Aftermath of the Attack

Twenty four hours after major operations were declared over in Mumbai, Malin and I were walking down the street in Koregaon Park, half a block from a cafe called the German Bakery.  If Koregaon Park is the backpackers district of Pune then the German Bakery is the eye of the tourist storm - easily comparable to Mumbai's Leopold's Cafe.  

Behind the high end office building across the street, a huge bang erupted.  It caught everyone's attention - rickshaw drivers and panhandlers on the street stopped what they were doing to look, tourists paused in their conversations and looked up from their Lonely Planets.  A few Indians started slowly walking toward the sound's origin as plumes of smoke started billowing out from behind the building.

A truck backfiring?  A large object falling over and spraying up clouds of dust?  I kept my eye on the area of concern for another minute as we entered the German Bakery and Malin looked for our friends.  I then turned my attention to the crowded street.  All the tourists went back to their previous activities.  The only people still watching, waiting, were the locals.  The look on their faces was fear.  They were scared.  Accidents happen constantly in India, and this was just another one to be forgotten.  Many travelers changed their plans after the attacks; they avoided Mumbai or left India as fast as they could.  But there are over a billion people that live here, and they can't just leave.  After such a brazen attack, they are scared of what could happen next.

The day I left Pune, many public facilities were closed because there were bomb threats across the city.  I remember after Columbine a seeming increase of school threats throughout the US.  I vividly remember going to school on the day of a bomb threat at my high school, when half of the student body didn't show up.  The aftershock of this kind of attack is the empty threats of others who want to capitalize on this new kind of fear while it's still fresh in the air.

My Swedish family and I traveled down to Goa for my last 5 days in India.  The atmosphere was calmer, more relaxed.  But even in this state, a 12 hours drive from Mumbai wasn't immune from the attack's consequences.  20-25% of hotel reservations in Goa were cancelled the following week.  As the high season officially started and hotel prices went up, the number of travelers went down.  The clubs felt a little quieter than a week ago, the restaurants a little emptier.

After a . . . turbulent overnight bus ride to Goa to say the least, I tried to take a nap the following afternoon.  As I lay in bed, I heard in the distance a familiar crash.  Perhaps this time it was two caucasians crashing their motorbikes into each other, or perhaps it was more serious.  Whatever its origins, it kept me up.  I peeked through the windows of my ground floor room, to see only the cement wall separating my hotel from the street.  I got back into bed and listened for any casual Hindi conversation from the hotels employees to be reassured that all was well.  

The Swedish State Department warned of traveling to Goa after the attack, because it is a major tourist destination and accessible by sea - which is how the terrorists entered Mumbai.  I didn't check the US State Departments website, and will not until January 20 - but I'm sure it said something similar.  The result in Goa was noticeable heightened security.  There's nothing quite like sunbathing on the beach only to look up and see 20 armed security personnel in combat boots walking casually across the sand.  Any unease was put to rest when a Russian man started waving at them to pose for a picture, and they lifted their rifles and kindly obliged.

There are two big markets in or around Anjuna, my favorite beach in Goa where I've been staying.  The Wednesday Flea Market, and the Saturday Night Market.  Ed and I experienced the Saturday Night Market only briefly on the day we arrived in Goa, managing an hour or two of mindless wandering before jet lag threatened our consciousness.  Having scouted these markets many times, I was regularly criticized by my Swedish companions for the excessively organized lists of people and presents I planned to buy for them.  As a backpacker it's not easy to carry home presents, and I'm generally of the if-you-want-something-from-India-get-it-yourself school of thought.  But for some reason, this trip I was inspired.  I went as far as buying a duffel bag just to transport said presents.  I knew the shops, the merchandise, and I knew the right prices to pay.  I was a bartering machine with brand new batteries waiting to be turned on.

As the sun set on my final day in Goa and I began my shopping calisthenics, my friends at the hotel told me the bad news.  The market had been cancelled due to a terrorist threat.  Defeated, I went out and bought the only Indian gifts I could find; a dozen packs of cigarettes and my favorite Indian cookies - which I then ate.  As I paid $70 at the Sydney airport for my extra piece of luggage I was now carrying to Tasmania that was sadly 2/3's empty, I couldn't help but think that not nearly enough of my friends at home smoke.  

