Allison Wonderland

So much of what happened that day was surreal that being wheeled into Moulana hospital was like dropping down a rabbit hole, then falling out of myself, landing in a strange and curious place.

It had none of the outward formality, detachment, quiet or antiseptic atmosphere of hospitals I knew back home. It was a world less angular, less fragmented, alive.

Out of the ambulance I was in a throb of humanity - young, old, Hindu, Muslim- a constant sweep and swirl. Triage took place behind quickly drawn curtains just inside the open front entrance where traffic stopped, idled, and moved on. People gathered or walked past, billowing my curtain, my wall. Electric fans rattled and thrummed. Lying on my back I traced electric wiring that ran across the ceiling then entered, or moved around, open junction boxes before disappearing out of sight. I heard no bells, chimes, announcements, pages or codes, nor the beeping from sleek high tech machines so much a part of a familiar and distant world.

Later, I would see staff wearing flip-flops only to take them off before entering treatment rooms barefooted. Nurses carried large, rectangular metal boxes that opened to a pressure cuff and mercury tube. Sometimes, ponderous yet portable x-ray machines, dating from another era, sat parked in corridors.

Patients in wheelchairs or on stretchers were rolled into elevators packed tight with visitors, family, or staff. The operator, perched on a stool, would ring a bell for everyone to get off so that a patient could come or go. An old man pushed a cart with a big metal pot up and down my ward, loudly calling out something Al did not understand. Al thinks he was there to ladle out a drink, tea perhaps. Stairways were lined with waiting families, many Muslim, taking softly amongst themselves or asleep on thin mats.

Several times a day the power would go out, it was as if the hospital closed its eyes for a momentary rest before carrying on.

Efficiency or quality of care?  Second to none……second to none.

Within an hour and a half I had been admitted, taken for CT scans, assessed by an orthopaedic surgeon and a maxillofacial surgeon. My upper jaw was broken and I could no longer bend my elbows. X-rays showed that the right one was broken in three places, the left one had shattered. Fortunately, there was no spinal injury or head trauma - bike helmets work! I remember one of the surgeons telling me that I had good Karma that day. He was right.

The doctors conferred and decided to do all surgeries at the same time. Four hours later I went into the O.R. I was there for three hours.

Without going into details, the work the surgeons did was exceptional.

I would be in the hospital for five days – nearly as long as I was on the trip in the first place.

So there I was, Allison Wonderland, and I was grateful for that.

A Bad Day to Feel Good

January 6^th and everyone, sick or not, was riding. The morning was very cool. It was funny watching people scrambling to put on as many layers as they could dig out of their bags, only to peel them off a short while later under an intense Indian sun.

Once the day’s Difficult-To-Decipher-Map was handed out (by this time I had developed a rule: Doubt The Trip Notes & Worry About The Map) we were on our way.

I was feeling great. At one point I was behind Al and told him it felt like the rides we did together back home on Hecla Island. I loved the pace and was feeling strong. It was a pleasure cycling through a beautiful forest and catching glimpses of the deep green valley far below. I should mention that this was a longer ride (87 km), much of the first fifty-eight being a winding downhill (maybe that’s why everyone was riding, less pedalling!) to the Chambala tea factory where we were to stop at noon.

Too bad that I didn’t follow my own rule and worry a LOT about the map – or for that matter the omens and signs that, as of the day before had stopped talking and had begun to shout!

Omens? One of the riders went down on the hill-climb. He lost momentum and hit the ground hard, the handlebars coming off his bike, hitting his chest. He was in pain.

Signs? Three of them - each one louder than the other.

Difficult-To-Decipher-Map (Jan 6 ed.)? “Ride carefully we had 2 big crashes on downhill.” That message was written twice - and in bold nonetheless!

And of course, Dalrymple’s Rule.

 In case you missed it, that's a truck beside my right elbow!

