India strikes back

The ride to the hospital in the ambulance would have been hilarious had it not been so frightening. With that subtle foreshadowing in place, let’s go back to Thursday when I took yet another trip to MG Road (which you have probably already figured out is the local abbreviation for Mahatma Ghandi Road). My friend, Sandeep, at the Maharashtra Cheap Store, had been good to his word. He proudly showed me the 220V power supply he claimed would breathe new life into my Vonage appliance. I held my breath as he plugged it in, fearing the worst. When the little blue LEDs sparked up and danced I allowed myself a broad smile – my ability to connect to the rest of the world looked assured.

While at the Cheap Store, I bought a new cell phone for Peggy (her iPhone would not accept the Indian SIM card we were trying to use). The guys there had the new phone up and running in short order. When I showed them my Blackberry, which had shown definite signs of rejecting the Indian SIM card that I had tried to transplant, they explained it wouldn’t work with that particular type of Indian SIM card. My Blackberry is unlocked, it is a worldwide phone and I was told by T-Mobile support that I should have no problem using an Indian SIM card. But in the uncertain English Sandeep’s tech guy used to explain to me why this card wouldn’t work in my phone, the best I could gather was that there was some type of frequency issue. Oh well – I bought a second cute little Nokia.

On the way back to Magarpatta City we passed an elephant, padding slowly along in the left hand (slow) lane. Ashraf stopped so I could take a few photos. He got the elephant driver’s phone number so we could call on Saturday and arrange elephant rides for Peggy and me.

After returning to the apartment I was shortly interrupted by the cleaning crew wanting to clean the unit. I decided to go for a short walk, but when I asked if it would take about 20 minutes and was told it would be an hour I was a bit surprised. Even more surprising was the reality – they were still at it an hour and a half later when I returned.

On my walk I visited the Destination Center, a small outdoor shopping center within the confines of Magarpatta City that contains many small eating stalls. Trying to watch the scene without looking like I was obviously staring was hard to do. Nobody knows who I am here, but everybody wants to check me out. I’m definitely a strange looking character to the local population. Although we live in a tech park with relatively upscale housing, there are very few white foreigners here. On my various forays in Magarpatta I’ve only see one other white guy. To make matters worse, I’m tall and I usually wear shorts (it’s hot and humid here). The number of Indians I’ve seen wearing shorts I can count on my right thumb. So, you might be asking, why don’t I wear long pants so I don’t seem so out of place? I thought about that, but realized that everyone would stare at me whether I had on shorts or long pants, so I decided to make sure they have more to talk over at the dinner table by continuing to parade around in my shorts.

Even though it was not covert, my spying did confirm one thing the guide books emphasize over and over: eat only with your right hand. Most of the Indians that I watched kept their left hands on their laps under the table, even when they had to do awkward things like tearing Naan bread. They just figure out a way to do everything with their right hands because left hands are for bathroom duty and are therefore considered more than suspect for any eating chores. Many of the Indians that I observed did not use silverware of any kind, strictly their right hands and fingers even for messy courses like rice and beans.

Back at the apartment I got my VOIP system up and running just in time to start feeling truly punk. Hoping it was just a wave of stress, I went to bed with trepidation.

By morning it was clear that a turf battle to rival the “Gangs of New York” imbroglio was going on in my gut. Not much nausea but waves of painful gut spasms told me it would be a long day. I skipped coffee and breakfast, loaded up on fluids and tried to get some tasks done. By the time the cleaning crew arrived about noon, I had started to feel chilled so I begged them off, put on a heavy sweater, long pants and socks, turned the AC off, got into bed, pulled two heavy duvets over me and proceeded to shiver for hours. The temperature outside was well into the 80s and certainly close to 80 inside the flat.