Where I was during the Bombay attacks

Ed and I spent our first week in Goa indulging in the quintessential Goan lifestyle: cruising around on motorbikes and laying on the beach by day while partying, dancing and passing around an unnecessary chicken mask by night (it really deserves repeated mention).

When my proverbial Indian brother Arjun invited us to an Indian wedding in Pune, we jumped at the opportunity. We made sure we stayed out all night before our 12 hour bus ride on Saturday, and arrived just in time for the first party. We stayed through the weekend, returning to Goa on an overnight bus Monday night.

By Tuesday morning we planned to return to Pune the following day. We had met some wonderful Swedish students studying in Pune, and this time the excuse to celebrate was a Swedish bachelorette party. During our mandatory all-nighter Tuesday night, we met 2 Kazakhstani cousins that were almost too much fun, and Ed opted to stay in Goa with them while I made the day trip back to Pune alone. Pune is about three hours from Bombay, an easy commute in India. Ed's flight was departing from Bombay Saturday morning, so we made plans to reunite for a lavish farewell party at one of the Taj hotels friday night.

I arrived at my hotel in Pune around 9pm. I got ready for the party and my good friend Pavit picked me up. Many of my best memories in Pune are cruising around in Pavit's car. The party was at the posh nightclub Pyramids, where redbull and vodka's cost $12 and the Swedes had been partying all day. Pavit and I caught up with our friends Malin and Kristin, danced and congratulated the bride to be.

An hour later, Pavit got a phone call from Arjun, who was in Bombay. He walked away from the party music to listen to his call, and returned almost immediately to tell Malin and I that there was an attack in Bombay, that gunmen had open fired at Cafe Leopold's. He didn't know many details, but there were guns and bombs involved, and he thought we should leave the club to be safe. He got another call and walked off to take it. Malin and I sat down, speechless for a moment, surrounded by the thud of club trance music. We discussed our options; do we stay and assume its an isolated incident? Do we try to round up the 18+ people at the party and call it a night, or do we just go ourselves?

Pavit returned. The Taj Hotel in Colaba, the main tourist neighborhood of Bombay was also under attack. The Taj and Cafe Leopold's are down the street from one another in Colaba, the main tourist neighborhood of Bombay, and are two of the most prominent landmarks for international travelers.

There were unconfirmed stories that gunmen were shooting people on the roads between Bombay and Pune and Pavit wanted us to leave immediately. Malin and Pavit went looking for Kristin. Her boyfriend was landing in Bombay that night and taking a taxi to Pune to see her after three months overseas.

Pavit ran off one way, and Malin went to ask a drunken Indian friend if he'd seen her. Ignoring the clear concern in her inquiry, he wrapped his arms around her, making a pass at her. He dropped his drink, shattering glass and whisky everywhere, and I pulled her from his confused grasp. We walked away and found Pavit with Kristin, who was crying. Pavit had told her.

The four of us left the club, without stopping at coat check to get the girls' bags.

Kristin sobbed as she tried to contact Oscar on his phone. He had already landed and was in a taxi in Bombay. There was now word that attacks had also occurred at the Oberoi Hotel and the CST - the central train station. Kristin had originally told Oscar to get a hotel in Bombay that night across the street from the CST, and just take a train to Pune the next morning, but he insisted on coming that night.

Oscar's taxi driver spoke no English, and Pavit translated. We debated if Oscar should stay in the city at a hotel or risk the roads, but it was already a struggle to get out of Bombay as the police began battling the terrorists and it would only get worse, so Oscar continued on to Pune.

We arrived at Kristin's hotel room sometime after midnight, and Pavit once again translated to the hotel clerks the situation at hand. Malin and I stayed with her as she waited for Oscar. Pavit, who remained calm and collected this whole evening as he took care of us, left to go be with his family so they wouldn't worry.

The hotel offered Kristin everything in the mini bar free of charge as she waited, and we raided the miscellaneous sodas and chocolate bars. Her tears were replaced by relaxing laughter and the constant inhale of chainsmoking cigarettes, as we felt safer ourselves. Oscar continued to send joking texts, constantly referencing the impossible language barrier with his driver.

