Twenty-one days spent in a land of spirituality, beauty, history, adventure and at the same time the exact opposite of all these adjectives and all I find myself doing today as I sit in front of my laptop, dashboard on screen, is bitching to myself about my writing style and my inability to express thoughts as well as my friends in other blogs. I just can't write without preparation sometimes and then when I do it all comes out rather rigid and damn machine-like, conveying only facts free of emotion
and, as my form 6 Literature teachers would say, "needs more analysis."
Maybe practice is all I need and I definitely need more of it so rather than subject the glory of my 21 days of contradictions to some ill-formed prose quickly written up to fill space in this blog and clear space in my head, I'll hold off on it for a while and instead write a little about my journey back to home and the last few days at home.
*Warning* it's been extremely boring.
Tears shed, dried, kisses wiped clean, 3 of us got into the taxi and headed for the airport. Finally free of this place but wishing we could hold on tighter, our emotions had become a mess of contradictions just as this place which became a surrogate home for all of us the past 21 days.
Now, facing American Fast Food at the airport we made a mad dive towards the nearest Mc Donald's and Dominoes we could find and stuffed our faces...um...I mean began the taste transition from eastern to western spices so as to ease our stomaches gradually back into our 'everyday' flavours.
I would've loved to have an 'easy' time with my stomach over the last week.
The Indira Gandhi International Airport is very modern. More so than the modest Piarco International Airport of my little island. Flights from all sides of the Eastern and Western world alight there for loading and unloading of goods and people also from all sides of the Eastern and Western world. The water fountain near my boarding gate looked shiny. New, shiny and clean. With that cool, glistening metallic sheen that just called to you for the cool water inside. It should be fine right? Despite all the warnings received over the last 21 days, surely this one was filtered and boiled and re-filtered for all of these international guests. I drank my guts full. Full of cool, slightly metallic flavoured, Indian water.
The coke on the flight tasted good, I opted out of lunch with a mind to save my stomach for food later on in the flight. I tuned in to an in-flight movie: "Wall Street: Money never sleeps" The first 45 minutes or so were interesting, Shia la Beouf is a pretty good actor in my opinion (in my opinion). The view outside was also spectacular. I think we were passing either over a region of Pakistan or Afghanistan with only mountains, barren, snow tipped mountains... then the nausea set in. I thought it was eye strain and some air sickness, I'm used to getting motion sickness really easily and my eyes were at a strain so close to those airplane seat screens, so I turned off the screen, swallowed a gravol tablet and closed my eyes.
I was woken up by my seat mate, my fellow Indo-Trinidadian traveller, who was concerned that I hadn't eaten as yet and food was being served. I explained my dilemma and closed my eyes again. ... ... ...
Landing time.
And my head reeled.
I didn't want to get up but I had to get out of those seats. I couldn't stop thinking that I didn't want to throw up but I couldn't stop thinking that if I just did it I would be fine. My friend stayed with me as long as she could but time was against her as she had a bus to catch and a slow moving, sick person is terrible at keeping time. Customs was kind, I found a bench and sat. I sat for maybe a half hour then tried to move. I got as far as the currency change counter and converted my Rupees to Pounds...all my Rupees came up to about 20 Pounds Sterling so I decided to change my US Dollars too. When it seemed I had enough I crept to the taxi counter, told a friendly face there that I was ill and needed a cab to Kensal Rise (actually I took out the piece of paper with my aunt's address on it and pointed...cab to here...I must have totally fooled them into thinking I was a real Indian...Non-English speaking and all). Cabby told me it would be about 60 pounds sterling total to get me there and so I sat down.
Traffic congestion and my cabby insisting that there was no other route he could possibly take, it took a total of 70 Pounds Sterling to get me there and there I stood, dragging my bags at the side of the road, an angry black cab driver shouting from the street and pointing at the house I should be heading to.
My aunt was at my window awaiting my arrival and hurried to get the door for me as I fumbled with my luggage. I stepped in, did the usual greetings, explained my illness and stared up the long steep flight of stairs in defeat.
Now, just to provide some insight, my aunt just turned a young and active 76 years old about a week before my appearance at her door and she lives alone so those stairs were my undoing indeed. I did make it up them in time though, slow, crawling time, dotted with breaks and rests.
