Everyone told me it would happen. Lonely Planet assured me of it. Even my doctor, as he gave me a typhoid shot, cheerfully chirped, "Oh, you'll definitely get sick while you're over there." Way to give a traveler confidence!
But, as I type this, my classmates are up enjoying a philosophy class while my roommate and I are sequestered to our room. The ailment responsible goes by many names, but here it's known as Delhi Belly. Or, "traveler's tummy" to put it delicately. It, in some form or another, has taken down one classmate after another, like so many dominoes. After two weeks, I was beginning to feel pretty confident that I had developed some kind of intestinal immunity during my travels. With a mixture of pity and superiority, I watched fellow students miserably shuffling to the kitchen for their bananas and rice while the unafflicted feasted on wonderful meals.
Until today.
Maybe it was the over-confidence that overrode the (sometimes excessive) cautiousness I had thus far taken with food, but yesterday, in spite of some misgivings, I shoveled our "special snack" into my mouth with reckless abandon. In spite of its shocking, off-putting shade of orange. In spite of the fact that I don't like sweets. And today, I'm paying for it. Along with a good number of my fellow would-be yogis. We learned today that, instead of being prepared in the kitchen like the rest of our lunches, it was procured from the village nearby. The shroud of mystery that encircles the exact bacteria and its origins is not one I am eager to dispel.
With Delhi Belly, and with its many insidious cousins, timing is everything. In between spasms of stomach pains, I am trying to feel grateful that it happened when it did, where it did. I could have fallen ill somewhere on the road, where the only restroom option was a fly-swarmed "squatter" with no toilet paper. Here, my only problem is splitting up bathroom time shares with my equally ill roommate.
After all, it was just a matter of time, right? That's it for now; it's time for my rice and bananas.
But, as I type this, my classmates are up enjoying a philosophy class while my roommate and I are sequestered to our room. The ailment responsible goes by many names, but here it's known as Delhi Belly. Or, "traveler's tummy" to put it delicately. It, in some form or another, has taken down one classmate after another, like so many dominoes. After two weeks, I was beginning to feel pretty confident that I had developed some kind of intestinal immunity during my travels. With a mixture of pity and superiority, I watched fellow students miserably shuffling to the kitchen for their bananas and rice while the unafflicted feasted on wonderful meals.
Until today.
Maybe it was the over-confidence that overrode the (sometimes excessive) cautiousness I had thus far taken with food, but yesterday, in spite of some misgivings, I shoveled our "special snack" into my mouth with reckless abandon. In spite of its shocking, off-putting shade of orange. In spite of the fact that I don't like sweets. And today, I'm paying for it. Along with a good number of my fellow would-be yogis. We learned today that, instead of being prepared in the kitchen like the rest of our lunches, it was procured from the village nearby. The shroud of mystery that encircles the exact bacteria and its origins is not one I am eager to dispel.
With Delhi Belly, and with its many insidious cousins, timing is everything. In between spasms of stomach pains, I am trying to feel grateful that it happened when it did, where it did. I could have fallen ill somewhere on the road, where the only restroom option was a fly-swarmed "squatter" with no toilet paper. Here, my only problem is splitting up bathroom time shares with my equally ill roommate.
After all, it was just a matter of time, right? That's it for now; it's time for my rice and bananas.
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