catch my drift.

It started out as a plant here and a plant there, but as the miles grew so did the cash crop. It got to the point that I was concerned that if there were a brush fire then the world food bank would have to start making airdrops for the local population. The docile Hindu cows, I feared, would no longer be safe. Consumption would be inevitable.

At the first stop I was waiting at the door with a pocketknife and a garbage bag in hand. However, before I could gather samples for research purposes, I noticed the mountain police strolling along the roadside. Now it is important to understand, while there are more drugs available than sand at the beach, it is still illegal. Because India is so corrupt it is usually at the discretion of the authorities as to whom they prosecute and whom they don’t. Still, if you have enough money then you can get out of anything. For this very reason, my broke ass decided collecting hashish like an undocumented orange picker in the States was a bad idea.

Everyone smokes. The guy who does my laundry, the 96 year old grandmother that owns the hotel (trust me I watched her), the Pakistani bar tender standing around shooting the shit with the Nepalese cook, everyone. When you are sitting at a restaurant watching the Ganges slowly roll by, you think to yourself it was over an hour ago that I ordered food. Then you look to your left and see a tourist from France rolling a joint for the waiter because she does it better. It is only then that you realize that smoking is so entangled in local culture that the entire kitchen is blown.

On the flip side, everyone is super laid back and as cool as the other side of the pillow. Shanti shanti is the motto here. Nice and easy. I sat in a bar the other night that was little more than a small open air room with a botched paint job, a few well used tables with miss matched chairs, Indian reggae music, and a haze that left my range of view no more than few feet in front of me. Of the cats nocking back black tea with me were Pakistanis, Argentinians, Indians, Nepalese, Russians, etc. We sat and shot the bull well into the night like we had grown up together. Isn’t it a curious thing how when all of our presumptions and prejudices are pushed aside that we are all the same. An unplanned after party was spent on the balcony of a local hotel with two Indians, two Israelis, an Argentinean, a fifth of the cheapest whiskey I could find (Officers Choice $4US), and yours truly. Although next I think I may opt for the more expensive bottle of whiskey.

The wine. The wine here isn’t bad either. Other cash crops in the mountains are apples, pears, and the such. Because refrigeration and preserving produce here is still not up to par with that of Europe or the States, most goes to waste before it reaches markets. As civilizations have done for ages, instead of wasting all of their hard earned rewards, the fruits are fermented and turned into some pretty damn good wine. They also make some homemade moonshine originating from local rice and will put hair on your chest. I can buy some local apple juice, a plastic water bottle of white lightning from the guy that cooks breakfast around the corner, mix the two, and I am straight, son.

It is safe to safe that between Rishikesh and Manalli, the quality of my health and experiences have drastically improved. My days have either been spent filled with either quad quivering ascents of the local mountains or tipsy with the locals. I can’t thing of a better way to spend a day. Ain’t life grand?

Check out other adventures at our new site Ultra Expeditions and see what we are up to.

The Quote:

Don't do drugs because if you do drugs you'll go to prison, and drugs are really expensive in prison.
~John Hardwick

The Plan:

After returning back to my super fly self, I figured was that I was just severely dehydrated. A few liters of chemically infused Kingfisher beer seemed to have done the trick. I plan on weathering the heat in the foothills of the Himalayas near Rishikesh and Manalli climbing to my hearts content, before heading southeast to the tea plantations of Darjeeling.

Namaste,
Jason

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Comments

[Valyre Gates]

Hey, Vagabond!
Wow, I was getting a little concerned that we hadn't heard from you in weeks. Asked for prayer for you in church. Glad to know you just need to drink more !!! You don't want a kidney stone, I've had two. It's the closest pain you'll ever have to child baring!!!!!!!Ain't Fun . Laughed hysterically at the picture you painted with your blog of the "getting high" options!!! We love you! Stay safe.