We were glued to the news. The media repeated the only pictures they could gather in the short time since the attacks began. Smoke rose from the rooftop of the Taj Hotel, where alleged grenades had started a fire. Cafe Leopold's was seemingly destroyed inside, the floors covered in blood. One report quoted a tourist saying she had to climb over bodies to flee the attacks.

The news stations repeated four images over and over during the lull's in updates. A close up of an AK-47 bullet hole in the glass of Cafe Leopold's. Destroyed tables and the bloodsoaked floors. A police officer running across the street carrying an injured bystander. They also showed a dead body, face down in the back of an ambulance, the medic lifting his head by his hair to reveal the bloodied face. This image was blurred only after it had aired a couple times.

The reporters noted that the police told nothing of their operations, in case the terrorists were watching. We learned that a few attackers had hijacked cars, including a police van, and were driving the streets shooting at random. This is probably why Pavit had originally heard there were gunmen on the roads between Bombay and Pune.

One of the more terrifying pieces of news came with the deaths of multiple high ranking police officers. Within an hour of the news showing images of Hemant Karkare, the head of the anti-terrorism devision arriving on the scene , it was reported that he had been killed. It's scary to hear that innocent people are being murdered. When the attackers can kill the top officials trying to protect you, it is chilling.

A few interviews came out from escaped hostages. The terrorists were asking for American and British passports. They now had also attacked the Chabad house, where several Jewish families lived, including the head of the Bombay Jewish community. He and his wife were later killed. As I write this, there is an Israeli girl on the phone next to me, crying. The only word I can decipher in her Hebrew is "Bombay."

Authorities were raiding the Taj and Oberoi hotels, where an unknown number of hostages were being held as we all gradually fell asleep.

We were woken by the door's buzzer at 4am when Oscar arrived safe. The hotel said it was impossible for Malin and I to catch a taxi at this hour, but fortunately Kristin had booked a room with two twin beds instead of a double, and we all slept there for the night, comforted in each others presence.

In the days since, all flights to/from Bombay have been cancelled, as have other various transportation. Malin, Kristin, Oscar and their other Swedish friends have had to change or cancel their travel plans. Some were taking the first flights out of the country, while some tried to find ways to continue on with their travels.

Arjun and my other friends in Bombay are all safe, most of them returning to Pune this weekend. The atmosphere in Bombay is still very intense. People are going to work and carrying on with their lives as best they can, but my friends living there are still very scared.

Thank you all for your love and concern - I couldn't be more grateful. One of the hardest aspects of this experience is to know how scared and concerned you all are, so let me please reassure you once again that all is safe and well in Pune.

For the first time in my traveling life, I came on this trip with as little planned as possible. I only had three objectives; to eat at Cafe Leopold's, visit my friends in Pune and relax in Goa - all accomplished. I'm in the fortunate position to wait and see how everything plays out until I leave India on December 7th for Australia. I feel very safe and comfortable in Pune, where I have good friends to keep me company, and Ed should be back in the US within hours. I will keep you all informed on my choices from here, as well as entertain you with Ed and I's crazy antics of the past, and of course, those yet to come for me.

Barack Obama and Ed's Asian virginity

One of the first questions many of you from home are asking is regarding the international response to Barack Obama. As you can assume, it's been extremely positive. There have been one or two exceptions; we had a political conversation with a hilariously cynical Austrian man in his 50's, whose pessimism ranged from the prospect of 'a new kind of politics' to 'they'll never make a proper mojito at this hotel,' so we took his opinion with a grain of salt. Otherwise Obama is met with expected excitement. Arriving in Bombay last week at 4am with an 8 hour layover, we ventured into downtown Colaba. We met a poor man who offered himself as a tour guide in exchange for us buying his postcards. After our mutual celebratory "Obama!" cheers, he continued to inform us that Hillary Clinton was offered the position of Secretary of State. This was how we learned of the potential appointment. This toothless local was our own personal CNN. The only thing he was missing was the defining journalistic integrity of a teleportation device for Will.I.Am.
Many of the more educated Indians express their concerns about Obama's outsourcing policies. As a liberal president in a struggling economy, the assumption is that he'll bring jobs back to America and hinder the important outsourcing practices that has provided many jobs here in India. But they acknowledge that he's an intelligent leader and are optimistic that our countries will continue to develop a strong relationship. The key word here is optimistic - an adjective I have not heard applied to American politics in the last five years traveling the world.