I didn't even shower. I didn't attempt to think about food, or even water. The diarrhea began and somewhere after a bout of gagging I curled up in the freshly made fold out bed, apologised weakly to my aunt, promising to feel better tomorrow and fell asleep.
Throughout the night I woke up at odd intervals and alternated between the above mentioned symptoms. Somewhere before the sun rose I found a Gravol pill and drifted into a hazy sleep until around 12 a.m.
I awoke to my aunt's voice asking me how I was. I looked at her and realised that this thing going on in my stomach wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon. I was not fine, I could not bear to get out of bed. My poor aunt. She told me all the plans she had for us to go "knock about" at Brent's Cross for the day and again I apologised, begging her to let me sleep for just a little longer and I promised I'd get out of bed and come have some lunch with her.
A about 3 p.m. (the clock was just above my head) I heard her voice saying "like this child not wakin up today!" and I promptly got up. I changed my clothes the best I could, managed to brush my teeth without throwing up anything and sat at the kitchen table just as the winter sun began to disappear behind the back yard bushes. My aunt cooked me curried channa and roti, I couldn't stand the thought of curry. I felt horrible, both physically and emotionally as I was a guest in this woman's house and couldn't properly show my appreciation.
My aunt had never raised children in her life and thus never had to deal with a sick child. Where my own mother or grandmother would disregard all my complaints and force feed me the food and medication they thought were necessary for my survival and revival my aunt just let me be. I tried to put some toast and tea into me but I just didn't have the physical or mental strength to do it. I was, however, able to swallow Immodium pills like crazy, which was in vain anyway since they never worked.
After our attempted breakfast/lunch/dinner, I sat on my bed and showed my aunt all the things I bought from my trip. I gave her 2 scarves and a jewelery box in my struggle to show her how much I appreciated that she took me in even though I couldn't enjoy my time with her as she and I would have liked. Then around 6 p.m. I fell asleep again, anticipating my departure at 6 a.m. for my flight out of Gatwick.
Again I had a restless night which was fine as it ensured my early awakening. I finally bathed. the shower was wonderfully warm but standing for more than 5 minutes at a time wasn't a feat I could undertake. I worried about taking the bus then the train to the airport. I dressed, made sure my bags were still packed and actually drank a whole cup of sweetened tea. Maybe I could manage this. I dragged my bags down the stairs and kneeled at the bottom dropping my head into my lap, my head spun, my peripheral vision went dark. I told my aunt I couldn't do this, there was no way I could hold these bags and wait on a bus, far less walk from place to place with them.
The tenants downstairs in the flat were helpful in finding me a cab company. Thankfully by 7 a.m. a cab showed up. The driver sounded Caribbean. He took my bags and waited while I said goodbye to my aunt. I told her thanks again, apologised again, hugged and kissed her and she cried. My cab driver lectured me on it. He told me I should try to come back as much as I could and for a quarter of my drive to Gatwick I nodded and promised to never neglect my "mum" and always come visit.
As we neared the airport I geared myself up mentally. I imagined where I'd find the trolleys to place my bags on, thought about where I would find the train from the South Terminal to the North Terminal, worried that my ticket and passport were in my bag, the normal airport thoughts just with the extra worry that I would be able to make it to my departure gate before I died, at least so far the Immodium was working. My cabby turned, just as we passed the Welcome sign and asked me if I wanted to go straight to the North Terminal for 5 Pounds Sterling more. I smiled to myself and told him he was a Godsend. It cost me 60 pounds sterling in total to get to Gatwick Airport North Terminal from Kensal Rise that morning and oddly enough Gatwick is further away from Kensal Rise than Heathrow. Who cared at that point? I know I didn't. I just wanted to get home.
Changing what I thought was my last US$100 to pounds sterling, I walked to check-in. I checked in my big bag and my carry-on for an extra 40 pounds, just because I couldn't manage to walk with anything heavier than my head on my shoulders. British Airways website says excess baggage will cost 30 pounds but at that point I would've given them all my money to just take my bags and take me home. I sat for a while after that. Waited for enough blood to circulate before walking into security check. Amazingly that went quickly and no one thought to pull aside the pale, wobbling, trembling female dragging herself through the metal detector, I was happy about it.
