A Pain in the Side

For the past few weeks, I’ve had a little visitor.  He’s very close to me and has come with me a long way at my side, but I’m starting to think it might be better if I make him dead.

No, I’m not talking about my American boyfriend, who is also in Delhi for a few weeks but who I like infinitely better.  The visitor I want dead is more of the single-celled variety, and I can’t even remember the first time we met.  We may have been together as long as I’ve been in India.  He has, however, caused me great distress, especially when my weekend plans involve overnight bus trips to Shimla on a Volvo Coach. 

The relationship isn’t really working out for me, and now I think it’s about time for it to end.

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There are all sorts of truisms when it comes to international travel: Don’t drink the water.  Don’t get into a land war in Asia. Wear sunscreen.  Don’t feed the monkeys.  It’s not until you actually have a monkey physically reaching his hands into your jacket pockets for a snack that you realize, this is real.  And there’s a reason that gentleman half a mile back was trying to sell you a monkey stick.

That’s the gist of the lesson imparted by the kindly doctor it took me all of $15 and a little whining to meet.  “Madame,” he said.  “You’re in a tropical country.”  I expected him to elaborate, but instead he gave me a genuine smile and made a list of foods to avoid from now on.  I had been diagnosed with a tropical country.  And salad.  Lesson learned.

I’ll feel better tomorrow, I’m sure, and there are always more lessons to be learned.  Like, for instance: Don’t step in any puddles if it hasn’t been raining.  That’s a whole other story, and probably a few more doctor’s visits, too.