Realisations

Tuesday May 25th 2005

Hey Tim,

I’m definitely not coming home in early June, as that’s only about a week’s time (I think it's the same in England, but I still haven’t quite got to grips on the time difference). I should be back in July, although I'm not sure when. I'm probably going to stay one night with Emlyn (whether he likes it or not) to see his new house, and maybe to take in some more of London town; marvel at it's drainage system, refuse collection and basic sanitation. I'm so excited!

I made a similar joke the other day to the one you made about Emlyn dying and you advising me to move on with my life (that was a joke wasn't it...?) when one of the girls was really sick. I suggested we cut our losses and get over her, maybe even get a tomb stone cut. "Hell...I’m totally over Nickie" I said, to an incredibly icy reception. It was only her in the room at the time I suppose, but jeez, you think she could take a joke, ‘m I right?

Another joke I regret now is the one about kicking and/or punching necks. So many people didn't get that and I think people have become concerned. Two of my friends bumped into one another and they both decided that my e-mails were too violent and I think Mom's believes I'm on a one man GBH rampage across Asia. Since then I’ve left out my stories about standing on throats, poking eyes and stamping livers. Even when they've been true...

Ben is a bit shit I've decided, and it is a shame. I think I've only realised this since I've been left with him and the boring 23 year olds and him for company. I got on much better with the old crowd and only realised my dislike because it's all concentrated Ben Time now. On the other hand, when we go on the TPA weekends I seem really fun and up for adventure in comparison, because he’s spent most of the weekends in bed and making sure he hasn't got Werther's Originals stuck in his denchers. I'm sure he is way tired of me by now as well though. We've spent pretty much every waking moment together for the last two months.

I will be safe from now on...Ben can save his own day in future.

I’ll let you know the day I’m getting back, but I t might be a Sunday I’m not sure. It depends when my flights are for

hope you're ok

love Benj

Braaains...arrg...braaaains!

Monday, 9 May 2005 11:34am

hey everyone

firstly, sorry to those of you who haven’t been getting my group e-mails. I know how you people are relying on them to distract you from the Orwellian nightmare that is your grinding daily existence. I’ll make some changes and hopefully there won’t be to many more problems...even though I’m nearly half way through my trip, I’m sure there'll be plenty more to come.

So this week I saw a guy who'd been in a motorcycle crash and had his head pealed by the pavement. No really, like an orange. His scalp was hanging off like a thick peace of tough stake. It was pretty rough really. He'd been drink-driving and was still trollied (literally...they had no spare beds) when he was brought in. They didn't even sedate him as they began cleaning his skull and forcing the stitching needle through his thick leathery head skin. It was pretty gruesome, but on the plus side (for me anyway) he did end up with a very comedy hair cut...they shaved all his hair to the skin except for his mono-brow...a great look! He was so drunk though that he wasn’t likely to notice. In fact when we first came down and saw him lying in reception on the trolley, Ben and I both thought he was a dead’ne until he started to moan slightly and move about. He stank of booze as well. I’m not sure they could do much more than stich him up, and he was sent to a larger hospital in Madurai for some head scans.

We got back from Tanjour yesterday afternoon, and so concluded the travels of our little group of volunteers, as the girls all left this morning. it wasn't the most activity packed weekend but was still eventful and lots of fun. the new girl Amy arrived on Thursday, into a hail of bitching and complaining about TPA and their handling of the theft of Emma’s money. I think we've all been here long enough and the novelty has sufficiently worn off, so Thursday was spent telling her all about how rubbish a lot of the stuff is, and warning her about the thieving family that she was going to have to stay on her own with. I think it was a bit of a negative introduction to India really, but never mind. she's 23 and she's already been to university and done grown up stuff. If anything, I think she may have been shocked to see 18 year olds and the way we behave. I for one (as most of you probably know) am not the most adult 18 year old, and none of the others are much better. Anyway, so she's a little lame, but she might get more interesting. We will have to wait and see.