I have been extremely, extremely fortunate to be graced with the prescence of one Edward F. Reimann for the first two weeks of my travels. Besides being the greatest party partner ever invented, it's been fascinating for me to see this country through his virgin, often intoxicated eyes. It's easy, as Americans living in an isolated, unilaterally minded country to overlook details of the world we live in. We flew here on Qatar Airways from New York to Bombay with a layover in Doha. I'd easily argue most Americans don't know that this airline, country or capital city even exist, let along have considered spending 4 hours in the airport of this middle eastern state, and Ed was no different. One noticable observation was to find the incredible efficiency of their airport security screening process compared to the inordinate, indiscriminate and often imbecilic ordeal back home. We were afforded the luxury of keeping our shoes and belts on, and looked at strangely when we tried to undress regardless. We passed the time admiring the airports modern architecture with it's expert lighting design and crisp white walls, perusing the shopping center and bowling on my iphone. For you sports fans out there, the high score to date: Justin with 179.
The contrast between Doha Airport and Bombay Airport is night and apples. Oranges and Constantinople . . . they're different. Bombay's airport is a consistently dreary brown, with a thick visible smog that is a combination of the city's pollution and nearby trash fires. After clearing customs, because of our connecting domestic flight to Goa we were told by armed security we couldn't leave the airport. But in India there are few absolutes in rules and regulations. With approximately 8 words of Hindi under my belt - most of them inquiring about the restroom - we found a way to convince the guards otherwise by simply standing next to them with a confused look on our faces until they became bored with our intruding presence.
We negotiated a taxi price that, unbeknownst to us involved a change of vehicle and driver - a seemingly simple ordeal only if you can ignore the jet lag, 5am interaction and language barrier. For the hour long drive Ed snapped away with his camera as the sun rose over India's financial capital. A vast subculture of Indian poverty can be seen during that one brief drive. Whole families sleeping under a single blanket on the sidewalk. The long expanse of continuous slum communities. Homeless men lying on top of or under any possible structure, with more rats than people roaming the streets. Alleyways lined with waking bodies, the men changing for work and the women redressing the makeshift concrete beds while their children lay casually unconscious inches from the edge of the overcrowded roads. There couldn't be a better introduction to India than to see Bombay transition from slumber to the busy, crowded, polluted, corrupt, impoverished, rich cosmpolitan city that holds this country together.

We have since been to an Indian wedding, breakdanced in a living room for a group of recently charged drug offenders, consecutively partied until 10 in the morning with new international friends convincing bouncers and bartenders that we are anyone and everyone, from celebrities to porn stars while much of the time wearing a rubber chicken mask. But you're probably not interested in hearing those boring tales right now. So until next time.

It's Cold in New York

And not just the weather. I was all but glowing during my first 24 hours on American soil - and not because of the pesticides used in our farming and the nuclear arsenal (zing!). Through my 12 hour flight from Auckland to LA, I reflected on the past three months with nothing but joy and nostalgia. Not only have I experienced so many wonderful people, places and experiences - but I was ecstatic to come home. There's nothing more I would rather do than live on the road, but I recognize it's not that simple. I also missed New York, friends and not having jet lag.

Los Angeles International Airport has a notorious reputation with travelers. Last year at baggage claim there, I listened to two separate Australian 20-somethings talk about being strip searched. Only days before, during a random bag search in Melbourne the security agent enjoyed our conversation so much that she wanted to set me up with her niece. She waved off checking two of my bags and half the compartments in my main luggage, stating simply that "they're fine."

When surrounded by carefree, happy people you generally know it, and it defines your experience of that destination. When surrounded by miserable, tired, stressed out people, you know you're in a United States airport. My experience was uneventful this time around, with the exception of the truly charming American Airlines employee, Kirk. I can't stress it enough how nice this man was, and how much his personality defied my expectations. When you break down traveling to its core, it is a toss up for one of two possibilities: some travelers get the post-customs sodomy, and some get Kirk. After 5 days in an Indian hospital (see "It's Science"), it was my turn for a Kirk.