As a matter of course, Al was on his guard.  I followed two very cautious and courteous cyclists who forever called out, or pointed to, road dangers. The three of us - indeed the whole group - descended at a safe speed. Al on the other hand took off behind the assistant leader (the official leader didn’t like cycling, admitted such on the first day, and often spent  time  in the support van.)

So there I was well back, and there was Al well ahead. Only the assistant leader was beyond him. And then, descending fast and coming out of a blind corner Al slammed on his brakes. In front of him, and no more than 50 meters ahead, the road was in ruins. Deeply rutted and strewn with jagged rocks the broken surface extended through the next blind corner and on out of sight. The assistant leader, who at this point was out of Al’s sight, simply kept going.  Al didn’t. He knew better. If he continued on his way and somebody fell he would feel responsible. Moving his bike off to the side he positioned himself halfway between the broken pavement and the corner he had just come through. He made himself visible, slowed each of us down, pointed out the danger, and showed the safest route through. He was there for nearly fifteen minutes until the last cyclist (ironically our leader who was out of the van and taking advantage of the downhill) got past. He did this again, a short while later.

When he caught up with the group at the scenic lookout where we had regrouped, he was greeted with hearty thanks. Someone called him the safety officer. Another agreed and said that he was really good at it. Al (yet another irony) said, “No one goes down on my watch!”

We were all in good spirits as we started off again.

At one point we waited as a parade of protesting school children crossed our paths. The Chambala tea factory was not far. We continued for a short distance. We entered the town and stopped at an intersection. 

When the light turned green we turned left. The tea factory was only meters away on the left. I saw cyclists turning in.  I was only 6 meters away. And then - I was down.

My original title for this post was the Kerala Curse, and for good reason.

The riders behind me never saw what happened, and I don’t remember. All I know is that I was on my side trying to figure out why I felt like Bugs Bunny. But I couldn’t understand that if I was Bugs Bunny why my front teeth were pointing inward towards my throat.

There is a song form the 70’s that goes:

Everyone one is helpful, everyone is kind

On the road to Shambala

Everyone is lucky, everyone is so kind

On the road to Shambala

And it’s true.

I don’t remember much, but Al knows.  Riders in our group ran to my aid. They were very kind as I lay, apparently an incoherent heap, in the middle of the road. When it arrived, one of the group, a dentist (J) ,who was determined to help, got into the ambulance with me. Her husband supported Al.

What happened next is the stuff of slapstick movies, except it wasn’t funny.

It took ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive. I was lifted in. Al, the dentist and her husband crammed in as well. Then we were off, me fading in and out of coherence. I knew that something was wrong with my teeth and that I had pain in the back of my neck. The ride was short and according to Al, excruciating for me. Happily, I don’t recall. He says the vehicle had the same cement shock absorbers we experienced on the bus ride from the airport to Mysore six days earlier.

From what he remembers, he says the hospital was like the medical clinics one sees in documentaries on third world countries. I remember next to nothing.  Apparently, “J” was insistent that I should have a CT scan and my jaw x-rayed. What surprised her and the doctor was that at one point I became completely coherent and gave my own clinical assessment as if I were talking to a doctor about a patient I was seeing in the emergency room back home. It was as if a switch had been flipped. Then once the message was delivered, the switch flipped off and I was back wondering if I was Bugs Bunny. Al told me this. He saw me do it several times later.

Bad news. They either didn’t do x-rays on accident victims there – Al is sure that is what was said - or they didn’t have the equipment. No matter. I was loaded back into the ambulance and the four of us were bashing off to a hospital that had an x-ray department.

When we arrived, I was taken out of the ambulance and met by staff in the parking lot. Across the lot Al saw what he describes as a dilapidated looking shed with the word X-RAY in big, faded blue letters. The machine was broken. I had to move on.

Instead of being loaded back into the ambulance from hell, a smaller ambulance with a much smoother ride was called in. When the driver closed the door my knees had to be bent in order for me to fit. Al perched beside me on the spare tire that was stored on the floor near the top of the stretcher. There was no more room than that, and there was no air conditioning.