On Friday we arrived in Tanjour, which is by all accounts is a bit of a hole, but we had TV and a sit down toilet so it was still nice to be away from the hospital. That night we went to a restaurant in town that was supposedly the only passable eatery in the town. I chose the "Brain Fry" from the menu, not really knowing what it was, but expecting at the very most little bite sized pieces of brain...if brain at all; a lot of the menus out here have hilarious spelling mistakes on them (humus/humans and pita, crab/crap soup etc.) Unfortunately it surpassed even my wildest of expectations, and turned out to be an entire goat brain, stem et al, and it was completely un-adulterated. It was like a biology lesson rolled into a meal. You could see clearly all the different bits (the names of which I don't know, but I did recognise) and you could even make very thin microscope style slides...not that I was playing with my food or anything. In the end I put it out of my head that my meal was capable of complex thought processes and even basic problem solving abilities, and I just ate the brainy bastard. it was very strange and didn't taste like much (not even chicken, which was quite an unsettling realisation) and had one of the most stomach churningly rank textures of anything I’ve ever put in my mouth (*insert innuendo here*). Luckily hardly anyone else finished their meals, so after eating my brain (never thought I'd say that again) I at least had everyone else’s leftovers, which was nice. I think I may have worms though because I seem to be capable of consuming roughly the same quantity as the population of Sudan (actually, that’s not saying much) but I am yet to gain any weight. I do have an incredible urge to eat grass though and a strange goat like…compul…compulsion to…ba…baaaaa…BAAAA!

Anyway, not much else happened this weekend. Temples were visited, Indians stared at us, photos were taken, elephants were seen and copious amounts of very liquidy shit was passed. I think the brain fooled my stomach into not digesting it fully. goats are cleverer than we give them credit for...when we eat their brains. it wasn't too bad though and I’m glad to say I’m back to passing shapes rather than volumes.

On Sunday we had by far the most expensive meal we'd ever had at a really posh hotel (they had ice in the toilets for some unfathomable reason). We had bacon, egg, sausages, tea and coffee, cornflakes, toast fruit juice and oranges, bananas & pineapple. It all came to about the price of a McDonalds breakfast thought I suppose the origin of the meat was more questionable (if that’s possible). It was still nearly as much as our accommodation for the whole weekend though! Sometimes I love this country (well I love how shit poor it is...)

So this morning all the girls left, (except for rubbish Amy) and now Kraikudi is quiet and empty and dull. Boredom has a name, and its name is Amy. Never mind, Ben and I are off to the leprosy clinic on Wednesday for the rest of the week so that'll be cool. it's supposedly really interesting there, with good facilities and cleaner rooms; again though, the competition isn’t exactly stiff. We're going with someone called Henry or Hendrich, we're not sure, but I’m hoping he's not German, because I’m still waking up angry at night thinking about that twat Norman. Also I'm a little bit apprehensive about living in the same building as leopards. what'll happen if they escape!?

So that's about it, I can't be bothered to write anymore anyway and the last week or so has been so boring there isn’t much to say. Only 12 days left in our little hospital, and then we hit the road. I really can't wait as I’m starting to get itchy feet (although it could be fungal).

Dave, good luck with your exams, they must start soon (oh and the rest of you at uni too, if you have any)

Sara, the cesarean was cool, but incredibly messy. I can't imagine why you'd want to be a midwife; do you hate women or something?

Paul it'll clear up if you use the ointment. I know it stings, but you shouldn't have been playing with it so much ;)

Madurai and Things Get Weird

Wednesday, April 20 2005, 9:42am

Hey everyone

Hope you’re all well. India is still cool; the many novelties are yet to wear off, which is no surprise considering I’ve been here less than 3 weeks and this country is roughly 20 times the size of the UK. I recon it’s got another 3 days though, tops.

We went to Madurai this weekend which is a regional capital I think. It was nice to go somewhere where there are proper shops and even one or two other westerners. It was really really nice not to be stared at everywhere we went, as we are in Karikudi. There were even a few groups of fat middle aged tourists with socks and sandals and back packs pulled tight to their chubby sun burnt shoulders. Despite myself, I soon started feeling a little annoyed by their lack of respect for the culture - not removing their shoes when appropriate, taking pictures of anything and everything. It’s really bad because that means I’ve become the type of “traveler” I really don’t want to be. Next I’ll be wearing sack trousers and saying things like “I really came out here to try and find myself, yah? And to really get a taste for the local way of life y’know? I hear there’s this deserted beach of the coast of Phuket that’s like totally spiritual, yah? Oh my god, we should like, so go there! I’ll see what Rupert thinks…”

Anyway, Madurai was mental, with busses, trucks, cars, rickshaws (both auto and cycle), cattle and people all competing for the limited and poor quality street space. It soon struck me that there were no pavements, no traffic lights and that most people don’t really slow down for anything smaller or less sacred than a cow. I was almost flattened by crazy moped drivers on at least three occasions. Luckily the only thing that hit me though was what I imagine was a string of Indian profanities. Jokes on them though, because I didn’t have a clue what they were saying!

