On typhoid, journalism and the Raj

Patient update
Amanda left hospital after ten days with a cold and more typhoid antigens in her blood than before, as well as an enlarged liver, but feeling significantly fitter and fever-free. Further tests in a few days will hopefully reveal a bug-free outlook. In the meanwhile, the medicine cabinet has nearly doubled the weight of her backpack. (And I should know - I'm carrying both backpacks while the patient regains her strength.)

Since then we've been back on the road, first stopping off in Varanasi on the Ganges. Our hotel overlooked Harischandra Ghat (a burning funeral spot) and so death became part of our daily ritual, along with the best cup of coffee in India and the most superior cheese cake in the world (both at Open Hand coffee and silk shop, owned, of course, by South Africans). We marvelled at the faithful not only bathing but also drinking the near-septic water of the holy river.


Colourful queue into the Taj

And then we hit the All India Cliche Spot - the Taj Mahal in Agra. It is, unequivocally, the most beautiful building in the world - can anyone think of a contender that comes close?

Despite the thousands of tourists jostling for camera space, the ignominy of having to pose for one beautifully dressed family/giggling group of naughty boys/lecherous old men after the other and the potent whiff of a million sweaty feet (shoes have to be removed), we swoon for hours over this mausoleum to love. The sensuous, marble symmetry, the perfect proportion, the sheer romance of its raised position, the jewelled inlay work. It takes your breath away.

We blow the budget - and suffer great guilt - by spending sunset on the balcony of the Oberoi hotel, where I pay Rps 500 (more than GBP5) for a glass of wine while Coups has a lemon soda. To put it in perspective: our hotel room - obviously not the Oberoi - was a 'luxury splashout' at Rps 450.

The train that brought us from Varanasi to Agra (four hours late), is the same train that takes us to Jaipur, capital of Rajasthan, a few days later. We congratulate ourselves on our foresight not to get to Agra Fort station on time for the supposed 6.15am departure, but at 9am. Just as well, because the train eventually pulls in at 10.30.

Jaighar Fort, near Jaipur. Showing the Coups in fine fettle

Jaipur surely wins the award for the Most Hassly Town in the Land. Every rickshaw driver, man, woman, child and goat in the street is a travel industry entrepreneur - whether it be through customised trips (every one has exactly the same customised trip), see my brother/cousin's shop, only look, baksheesh (I thought that was an Arabic word?), I help you/you help me, always accompanied by the Which country? refrain.

It's so draining to apologise for being bad tourists (we're not here to buy, just to walk around the streets and look at the buildings) and nobody accepts no for an answer.

Of course not

Story of the day:
from the Times of India

Negligence cry over death at hospital

ANGRY protests rocked (no less) the premises of a local veterinary (yep, veterinary) hospital on Monday following the death of a cow (what else) allegedly due to medical negligence. An irate mob gheraoed (Indian press loves this word) the 'errant' doctor's chamber for (get this) nearly an hour on Monday - Sunday being a holiday (of course).

...followed by reams of waffle about the unfortunate demise of the poor cow, which, it transpires, received a diarrhoea injection instead of fertility treatment. And then this, surely the most pithy quote from an unlikely source:

Sukdeb Shaw, a milkman of Makrampur, alleged that the vets at the hospital were lazy and never examined their patients. "They read newspapers or chat with pharmacists while clerks turn into doctors."

Hurrah for colonialism
Or at least as far as the dissemination across the former colonies of Marmite is concerned. Thank you, Britain, for enabling me to buy the black gold in a small corner shop, guarded by a sleepy buffalo, in Varanasi and in the madness of Calcutta's New Market. And shame on Australia for daring to think it could do it better with its paltry, repeat-tried-but-failed offerings (Vegemite, Promite, even their own version of Marmite - all shite-mite).

Indian food continues to charm the pants off us (literally) - a cullinary extravaganza that reaches fulfilment every morning with butter toast, covered in our delicious Marmite, and a cup of hot, sweet masala chai. Life is indeed beautiful.

