Welcome to Ajmer?

After my hospital ‘visit’ I was itching to get out of Jaipur. Wooo! While I was pooping away in the hospital some of the group had traveled to a magical land called Pushkar. My friend Anne and I decided that we needed to go. We barely planned the trip- something I admired about our journey. We briefly went off the itinerary our friends planned the previous weekend. We took a richshaw hoping to somehow find a bus that takes us to our desired destination. Good luck to us. But the free flowing spirit of Anne had immersed itself in me. We’d figure it out, and wherever we ended up…we ended up.

Within the first 5 seconds of getting out of the cramped backseat where dust from the road has permanently settled, we are bombarded with men trying to help us book our tickets. We knew our friends had taken an overcrowded government bus that went straight to Pushkar. “Pushkar, Pushkar, government bus,” we had to yell amidst the horn-honking and persistent beggars. A man pointed to a bus just a few feet away… “Pushkar, 200 rupees.” There was too much commotion going on to tell well…to tell what was ACTUALLY going on. Anne and I had our money out and the man simply plucked 200 rupees from our hands without our consent, wrote us a ticket and pointed to the bus. That bus it is.

From the moment the man had wrote us our tickets we knew it wasn’t the bus our friends had taken. The bus resembled somewhat of an over-used Megabus complete with gods and goddess enveloped in garlands of orange and pink flowers. This was definitely too nice. Anne and I took our seats and waited for the bus to depart. We were excited as we, apart from two other business-looking men seemed to be the only ones embarking on the 7-hour long journey. The bus lurched forward and we were off, slowly picking up families and business men who stand on the roadsides with glittering, eye-striking sari’s and clean-cut button down shirts in contrast to the brown and barren landscape. When the bus picked people up, it didn't even stop…going the speed of a merry-go-round. The ‘to-be’ passengers jogged alongside holding what luggage they have and hopped on. What was a bus filled with 4 passengers in the beginning became incredibly crowded. I think we had a good enough crowd to create our own colony if the bus became stranded. There were three people in seats meant for two…the aisle was completely full, people ] sat on the steps to which you enter the bus. People even sat up front with the bus driver in his alcove. Just when I thought the bus would have to turn people away…the driver allowed more people. What the…? An elderly lady nudged her way to our seat, causing us to be friendlier than ‘bugs in a rug.’ I hopped out of my seat and sat on my backpacking backpack, to make room. This proved only so comfortable for about…hmmmm…let’s see 3 minutes and my back began to ache. The awkward positioning of my body begot stares from other passengers. The driver motioned for me to sit up with him in the front. I obeyed…not wanting to cause more of a scene.

Anne, from Minneapolis woot woot! and I

The rest of journey was spent praying for my life as I had a front seat to the insane and life-threatening driving a drunk driver couldn’t even manifest. No wonder the driver had so many gods displayed on his dashboard. Riding buses, ok not even buses but all vehicles in India are equivalent to riding the Knight bus Harry Potter rides in Prisoner of Azkaban. I kid you not. Replace the shrunken heads with Ganesh (the elephant god) and Shiva, add smelly Indian men who don’t wear deodorant, the drivier swerving for cows and goats plus and some Rajasthani music (traditional music of the state I am living in) with gypsies singing and there you go. Welcome to India J. I wouldn’t have had that bus ride any other way. After a daze of a hot and dusty view, squished between an elderly man who could not smile for his life and the dashboard loaded with idols, Anne and I were told to get off the bus.

“Pushkar? Ye Pushkar hai (This is Pushkar?)” we asked. I was so ready to exit the bus and to stretch my legs. The whole bus stared at us; I guess it was pretty obvious with our English accents and backpacking backpacks that gave us away as spacey tourists.

“Nahi, (No),” the driver said. “Go that way to another bus.”

Brittany, Anne and Gretchen at the Jaipur Literature Festival

So much for not planning the trip, where the hell were we?

"Ye Ajmer hai (This is Ajmer)."

Alright...let the trip begin...