Several minutes later we were back at the Chambala tea factory where the ambulance stopped momentarily. The group, waiting at the side of the road, some of them in tears, waved good-bye.

The third hospital was guaranteed to have an x-ray department and CT scanner. It was 80 km away.

Whether from heat, or fatigue, or head injury Al says I kept trying to go to sleep. He says his sole focus was in keeping me awake. By the way, there was no paramedic, just the driver and our official tour leader up front.

Apparently, even if you are an ambulance, Dalrymple’s rule prevails. Al says that he was shocked by the number of buses, trucks, cars, motor cycles that either didn’t yield or continued straight toward the ambulance before passing with mere inches to spare.

Maybe they just didn’t take the siren seriously. Apparently it didn’t make any of impatient, intimidating sounds that send us veering out of the way in North America – the vehicle’s horn was louder. But in a cacophony of horns what’s one more? That’s Al’s impression anyway.

So there we were zigzagging through traffic, bumping over speed humps, my feet shoved up against the door. With each new thump electric shocks shot up my arms. The pain in my neck no better. That much I remember.

Al says the third hospital was a bright modern looking building. He says there was a policeman directing traffic. He saw hospital staff in white saris waiting outside beneath a big gold sign that said “Casualty”. This time, I was left in the ambulance while conversations took place. They did indeed have an x-ray department and CT scanner, however it was the doctor’s day off, but I could come back tomorrow. Good thing I was left in the ambulance!

And then my luck changed. The fourth and final hospital was only 1 km away on the opposite side of the road.

Looking back on it now, I have come to believe that, ridiculous as this hospital hopping was, I was being steered to where I really needed to be. Whatever seemed to be warning me about this trip earlier on was operating in a different way.

Everyone is lucky, everyone is so kind

On the road to Shambala

I was lucky.

Next posting: Allison Wonderland

Rest And Be Thankful!

We were up early to pack and get ready. I was feeling quite a bit better and was looking forward to the ride.

Even though the morning’s Difficult-To-Decipher-Map did not encourage optimism, both because it was difficult to decipher and because it contained the words “hellish climb”  (Hellish Climb? Why wasn’t that in the Trip Notes?!), I was undeterred as the morning was cool and it felt good to be back on the bike.

I rode out of the hotel with most of the group. Some who were still suffering from Kerala Cramps as Al called them, either decided to take the van to the top of the hill, or to walk the 1.6 km.

I cannot lie; I tried but failed.  However I wasn’t disappointed in myself nor really surprised. I knew perfectly well that I hadn’t done any serious cycling for about two weeks and I was only just beginning to feel better. So for me the day was not a loss. I really hoped that Al would make it to the top without difficulty. And what the heck, we still had eight days left in the trip and another two weeks cycling through Rajasthan. Lots of time to put on the miles! And I had my new camera. So after about 45minutes I got off the bike and walked to the top - that was hard enough. The riders who made it slogged it out, hot under the sun and cool in the shade, ears popping as they cycled up through the clouds and on to Highland Café (suitably named) and a well-deserved rest. Rest and be thankful.

Al thought this would be a good title as it is the name of a long challenging hill-climb in Scotland. Long and challenging in Scotland, long and challenging in India. Why not?

Al made it to the top, and in good time. His only brush with danger came when a car approached from behind. Even though there were no vehicles coming in the opposite direction the driver did not move over, so there was Al, suddenly off the bike on a tiny shoulder in that section of the ride described on the Difficult-To-Decipher-Map as the “hellish climb”. Dalrymple’s Rule was in force.  Given the steepness of the grade, he had to run with the bike and then jump on to get going again.

Back down the road I was cheerfully walking along convinced that the trekking I did in Peru was empowering my steps. At times I was moving as fast some of the riders. Only when the road briefly flattened did they get ahead.

Along the way a very friendly woman came out of her house and invited me in for tea. I thanked her however I declined as I knew I still had a long way to go and the group would not wait forever.