After a few hours of spasms, shivers and dehydrating trips to the bathroom, I decided maybe I should get some professional help. I called Peggy and she brought one of her managers, Sulbha, with her to take me to the hospital so a Doctor could give me a once over. By the time they arrived, I had gone from chills to drenching sweat and I was feeling extremely unstable. Even though they kept insisting that I had to stand up and walk out of the apartment so Sulbha could drive me to the hospital, I started to swoon when I tried to stand up. I felt so woozy I was sure I would just crumple if I stood up. Sulbha took charge of the situation, calling an ambulance to come pick me up. I lay back down for a few minutes and managed to gain enough strength to walk down to meet the ambulance.

The ambulance arrived in a few minutes (the hospital that dispatched it and to which I was taken was only a mile or so away). The next few minutes were worthy of a Keystone Cops episode. The Ambulance, a tiny minivan, backed up to where I was seated, the attendants hopped out and popped the back gate. I climbed onto the tiny cot on one side of the van while Peggy jumped onto the small bench on the other side. My legs were way too long for this tiny contraption, so I had to lay with my knees propped up. The back of the van reeked of raw gasoline, not your best antidote for a sour stomach.

Away we went, siren wailing and Sulbha racing after us. The driver was intent on using his siren to cut a swath through the formidable rush hour traffic. He tore around corners and flew over speed bumps. Every maneuver threatened to pitch me onto the floor, so I had to grab the edge of my cot with one hand and the back of the passenger seat with my other. At one point I looked at Peggy and just started to laugh. I still felt like I was going to die, but this ride was so absurd that I could do nothing but laugh.

We made it to the hospital with me still on the cot, my legs still propped in the air and my innards still aroar. On to a rolling stretcher and into a draped off examination room where technicians proceeded to draw blood twice, take my temperature, and give me an EKG. The two things I really expected them to do – a blood pressure test and a saline IV in my arm – were not forthcoming. Eventually a doctor came in, asked if I had diabetes or heart problems, pretended to be surprised when he heard my age, prescribed a course of drugs and asked if I wanted to be admitted to the hospital. I was feeling somewhat better and certainly not in need of a night in the hospital, so I respectfully declined. When I asked if there was any chance I had H1N1, the doctor, all the technicians, the rest of the patients in the ward and probably innocent passers-by in the street, all roared with laughter. I took that as a “no”.

Sulbha graciously handled all the forms, did all the negotiating and paid all the bills. She gave us copies of the bills for our records. Health care reform has apparently already happened in India. Total cost for ambulance ride, emergency room treatment and 3 courses of drugs - $13.

Here's Peggy's view of the incident*************

It was a truly (deleted) day, today. Gary called me saying he was really sick, but not to come home. Why are men like that? I was with Sulbha, having lunch. She drives me back to our place; Gary is fully dressed, under 2 duvets, shivering. I get him to sit up, he starts sweating profusely, saying he can’t stand up, and that he is going to throw up. Sulbha whips out her cell phone and starts dialing. I get him a cold wash cloth, says he has to lie down, and he can’t get down to the car. Sulbha gets the hospital, a doctor, and an ambulance. Sulbha is our people.

He gets up, gets down the elevator, and the ambulance shows up, siren and light on. Here we go. It’s a tiny, little van with a cot and a bench in the back. Two guys jump out; load him in, point to the bench for me. The guy driving starts the siren, and starts driving like those TV cop shows. He is going over the potholes so hard that Gary head is bouncing at least 12 inches off the cot. He tailgates people that don’t get out of the way like a German on cocaine. It is truly surreal, this can’t be happening.

We get to the emergency room, and it is the same one I went to last year. Sulbha is right behind us in her car, runs in with me, and starts firing off commands in Maharati. The questions are flying. No, he doesn’t have heart problems, or diabetic, yes he is 62, are you sure 62? They take blood, do an EKG, and then another doctor comes in. Gary’s ankles are hanging off the bed, I am trying not to cry. The doctor says he has a fever, not much, and starts asking about how many diarrhea incidences he has had. Then Gary asks if he has H1N1, the doctor laughs, says no, probably a stomach problem.