Chachi

The Spanish Lady, I had heard so much about her…well I guess she was just mentioned a lot not that I actually knew much about her. Here is what I did know: She was Spanish….they called her Chachi (seemed to be a fitting name for this crazy woman), she has lived in India for 15 years and can’t speak Hindi- hmmmm, she rents a room from my host family the Rajawats.

Which one of these is the Spanish Lady?

The moment I saw “The Spanish Lady,” I knew why everyone was always talking about her. I think the pink streak in her hair said it all…you don’t see many 50 year-old women with that now do ya? Her clothes were a mix of Indian and European chic with a touch of pink (hair and clothes).  She gave off a spunky aura that you can only find in movie characters, Foxxy Cleopatra combined with Fran from “The Nanny.” That woman talked English at the speed of light in a heavy Spanish accent. Are you familiar with Gloria from Modern Family? Ok take her voice and make it 50 years old. Yep that’s what you got. She was not afraid to speak her mind, always arguing with the rickshaw drivers. She is a Spanish travel guide so she is always all over the place, she’d sure be an interesting tour guide. She loves to dance, and she has made it clear she loves to drink. One of my roommates became sick, and Chachi told her to drink some rum-and she was being very serious. My friend Asha and I went out one night, and then next day Chachi asked us what club we went to and started naming off the clubs she has been to in Jaipur.

She came with Krishnaji, Amanda, Asha, Claire and I sari shopping. I had really wanted my own sari to wear to an upcoming wedding. Chachi stepped right in (even though Krishnaji is probably an expert at sari’s) picking out colors of the fabric and design patterns. She even directed the men how to cut the sleeves for my top. “No, no, no you do it short, this girl is young and fresh. You don’t give her long sleeves like an old person, you put the sleeves right there (pointing to my shoulder).” And would you know it I LOVED the final product. Thank you Chachi.

Ji Signhji with Chachi

And I’m pretty sure Ji Signhji is in love with her, the crazy bad-girl Spanish lady type is really appealing to him I think. He is always over chatting away or eating (Krishnaji makes her special food without the Indian spices- home girl ain’t havin none of that) with her aka bothering her. But she is just oblivious to his puppy love. Chatting away, giving him a hard time while on her sewing machine she bought for $40.

A few days before I left Jaipur, our family was having some sort of dance party with Spanish music provided by Chachi. Ji Signhji, wanting to be the center of attention gets right in on the dancing and stands on the large freezer in the backyard. As he is dancing his goofy dance, ear to ear smiling with his scrawny legs, blue flip-flops and Elmer Fudd head in his crappy plaid button-up, Chachi yells, “Now take off your shirt! If you dance like that you take off your shirt!”

Me: Please dear lord, no. I have already seen him take a bath in the garden with his swim trunks, cleaning his junk. I don’t need a strip tease.

He begins to take off his shirt. “AHHHHH!!!!” The adjacent family comes out to see what all the commotion is about. Ji Signhji struggles to get his sleeve to come off his arm….anndddd RIP! His sleeve tears right off. I am watching a 50 year-old Indian man strip to Spanish music, while he is on a freezer. What is this world coming too?

Krishnaji and Ji Singhhi (with Amanda and I of course)

Amanda (my roommate) and I have a theory that they have an affair, but then I think Chachi wouldn’t want to be tied down (seriously). That relationship is a mystery to me. It seems like such a storybook tale; a traditional Indian family, with the crazy Spanish lady living next door. Someone needs to write a book about it…

Could I Please Have A Snake Charmer This Evening?

After my hospital visit my mood was in cahoots. It took me at least a week to get back into the swing of things. It’s so hard being so far away from home without a familiar support system. I think that was my weakest point in this crazy journey. I shed a lot of tears out of frustration; confusion and just shear insanity. Even though it was only three days in a hospital, so many other factors came into play. When you are in a third world country’s hospital and you don’t even know why you are there or what they are putting into you is a large problem. HELLO language barrier.

