In sickness and in health

Slapping cockroaches dead on trains - a novel way to pass time

We catch an overnight train back to Delhi from Varanasi the next day, after returning to Blue Lassi with Harriet in tow, Erin refined to bed rest again. The train is only 14 and a half hours this time, but it still passes rather agonisingly, thanks to the endless stream of cockroaches scuttling up and down the walls and floor our carriage. I spend the majority of the night on cockroach watch, slapping them dead with my jandals, and thanking my lucky stars we have a driver and flights booked for the remainder of our transport in India. It’s at about 3am – when we’re still nowhere near Delhi, the snoring from the Indian man in the neighbouring cabin is becoming deafening and the ‘roaches are seemingly unconquerable – that I start to think my family’s trip to Melbourne to see the Australian Open tennis is looking like a much more appealing option than India. What was I thinking?

I doze off to sleep just in time to be woken up as we pull into Delhi at 7am. It’s a cool 4 degrees when we hop off the train, but waiting on the platform for us is Vishnu, our driver for our tour of Rajasthan. Vishnu, “like the name of Indian god”, he proudly says, is a tiny man in a bright purple jersey. He has thighs the size of my forearms, very dark skin, a moustache, goatee and a cheeky smile. For the car, Vishnu on call 24/7, petrol and taxes, it’s only costing us $200 each for 10 days. A total bargain.

We’d specified a vehicle with seatbelts, a very careful driver, and one who speaks English. Vishnu takes us over to our car, which is described on our itinerary as a SUV but is more of a people-mover. It’s white, and has the word “TOURIST” emblazoned in large capitals on the top of the front windscreen. Could we be any more obvious? After some fumbling, we locate all the seatbelts, and set to the roads. Vishnu is indeed a careful driver, but his English leaves a bit to be desired. Oh well, two out of three ain’t bad. 

The Famous Five Do Rajasthan

It’s a slow start as we crawl through the extreme fog covering Delhi, but the roads of Rajasthan are more like real roads than any others we’ve travelled on so far. The drive to Agra passes relatively painlessly (although, to be fair, I’m asleep most of the time), and when we arrive, we take photos of the Taj Mahal from our bedroom windows. As Vishnu’s English isn’t the best, the tour company is supplying us with guides in each city; shortly after arriving, we meet our Agra guide and have some lunch, before a minor drama unfolds: Clare misplaces her small handbag containing USD $500, credit cards, an iPhone and passport. We comb the restaurant and cross-examine the staff members, but later return to let them know that all is well – the handbag has been located at the hotel. Crisis averted. We head to the Red Fort (Agra Fort), overlooking the Taj Mahal, where we will visit tomorrow, as it’s closed for worship each Friday. 

King Peter and his princesses at Agra Fort

At the Red Fort, we pose for photos with Barn sitting on the King’s seats, and us (his four wives/princesses, as we’ll now be known) surrounding him. The tour guide shows us a secret room with walls filled with water, and we have more fun than 25- and 26-year-olds probably should whispering into one corner of the room, and hearing what the other person is saying just like a phone line in the opposite corner, 10 metres away.

Before the day’s tour ends, we have to visit a marble factory and another sales spiel. Today’s is like a carefully scripted play – the shop owner has his lines down, and his assistants all switch the shop lights off in unison as a torch is shone beneath a marble table to show us the colourful stones in all their glory. We get away without purchasing an outdoor marble table, but Harriet takes one for the team this time, buying the smallest marble elephant they have.

That night, we dine in the company of a throng of Korean tourists at Joney’s Place, highly recommended by friends and all the guide books. We sample more Indian delights and wash them down with lassis before heading back to our ‘VIP suite’ which isn’t all that VIP (cold saltwater showers, which eventually turn into lukewarm saltwater showers). We lay out our best Indian outfits for the morning – we’re getting up at 6.30 to go to the Taj Mahal at sunrise – and head to bed, excited about the day ahead.

And then it all goes horribly wrong.

I wake up at 1am and power-chuck the contents of my dinner into the toilet bowl. Thinking I feel better, I head back to bed, only to wake up every 20 minutes for the next eight hours to vomit up copious amounts of the brightest yellow bile. It’s like clockwork. Excruciatingly painful clockwork. Twenty minutes, to the minute. I’ve never been this sick in my life and as clichéd as it sounds, I would never wish this upon my worst enemy. It’s a living nightmare.

In the morning, I’m lying in the foetal position on the camp-bed by a heater, and groan a farewell to the others as they head to the Taj Mahal – the supposed highlight of a tour of Rajasthan. In fact, it’s probably the highlight of the whole of India. I’m in Agra and I’m not going to see the Taj Mahal; this is unbelievable. When the crew return, they try to hide how amazing it was from me. “It was freezing cold,” says Harriet. “Taj schmaj,” offers Clare. I bet it was incredible.