I sat down right outside of Airport Security, on a tiny bench, away from all people for about half an hour. The blood finally reached my brain and extremities again. Walking in the general direction of my gate, I stopped into a WHSmith and bought a Lemonade Shweppes (there was no plain club soda). Sitting for a while again I drank, thought about rushing to the bathroom but stopped myself and burped. Ok. So far so good. There will be bathrooms at my gate right? Maybe I should start walking now. How far is it? Gate 54!? Oh bloody hell. Please, somebody call an emergency air evac squad for me. I walked and walked and almost gave up and sat on the floor in the middle of the aisles. Then I turned the corner and saw the Gate 54 sign. Thank God. I'm here. The gate was still closed. I gave up and sat on the floor in the corner of the aisle. Five minutes later the gate was opened, my boarding pass checked and I leaned on a seat awaiting my departure call. Finally.
Not too much thinking was able to take place in my brain after that. I vaguely remember swallowing another Gravol pill and I remember knowing I was in an aisle seat at the very back of the plane. I noted the 3 toilets just behind me and sighed in relief.
I slept. Didn't eat a thing, didn't watch a thing. My seat mates looked at me like they wondered if I was contagious or if I would snap their necks if they woke me yet again so that they could get out of their seats. I prayed they had to get out at St. Lucia and leave me with just 1 hour of space and peace. I got up ever so often to take care of the nausea etc. and the flight attendant just passed once and declared at me: "you aren't feeling very well are you?" I shook my head at him, asked for ice water and didn't see him again after delivery.
As we stopped at St. Lucia I thought I may be feeling better. Half hour wait and I stretched, filled out my landing forms and wondered if I could carry my bags on my own. 1 more hour until home. We touch down in Piarco International Airport 45 minutes earlier than scheduled. I walked to customs and stood in line, completely pissed off that we had only 2 people working the desks and I had to wait ONE HOUR in line just to have my passport stamped for re-entry. Amazingly one certain Immigration Officer almost sent a fellow citizen back to... well where she would go I have no idea, because he was unaware that Tortuga was a place in Central Trinidad. That raised my blood pressure which was apparently a good thing as it gave me the energy I needed to wait the next 15 minutes before walking to collect my bags. I spoke loudly to the people next to me about how embarrassing it is to have such idiots at the gates to our country. About what the requirements must be to allow people to call themselves Immigration Officers or Airport Officials and the fact that someone should teach that man some Geography or at least give him a map of Trinidad. Then for all of my big talk I found myself hoping I didn't have to go to his desk when my turn came in line.
Thankfully I didn't. I walked down the corridors past a sign reading "If you've been to Hati and are experiencing diarrhea, nausea and vomiting you may have CHOLERA, please report to Airport Health Immediately" Of course I hadn't been to Hati so ignoring the sign and secretly wondering if I had Cholera, I collected my bags, put them on a trolley and made my way down the Green Line. The guy there looked at me and my bags about 3 times before shoo-ing me away and thankfully my mom had just driven into the airport compound as I made my way outside.
I was home. Fin.
For the next day I slept all day, resumed my Cholera-like symptoms and finally decided early Monday morning to go seek some help as my lips had turned grey and gone numb and when I stood up I felt like gravity took a holiday. I got to a nice doctor who had no other patients early that morning so he stood over me with a bag of I.V. fluids and pumped me full of re-hydrating thingies and vitamins and liquid Gravol. He explained that I had Gastroenteritis and that this was a result of the water I drank at the Airport in India and to remember not to ever drink the water in India again. I agreed with him profusely. I will never again drink the water in India.
It's now Sunday morning, a week after I finally got home and I think it's safe to say I'm better and if I'm not yet I have to be. Work starts again tomorrow. Back to the shittiness that is reality. Hopefully after my 21 day escape things have changed.
So I have started my tale at the end. I hope the people who actually read here aren't too bored to want to read about the meat of the trip and I hope my writing style is ok enough to make Gastro sound readable. Although, I did get pretty bored myself at the end there so not much effort went into the last 8 paragraphs or so :P.