The other crazy thing about Madurai was the weird scam guys that everyone calls “touts”. These are people who come over and are really really friendly and charming and knowledgeable about the UK and Madurai, but only really want to get you to visit their shops. If someone came over to me like that in the UK, I’d expect them to have a bag of sweets, a van with a mattress in the back and to be offering to show me their puppy (“it’s just over here in the back of my van…no further in…in the corner. You might have to climb in and see if you can find him…*slam*”) Of course, we were sucked in by one within about 2 minutes of leaving the hotel, but as soon as he said “I’m no guide, just friendly” we realized what was going down. After getting him to lead me to a guitar shop we told him we weren’t interested and legged it through the crowded streets like frightened little girls. In hindsight there was no need to kick him in the shins before we did so, but things are never so clear in the moment. We also saw many of the fat socks ‘n sandal wearing Germans/Dutch/Brits being led around town by touts who looked like all their Christmases had come at once, and after avoiding a similar fate, had a good old laugh at their expense. That’s what traveling is really about; having a laugh at the expense of others who are less fortunate. Isn’t it…?

The temple in Madurai was amazing, but like all the other temples we’ve seen so far, was ruined by neon lights all up the side of what would otherwise have been four amazing towers. Also they let people set up market stalls inside the temple and these places sell the most amazing variety of shitty tourist tat you’ve ever seen. Jesus would never have stood for it; it really ruins the…and it hurts me to use this word…ambiance. Can you imagine Durham Cathedral with bright neon lights and people selling framed pictures of St Cuthbert with flashing fairly light frames? Actually, that sounds pretty awesome.

We also went to the Gandhi museum, which was seriously lame. It’s quiet impressive that they managed to make Gandhi’s life so skull numbingly boring, but then I hear that pretty much every town in India has a Gandhi museum with exactly the same fake relics and claims of official endorcement.

After a really fun but manic weekend in Madurai, we returned to the quiet life of Karikudi and back to the hospital. On Tuesday, after a particularly meager evening meal (they always give us tiny meals in the evening) of noodles with sugar and shredded coconut, Ben and I decided to go down to this little bar that we found for a curry and a beer.

Beer in India is generally warm and awful, but this bar serves premium King Fisher in frosty glasses with all the free bar snacks you (and your immune system) can handle. The first night that we went it was a little like stepping into a tavern from an old spaghetti-western; everyone in the place stopped what they were doing and watched us with barely hidden sense of mistrust. The bar was almost uncomfortably cold, though if it was because of the cranked air conditioning or just the general atmosphere wasn’t clear immediately. Well, it wasn’t clear until we ordered a large beer each in our English accents and were greeted like old friends by the bar man. Apparently Ben looks exactly like Andrew Flintoff, and to the patrons of this watering hole that alone is more than enough for us to be welcomed like returning heroes. Needless to say, our first trip to the bar ended with both of us seriously worse for wear, discussing cricket late into the night with an anesthetist and a local business man, before staggering back to the hospital, to be greeted by the consistently friendly, though on this occasion slightly less so, night watchman.

Anyway, last night we barely broke the seal, and got back to the clinic at about 11:00pm. It was lucky too that we weren’t half cut again, as we were hurried straight off to theatre. Some goon had fallen out of a tree and snapped himself in two. He’d broken his thigh bone in half and had done pretty much the same to one of the bones in his arm and was in a pretty bad state. It was a particularly brutal operation, with lots of hammering, pulling, poking and even some sawing. They made a big incision about half way down his thigh, one on his arse and one above his knee. Then they got out what looked like long corkscrews and started drilling into his bone going from thigh to buttocks right up the middle. Then they threaded a piece of wire through the hole they’d made and out the cut on his backside. They did the same thing going from thigh to knee and threaded the wire back down and into the bone just above his kneecap. It was really violent in places, and they seemed to be using nothing more complicated than what you’d use in GCSE wood work, and pure brute strength. I’m surprised he was on an operating table and not a Black and Decker Work Bench. After a while we got a little bored, though I did manage to take some quality videos of the doctors hammering away at the fellows leg.

Last night however was easily the STRANGEST night so far. I knew India would be weird but last night took the biscuit, chewed it up, shat it out and proceeded to rub it all over itself whilst doing expressive dancing. We were invited by our family to their son’s nursery school “function”. Apparently it was some kind of prize giving ceremony. At a nursery school. HE’S THREE YEARS OLD FOR FUCK’S SAKE! He can’t even tie his shoe laces. I couldn’t think of anything this kid can do that would warrant a prize of any sort. Most of the time he lies about winging, trying to remember not to crap himself. Anyway we went along in our best Indian attire (i.e. sarong things) to what the big sign proudly called “The First Annual day 2005”. Great English dipshits. Oh yeah, and we had to cycle there in our sarong things, which was totally indecent. I was flashing a lot of thigh to passing motorists, and of course nearly got my massive penis caught in the spokes of my bicycle wheel. Because, you know…my penis is really, really big.