More questions, Gary is looking more pink, less gray, more questions, then a shot of something. The doctor says it a little infection, he needs to do electrolytes, 3 other drugs, and asks if Gary wants to be admitted to the hospital, Gary says NO, and he wants to go home. Sulbha drives us both home, and he has been in bed ever since. So ends the week.

**************

Lots of sleep, lots of fluids, no food and 36 hours after my I lost my form, I started to feel much better. Except for a piece of toast and one sip of coffee, I skipped breakfast, but felt good enough to accompany Peggy on a short shopping trip Saturday afternoon. Once again, we came upon our favorite elephant, swaying ever so slowly down the road. Ashraf stopped, we jumped out and he took pictures of us snuggled up beside the beast. Ms. Elephant found my toes interesting, giving them more than a once over with the tip of her trunk. Before we could make a move to get back in the car, a little man who apparently was the elephant’s owner, jabbed me in the arm and said “Money!” I reached for my wallet as I asked Ashraf how much I should pay. He replied “20 Rupees” (about 40 cents) but when the little man saw the wad of Rupees I had in my wallet, he demanded 100.

An animated argument ensued, which Peggy and I watched like a tennis match, our heads going back and forth as the contestants volleyed counter proposals at each other. Finally Ashraf nodded at me and said “50 Rupees” which I produced and placed in the little fellow’s still outstretched hand.

When we got back in the car, I got a well-deserved lecture from Ashraf, the gist of which was to keep my money in my pocket until a price was agreed, and in any case, never flash a wad of cash. I immediately saw the wisdom in this advice and proceeded to restock my wallet with a modest amount of 100s and 10s, putting the bigger bills in a place so secret I can’t remember now exactly where they are.

On to Pune Central to check out the Indian idea of high fashion and do a little grocery shopping. I was starting to feel a little peaked and realized I needed to use the rest room but when I entered the stall I was surprised to discover this – no toilet paper. Not in the sense that the toilet paper roll was depleted or there was no roll on the hanger but rather in the sense that there was no place to put toilet paper in this stall. Instead I warily eyed the hose and sprayer hanging on a hook on the wall and, being the quick type that I am, finally realized that the whole room was more or less wet from the last user’s visit.

Not being versed in using a hose and sprayer in lieu of toilet paper, I left. Luckily, we had some tissue in my backpack which I retrieved and put to good use in what we westerners think is a traditional and effective style.

I won’t bother to try to explain exactly how hygiene is practiced here, mainly because I don’t really know, but if you have a better imagination than mine, you’ll probably come up with some pretty good ideas.

That night we joined a former co-worker of Peggy’s, Dana, who travels to Pune on a regular basis. In deference to the recent state of my stomach, we decided to go to “Little Italy” for dinner, but Dana’s driver got confused and we ended up at a place that I think is called the “Spice Garden” or something like that.

We had a very nice dinner, with excellent food, but two things kept it from being perfect. Number one was the wine. We ordered a bottle of Indian Shiraz, but it was too sweet for my taste and certainly not what you would call a good wine. The second problem really got to me, because it’s a story of promise dashed by bitter defeat.

Background music played unobtrusively while we chatted about the current state of Indian affairs. At some point an automatic receptor in my brain clued me into the music, which was bluegrass(!) and at first I thought the tune was “12 Inch, Three Speed, Oscillating Fan” (currently one of my favorites), but after listening for a few seconds, I realized it had something to do with a lamb rather than a fan. But just as I brought my party’s attention to the fact that bluegrass was being played in Pune, India, they shut it off right in the middle of the tune! I was crushed. They replaced it with some phony main-stream country song, but the message couldn’t have been clearer – Gary: don’t even THINK you’re going to find any sympathy for bluegrass music here!

More soon.

Current photos at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/26545681@N07/