I didn’t think it could happen, but it happened. I am sick.
Never before has it been more obvious to me that I am of northern European descent. My eyes itch, I have heat rashes, and now heat stroke. It’s hot here, man. Northern Europeans were meant to do things like eat dinner on patios and go snow skiing. Right now I’m thinking a summer internship in Geneva sounds pretty good.
I found an apartment. It’s in Bandra Village. See if you can picture this. Bandra was a Catholic village north of Bombay. Eventually Bombay grew north to swallow this village of Bandra, surrounding the village with modernity – or the relative modernity of India. I live down a narrow village lane. There are small shops and crucifixes standing at most intersections. If France was this Catholic, it’d be like I’m living in a French village.
In searching for this apartment, I spent my day walking from one place to another and then another place to another, during the hottest hours of the sun. I walked to the landlord’s, the apartment, the landlord’s, a coffeeshop to seal the deal, to Mritunjay’s, and I sat on a plastic stool in the street under no shade, drinking the milk from inside a coconut through a straw while I waited for duplicate keys to be made by a guy set up next to the coconut seller. I’ve only seen keys made by machine. This guy made keys with a bench vice and a metal file.
The coconut milk was really not that delicious. It was a scorching day, and the milk was just as warm. It tasted like warm water. I had never had it until Saturday, and I had always expected coconut milk to be, well, more like milk. Mritunjay assured me it is more delicious after it’s been in a refrigerator. I couldn’t drink the whole coconut because it really wasn’t that great.
And sitting here on this street drinking coconut milk is where my stomach began to feel upset. I was drenched in sweat. It was about 4 in the afternoon. I had been walking around outside in the hottest part of the day, from 11 to 4. I had started my day by taking the hour long rick ride all the way from Lokhandwala to Bandra. That was a hot ride, and riding in a rick means inhaling lots of engine exhaust. And after getting coconut milk I walked more places. But I’m a hardass, nothing can phase me.
Next day, Sunday, I had to go to my landlord’s in Bandra and give them the keys because they had forgot to make copies. So, at 3 in the afternoon I took another hour long rick ride from Lokhandwala to Bandra. And because there is no coherence to street layouts and no real system of postal addresses except to list the name of a nearby landmark building (for instance, the address for my guesthouse in Lokhandwala is landmark: Pizza Hut – and rick wallahs never know where this is.), I walked around Bandra lost during the hottest part of the day. I wasn’t lost for too long, maybe 45 minutes, and I did find the building by myself. I was pretty proud of this. So, I dropped off the key, then I made the walk to Mritunjay’s, which is a little far. Just clocking more time under the clear sky and scorching sun.
So at Mritunjay’s is where I admitted I was sick. Him and I did some yoga to make me feel better, and I drank an Indian home remedy. Because none of these cured me, I laid down for about an hour, then I went to go see “When God Said Cheers,” which was showing at an open air theater on the shore of the Sea.
With my coworkers I ate a huge, greasy Indian meal at a restaurant, and went home and vomited it all up. I didn’t go to work today, and I’m suffering from all possible gastro-intestinal malfunctions. I hope this is just heat stroke and not Montezuma taking his revenge.
Today I learned that we only get 6 flushes of the toilet per day here in this apartment building. Luckily, I figured out that I can still flush the toilet if I fill up the reservoir with water from the sink. There is a pitcher in the bathroom (that has been handy for filling the reservoir) because some Indians prefer the water and hand method of wiping. Not me, yet.
Today I noticed the bottle of Doxycycline I brought with me from the U.S. to ward off malaria warns to avoid prolonged exposure to the sun. Hmm. I had no choice though. I had to get an apartment, and the only time it’s not too hot is at 5a.m.
Today I am also missing so much the Quilted Northern or Charmin toilet paper that my mom buys.
It does make me feel like less of a pussy when Indians tell me that even they and people they know still get sick from the heat. Despite pronouncements I made in prior weeks, Bombay is hotter than St. Louis. Nevertheless, the monsoons are supposed to break by next weekend, and they are supposed to cool the city. Someone even told me I might need a blanket at night once the monsoons begin. I'm skeptical.