The monkeys I came across were not so sociable. I was taking a picture of a view when I heard a noise behind me and saw four monkeys looking at me and moving in closer. Not being brave around monkeys I stuffed my camera away and quickened my pace. I didn’t look back. They didn’t follow. I was happy. No monkey business for me!

One by one the group assembled at the Highland Café. From there it was a short ride to the Sullivan Court Hotel and a free afternoon. We were told that the hotel was the nicest one we would stay at, and it was. At last, things were going in the right direction!

Next posting:  A Bad Day to Feel Good

Gas Masks And Bandages!

Since this was to be my first experience riding in traffic Al suggested that I pull my tubular bandana over my mouth and nose. During his short ride the day before he learned that the air was often thick with diesel exhaust and partially combusted motor oil.

He wore the anti-pollution mask that he bought in Korea. “You look like a policeman in Singapore in that thing!” one of the group exclaimed as we were getting ready to leave from the parking lot of the hotel. “You should wear a cape with that outfit”, proposed another, “I’ll bet you scare little children!” Evidently, she (nor anyone else in the group) had never seen such a thing before.

Ironically, and there were a lot of ironic moments, she ended up writing the following in her trip review.

First week - not so good. Too much heavy traffic and pollution. I have asthma so it wasn't a happy time as I struggled along 40KM of trucks, cars and motorbikes belching out goodness knows what. I would therefore recommend anyone with a similar condition to acquire a face mask.”

And so off we went, me looking like a would-be bank robber on a bike, and Al looking like….. well, you decide. He got bored at one point and decided to take a picture of himself while he was riding.

For someone who wasn’t feeling well, I didn’t do badly. Al figures I finished sixty-seven of the ninety-two kilometres for the day. And I certainly did better than others. One individual fell twice. Another was thrown off her bike by a speed bump that appeared out of nowhere (there were a lot of unmarked speed bumps as I recall). Sadly, a group member who came to her aid had his camera stolen as he was helping. She continued the ride, however her knee was bleeding and her hand was painful and swollen. Al was forced off the road by a bus, that coming from behind decided to squeeze between him and an oncoming truck (the road we were on was really no wider than a single traffic lane in North America).

A rider behind me was sure I would be killed as a bus passed within inches of my shoulder. He would soon fall a third time.  So much for the tranquil cycling portrayed in the trip notes!

I finished the final kilometres in the support van while Al cycled on to the lodge where we were to stay in Bandipur National Reserve. 

Happily, the rest of the day was uneventful. The jeep safari that afternoon provided no glimpses of tigers, however we did see one bull elephant that promptly turned away so that we only got a good view of his bum. Imagine that, coming all the way to India only to be mooned by an elephant!

The next day, January 4^th was a short ride, only thirty-four kilometres, however they were hilly, hot and hard, and my faith in the trip notes was pretty much gone.

I did my best but lack of food (tummy troubles were still with me) and a poor sleep the night before did me in. Fortunately, there were bottles of cold mango juice and fresh pineapple at the Dreamland Hotel where we stopped for lunch. 

Dreamland Hotel, many in the group remarked that the name didn’t suit the premises very well. For me, the green walls made me queasier. Still I was better off than others. One of us picked up a bug that lasted through the next week and beyond. It was bad!

And then we were off to Wildhaven hotel in Mudumalai National Park. 

The setting was serene. We had a large airy room with a balcony and beautiful views. Al, who has never seen a savannah, said it looked like one. 

More determined than ever to get better and enjoy the trip I slept for most of the afternoon. Al opted not to go on the visit to the orphanage that was part of the itinerary. He spent his time with his nose in the book he had brought with him – Cycling Home From Siberia, by Rob Lilwall.