So there was about 10 minutes of prizes, given out for any old shit they could think up to justify the whole travesty. Our little man, also called Ben depressingly, won 3rd place in musical chairs. “Third place” I thought, “not something to be proud of traditionally…what a failure!” To be fair, he was beaten by these two undernourished kids who looked pretty fast, and not above cheating either. We offered to break their legs after the ceremony but Bens mother’s English isn’t too good and she just laughed and tried to change the subject, which was good because it was a token gesture really, and I couldn’t be bothered. I hadn’t even brought my breaking bat anyways.

So the other prizes were all equally crappy…things like “Best at picking coloured balls” and “Chocolate Gathering”. They may as well have been giving prizes for “Not sticking your finger in the plug socket” and “staying conscious long enough to not swallow your tongue”. Why are the parents of India rewarding their children for such inane accomplishments? Let’s see one of them invent something useful, or write a concerto. Then we can give out prizes. God, little kids are so rubbish at stuff.

Anyway, after the ten minutes of prize giving (that I did actually enjoy; I even felt strangely proud of Ben, despite his blinding mediocrity) the guest speakers each gave a speech. They were all speaking Tamil, and the speeches were about half an hour each, which I thought was rude…

“er, hello!? Guests of honour who do not speak Tamil here! I’m getting very bored guy”

After two hours of Tamil speeches I was about to throw my camera at the one the crowd thought was particularly funny, when it finally stopped. Then things got strange…

First let’s get something straight. Indian schools don’t “do” plays. Not in the western sense of the word. I suppose it’s just a microcosm of how they “do” cinema. Gone is the story line, the dialogue, the direction, the acting and any sense of continuity or logic. To replace all of that they have dance numbers. Lots and lots of bizarre dance numbers. With morals. Dance numbers with morals and weird music. Like a Bollywood film crossed with a Year 9 PSE video, on acid. The first one was about mental strength being more important than physical strength, and so to illustrate this, four guys dressed all in orange came out and danced around like a pack of ‘tards. But it was worse than that. They all had one leg (the other folded up in their trousers) and were hopping about to STEPS! I swear to God, It was “5,6,7,8” and I almost shat my pants. I’ve never felt so strange in all my life. There were too many weird acts to tell you about them all (and I’m not sure I want to relive them anyway) but the other one that stuck in my mind was an all singing all dancing underwater number (the moral of which was lost on me. I think…maybe something about not swimming after lunch? Or, like…the dangers of playing on wetlands?). This one had a kid dressed as a deep sea diver, suspended from the ceiling by some ropes. Except that he was dressed like someone trying to dress like a deep sea diver, despite having never seen a deep sea diver or possibly even the sea and being brain damaged. When the music started (a remix of Mumbo Italiano for some reason) the teachers at the side of the stage started pulling on the ropes so that the poor kid was yanked back and forth and up and down, flung about like a rag doll. I was amazed that he wasn’t sick on what I presume were the star fish below him. It was one of the funniest and strangest things I’ve ever seen and luckily I caught it all on video, but I’m not sure if I should send it to You’ve Been Framed or Amnesty International…hmmm. Do Amnesty still pay £250 if it’s shown?

Any way, that’s about it. I’m off to go film myself swinging a child from a rope.

Pambam, Placenta and Pachyderm Poverty

Monday, April 11 2005, 10:47am

So, after last week's vomiting all over the hospital and having to learn to suppress my gag reflex(something I hoped I’d never have to do…) my time in India has continued to throw up strange experiences and weird characters. This weekend was, of course, no exception and so we went down to Rameswaram which is a tiny town on the island of Pamban between India and Sri lanker. The island has no cash points. Not one, and I have no idea how this works on day to day basis. They must just use checks or something, right? I don’t know…maybe they just promise to pay later? Gift certificates? Pay-pal? It doesn’t make any sense.

Anyway, Pamban Island is famous as a pilgrimage destination and little else. There’s a temple, a couple of shabby hotels and more goats and cows than I felt was entirely necessary. It’s by no means famous for its beaches though and yet we easily found plentiful white sands, blue oceans, and palm trees. Plus, not a person in sight for miles and miles, which if I’m honest, made a nice change. The island was really beautiful and had a fair bustle (despite the lack of cash machines…seriously…what is with that? ). It was also predictably filthy.

It took us five hours by rickety old bus (a local commute by Indian standards) which cost about 30 Rp. That isn’t even 50p in real money. One of the volunteers Ben arrived on Thursday had some trouble because he's 6ft 4 and his legs don't fit in the seats, plus all the locals think he’s an escaped circus freak and I’m pretty sure I saw some villagers forming a pitchfork wielding mob at one of the towns we stopped in.