I found an apartment. It’s in Bandra Village. See if you can picture this. Bandra was a Catholic village north of Bombay. Eventually Bombay grew north to swallow this village of Bandra, surrounding the village with modernity – or the relative modernity of India. I live down a narrow village lane. There are small shops and crucifixes standing at most intersections. If France was this Catholic, it’d be like I’m living in a French village.
In searching for this apartment, I spent my day walking from one place to another and then another place to another, during the hottest hours of the sun. I walked to the landlord’s, the apartment, the landlord’s, a coffeeshop to seal the deal, to Mritunjay’s, and I sat on a plastic stool in the street under no shade, drinking the milk from inside a coconut through a straw while I waited for duplicate keys to be made by a guy set up next to the coconut seller. I’ve only seen keys made by machine. This guy made keys with a bench vice and a metal file.
The coconut milk was really not that delicious. It was a scorching day, and the milk was just as warm. It tasted like warm water. I had never had it until Saturday, and I had always expected coconut milk to be, well, more like milk. Mritunjay assured me it is more delicious after it’s been in a refrigerator. I couldn’t drink the whole coconut because it really wasn’t that great.
And sitting here on this street drinking coconut milk is where my stomach began to feel upset. I was drenched in sweat. It was about 4 in the afternoon. I had been walking around outside in the hottest part of the day, from 11 to 4. I had started my day by taking the hour long rick ride all the way from Lokhandwala to Bandra. That was a hot ride, and riding in a rick means inhaling lots of engine exhaust. And after getting coconut milk I walked more places. But I’m a hardass, nothing can phase me.
Next day, Sunday, I had to go to my landlord’s in Bandra and give them the keys because they had forgot to make copies. So, at 3 in the afternoon I took another hour long rick ride from Lokhandwala to Bandra. And because there is no coherence to street layouts and no real system of postal addresses except to list the name of a nearby landmark building (for instance, the address for my guesthouse in Lokhandwala is landmark: Pizza Hut – and rick wallahs never know where this is.), I walked around Bandra lost during the hottest part of the day. I wasn’t lost for too long, maybe 45 minutes, and I did find the building by myself. I was pretty proud of this. So, I dropped off the key, then I made the walk to Mritunjay’s, which is a little far. Just clocking more time under the clear sky and scorching sun.
So at Mritunjay’s is where I admitted I was sick. Him and I did some yoga to make me feel better, and I drank an Indian home remedy. Because none of these cured me, I laid down for about an hour, then I went to go see “When God Said Cheers,” which was showing at an open air theater on the shore of the Sea.
With my coworkers I ate a huge, greasy Indian meal at a restaurant, and went home and vomited it all up. I didn’t go to work today, and I’m suffering from all possible gastro-intestinal malfunctions. I hope this is just heat stroke and not Montezuma taking his revenge.
Today I learned that we only get 6 flushes of the toilet per day here in this apartment building. Luckily, I figured out that I can still flush the toilet if I fill up the reservoir with water from the sink. There is a pitcher in the bathroom (that has been handy for filling the reservoir) because some Indians prefer the water and hand method of wiping. Not me, yet.
Today I noticed the bottle of Doxycycline I brought with me from the U.S. to ward off malaria warns to avoid prolonged exposure to the sun. Hmm. I had no choice though. I had to get an apartment, and the only time it’s not too hot is at 5a.m.
Today I am also missing so much the Quilted Northern or Charmin toilet paper that my mom buys.
It does make me feel like less of a pussy when Indians tell me that even they and people they know still get sick from the heat. Despite pronouncements I made in prior weeks, Bombay is hotter than St. Louis. Nevertheless, the monsoons are supposed to break by next weekend, and they are supposed to cool the city. Someone even told me I might need a blanket at night once the monsoons begin. I'm skeptical.
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