Kai
and, as my form 6 Literature teachers would say, "needs more analysis."
Maybe practice is all I need and I definitely need more of it so rather than subject the glory of my 21 days of contradictions to some ill-formed prose quickly written up to fill space in this blog and clear space in my head, I'll hold off on it for a while and instead write a little about my journey back to home and the last few days at home.
*Warning* it's been extremely boring.
Tears shed, dried, kisses wiped clean, 3 of us got into the taxi and headed for the airport. Finally free of this place but wishing we could hold on tighter, our emotions had become a mess of contradictions just as this place which became a surrogate home for all of us the past 21 days.
Now, facing American Fast Food at the airport we made a mad dive towards the nearest Mc Donald's and Dominoes we could find and stuffed our faces...um...I mean began the taste transition from eastern to western spices so as to ease our stomaches gradually back into our 'everyday' flavours.
I would've loved to have an 'easy' time with my stomach over the last week.
The Indira Gandhi International Airport is very modern. More so than the modest Piarco International Airport of my little island. Flights from all sides of the Eastern and Western world alight there for loading and unloading of goods and people also from all sides of the Eastern and Western world. The water fountain near my boarding gate looked shiny. New, shiny and clean. With that cool, glistening metallic sheen that just called to you for the cool water inside. It should be fine right? Despite all the warnings received over the last 21 days, surely this one was filtered and boiled and re-filtered for all of these international guests. I drank my guts full. Full of cool, slightly metallic flavoured, Indian water.
The coke on the flight tasted good, I opted out of lunch with a mind to save my stomach for food later on in the flight. I tuned in to an in-flight movie: "Wall Street: Money never sleeps" The first 45 minutes or so were interesting, Shia la Beouf is a pretty good actor in my opinion (in my opinion). The view outside was also spectacular. I think we were passing either over a region of Pakistan or Afghanistan with only mountains, barren, snow tipped mountains... then the nausea set in. I thought it was eye strain and some air sickness, I'm used to getting motion sickness really easily and my eyes were at a strain so close to those airplane seat screens, so I turned off the screen, swallowed a gravol tablet and closed my eyes.
I was woken up by my seat mate, my fellow Indo-Trinidadian traveller, who was concerned that I hadn't eaten as yet and food was being served. I explained my dilemma and closed my eyes again. ... ... ...
Landing time.
And my head reeled.
I didn't want to get up but I had to get out of those seats. I couldn't stop thinking that I didn't want to throw up but I couldn't stop thinking that if I just did it I would be fine. My friend stayed with me as long as she could but time was against her as she had a bus to catch and a slow moving, sick person is terrible at keeping time. Customs was kind, I found a bench and sat. I sat for maybe a half hour then tried to move. I got as far as the currency change counter and converted my Rupees to Pounds...all my Rupees came up to about 20 Pounds Sterling so I decided to change my US Dollars too. When it seemed I had enough I crept to the taxi counter, told a friendly face there that I was ill and needed a cab to Kensal Rise (actually I took out the piece of paper with my aunt's address on it and pointed...cab to here...I must have totally fooled them into thinking I was a real Indian...Non-English speaking and all). Cabby told me it would be about 60 pounds sterling total to get me there and so I sat down.
Traffic congestion and my cabby insisting that there was no other route he could possibly take, it took a total of 70 Pounds Sterling to get me there and there I stood, dragging my bags at the side of the road, an angry black cab driver shouting from the street and pointing at the house I should be heading to.
My aunt was at my window awaiting my arrival and hurried to get the door for me as I fumbled with my luggage. I stepped in, did the usual greetings, explained my illness and stared up the long steep flight of stairs in defeat.
Now, just to provide some insight, my aunt just turned a young and active 76 years old about a week before my appearance at her door and she lives alone so those stairs were my undoing indeed. I did make it up them in time though, slow, crawling time, dotted with breaks and rests.
I didn't even shower. I didn't attempt to think about food, or even water. The diarrhea began and somewhere after a bout of gagging I curled up in the freshly made fold out bed, apologised weakly to my aunt, promising to feel better tomorrow and fell asleep.