Could I really have anticipated needing to know the Hindi words for; diarrhea, shot, butt, nurse, go away (eh…maybe I should have known this one), vomit, gurney, stomach pains, did I say diarrhea already? You bet your booty I didn’t. However I did know how to say bow and arrow, fire worship and snake charmer. Yes these are the basic words Indian children learn. We are taught the A,B,C’s, a is for apple, b is for ball (you get the point) Hindi children learn “dha se dhanush (bow and arrow), ya se yagya (fire worship), sa se sapera (snake charmer).” So I could have easily asked my nurse, “Chayie sapera (I want a snake charmer)." Which actually might have been a nice change to my boring days, your own personal snake charmer? And maybe that would compel the workers to actually scrub the floor instead of just spray it. I could ask for some evening entertainment, but I was incapable of asking for a clean towel. How wonderful.

Have you ever looked up or for that matter heard someone speak Hindi? Dear lord is it hard. There is gha and ga, tha, tha and ta, bha and ba… the list goes on. I never thought I could connect Lady Gaga with Hindi, but I’ve learned anything is possible (even becoming Facebook friends with your nurse). Lady Gaga’s song Bad Romance is like peas in a pod with the Hindi dialect. One must simply know to chorus line to practice and tweak just a little- “Gha ga, oooo, ta tha, da dha, oooo pa pha…” Thanks Lady Gag’s you’re one in a million.

Things were back to normal when I returned, the bed was the same middle school gym-mat-hardness and my host family was still super crazy and the water still had little white flakes in it after it had been boiled. 

Claire with the chickens

But we did have a new addition to the family- six little neon colored chickens. Ji Singhji brought them home in a little cramped up box. My first question: How in the world did these chickens get colored? My second question: Why are there five baby neon colored chickens in the house? It was nice to play with them...even though they probably had a disease. Apparently Ji Singhji bought them as gifts to give to his nephews. So he would give them to one nephew and whenever the nephew got tired of playing with the chickies he would pawn them off on another nephew. Weird right? I asked what will happen when the chickens grow up, my host sister Bulbul said, "They will just run around in our yard." Alrighty then.

To add to the crazy neon chickens, ‘The Spanish Lady” I had been hearing all about had returned home from Dehli and I was curious to meet her- and boy was she something.

Day Three- Someone help me

Yes yes yes, I have been terribly bad about writing my adventures in my blog. It’s been almost a month and I have so much to say! So although the hospital incident happened such a long time ago I am going to continue in the same format because I’m anal like that and don’t want to alter the ‘vibe’ of the blog (for my own sake J ). Now back to the hospital…(chimes ringing like returning to the story)...

You have a lot of time to contemplate life when you are in a hospital in a third world country. Many of you will say, “Well hey, you wanted to learn about public health didn’t ya? Here it is…at it’s finest.”

Ok I can totally do this, although I didn’t want to be in the hospital while all my friends were out exploring India and its wonders, I did have a T.V that had some English channels and the best part- I had an actual shower! Like one that streams down on your head! So fabulous. And I also had time alone, something I hadn’t received a lot of since arriving in India.

Me 'enjoying' the hospital

So the plan was that I would stay over night and leave the next morning. My roommate Amanda accompanied me after coming back from the field trip. What a saint. I read Eat Pray Love, watched some T.V (Dead Poet’s Society to be exact) and slept a lot. My body felt so weak and my appetite was only craving the standard ‘American sick foods;’ chicken noodle soup, saltine crackers, sprite. Three meals -all the dietician would give me was the bland daal, kitchiri, curd (chunky, soupy, plain yogurt that Indians eat a lot), and coconut water (of which I had high hopes for because I heard it was good and it was NOT!). I picked at the food like a picky 5-year-old child and forced some of it down my throat. However, between my scrumptious meals I did get tea (with two packets of sugar in- yum) and biscuits that I snarfed down. All I wanted was some toast and jelly- just toast and jelly PLEASE! So after a lot of begging and pantomiming I finally got toast and jelly with each meal. Every time I needed to go to the bathroom I had to push the nurse button and have them unhook me so I could make the pathetic- me looking pathetic- walk to the washroom- very inconvenient when there are constantly fluids and antibiotics flowing through your body making you have to go to the bathroom twice as much. Each time the nurse would re-hook my IV I’d feel a cool rush through my arm of the liquids that were re-hydrating me. I had lost about 5lbs, so for all you weight watchers- it’s simple; fly to India, lick the street or something (ok you don’t need to go that far but if you want guaranteed results that’s the best way), get a lot of loose motions and boom! 5lbs out the door.

