Boxing Day. Another 24 hours with no food, body wracked in pain and feverish chills. Struggled to get up today. Went to a restaurant for a cup of herbal tea and a fruit pancake, which I only nibbled gingerly. A long line of cows strolled past on a morning stroll. They just walk around like they own the place, knowing they’ll never be eaten. They’re so chilled.
Felling terrible after ‘breakfast’, and with severe stomach cramps, I set off towards the doctors, but halfway there I realised I couldn’t do it, so staggered back to my room clutching my twisted stomach, and had feverish sleeps until 6pm.
Woke feeling even worse and this time dragged myself to Doctor Miltons. A young lady, a Rushi Ayurveda masssause, was there, not Doctor Milton, but she phoned him to explain my condition. He said he’d be over in an hour. Then the lady, Sarita was her name, began telling me all about her massages, all about her life, about India, Bollywood etc….she literally had to gasp for breath when she spoke, clearly suffering from diaorrhea of the verbal kind. She made the sweetest cup of tea I’d ever drunk. I didn’t want to be there listening to her. It made me feel worse.
Luckily, at exactly 7pm, Dr Milton arrived, leather jacket over pink shirt, wearing sunglasses; a playboy doctor. He examined my stomach, and told me I had an infection – gastrominitus or something – that had infected my chest as well. My blood pressure though, was fine. He gave me pills for fever, pills to control vomiting, antibiotics for the infection, and multivitamins for strength – all for only 590 Rupees.
I took the fever and anti-vomiting tablets straight away, and left to walk to a restaurant. He advised drinking fruit juice, and eating soup or boiled rice with vegetables. In the restaurant, I ordered boiled rice with vegetables. Bland, dry, and easily the worst meal I’d had for many a month, certainly since the kangaroo, snake and crocodile meat stew in Cambodia. At least it was healthy. I felt very faint towards the end of the meal, and almost collapsed. I must have looked weird, throwing my head down and tapping my feet frantically in a bid not to lose consciousness. During my meal, a long-haired hippy covered in tattoos came in, carrying a box. He went over to his mates, some from London, some from Europe. “I found him in the road…bleedin’ got run over…well I couldn’t well leave it, could I?” He said in a cockney accent. In the box was a flea-ridden dog with 2 broken back legs. It was all too much, and I left the restaurant and somehow didn’t faint on my way back home.