Throughout the night I woke up at odd intervals and alternated between the above mentioned symptoms. Somewhere before the sun rose I found a Gravol pill and drifted into a hazy sleep until around 12 a.m.
I awoke to my aunt's voice asking me how I was. I looked at her and realised that this thing going on in my stomach wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon. I was not fine, I could not bear to get out of bed. My poor aunt. She told me all the plans she had for us to go "knock about" at Brent's Cross for the day and again I apologised, begging her to let me sleep for just a little longer and I promised I'd get out of bed and come have some lunch with her.
A about 3 p.m. (the clock was just above my head) I heard her voice saying "like this child not wakin up today!" and I promptly got up. I changed my clothes the best I could, managed to brush my teeth without throwing up anything and sat at the kitchen table just as the winter sun began to disappear behind the back yard bushes. My aunt cooked me curried channa and roti, I couldn't stand the thought of curry. I felt horrible, both physically and emotionally as I was a guest in this woman's house and couldn't properly show my appreciation.
My aunt had never raised children in her life and thus never had to deal with a sick child. Where my own mother or grandmother would disregard all my complaints and force feed me the food and medication they thought were necessary for my survival and revival my aunt just let me be. I tried to put some toast and tea into me but I just didn't have the physical or mental strength to do it. I was, however, able to swallow Immodium pills like crazy, which was in vain anyway since they never worked.
After our attempted breakfast/lunch/dinner, I sat on my bed and showed my aunt all the things I bought from my trip. I gave her 2 scarves and a jewelery box in my struggle to show her how much I appreciated that she took me in even though I couldn't enjoy my time with her as she and I would have liked. Then around 6 p.m. I fell asleep again, anticipating my departure at 6 a.m. for my flight out of Gatwick.
Again I had a restless night which was fine as it ensured my early awakening. I finally bathed. the shower was wonderfully warm but standing for more than 5 minutes at a time wasn't a feat I could undertake. I worried about taking the bus then the train to the airport. I dressed, made sure my bags were still packed and actually drank a whole cup of sweetened tea. Maybe I could manage this. I dragged my bags down the stairs and kneeled at the bottom dropping my head into my lap, my head spun, my peripheral vision went dark. I told my aunt I couldn't do this, there was no way I could hold these bags and wait on a bus, far less walk from place to place with them.
The tenants downstairs in the flat were helpful in finding me a cab company. Thankfully by 7 a.m. a cab showed up. The driver sounded Caribbean. He took my bags and waited while I said goodbye to my aunt. I told her thanks again, apologised again, hugged and kissed her and she cried. My cab driver lectured me on it. He told me I should try to come back as much as I could and for a quarter of my drive to Gatwick I nodded and promised to never neglect my "mum" and always come visit.
As we neared the airport I geared myself up mentally. I imagined where I'd find the trolleys to place my bags on, thought about where I would find the train from the South Terminal to the North Terminal, worried that my ticket and passport were in my bag, the normal airport thoughts just with the extra worry that I would be able to make it to my departure gate before I died, at least so far the Immodium was working. My cabby turned, just as we passed the Welcome sign and asked me if I wanted to go straight to the North Terminal for 5 Pounds Sterling more. I smiled to myself and told him he was a Godsend. It cost me 60 pounds sterling in total to get to Gatwick Airport North Terminal from Kensal Rise that morning and oddly enough Gatwick is further away from Kensal Rise than Heathrow. Who cared at that point? I know I didn't. I just wanted to get home.
Changing what I thought was my last US$100 to pounds sterling, I walked to check-in. I checked in my big bag and my carry-on for an extra 40 pounds, just because I couldn't manage to walk with anything heavier than my head on my shoulders. British Airways website says excess baggage will cost 30 pounds but at that point I would've given them all my money to just take my bags and take me home. I sat for a while after that. Waited for enough blood to circulate before walking into security check. Amazingly that went quickly and no one thought to pull aside the pale, wobbling, trembling female dragging herself through the metal detector, I was happy about it.