Anyway, the busses were "DVD Busses" which means they blast out Tamil films at ear-splitting-hallucination-inducing volumes. Tamil films by the way, are like Bollywood films except they’re lower budget and more annoying. And they play these films everywhere you go. I think I was actually close to death by the time we stopped off at this place called Rhamad about an hour from the island. At Rhamad, we planned to meet up with a German guy called Norman who the girls we were with had met on a TPA organized weekend a couple of weeks before. He wasn't there though so we gave up hope. The three girls with us are all volunteers in local clinics in Karaikudi two called Emma, and one called Natalie. So with two Emma’s, two Bens (as everyone calls me ) there are only three names between the five of us. It’s like being in a bloody Christian pop band.

Any way, we went on to Ramaswaram, and amazingly just happened to bump into Norman in the temple. I soon wished we hadn't though. The girls mainly just wanted to "show" him to us because, as I quickly noted, Norman was a total freak and a bit of a pecker. He was wearing a traditional Indian dhoti (like a sarong...I’m going to get one later today...a silk one costs about 2 pounds) and he had ash on his forehead like the men do down here and was also topless and without shoes. This brought out a very British sense of distaste in me. There was nothing particularly freaky in his attire I suppose, except that he fully thought he was an Indian peasant and was obviously trying to have a “real” experience, or to “find himself” or some other new age bullshit. I was already wondering when would be the best time to tell him that I’d recently wiped my arse on Ghandi’s face.
Norman (The Gorman) was quick to greet the girls but didn't even acknowledge my or Ben’s existence until he said “I didn’t know there were going to be…boys…with you”. Ben and I both agreed that he was more of a ladies’ man than a man’s man…or even a group of people’s man.

He was also full of crap. He regaled us (again, mainly the girls) with tails of the elephant at the palace and how it had killed two people the “other day” (that wonderfully non-specific period of time when all fantastic yarns seam to take place). This worried Norman because he was “in his last reincarnation” and wasn’t going to come back again or some other pseudo-spiritual crap. I was already looking forward to it, and was wondering how one goes about hiring an elephant assassin. He also preyed at all the alters, which I think annoyed some of the locals who must see hundreds of misty eyed foreigners pretending to be Indian every day. He used the Tamil head wobble instead of nodding, but he used it in the wrong way, and too often, and of course when we went swimming he had to be last out the ocean, the only one who didn’t admit that the sand was way too hot to walk on (I actually burnt my feet so that they were painful the rest of the day), the only one who didn’t sit in the shade, bragged about how he ran 17 miles to the next town the other day in 40 degree heat just to see if he could etc. etc. I think you can see the type of guy he was. He also gave this huge profound and moving spiel about the Tsunami in 2004 and how it had emotionally affected the people and how he saw the pain in their eyes. I wanted to ask if this was because he’d been telling them any of his stories. It was all very moving, but one of the Emma’s told me later she’d heard the exact same speech the weekend they met him, almost word for word and she reconed it was rehearsed. Oh…and he was reading Mien Kampf…and he didn’t bring any money and ordered the most expensive things for dinner. God I hated him…fuck.

Anywho, later on the way home we stopped off at the palace that TPA had placed the lucky fucker in. Norm worked as a volunteer at the school of the local “king’s” son (Note: not a real king. Don’t get excited). We were mainly enticed there with promise of seeing the kings elephant, as supposedly every palace has one, and I was excited by the idea of a huge towering beast covered in jewels and maybe golden armor stamping Norman’s face into the dirt whilst I rode on its back (also covered in jewels and golden armour). In the end I wished I hadn’t bothered. The king was incredibly ostentatious, despite the relatively diminished extent of his wealth. He had recently bought 80 rabbits. Why? Well so that he could say “did I mention I have 80 rabbits? No, well I keep them in appaling conditions. Maybe you would like to come poke them with wire one day?”. Maybe large numbers of vermin kept in wire cages is the Indian version of spinning rims and blinged out goblets full of Hennessey…

“Yo yo yo, check it out- I got 50 hunnies and 100 bunnies, I keep those things in
cages. I keep my bitches happy though, by paying living wages”

(I really should be a rapper. My talents are going to waste)

The rabbits were in lines of wire hutches, some 2 to a cage, raised off the ground so they had to walk on the wire and left with no water and little shade. I saw some with mange, others with lumps or bleeding sores. It was awful. There were emaciated dogs tied to trees and exotic birds in filthy overcrowded cages. It was so sad, I almost expected to see a man skinning a unicorn in the corner. When we finally got to the elephant I didn’t know what to expect…they’re supposedly sacred, so I was hoping the elephant would at least be better housed. Well, they’re not that sacred as it turns out and I shouldn’t have got my hopes up. It had a bad skin infection that was causing it to go pink in places, and had both left legs chained to concrete blocks so it just had to stand all day in the same position with nothing to do, except listen to the high-pitched screams of caged bunny rabbits. I regret that that was my first experience of an Indian elephant, and I regret that I thought it was still pretty cool when it tried to hit me with its trunk.