When I woke up I had a dreadful feeling. It was like a voice was telling me this trip wasn’t supposed to happen. I told Al that. I told him that maybe my cold, the Christmas sock fiasco, the black cow that crossed our path, my stomach problems, and the people in our group who were dropping like flies (literally and figuratively) were omens. Surprisingly, he was quiet. He didn’t argue. Usually he would. Why? Because just before I woke up he finished the chapter The Land Where Might is Right in his book. What he read aloud didn’t make me feel any better. The timing/coincidence of the passage he read aloud gave me a chill:

I remember thinking that the traffic had seemed both anarchic and alarming, by my second visit I had come to realize that it was in fact governed by very strict rules. Right of way belongs to the driver of the largest vehicle. Buses give way to heavy trucks, ambassadors give way to buses, and bicyclists give way to everything, except pedestrians. On the road, as in other aspects of Indian life, might is right. – William Dalrymple.

…..Dalrymple was right. Bicyclists did have to give way to everything except pedestrians in India….. I was astounded the first time a truck ostensibly tried to hit me. It was coming in the opposite direction and overtaking the car in front of it. The truck pulled into my lane and did not waver as he accelerated toward me. He was confident that I would plow off the road and into the sandy shoulder before we collided, which is exactly what I did. The only exception I would make to Dalrymple’s rule was that cows, the holy animal of India, trumped everything.

However tomorrow would be the Ooty hill climb that we had been talking about and training for months – 1.6 steep kilometers through 35 hairpin bends, and a personal test. Al’s thinking was that if we could manage it and trained really hard when we got back to Canada, we would sign up for a three week cycle tour from Lhasa to Kathmandu in 2013. Dreadful feelings were pushed aside. The road awaited.

Next posting - Rest And Be Thankful!

 

The Land Where Might is Right

Still struggling with my cold I decided to lay low and skip the first day’s ride. At least I wasn’t the only one to beg off. Another member of the group who was suffering from tummy troubles, (this hit seven of us, including me - go figure!) opted for porcelain as a perch instead of his bike saddle.

My mood that morning wasn’t very cheery. It didn’t help that the day before we were handed a sheet of paper that said “ …. it’s not uncommon for bicycles and motorbikes to ride in the wrong direction! And you have to make allowances for this. Rule number 2, there is a pecking order with cows at the top, then large trucks and buses, working its way down through old vehicles then new vehicles to dogs and chickens with cyclist and pedestrians at the bottom. As a cyclist you pretty much have to give way to everything”

Oh great! Why didn’t the Exodus Trip notes include that essential bit of information? How could this have escaped their attention? Didn’t they think it was important? Was someone asleep at the switch? However, I pushed these questions aside and blamed my reaction on my cold.

Al went riding.

When he returned, his reaction - as well as that of another rider who simply said in quizzical tones: “That was interesting” - was telling. The first ride was to get the group used to traffic and I guessed that neither of them liked it. Apparently the notes about traffic were accurate! Although the vast majority of the ride was in the country, the kilometres that weren’t were nerve racking. Al thought that cycling in Indian traffic was nuts! (Don’t forget that we have cycled in Korea and in Indonesia but nothing like this.)

Still, Al managed to take a few good pictures along in the countryside. I was jealous because my new camera was still untried.

But I was determined that I would ride the next day, after all the Exodus Trip notes stated: Riding from the hotel, we share the quiet back roads with herds of white oxen and women in colourful saris carrying water pots on their heads, as we head to the important pilgrim centre of Nanjangud, with its beautiful temple. Another 36km along is lunch and your first taste of Thali - the southern Indian meal of rice and vegetable curries. After lunch we leave the plains for the forested foothills of the Western Ghats (hills), once the hunting preserve of Mysore's Maharajas, today a tiger reserve and part of Bandipur National Park. In the late afternoon we have a jeep safari in the park.

Positively charming, romantic, idyllic - I thought. Surly the second day was the worst. The rest would be lovely. The ‘might is right’ omission was just an over sight. I was reassured and invigorated ……. and I was wrong.