When I discuss living in New York, I always site first and foremost the fast paced lifestyle. You think you can move here and buy a race car to keep up, but it turns out everyone else is driving spaceships (what?) My first year here I got so caught up in trying to keep up, it almost killed me. In my first week back its been much of the same. There are people to see, places to visit, parties to attend - g0d forbid you miss a happy hour - and before you know it, you've lost your voice and spend half the day in bed fending off mucous. In one week back I've completely worn myself out. And that's before I've even started working. To survive the city that never sleeps, nap time is a must. Also, money and pockets of sobriety.

I've made many additional NYC observations, such as the narrow lanes at the supermarkets for a disproportionate number of customers, and the dreariness of a population in sub-freezing temperatures - but none that seem to warrant comment beyond this sentence. I plan to revisit some stories from my travels in the near future in this blog, as well as crack many a low-brow joke. Until then - come visit New York.

Australia - Quality of Life

I've been really, truly lazy this past month. I'd apologize, but it's not my fault. I blame Australia. I've said many times in my day that Australia has the best quality of life of any country I've visited. Recently, there was a survey in a NEWSPAPER stating that it has the 3rd highest quality of life in the world. A NEWSPAPER! If that's not enough for you, here's some more information.

If you are not employed in Australia, the "Dole" or unemployment system makes America's system look like the cheap guy who gives penny's to the talented breakdancers in the NYC subway system (support you local bboys, folks).

If you are employed, its even better. My 17 year old pseudo-step sister works at a deli. Nothing special, no government job - just a deli. Minimum wage in Australia is $13.74, according to Wikipedia (!!!). Sundays are considered, for some reason, extra super special, which equates to an increase in wage to $20 an hour. It's a completely unskilled job. I love the girl, but she cuts meat and puts it in a plastic bag. It's not like she's breakdancing in the subways or anything.

It gets worse. My Dad works in a public hospital (I'll use this moment to also mention the free national health care - and I'll throw in for kicks the multi-billion dollar federal surplus). Employees of the government have many perks. For example, they can accumulate sick days. Nurses get 14 sick days a year, and you're not sick that year, the next year you have 14+14 sick days. That's like a 100 sick days! Nurses begin with 4 weeks of PAID LEAVE a year for holidays. That number increases over time. A friend of my Dads just took 9 months off - paid leave - to travel, because he'd been accumulating the days.

Payment at the hospital is based on a 37.5 hour work week, so while working 40 hour weeks they get 1/2 day off a week. You can ALSO accumulate these 1/2 days.

I have more evidence, regarding everyone and their unemployed mothers getting overtime despite your level of experience in the hospital. But I don't understand the exact nature of the positions and their relatable titles to the US hospital system, so I don't think I can explain it clearly. But let me just say that it's awesome for them.

Tell me that's not crazy (don't actually tell me that). I haven't even brought up public holidays, which are many, to put it lightly. I'll leave that statistic to you and google, but you gotta wonder how anyone gets anything done in this country. On the plus side, we Americans can take refuge in the fact that I don't think any system can handle paying unskilled labor this much for that long and get away with it. And when their economy crashes, it gets a whole lot cheaper for us to visit. Anyone want to get in on buying a penthouse apartment with me in Sydney in - let's say - 2012?

In conclusion, vote for Barack Obama.

It's Science

Travel writers like to cover almost everything in a foreign land; tourist sights, hotels, restaurants, infrastructure in public transportation. They can be quite thorough, but seem to overlook, in my experience, one imperative element to a society.

That is why I decided to be rushed to the hospital in India.

'Decided' is a stretch. I wasn't really in a state to make decisions at this point.