“Did you see!? Did you see!? It tried to lash out in anger and frustration! Awesome!”

So…after the weekend of annoying Krauts and mistreated animals, we’ve returned to Karaikudi and the John Medical Centre. This morning Ben and I were woken at 4:45am to go and see some more operations. First there was a non malignant breast lump, which was fairly interesting because the doctor cut it open and explained the differences between malignant and Benign tumours. Also, tits…so you know…bonus. Then, and probably most amazingly, we were invited to see a caesarian section which was incredible. It was awe inspiring. It was beautiful. It was incredibly gruesome. The mother had already had 4 previous C-Sections, which made me wonder why they didn’t just sow a zip into her, as I’ve never seen as much blood. Dr John removed the placenta and it was as if he’d just gutted her.…it was horrific. Seriously…it splattered out of the gash (no not “her gash”, I mean the actual incision) in her stomach and all over the floor and the doctors feet. I should add that they only wear flip-flops in surgery so I it was pretty sick. There was also a lot of tearing and pulling and all in all it kind of ruined my romantic notions of peaceful childbirth. Apparently they have to be very brutal because as soon as the placenta is broken the baby is in danger of suffocating so they tear it out as fast as they can. I was fine with all the blood today though, and I think the loosing of my breakfast last week was more to do with illness. Ben was next to me and I think he was a little shocked by the amount of fluid and had to hold his head between his legs for a while. What a pussy!

We’ve been seeing a lot of patients with diabetic complications as well recently. It’s mainly the less educated rural people, who do apparently understand that they can’t have sugar but do anyway because they think that if they eat something bitter at the same time it cancels it out. It’s so adorably naive! Add to that the stigma of insulin injections, the difficulty of getting hold of human insulin, and that they only have their blood sugars taken once a week in the clinic and you soon start to see why so many of them have these problems. Huge leg ulcers, neuropathy and retinopathy are apparently very common, and with type two diabetes on the rise it’s becoming a serious problem in India.

The social aspects of medicine in here are incredibly interesting and of course totally different to those in the UK. It’s especially pronounced in cases of infertility and diet related illnesses, where so much social status is attached and the culture can be quite alien from a western view point. There was one woman who was being held prisoner by her in-laws because she hadn’t conceived after two years of marriage. They wouldn’t let her see her family and were blaming her for all their financial problems. As it turned out, the husband has been living in Dubai the last two years and has only been coming back every few months for a couple of weeks at a time. It was so interesting to see the way that this affected both sides of the family, and the couple’s marriage. And that’s just the beginning of that kind of thing. We’ve seen people in clinic who keep trying to have babies because they have to have a boy, and they end up with more children that they can possibly afford. Some have been to see gurus who have told them that if they don’t conceive a son it would be bad luck, so they just keep popping the sprogs. Our doctor jokingly said the other day that the most commonly presented complaint in Southern India is pregnancy. It goes on and on but I think I better cut this short or you won’t bother reading any more.

Oh, I haven’t had a shit in almost a week by the way...thought I’d share that. This really is a land of extremes.

The one in which I Dirty Sanchez Gandhi...

Tuesday 7th April 2005, 11:38AM

So here I am in “India” as the locals call it…and what a very queer place it is. No not queer like Brighton, though there are a lot of men holding hands (it’s a cultural thing according to my guide book). So, apparently India’s like this whole other country now and we don’t own any of it! We don’t even get a cut of the profit. Jeez, we invented the place! Who’d have thunk it? Shit, if I had known it wasn’t even ours anymore, I would never have agreed to come out here and fix their health service. Why didn’t any of you tell me? They don’t even speak our language very well.

The flight was fairly uneventful. The guy next to me decided the spare chare between us was to put his feet on whilst he slept. How rude! The chair was clearly for me to put my feet on whilst I slept, but I suppose some people just don’t give a crap about others. He also thought it was hilarious when I ate a chili that some smart arse had hidden in my salad disguised as a green pepper. He was lucky the flight was only 91/2 hours because I swear, if it had been like, 6 or 9 more hours I almost certainly, probably would have at least given him a really dirty look. Like, while he was sleeping though because jeez…I don’t want to be a victim of air rage y’know? Needless to say he was pretty lucky we landed when we did.