Three days damned days and three damned nights I spent in Fortis hospital. One night my ass- the plan changed from a few hours, to one night, to maybe stay until the next day to not discharged until Monday.

At least I had a gorgeous view from my window...too bad I had to ask the nurse to unhook me each time if I ever wanted to see it.

Let me tell you a little something about this hospital- apparently one of the best in the country. Well first, I look back on it and it’s all quite hilarious, however when you are in the midst of a hospital stay it seems like forever and it sucks. As I would be sleeping with my cute little stuffed dog cinnamon, pleasantly dreaming about normal bowel movements and toast with jelly, 6a.m. every morning- KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK! HOUSEKEEPING!

Me: “What the…GO AWAY!” It is 6 a.m. in the morning. What in the world could possibly be done at 6a.m. that could improve the situation?

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

Me: “NO! NAHI CHAYIE! (I don’t need!)” LET ME SLEEP FOR LORDS SAKE.

The door opens…two little nurses scurry in. So much for my Hindi lessons…. They spray the ground and air with something equivalent to Lysol/Windex. They didn’t wipe it up…just spray- is this the typical cleaning method in India? Clean the bathroom and then poke me. They point to the loose sheet that ‘covers’ the plastic hospital bed I am sleeping on…

Nurse: “Change.”

The 'hotel' as my host sister bulbul called it-hotel my ass

You’ve GOT to be kidding me…no way in hell…

Nurse: poke poke poke, “Change.”

Welp, sitting here is going to do nothing so I succumbed. I get up at 6a.m. and wait for them to change the sheet- that I guess desperately needed to be changed that very moment.

Within the three days I was there I had three different doctors, all of whom poked my stomach, checked the vitals and peaced out. It wasn’t until the third doctor that I asked- “Um, what is going on? What do I have?”

Doctor: “O. No one told you? You have gastroenteritis.”

In the most sarcastic tone I thought; WHY THANK YOU GOOD SIR! How kind of you to take the time to visit your patient and inform me. I have been in this hospital for two whole days and I finally am clued in on why the hell I’m here.

On the bright side, during sporadic times in the day I would have a card laying on top of my bed- “Get Well Soon,” signed by no one…with my name spelled wrong, but hey at least someone was nice enough to give me a card eh? Same card, with the same happy white people on the front, in a nice Fortis Escorts envelope, precious.

I made it clear I had wanted an English-speaking nurse. Apparently, my program told the hospital only women were to work with me due to gender roles here. Well, if it’s between having someone I actually understand and someone who I have to pantomime the potty dance to at least 10 times a day- I’ll take the boy.

From then on, it was somewhat of a pleasant experience- I was informed on what was happening and even became Facebook friends with good old Kanishk. Tell me how often that happens? Not entirely sure if that's sketchy...or not...but if I have more loose motions Kanishk is just a Facebook message away.

After a lot of alone time, a lot of crying and frustration, a lot of pondering life, a lot of pooping, a lot of daal, kitchiri and curd, a lot of pantomiming the potty dance- I was discharged. Entered early Friday, left late Monday-I was a free woman. Let my life begin.

Welcome to India.

First time for everything...

For those of you who have been good friends and family members and have read my previous blog, my story continues...

