Poorly Controlled

I mentioned earlier that I had spent a few days with ‘belly’ as Mary and Draf have termed it. As it’s that experience common to travellers in Asia, I feel that I should say something more detailed about it. Maybe make a few jokes. If you’re reading (or feeding) this nonsense, you know what I mean. ‘Belly’ is that debilitating stomach condition that you end up with for no easily discernable reason while travelling in this region. Some random encounter with an inexplicably contaminated object – a secretly terrifying biscuit, perhaps, or a malicious passing toad – leaves you squirting the remaining contents of your digestive tract through the orifice you would least like to do so at the time. I’m pretty sure ears could be involved. In my case, I spent much of our trip to the hill country of Cibogo in close proximity to the nearest (and least horrifyingly alien) toilet. Rather puts a dampener on your glorious commune-with-nature time to noisily dispense of unprocessed waste every thirty-seven-and-a-half minutes (Do not ask. We geeks have ways of establishing these things). There is nothing more terrifying, in a culture which you are peripherally aware has some taboos regarding the handling of bodily functions, than to be in the cavernous echo-chamber of an otherwise magnificently tiled bathroom while producing noises with more than a passing relation to the last dregs of milkshake being dragged from the cup by a particularly enthusiastic toddler.

In case I have confused you with my verbosity, I’m talking about ARSE NOISES.

At this point I would like to take a moment to praise the wonders of the medical options available to the middle class here. I’m almost certain that the poor will not be whisked directly into the doctor’s office, probed discreetly by an exquisitely professional doctor in crisp whites, and then loaded full of magnificent chemicals. Nor will they (in this poor-folks’ clinic of my imagination) be permitted to take a moment to adjust to the nuclear-option drugs belting around their system. Nothing I’ve seen about Jakarta disabuses me of this notion. If you’ve got money, you get the good stuff. They’re pretty clear about that here.

In any case, I was rapidly and extremely professionally bloodtested and pumped full of anti-diarrhea medicine, antibiotics, and vitamins, as well as some kind of calmative or tranquilliser. The doctor seemed to suggest that this was a way of enforcing bed rest, although as we only shared the rudiments of two languages I could be entirely wrong about this. After attempting to jump up from the doctor’s bench and suddenly discovering I had too many eyes and not enough brains, I slumped back onto the cool vinyl and precisely white pillow and allowed the whole business to settle. Then I jumped up and had a crack at walking through the door to wait for my prescriptions. On the third attempt I actually achieved hand-to-door contact, and shuffled through to the waiting room. I’m pretty sure I only fell asleep once while locating Yaya, Sutra, Ramon and Pamela (escorting crazy Westerners is serious business) Twice at the most, and I won’t admit to three times.

“Chris! Why didn’t you wait in the doctor’s office?”

“‘m fine. I fil quite OooOOOKay” *Chin slowly meanders to chest*

“You should have stayed there! We can get your medicine!”

“…” *Head snaps upright, begins slow descent of left ear to left shoulder. Left shoulder, meanwhile, is making plans to slide into the position currently occupied by left buttock. Left buttock remains resolute, leading to gradual folding of body sideways like a shattered accordion*

“Chris?”

“Mmfne” *Body has vague recollection that uprightness is generally considered more alert. Attempts this, fails. Movement is now rightwards, which is at least a change*

“Chris, why don’t we get you in the car? You can sleep there…”

*Silence*

I’m rather fuzzy on when or how we got back to Sanggar. On the other hand, I felt fucking fantastic.

All this is by way of praising our hosts yet again for their patience and forbearance in the face of these madmen who have appeared out of the cultural wastes of Australia, their willingness to assist at any time, and their steadfast refusal to let us pay for a damn thing. The favour will be returned a hundredfold.