So straight away one problem with India became clear; it’s full of for’ners. Although, I’m sure there are some liberals out there who would remind me that they’re not for’ners because this is their country…yadda yadda yadda! Bloody Lefties! I think I know a for’ner when I see one, and these people are not like you and me. They wear different clothes and some of them don’t even speak English as their first language. In fact, on the way from the airport, the taxi driver turned to me and said “I’m practicing my English, and would very much appreciate this opportunity to converse with you, with a view to improve my vocabulary and syntax. I must apologise to you though, as I feel my grasp of the English lexicon is perhaps slighty substandard, so you may struggle at times to grasp exactly what I am saying”. Ha! What an idiot. I was all “Juuust-Taaaake-Meee-Tooo-Theee-Puuuub-Saaanje-Yeah? Beeeer?”. He said his name was Victor and that he thought I might have had a small stroke caused by something called “Deep Vain From Bosis” or something. I was like, “ha, what are you...a doctor?!” and he was all “no, just a medical student”.

“Whatever… just drive the taxi yeah?”.

It’s not all overly articulate taxi drivers though. One of the best things about this “place” is everything is cheap as hell! I can’t understand why everyone is so hungry looking and shabbily dressed when you can get a full meal for like 40p! There really is no excuse. Another example; I’ve already been in this internet café today, and I wrote a huge long e-mail that took about an hour. Then there was a power cut and I lost it all. I should note though that it was quite worrying how calmly everyone else in the café took this; I fear it may not be an unusual occurrence. I, on the other hand, was annoyed. Very very annoyed. In the UK I wouldn’t have paid and probably would have written to my MP...maybe even done some nose punching and crotch stomping if it was a Monday. Out here though, an hour of dial-up internet sets you back about 10p! Granted, it’ll take that long to load anything that’s even remotely wankable (some pixilated nipples, maybe a hint of a ball-gag), but it’d still be cheap even at twice the price. TEN PENCE! I usually inhale that much whilst I sleep (did I mention I sleep on a huge pile of money? Ok, so it’s mainly small denomination copper coins and it is incredibly uncomfortable, but still; A PILE OF MONEY!)

And poorly rendered pornography isn’t the only thing that’s cheap in India. Money has virtually no value . Well, not to me anyway…did I mention I’m pretty rich? Well I am…compared to people here anyway. For example, during my first day in the ridiculously named town I’m in (Karikudi…honestly, do they just throw Scrabble sets out of windows and go with what lands?) I found myself hammering for a dump. Sorry, I should say hammering to “drop the kids off at the pool”, although really I’d be dropping them off at the ceramic hole in the floor, as there isn’t really much of a pool there…or any kind of seat. Or any flushing mechanism. Or in fact anything except a prickling sense of shame and a mirror at eye level to remind you how low you’ve stooped, both socially and literally. Alas I hadn’t yet had the guts to ask for toilet paper at the local shop and I really didn’t want to “go Indian” and introduce my left hand to real manual labor.

The only thing I had was some 10 Rp notes. That’s about 8p. You can see where this is going, yeah? Well I’m going to tell you anyway. I had no choice you see? Don’t judge me…you weren’t there man…you weren’t there! NONE OF YOU KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE!?

So anyways, just me and old Gandhi’s and his smug peace loving mustachioed little face, and no one would ever know. Well, not unless later I found it hilarious in hindsight and decided to e-mail everyone about it. Ha, I wonder if Ghandi enjoyed the “hindsight”. Get it? Hindsight? Like, because he was looking at my arse? Well, probably not. He wasn’t really renowned for his sense of humor, and even the best sport isn’t going to enjoy being the victim of a gap year student’s very symbolic and scatological disregard for local culture and customs.

So there you have it. Barely in the country for 24 hours and already I’ve committed an act I fear will stay with me for the rest of my days; I am a terrible terrible human being. Though, having said that I can now at least claim to have wiped my arse on a national treasure and I’ll never have to admit to my grandchildren that I once scraped shit off my anus with my bare hand.

One of the other things I’ve found hardest about this “country” aside from the ablutions is the diet. I came here with all the best intentions of trying everything, plus I’m already quite the curry lover, so I wasn’t expecting it to be such a challenge. However, curry for breakfast is more than anyone can be expected to take, and after a week I’m racking my brains for information I can surrender to stop the torture. I’m sure it’s a human rights violation (Didn’t Hitler give people in concentration camps curry for breakfast? God he was a shit wasn’t he?).