I sat down right outside of Airport Security, on a tiny bench, away from all people for about half an hour. The blood finally reached my brain and extremities again. Walking in the general direction of my gate, I stopped into a WHSmith and bought a Lemonade Shweppes (there was no plain club soda). Sitting for a while again I drank, thought about rushing to the bathroom but stopped myself and burped. Ok. So far so good. There will be bathrooms at my gate right? Maybe I should start walking now. How far is it? Gate 54!? Oh bloody hell. Please, somebody call an emergency air evac squad for me. I walked and walked and almost gave up and sat on the floor in the middle of the aisles. Then I turned the corner and saw the Gate 54 sign. Thank God. I'm here. The gate was still closed. I gave up and sat on the floor in the corner of the aisle. Five minutes later the gate was opened, my boarding pass checked and I leaned on a seat awaiting my departure call. Finally.
Not too much thinking was able to take place in my brain after that. I vaguely remember swallowing another Gravol pill and I remember knowing I was in an aisle seat at the very back of the plane. I noted the 3 toilets just behind me and sighed in relief.
I slept. Didn't eat a thing, didn't watch a thing. My seat mates looked at me like they wondered if I was contagious or if I would snap their necks if they woke me yet again so that they could get out of their seats. I prayed they had to get out at St. Lucia and leave me with just 1 hour of space and peace. I got up ever so often to take care of the nausea etc. and the flight attendant just passed once and declared at me: "you aren't feeling very well are you?" I shook my head at him, asked for ice water and didn't see him again after delivery.
As we stopped at St. Lucia I thought I may be feeling better. Half hour wait and I stretched, filled out my landing forms and wondered if I could carry my bags on my own. 1 more hour until home. We touch down in Piarco International Airport 45 minutes earlier than scheduled. I walked to customs and stood in line, completely pissed off that we had only 2 people working the desks and I had to wait ONE HOUR in line just to have my passport stamped for re-entry. Amazingly one certain Immigration Officer almost sent a fellow citizen back to... well where she would go I have no idea, because he was unaware that Tortuga was a place in Central Trinidad. That raised my blood pressure which was apparently a good thing as it gave me the energy I needed to wait the next 15 minutes before walking to collect my bags. I spoke loudly to the people next to me about how embarrassing it is to have such idiots at the gates to our country. About what the requirements must be to allow people to call themselves Immigration Officers or Airport Officials and the fact that someone should teach that man some Geography or at least give him a map of Trinidad. Then for all of my big talk I found myself hoping I didn't have to go to his desk when my turn came in line.
Thankfully I didn't. I walked down the corridors past a sign reading "If you've been to Hati and are experiencing diarrhea, nausea and vomiting you may have CHOLERA, please report to Airport Health Immediately" Of course I hadn't been to Hati so ignoring the sign and secretly wondering if I had Cholera, I collected my bags, put them on a trolley and made my way down the Green Line. The guy there looked at me and my bags about 3 times before shoo-ing me away and thankfully my mom had just driven into the airport compound as I made my way outside.
I was home. Fin.
For the next day I slept all day, resumed my Cholera-like symptoms and finally decided early Monday morning to go seek some help as my lips had turned grey and gone numb and when I stood up I felt like gravity took a holiday. I got to a nice doctor who had no other patients early that morning so he stood over me with a bag of I.V. fluids and pumped me full of re-hydrating thingies and vitamins and liquid Gravol. He explained that I had Gastroenteritis and that this was a result of the water I drank at the Airport in India and to remember not to ever drink the water in India again. I agreed with him profusely. I will never again drink the water in India.
It's now Sunday morning, a week after I finally got home and I think it's safe to say I'm better and if I'm not yet I have to be. Work starts again tomorrow. Back to the shittiness that is reality. Hopefully after my 21 day escape things have changed.
So I have started my tale at the end. I hope the people who actually read here aren't too bored to want to read about the meat of the trip and I hope my writing style is ok enough to make Gastro sound readable. Although, I did get pretty bored myself at the end there so not much effort went into the last 8 paragraphs or so :P.
Kai
Ahh >< This is pretty long, :( I've been trying to read it and leave an insightful comment, I promise I will soon :)
ReplyDelete:) It is long, took me 4 days to write it, then I got fed up :P
ReplyDeleteI'll have to break up the rest of the India story into parts to make it readable.
Thanks for trying! I hope u get thru it and comment soon :)
really nice kai. i should have read this sooner. lol.
ReplyDelete