Camel enjoying a shave

Typhoid Trixy sweeps across the City of Joys

Trixy directs operations from her command centre at the Woodlands Hospital in Calcutta

I think it's my fault. As I was saying it, I knew I was inviting the gods of fate to a risky dance. On our last night but one, as we were having yet another celebratory meal with people we'd encountered on the Annapurna trail, I boasted with pig-headed confidence that we've been eating our way across three continents without any ill effects.

The next day we had to delay our departure from Nepal by a day because I had erupted at both ends.

Four days later Amanda is running a temperature of 40 degrees Celcius, suffering from severe headache, light sensitivity, no appetite, massive sweats. Within two days she's on a drip in a hospital in Calcutta with severe typhoid.

Yep, despite having forked out the GDP of a small country on vaccinations, lotions and potions - including typhoid - the bird ingested something bad and dirty and succumbed to the inevitable.

It could have been the cold dal baht that we ate against our better judgement on the train to Calcutta or the hidden bits of ice at the bottom of the papaya lassi in the backpackers hangout in Sudder St wot did it, but it could have been anything.

After five days of really being very ill, Amanda is now feeling much better. She's complaining about the ice cream, got the nurses well organised (after an uncomfortable moment of having to explain to one rummaging through her bedside drawer what a tampon is) and is writing down To Do lists for me. (Sympathy cards can be addressed to me)

Hopefully she'll be evicted by the weekend, and be fit to continue travelling. Calcutta is great, but I'm itching to hit Rajasthan. Time is fleeting - despite having delayed our departure from India by 10 days.

Shaky repairs: scaffolding on the Indian Museum

Mum left all her possessions unprotected on the platform for a while


Victoria Memorial at sunset

The Hooghly River with the Howrah Bridge in the background

Nepal behind us but in our hearts

Supply chain: donkeys with provisions for remote villages in Nepal's Annapurna region

In the dark the rickshaw-wallah stumbles, mumbles and stops. "This India, you get off."

It seems we somehow managed to avoid both the Nepalese and Indian border controls, but no matter, because they're closed in any case, we're told (it's 6.30pm, after all). Come back tomorrow.

So it happens that we spend the night in the veritable shit-hole at the bottom of all shit-holes, a no-hope place where one would prefer to be neither man nor beast. A place where one wouldn't want to be.

Next morning we forego the pleasure of another Nepalese stamp - too far to walk - but decide to keep it legit in India, so pay the customs officer a visit.

His official table is outside the office, which has no roof. He has a moustache worthy of a life-long bureaucrat, is very pleased to meet us, and meticulously enters our details in his heavy ledger. "Your are visitors 923 and 924 this year. Many, many people come to Raxaul." Not by choice, I think. And not that many either.

We chat about cricket, and as we discover later, he represents all Indians in his utter incredulity over India's exit from the ICC Championship. South Africa would be his next choice, but there is Herschel Gibbs and the match-fixing thing, you know.

The serenity of the passport formalities, sitting in the morning sun with only a faint whiff of urine in the air, is complete when we are served a cup of steaming hot chai. Ah, how different could that queue be in Heathrow.

2AC (two-tiered sleeper couch with air conditioning) Mithil Express train (only 20 hours) turns into an unexpected luxury, with clean sheets and a pillow each, as well as two fellow travellers who, apart from the occasional burp, do not fart, spit or rub their genitals excessively.

We arrive in Calcutta at 7am and immediately like the vibe of the city. The moment - and maybe the shock of being back in big, bad, mad, smelly India - proves too great for Amanda and she develops a severe fever of 40 degrees, which we're still struggling to bring under control.

Blood tests for malaria, dengue fever and chikungunya, and checking platelets, ERS and probably the presence of green aliens too, come up alright, but we await the typhoid results with bated breath. And Coups continues to feel grim.

A few random pics:

We saw this amazing 'fairground wheel' in Ghandruk, our last stop on the Annapurna trek, on the last night of the religious festival Tihar (Nepalese version of Diwali, festival of lights)

Celebrating the last day of Tihar with Rajesh, our porter, and Sibrenne from Holland


At the end of Nepal trek there was room on the roof of the bus only - a very refreshing 3-hour ride

One up to the Chinese - their obscene finger juts outs disrespectfully across the square from the Potala in Lhasa

Boogeying down to Madonna in the jeep to Everest Base Camp