On December 3rd my Indian friend Arjun and I went off to explore Bombay. I was originally going to fly out this evening, but pushed back my flight 24 hours to have a little more time in this overwhelming city. If India is a land of extremes, Bombay perfect case study. It is the most crowded city in the world - it's population desnity is approximately 15,000 people per square kilometer. In the city center, that number is 1 million people per square mile. The most crowded city in western Europe is Berlin, at 2,900 per sq. km. Bombay is also the financial capital of the country - the New York of India - and it accounts for 38% of all national taxes paid to the government. This all has absolutely nothing to do with my day.

Arjun and I wandered Colaba, the tourist neighborhood for a brief spell before catching a taxi to Bandra. Bandra is a wealthy suburb of sorts - though its feel is still distinctly overcrowded city, only with nicer apartments - and a lot of the Bollywood stars live in this neighborhood. Arjun's Uncle and his family live in an apartment here, where we are staying for the night. It's a simple, clean 2 bedroom apartment.

On the neighboring block of their apartment building, with a clear line of sight from their living rom window is the start of a massive, sprawling Muslim slum. During the 1993 riots, Arjun's family stood at this 6th floor window, watching the gangs congregate on the block downstairs with fire and weapons, shooting sporadically into the slums and trying to torch the homes. This went on for about 3 weeks. Shops would open for maybe a couple hours a day, but for the most part everyone stayed indoors, especially the Muslims who were being targeted and killed by the thousands.

Arjun's cousin Sunil lives in Long Island, but is back for a little under a year to take a couple classes and make a career change. He's a very kind, friendly man with a drawling American accent in his 30's. He takes us to some streets to do a little shopping, and shows us his favorite restaurants, including dinner at a Cricket Club in which his family is a member. If I thought any of you were going to come to India in the near future, I would repeat in detail my notes on the truly unbelievable meals we had. Instead, I'm just going to tell you generically how good the food was - it was unbelievable.

The next evening was my flight. It was around lunchtime when my stomach began to rumble and a very dispiriting way. For my first time in Asia, hoping that carbonation would help, I walked into a McDonalds and bought a soda. Now I'm not going to blame McDonalds for the illness that ensues, seeing as its virtually impossible given that I already felt terrible. But it's a nice thought.

We went home, and I got worse. I took a nap, and woke to sharp, gripping stomach pains. I called my Dad and asked for medical advice. We decided I should take a walk, pick up some Gatorade and snacks for the flight and see how I feel. I returned to the apartment and promptly threw up. A lot. I packed my bags, but couldn't carry them. Or speak above a whisper, stand up straight, or turn a doorknob. After much pursuasion, my friends brought me to a doctor. To be fair, they could've brought me to a transvestite bath house and I wouldn't have been able to object.

Like everywhere else in this city, waiting room was packed, and I found the only chair available. Children ran and jumped up and down in front of me, bumping my legs and successfully increasing my nausea. Sunil had called ahead and said I wouldn't have to wait. After about 10 minutes, I couldn't take sitting up anymore. I tried to make my way to the car to lie down, but the nurses offered me a back room with a bed. After about 45 seconds, mostly spent struggling to remove my shoes, they retrieved me and brought me back to my chair. Another 10 minutes passed, I was still sitting, squirming in pain, only a little more pissed. For their next trick, the nurses stapled my arms and legs spread eagle to two dead bodies, and threw babies directly at my stomach. Then they berated my side burns and spit in my mouth.

The doctor was a well spoken man, and wanted to admit me to a hospital. I put him on the phone with my Dad, the fever starting to take over basic thought functions. They chose the nicest hospital in town (this is why you buy travel insurance kids) and Arjun and Sunil drove me there.

The next hour was spent being directed down various corridors, walking at an infants pace, often retracing our steps to the ignorant directions given in the massive building. I then laid in the waiting room while Arjun signed me in with my credit card and password, and arduous process at best. I could draw out in unnecessary description just how long this took, and how much longer it felt, but instead I'll just write this sentence.

They put me in a wheelchair and brought me to the elevator. Security held the elevator, and had to search my backpack, stealing 2 of my gatorades and not allowing my video camera to travel. Arjun argued only slightly with them while I sat in the chair telling them to get the fuck out of the way. The elevator stopped at every floor on the way up to the 11th. The staff took their time choosing a room, and left me lying there for another hour or so before anyone came to see me.