Thursday night, my clan of 11 convinces me something more needs to be done to take care of the situation. No one is helping me, not the school, not the previous doctor, not my host family. I have NO clue what to do in such a strange and unfamiliar place. I call my insurance company and get the name of a doctor and then the name of a hospital under which I will be fully covered. I set up an appointment with a doctor for the morning. I inform my host family I have an appointment in the morning.

I wake up. It’s Friday morning. Liza Minelli is still singin’. It is the third day of my emtreme loose motions. This is far from normal ‘travelers diarrhea,’ and is getting to be more concerning. I want to go to school today, we have a field trip. I want this awful sickness to go away. I feel weak and tired. In these times I refer to my inspiration in life Lil’ Wayne “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

Pretty soon one of teacher’s is at my house. I am lying in bed…people are talking so loudly. All I want to do is sleep. Someone is calling the ambulance? THE AMBLUANCE? Well hot dang I only have loose motions…that’s enough to call the ambulance? Wait…calling the ambulance means…I’m going to the hospital??? WHAT?! Maybe I should get up and see what everyone is determining about MY health situation without consulting me.

Here is what I learn: I will not be going to school today. Instead my field trip will consist of the hospital. I must cancel my previous appointment with the doctor. Why didn’t I inform the school I wanted to be hospitalized? (UM who said I wanted to be hospitalized? And for that matter the school had done NOTHING until now to help me. VERY VERY FRUSTRATING). They are calling a cab because it will most likely take the ambulance 1 hour to reach my house (thank god I’m not dying or something).

Dazed and confused (good movie by the way) I take the bumpy ride with my guardian of a roommate, Amanda, who might I add planned to skip the field trip to stay with me what an angel, and my teacher Mitaji. I go into emergency care where I learn I will be given an IV to replace all the fluids I lost. Great. I have never had an IV before; guess there is a first time for everything right? An IV in India, now that’s my kind of fun. And I am still overcoming my anxiety with needles. They poke and prod me 4 places because my veins were so small from the absence of fluids. I’d only be in the hospital for an hour and then I could leave.

Weren't supposed to take pics in the emergency room. Whoops.

I had a tiny nurse, around 25yrs, that sat in the room to watch over me. She had the kindest eyes and such a soothing presence, like someone in the hospital actually cared. She would smile at me with those big beautiful brown eyes even though I looked like a crazed lunatic who is trying to ween off drugs. When I began shivering she brought me another blanket and tucked me in each time it fell off my feet. She would gently brush my hair out of my face. Something was so comforting about having her by my side even though we could barely say two words to each other.

I lolled in and out of sleep (that was easily more than an hour). And then: the butt shot. In the middle of my dream I was awakened by the sweet nurse (I would learn most of my attendants spoke incredibly poor English…that was fun), and she mimed for me to turn on my side and pull down my pants. And I saw the needle…a big fat stinkin needle that was going to go into my non-existent butt (for those of you who don’t know or haven’t noticed I am very much lacking in any backside action). She stuck that sucker in and it hurt like hell. Apparently it was pain killer for my stomach ‘snake bites’ but I think I would have preferred those than that horrendous shot. And then I began to cry. Doctors and attendants filtered in and out, “What’s wrong? What happened?” WELL let me tell you (Indians say that a lot here, it’s weird) I am stuck in this stupid sketchy-ass hospital where I have no idea what is going on and what is wrong with me. Instead I could be on a field trip watching people make paper and pottery, but I am watching my heart monitor beep. I am not allowed to have my phone so I can’t call my family to inform them I am in a sketchy-ass hospital in a third world country. I have an IV in me, of which could be any type of liquid like potassium nitrate, and I just got a shot in my butt. The school did nothing to take care of me and no one is translating for me what exactly is happening. Good thing I’m leaving this popsicle stand today.

And then just as I had magically arrived at the hospital, had an IV of god-knows-what shoved in my arm, was given a nightmarish butt shot, I was being rolled to the third floor on a gurney. I was going to be staying over night…

I guess there is a first time for everything...to be admitted to a hospital, to get an IV, to have a shot in one's butt, to stay overnight in the hospital...and why not in India?