January 6th 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
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