I have to apologize to those of you who have been reading fairly loyally; for the last few days, I haven't had access to the internet (due mainly to high-quality Indian business ethics). Try as I might, I could not explain to the clerk responsible for my internet connection how March 6 to May 2 does not actually add up to 60 days of service, and with only a few days before retreat finally gave up and resigned myself to the idea of 10 more days in India without internet.
My next retreat, on Mahamudra, begins tomorrow and will end on May 12. I leave for Delhi the evening of May 12 and fly out of the country on May 14. Wish me luck in keeping my patience in what's bound to be a massively increased series of security protocol at the airport. As I sit here, listening to a Japanese woman playing and singing "Redemption Song" on an acoustic guitar, I'm sorry to leave you. For now, my massive reservoir of stories of the bizarre and the beautiful will have to wait.
Trying not to cloud my experience with the negative side of India, I've largely stuck to cheerful anecdotes. However, there is at least one reason I'm relieved to be going home.
1. One Thing I'm Not Going to Miss: The Possibility of Dying from a Chest Cold.
As I've mentioned before, I've been having some trouble with a minor chest cold, something, I imagine, that 7-Up, chicken soup, and Dayquil could easily fix in the US. However, things here aren't so easy.
I made my way to Delek Hospital this morning, mostly hoping for a simple expectorant. The process was simple: put down a 25 cent deposit, give your name (the secretary was content with only my first name), then wait for several hours. Each of us received approximately 6 minutes from the doctor (was she a doctor?) and were sent on our way. I was told the name of a extra-strong cold syrup and left with instructions to take antibiotics only if there was no improvement.
Easy enough. I pick up the syrup (which costs approximately $1), take a dose, and fall asleep rather promptly. It wasn't until later when I learned that I was taking an illegal amphetamine (something even India had banned) with a high-risk of stroke as a side effect in young women. On the side of the bottle is a warning: prescription only. How was I able to simply buy this from the Med Shop? Maybe it was my fuzzy head from the syrup, but I had a moment where I wondered if I was still in the real world (whatever that is).
A little later, I returned to the medical shop to ask for a different cough syrup. The man behind the counter instant became hostile, saying, "you drink the poison and then you read?" Jumping over the argument that I could not have possibly learned this was an illegal drug simply by reading the package, I tell him that his clerk sold it to me without a prescription (for, before it was banned early this year, it was sold by Rx only). He just laughed, doing a bad-English version of "oooh, you're in trouble now," and insisting that I might be at risk of going to jail for buying the medicine.
"But I just want another cold medicine," I repeat, to which he replies, after a long pause, "I'll have one tomorrow."
The Police Station is right next door, so I stop in, without any real hope that it will be an effective action. The officer listens for a minute, calls over about a dozen civilians to translate, and then shrugs.
Sounds about right.
My next retreat, on Mahamudra, begins tomorrow and will end on May 12. I leave for Delhi the evening of May 12 and fly out of the country on May 14. Wish me luck in keeping my patience in what's bound to be a massively increased series of security protocol at the airport. As I sit here, listening to a Japanese woman playing and singing "Redemption Song" on an acoustic guitar, I'm sorry to leave you. For now, my massive reservoir of stories of the bizarre and the beautiful will have to wait.
Trying not to cloud my experience with the negative side of India, I've largely stuck to cheerful anecdotes. However, there is at least one reason I'm relieved to be going home.
1. One Thing I'm Not Going to Miss: The Possibility of Dying from a Chest Cold.
As I've mentioned before, I've been having some trouble with a minor chest cold, something, I imagine, that 7-Up, chicken soup, and Dayquil could easily fix in the US. However, things here aren't so easy.
I made my way to Delek Hospital this morning, mostly hoping for a simple expectorant. The process was simple: put down a 25 cent deposit, give your name (the secretary was content with only my first name), then wait for several hours. Each of us received approximately 6 minutes from the doctor (was she a doctor?) and were sent on our way. I was told the name of a extra-strong cold syrup and left with instructions to take antibiotics only if there was no improvement.
Easy enough. I pick up the syrup (which costs approximately $1), take a dose, and fall asleep rather promptly. It wasn't until later when I learned that I was taking an illegal amphetamine (something even India had banned) with a high-risk of stroke as a side effect in young women. On the side of the bottle is a warning: prescription only. How was I able to simply buy this from the Med Shop? Maybe it was my fuzzy head from the syrup, but I had a moment where I wondered if I was still in the real world (whatever that is).
A little later, I returned to the medical shop to ask for a different cough syrup. The man behind the counter instant became hostile, saying, "you drink the poison and then you read?" Jumping over the argument that I could not have possibly learned this was an illegal drug simply by reading the package, I tell him that his clerk sold it to me without a prescription (for, before it was banned early this year, it was sold by Rx only). He just laughed, doing a bad-English version of "oooh, you're in trouble now," and insisting that I might be at risk of going to jail for buying the medicine.
"But I just want another cold medicine," I repeat, to which he replies, after a long pause, "I'll have one tomorrow."
The Police Station is right next door, so I stop in, without any real hope that it will be an effective action. The officer listens for a minute, calls over about a dozen civilians to translate, and then shrugs.
Sounds about right.
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