The next few hours pass in a blur as the team decides we can’t travel to Jaipur today as planned. They find a new hotel, and take me to the general hospital next door, which looks like it’s the set from a 1930s war movie. Everything is rusty and broken, and there are sick people everywhere. I’m helped into a wheelchair and taken to be examined by a doctor who loudly asks over and over again “How many times vomit?” and “How many times defecation?”, which does bring the tiniest of smiles to my ashen face. I’m admitted overnight and sent to a very cold but private ward next to a public ward with dozens of Indian mothers and babies lying over beds in every direction. I hand over the 2000 rupees ($50) for my room, give the doctor my passport and am examined again by a host of what I think are trainee doctors and nurses on rounds. The room is packed, but hardly anyone can speak English, so much of our communication (or rather, miscommunication) is mimed.

The cleaner, of all people, comes back in and hands over a list of around 15 medications, written in Hindi. She hangs around and awkwardly stares at me for an age, until Barn comes back into the room and subtly lets me know that someone in the carpark has told them that this is the “poor man’s hospital” and that we should be at the “rich man’s hospital” down the road. Sure enough, Lonely Planet also suggests the “rich man’s hospital”, more formally known as Amit Jaggi Memorial Hospital. 

Hospital number one, a fridge

Before the cleaner gets her chance to pump me with unknown medicines, Harriet spends almost an hour discharging me and signing countless forms, while Clare calls BNZ TravelCare to tell them I need to cash in on my policy. Because we’re self-discharging, the nurses no longer let me use the bathroom, instead pointing me in the direction of the filthiest squatter located in the burns unit when I’m about to be sick again. I run outside and vomit in the carpark instead. New low.

Eventually Harriet returns to the car with my discharge papers, and we even get back the money for my room, bar a 160 rupee admin fee. Vishnu then takes me to Amit Jaggi Memorial Hospital, where I’m instantly seen by Dr Jaggi himself, Senior Physician and Medical Director. Dr Jaggi’s office looks like a much more legitimate excuse for a doctor’s surgery, with degrees and diplomas adorning the walls, and the latest medical textbooks on shelves. This is a good sign. When Dr Jaggi asks my name, I groan “Rebecca”. He smiles, “Ahh, you must be Rebecca Kennedy. Your travel insurance company has phoned me already. I will call them back to let them know you’re here.” I nearly cry with relief – the man speaks English and he knows who I am.

Dr Jaggi says I have a “very bad bacterial infection” and am “extremely dehydrated”. A whole team of doctors and nurses march into my hospital room and try to find veins in my arms for about quarter of an hour, the first three attempts being unsuccessful. My right arm is squeezed black and blue and a vein is finally located, and I’m pumped with I/V fluids, and given general antibiotics while my bloods are tested for what the bacteria is. I feel so awfully nauseous that I’m in tears, almost hysterical, and that’s when Ali, one of Dr Jaggi’s assistants, announces that he is about to inject something in my backside. New, new low.

Ali smiles at me and exclaims far too happily, “No, no, no, no, no, nooooooo worrrries!” Well, maybe not for you, Ali. He means well though, and quickly becomes an ally in this battle against my own body. In the afternoon, Erin decides to get checked out by Dr Jaggi too, as she hasn’t been feeling very well since last week. She’s admitted into the same room as me, and is great company and moral support as further excruciating injections are endured and more new lows eventuate.

Not quite a tequila sunrise

I sleep the whole next day and miss the others when they come in to make a new travel plan. In the end, they decide to push on to Jaipur while we stay another night in hospital, and they arrange for a driver to come and collect us when we’re discharged. Erin and I talk to our families, and then spend the evening watching movies on HBO, including Sex and the City 2 – The Movie, and – aptly – Slumdog Millionaire. I even catch a bit of one of Caroline Wozniacki’s matches at the Australian Open, and don’t feel so gutted about missing it in person.

On our third day in hospital Dr Jaggi confirms that our cultures showed we had E.coli, and says we’ll be able to be discharged in the afternoon. The young doctor who’s been treating us (‘DK’ as he tells us to call him – not to be confused with TK from Shortland Street) administers even more antibiotics and one last injection each in the backside. They send us on our way with very best wishes and little brown paper bags of medicines to see us through the next four days.



Close but no cigar - viewing a poster of the Taj

As we walk out of the hospital, I don’t even recognise the outside of the place, having been in such a state when I arrived. We’ve made it out alive thanks to selfless love and help from some incredible friends: Pete for dealing with hospitals, drivers, hotels, and for staying in touch with my family; Harriet for discharging me from the “poor man’s hospital”, and constantly making sure we were comfortable; Clare for her texts and phonecalls to my Mum, and calling the travel insurance company; and Erin for sharing new lows and new, new lows.

I've said before that to avoid cultural faux pas in India, I may as well be married to Pete, but this week I may as well be married to all of my travel buddies. After all, they're proving they'll stick with me in sickness and in health – but hopefully not til’ death do us part.