The nurses stabbed me with a bunch of needles, and inserted an IV needle into my left arm. They began pumping me with rehydrating fluids, as I hadn't been able to eat or drink most of the day. One or two nurses had reasonable English, the rest just smiled and nodded. "Am I dying?" I asked. At least she said yes with a smile.

But I wasn't dying. And eventually, after a truly Indian admittance, I was settled, in a delirious state of pain and fever. For some reason, they chose to wait until everything else was done to administer any time of pain killers.

Arjun slept on the guest bed/couch in the room with me. We had a plasma screen tv, dvd player, air con, and our own immaculate bathroom. At least he wasn't slumming it.

To my Dad and any doctor he consulted, it was an easy diagnosis. I simply had a bad virus from something I ate. For the doctors, they were curing cancer. I'd see my original Doctor, Dr. Shimpi, twice a day for mostly small talk and resassuring jabs on the shoulder. The nurses couldn't communicate any real information to me. And then there was the resident. She called herself a "doctor under Shimpi," but from what I could gather she hasn't yet graduated high school, or at the very least didn't earn the diploma.

On the 2nd day I was feeling a bit better, though still sleeping on and off all day. She came in and told me I had Pancreatitis. It's a pancreatic virus, very easily diagnosible. She gave me no such evidence, but told me that was her prediction. I hadn't heard anything from Dr. Shimpi, and I was being treated with the most generic antibiotics possible. My Dad was as confused as I was, and told me the proper questions to ask, which were never answered. Apparently the whole thing was dropped.

Day 3 I was walking around, feel much better, feeling a bit weak but healthy. The resident woman came in again that afternoon to tell me I have malaria. What? "Well you're at a very high risk, and you have a lot of bug bites." I tell her I'm taking anti-malaria medication. "Well you're at a very high risk, so I'm going to start treating you for malaria."

In case she's unaware, inform her my father is a Doctore. I also kindly let her know there is no fucking way she's treating for malaria without consulting with him first. "Oh, we don't need to get him involved." Yes, we do. "Well, let me consult with Dr. Shimpi and I'll get back to you." And with that, she left.

In expensive hospitals, with insured patients, they often practice a type of defensive medicine: keep them there just in case, until we know what is going on. This is less defensive, and more of a script. They're playing their parts in a play to milk the white dude, by providing no answers and no information. The Dr. wakes me early in the AM to remind me he's keeping me a alive, high stepping out the door before I can connect my sentence fragments. By day 4, I'm bench pressing most of the nurses, and throwing punches when they try to stab me with any more needles. We've been waiting for the results of something called a blood culture, a 48 hour period of watching my blood. If nothing grows in it, i'm fine. it's been almost 60 hours and they have no results. I'm this close to ripping the IV out of my wrist myself.

I'm pissed. I can't book my flight to Australia until I know when I'm being discharged, and I'm getting generic responses at best from the Dr. I've had to book and cancel at this point the only cheap one way. I've missed my time in Thailand - I spent it watching HBO and DVDs with Arjun, and I'm fine with that. I feel better, healthy for the most part, and ready to move on. But I'm also waiting for the resident woman to come tell me that I've had a heart attack due to my onset diabetes.

By the end of the 4th day, I'm refusing all antibiotics. I'm fine, I've been diagnosed with nothing, and I can barely move my left arm due to the throbbing pain in my veins from all the fluids pumping through. The nurses are confused, some downright scared. They don't know how to respond to this. Arjun has left to return to Pune today, where he's from, because I'm fine and we know it. I'm by myself, watching war movies and very frankly telling them I will attack them with a blood filled squirt gun if they don't discharge me.

At 8pm a nurse tells me its my last dose, that I'm being let out tomorrow. I allow it, and wake the following morning to another nurse trying to pump more shit into me. I can't find my squirt gun, so I just tell her to get out. And I continue this 16 hour tirade; every nurse that enters, I inform them I'm checking out. Finally, the Dr. comes in, says "congratulations!" and discharges me. Now that I've paid, they're adament about me leaving. I spent about 45 minutes showering, at least an hour packing. I am taking my sweet ass time and they know it.