And it’s not just for breakfast that they like to dabble in culinary psychological warfare. They munch copious amounts of this stuff called idli for most evening meals and sometimes at lunch. I’m told it’s like a savory cake made from steamed lentil and rice dough but to me it seems like bread that’s been thrown to the ducks and has gone soggy in the pond water. Seriously, fuck this stuff. They seem to be in a constant cycle of either eating it or making it. Eating it or making it. Eating it or making it, for all eternity. It’s like some Orwellian culinary nightmare. I think if I only learn one thing while I’m here (and let’s face it, if I manage to learn that much it’ll blow my cultural horizons wide open) it’ll be how to politely control my gag reflex and eat anything placed in front of me.

There’s so much more to tell but I’m worried about another power cut (they’re like Indian busses…you don’t see one all day, and then one comes along and ruins everything). The first day I was here I think was the most action packed. I think it must have been an end of season episode in the soap opera of my life. The main thing which made me really want to get straight back in the first taxi, train, taxi, plane, plane, tube, train and bus back home was that I was passing brown liquid where once there had been only solids. This was solely my own fault as I stupidly drank something with ice made from tap water without realising it. The water in India is more of a thick broth of bacteria, which whilst fine if you’re local, will cause rapid evacuation of your abdomen if you’re only packing a weakling Western immune system. I could have shat through a sieve seriously. And I probably wouldn’t even had to rinse the bits out.

To make things worse though, it was also my first day of work in the hospital and I was feeling really nauseous when I went into “theater” (that’s what they call the operating room here…the crazy bastards! Don’t they know that theaters are where you go for plays and the likes…they’ve got their attitude all wrong). We were scheduled to see a little kid get his appendix removed; a fairly straightforward cut and shut even in a rural clinic in India. I felt pretty rotten anyway, but then with all the heat, the smell of the theater’s disinfectant, the mask and the standing up, I wasn’t feeling great.

Finally, after waiting for the kid to get his ass unconscious, the doctor made the tiniest slice I could possibly have hoped for. Unfortunately this veritable paper cut sent me running out like a big girl, white and clammy and ready to chunder. I ran straight out into the courtyard to where the family were waiting and projectile vomited everywhere. Everywhere God damn it! I think they were a little worried about the strange white guy running out of their son’s appendectomy looking like he’d seen someone turned inside out. I managed to find the strength to curl myself up into the fetal position and hold in my tears, before finally having to crawl delicately upstairs when the janitor came to hose down that mornings curried breakfast. We really are indispensable to the hospital you know.

Anyway that’s about all I can be arsed to write now. This key board is shit (it doesn’t even have a “pound” sign…how rude!) and this internet café is about 400 degrees, has sporadic internet and little or northing in the way of refreshments. They’re really stretching the term “internet café” beyond what is traditionally deemed acceptable.

Lots of love to you all (except those of you I don’t like…you know who you are. No don’t look at him…YES! YOU! At the back!! Don’t think I can’t see you!!!)

April Fools Day ~ The Journey Begins

Friday, April 1st 2005, 6:14pm

I'm going to be quick because I’m on internet cafe time, and as I’m still in London which means I’m paying premium rate. Honestly, I recon I’ll be able to hire a prostitute in India for less than I’m paying for broadband in the UK. Although the scope for long distance communication may be slightly less, at least the scope for catching an awful disease and having all my money stolen will be greater.
I've spent the last two days with my brother in London. I've only really seen him in the evenings though as he’s been working, and I've been doing speed tourism, which is like regular tourism except it involves a lot more pushing, shoving and shin kicking whilst maneuvering through crowded museums. I've managed to see pretty much all the free things that I wanted to bar any actual genuine cockneys...is anyone from London actually living in London?

I made it to Abby Road where I wrote my name along with everyone else's on the wall outside, went to the Houses of Parliament where I again wrote my name on the wall outside (fewer people taking part this time though) and looked at the permanent protest guy. I’m not sure if he means to be protesting against hygiene, but he’s making a very convincing argument for a compulsory state subsidised showers program. Is it really necessary for him to be so filthy? Why must being a revolutionary be synonymous with a rejection of basic cleanliness? It seems that social change may smell of hash and armpits. Seriously, I've seen cleaner puddles.

Then, Leicester Square where I saw nothing except an NHS walk in centre where I had to pick up some antibiotic cream. This is because Impetigo has turned my face into the sort of scabby weepy-wound you’d usually only associate with a 16th Centenary bubonic sanatorium. Also, I think I was the only person in there who wasn’t a sex worker. Or at least that's the thought I used to entertain myself whilst I waited.
Then I went to Camden, which is really cool; cool shops, cool people, cool fake band merchandise and very brazen drug dealers selling what I suspect is likely to be some of the finest cooking herbs outside of my mother’s spice rack. Finally I hit the Tate Modern for some real genuine mind wank. All fairly standard really. I fly off later today…it doesn't really feel very real though. I suspect this could all be a hoax