Next posting -  Gas Masks and Bandages 

Day 1 - Socks and Superstitions

This blog is now a collaborative effort with Al. It is dismaying that I have no clear memory of  events. You will soon see why.

 Let me see... where was I.... oh yes, we had just finished breakfast. But before I pick up from there I need to go back to Christmas in Canada. Sorry if this is dizzying, but the flow of things isn’t neat.

Looking over what we would need for the trip we realized that we both needed at least one extra pair of cycling socks. Al had the bright idea of asking our son to give them to us for Christmas. Christmas socks what could be more perfect, he thought. Well, things didn’t quite work out that way. Christmas morning came, as did our son sans socks. However he promised to bring them the next day when he returned. He returned alright, but without the socks – they were on his kitchen table, he explained. The day before departure, Al who was about to gave up hope of seeing the socks called our son who, with great effort, no doubt, brought them over. Only later did the significance of this forgetfulness come to mind. It was an omen.

Lunch was just around the corner from our hotel. It was in a cramped, unadorned, busy, loud place that seemed to be very popular with the locals. We were definitely the center of attention being tourists. Had it not been for our guide to order for us and show us how to eat, we would have been at a miserable loss. All in all this was probably the best traditional fare we sampled.

From there it was short walk to a sprawling out door market. Other than the vendors who would approach, follow and relentlessly press you to buy their trinkets, it reminded us of similar markets we had been through in Korea. The place was interesting, and we would have liked it if not for that.

And then we were back to the hotel, under a bright and burning sun, numbed by the cacophony of horns from a terror of traffic. Crossing the street means taking your life in your hands. And then …… holly cow! Literally.

There on the sidewalk, blocking our path was a big black cow. Our guide stopped, seemingly uncomfortable and not sure what to do. Within a minute or two one of our group come up to the cow, gently pushed its head to the side, and we passed by in front.

It would be more than a month before Al made the connection. In North America there is a superstition about black cats. In India the version is black cows!

More to follow

DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

I am alive and back in Canada.  Sounds dramatic, but this has been a dramatic year so far.  I suppose the best place to begin is at  the beginning.

As you know I had been training for our cycling trip to India and was ready for the challenge.  I even got a new camera for the occasion.  However, as the date drew close things began to go wrong. Maybe the cold I caught two days before departure thanks to our beautiful grand-daughter was a portent. However not knowing that and therefore undaunted- and with a good supply of cough syrup- I  boarded the plane.

The flight was long and uneventful,  although if you want Al's opinion he was frustrated with the stewards constantly bashing into his aisle seat with their carts and interrupting his sleep.  And then there was the man sitting in front of him who had a chronic problem with gas. Al hates flying poverty class.

New Year's eve was toasted with a glass of sparkling wine at an altitude of 11,277 m , flying at 888 k/h over India.   We arrived in Bangalore in good spirits and waited an hour for members of our group from England to at 3:00 am.



Because the van ride to Mysore was in the middle of the night it was cold, and it did not help that the windows would not close.  The pollution did not help my lungs and I spent the majority of time in coughing spasms. And it was bumpy (shock absorbers would have been nice as the roads are NOT the best). The constant jarring and jolts to the kidney each time we flew over speed bumps was an adventure in misery - I won't even go into the added effects of the broken seats.  Like you, I am familiar with speed bumps in parking lots however in India they were placed where ever, and not just one bump, but four in an row with only a few inches between - a sadistic washboard. And sleep forget it. The constant honking of horns in insane traffic made that impossible. It was best to give up trying to sleep and just keep the eyes closed.  No surprise, moods were not the best upon arrival at the hotel, especially as we had to wait for our rooms to be prepared.  And the opportunity to have breakfast while we waited did not improve things.  Most of us opted not to eat as nothing was appealing.

 The truly positive note was the people in our cycling group.  It was a mixed group in age  20's to 70"s, and nationality -  Canada,  United States, Sweden, Australia, England and Scotland.  They were friendly, engaging and  easy to get along with.

More to follow.