I managed to book a flight 36 hours after discharge, and I enjoyed my last day in Bombay a great deal. It was an interesting experience to say the least. The room itself in the hospital cost me $200 a night, probably 1/5 of the cost in the US to an uninsured sucker like myself. There were many other costs involved, but even in this luxury hospital it was all reasonable, when you really think about it. Why am I so calm about the costs you ask, while backpacking on a budget through Asia? One reason my friends - a lesson to share with all of you: Always. Have travel insurance.

Goa - Part 1

Let me once again begin a blog with the phrase 'let me begin.'

Let be begin by making a disclaimer - although the title clearly states 'Part 1,' at the rate I've been writing in Goa - let along waking up while the sun is in sight or forming coherent sentences without a whiskey in my hand - the second two parts may never come.

I've broken down the three main elements of Goa as I see them to the following - partying, beaches, and renting motor bikes. The beaches are stunning. The partying is so good it has likely damaged my motor skills for life - for example, this morning I spilled every beverage all over my shirt that even leisurely approached my mouth. Today, I'm going to talk about the least interesting topic of the three - motorbikes.

It is a veritable a right of passage for Caucasians to rent a bike while in this chilled out state of India. The longer term residents or biker bad asses choose the powerful Enfields. The reasonable, unexperienced, or terrified choose 150cc scooters. On a day like any other, with a slightly more reasonable hangover, I decided to join the ranks of the terrified.

I've heard and seen many accident stories about foreigners on motor bikes. An American friend was in Nepal, driving on a highway when and 8 year old playing with a tire darted in front of him. He plowed through the child, confident he killed him. The kid was okay with minor injuries and luckily Eric wasn't lynched (I'm tempted to make a "that kid should have done like any other smart 8 year old and played with guns" joke, but I will refrain). An Australian girl in Goa was driving her bike when she was harassed by a bike of Indian guys, who proceeded to ram into her, knocking her and her sister down and positioning her arm perfectly in a cast for the next week. One of my favorite accident stories comes from the southern islands of Thailand. I shared a taxi with a man one morning missing a fair proportion of the skin on the left side of his body and face. When I inquired, he was pretty sure he crashed his bike late the night before. But after the 2nd bottle of vodka, he really couldn't be sure.

For those of you who recall my earlier blog about traffic in India (see - "I'll Never Work Again"), Goa is similar in the form of organized chaos, only with much easier, calmer, less crowded roads. I chose a renter who heckled me for a sale as I passed, knowing that if I approached anyone on my own behalf I would have to tell them that the last time I even looked at a bicycle I fell down. My lack of experience irrelevant and my 200 rupee's speaking on its behalf ($5 for the day), I got a quick run down of the vehicle.

I positioned the bike in the direction I wanted to go, and made sure no other cars were anywhere near Goa. I revved the engine and lifted my feet from the ground, shooting off of the dirt path onto pavement. I desperately tried to break with my flip flops, wobbling back and forth across the road until I realized that this particular bike - like many others this day and age - came with functional brakes of its own. I utilized them, regained my composure, and gave it another try.

For the first five minutes, I genuinely feared for my life - at 10 miles an hour. Simple tasks like going over speed bumps was petrifying. G0d help me should another vehicle pass on the other side of the road. As I often followed my normal inclination to drive on the right side of the road - generally frowned upon here due to their left-leaning English ways - I constantly found myself playing chicken with anyone who dared to be on Anjuna road. If I had been wearing a diaper, I would have taken full advantage.

Once you get the hang of the bike - a process a normal person can usually manage within 30 or so seconds - its actually quite fun. There is something to be said for a style of driving where instead of following mundane laws like using turn signals and not tailgating, you honk like hell and just go for it. If someone is driving too slow, you pass them - oncoming traffic or not- as long as you can make it work. If they have to slow down, fine. It's almost as if whoever honks first has the right of way. If you're trying to turn right and an oncoming car wants to go straight and honks, you wait. If you honk and make the turn, they have to slow down. You take responsibility for yourself and making others aware of your presence.

I'd love to continue to completely deface myself, but it's getting late, and it's going to take me a couple hours to push my bike home. Ladies - call me. I'll take you for a ride - as long as you don't mind going 10 miles an hour.