Anjuna, Goa, 2 september

Het verrassend mooie interieur van mijn hotel in Indore

Another bus ride

Mumbai aka Sick City

The legendary Taj Mahal Hotel

Gate of India



Dessert at the Taj



Sea Lounge at the Lounge

Clock Tower, Sick City

Victoria Station

Preparing the offerings for the Ganesh Festival

Collecting trash at Chowpatty Beach, Mumbai

The Oberoi Hotel, Chowpatty Beach

soundtrack: Glover Gill, Ballade 4 pt 1 and the rest of the Waking Life soundtrack

Hi there my darling readers,

I am writing you from another somewhat mouldy-smelling but otherwise acceptable room (there is even a TV and a refrigerator), at five in the morning, laying in my bed, listening to some neurotic rooster going off. No, this hasn’t been the greatest of nights. The last three nights haven’t been the greatest of nights, as a matter of fact. It all started in Mumbai. When I talked to mom and Lily I was still ok. A little out of sorts, maybe, but physically A-ok. But the next day I felt my muscels ache. It was a hot day so I didn’t really notice  my temperature going up. Mumbai was all about pampering myself (lunch at the Taj, shopping spree, hair salon, wax job) and I think the air conditioned salon didn’t really help any. Despite of the stunning haircut-and color (mom don’t fret it I’m just an unnatural born redhead) I didn’t feel like a million bucks by the time I got up to the Hanging Gardens. I’m not  sure how I even made it all the way up there. Either way, by the time I got back at the hotel  I was sure something was off, so I took my temperature and there it was: 38.3°. And then the diarrhea started. I hardly slept that night, running to the bathroom for the occasional diarrhea-episode, and the fever was  up to a soaring 39.4°. I sweated so much, the sheets got soaked.

Since I was already staying longer in Mumbai than provided (the buses and trains were all fully booked on 31/8, so I was leaving the next day at five pm) I felt like this sickness was an omen and I had to get the hell out of this place regardless of my health situation. So I called for a doctor the next morning to get some assurance that I was gonna live, and to maybe get some medicine that I needed that wasn’t included in my three-pound Belgian medicine box. The doctor was a friendly old man, like eighty, assisted by a younger guy carrying his doctor’s bag. When the doc came to my room there was an audience of about three of the boys working at the hotel; I actually had to tell them to leave-the indiscretion of these people is seriously un-f***ing-believable! Basic ground rules as far as appropriate behavior is concerned just don’t exist around here. It’s a bit of an issue to me, to be honest. Those having no consideration for others will annoy me, even at my maximum zen.  And needless to say, at the time I obviously wasn’t at my maximum zen, so you can imagine how these insolent kids made me feel. Grrrr.

The doctor heard me out, didn’t even touch me, there was no prodding or probing involved, I took my temperature again at my own initiative (38°), he prescribed a whole bunch of pills and powders (which one of the bad-mannered boys went fetch) and that was it. He did not advise me to not take the bus, I actually already felt at better hand, meds were on the way, things looked rather optimistic. That ride was going to be a walk in the park, besides, I paid for a double sleeper so there even was gonna be space for my legs!

I checked out of the room and waited in the lobby for my medicine. It was eleven by then. Once I had taken the powders and pills I tried to rest and I fell asleep in the lobby sofa.  I had an upheave of fever again because I woke up sweating pretty badly. That must have been around one.  The hotel manager felt sorry for me and let me go back to my room for the wait. Ever so grateful! I took some short feverish naps, interrupted by diarrhea-attacks. That bus ride became more and more promising.

At four I came into action again; I took a cab to Mumbai Central where I had to wait another half an hour  (I had to visit the lovely bathrooms twice, so I took an Immodium to be safe) . When the bus finally arrived it turned out to be an old, not-so-freshly-smelling sleeper, where the doubles were basically big singles, so no leg space (that’s where the big-ass backpack goes). There was the usual obnoxious Indians thinking they can yell, laugh and giggle all through the night. There was fever, high fever. There were horrible cramps. There was the constant fear of shitting myself (excuse my French, but we’re talking diarrhea here). There was bad memories and good ones, involving a certain ex-boyfriend. There were tears.  So yeah, this one goes straight to the top of the Busrides from Hell-charts. I’m probably traumatized for life now and unable to ever take a sleeper bus again.

At ten in the morning (the ride only took 14 hours)me and a couple of Swiss guys got off the bus in Anjuna. I was too miserable to socialize with the other tourists, I just zombied off to the first cab and told the driver to take me to a ‘clean, quiet place with a restaurant and rooms with windows, preferably with seaview. Maximum  500 roupies.’ The suggestions I made from the Footprint were discarded as presumably closed, too expensive, whatever the hell else the driver was mumbling. He obviously was going to take me to the places where he got a commission. I was too tired and sick to even argue with the guy. When we got to the place he’d suggested though, I wondered if he had even listened to any ofthe requests I had made. Clean? The place was a dump, and in the middle of reconstruction works. So far for quiet. No restaurant in sight. And the window in the room I was shown  looked out on a closed inner courtyard, where the construction works happened to be in their course. It couldn’t be more opposite of what I was looking for. So the driver took me somewhere else. This next place seemed fair enough, I could barter down 150 roupies off the original 650 (it’s off season and I’m not going anywhere the next three days). So here I am. I spent yesterday plus one night here  and ever since I probably jumped up to go to the bathroom every half an hour (no kidding) and I vomited twice too. I’ve thought countless times of Lieven who told me not to worry until crap comes out on both sides. The fever’s finally down, though. I had some toast with butter earlier after two days with virtually no food , and almost instantly had to go to the bathroom again. I’m still not sure if I should take more Immodium though. I feel like there’s an evilDjinn in my bowels and that if I lock it in with Immodium, the fever might soar again. It seems better to get it all out, all cleaned up-not sure if that makes any sense, please feel free to post suggestions. I drink lots of packaged water and try to sleep as much as possible.

Before I started writing this I went outside to the ocean. It’s only a footstep away, I actually hear the waves from my room. The beach is not very clean (surprise) and many crows gather to feast on the scattered garbage. The ocean has the colour of the North Sea, and is roaring, with enormous waves. There’s thick dark grey clouds hovering over it. It was raining a little bit and standing in front of that enormous ocean I couldn’t help but cry. What the hell am I doing here? Like, welcome to Goa, this mythical party-place renowned for its marvelous beaches and resorts. I probably ended up at the least glamourous beach possible, during the rainy season, with a bad case of diarrhea and nausea… some party. I am seriously considering leaving India by now. Going to Bali and then to Italy, to make the Gilbert cycle complete. Flying to Switzerland to help my sister with the tutoring of my goddaughter. Or just go home, cut the crap and start teaching again. I am so exhausted. I need a hug.

So far for now my sweet readers,

Greets and godspeed,

Tinie