Fanning the Flames of Paranoia
Having a blast in Bangalore is not all its cracked up to be.
American Germaphobe India Saga (part 10)
Day four in Bangalore.
This is an ongoing true story (that starts here) of a work trip to India where I, a spoiled, frightened, American germaphobe, desperately cling to my waning sanity by finding humor in the fear.
And there’s a lot of fear.
Case in point, after four days here, I can reasonably expect early signs of possible infection to manifest, right? Especially given my twice-daily strolls through the unavoidable biohazard zones surrounding the hotel on my way to and from the office?
I do feel unusually hot. Is it a fever?
WHEN YOU’RE HOT, YOU’RE HOT
I don’t generally enjoy hot and humid weather. At the mere mention of the possibility of such weather, I start to sweat. More than most others would. Were you and I to take a 10 minute walk through the streets of Bangalore in the heat of May, odds are good that at the end you may look slightly warm and I’ll look like I fell into the Little Ganges, my hair plastered to my head, beads of sweat rolling down my face and neck, my clothes wet and clingy, and my face flushed and streaked with grit and grime from my frequent attempts to wipe the sweat off my face.
This is especially true when I’m doing this walk dressed in clothes appropriate for the office. Like today.
So, this morning I get into the office a little early, partly to beat the mid-morning heat and partly to use the time to prepare for the day’s meetings (translation: I want to cool down so I don’t look so pitifully hot). I head to the conference room where I am supposed to be for my first meetings and, as it is empty, I camp out there to knock out a few emails.
The temperature in the office is not yet too hot for the indigenous employees and so the air conditioner is not on. However, it is still too hot for me, so I apply my computer science skills in a vain attempt to coerce the thermostat to engage the air conditioner. The blasted thing is either broken or else I am nowhere near as skilled with technology as I like to think, as I utterly fail to do anything other than make my internal body temperature rise a degree or two in the effort. The conference room’s air is still and stale and I fear that there is not enough time before the meetings start for me to cool down and sufficiently dry up to conduct meetings like a normal human being.
This trip is definitely testing the wisdom of my choice of under-arm deodorant.
In spite of my efforts to remain anonymous in my sweaty morning routine, apparently someone noticed my condition when I came through the office. After about 5 minutes of sultry solitude, a man dressed in gray coveralls opens the door and brings in a fan.
Now, I’ve been doing a pretty good job here in India, if I do say so myself, but I’ve not done so well that I’ve got a fan base like Mick Jagger or Lady Gaga. So this fan was not someone excited to meet me, which frankly would have been an annoying distraction to getting prepped for the day, but this was the GOOD kind of fan: an electric one. A pedestal fan that oscillates.
Now, I had noticed earlier in the week that there are fans all over the office and so did not think twice about this incident. Since this fan-man was not a person I recognized, I chose to briefly acknowledge his entry, then ignore him in hopes that he would ignore me. After all, this was most likely only someone from the facilities department deciding that this was a room where fans should be, and since there were none in the room, it was his job to rectify that oversight.
This theory made sense up until he set the fan up right next to me. Like 2 feet (.61 meters in his estimation) away from my head.
Then he carefully angled the fan toward me, only looking my way to ensure his aim was true.
Then he plugged it in and turned it on.
Ahhhhhhhhh.
He did all of this without saying a word to me, but upon seeing my obvious relief and pleasure, he says something to me I can’t understand what with the fan blowing right at me. All I can do is smile and say “thanks.” As to what he said, it could very well have been “I’m sorry sir, but you smell and we need to direct the funk away from the workers as it is causing people to quit.” Even so, a smile and “thank you” was still gratefully given.
Man that felt good. Indeed, it was the highlight of my day.
Score: Scott 3, Bangalore 3
AND WHEN YOU’RE NOT…
To say that the fan incident was the highlight of the day implies that the day’s events can be plotted as a wave function on a graph with the fan incident being at the highest crest of the day’s wave, and with less-than desired events happening in the troughs.
Today’s trough events started with a mirror.
Now, let me state for the record that I am not a narcissist. (I suppose that’s exactly what a narcissist would say, though, isn’t it?) I’m not excessively interested in myself. I almost never take “selfie” pictures, and when I do, it’s not with the intent of impressing you.
Yes, it is true that I do occasionally look at myself in the mirror. Not to admire myself, mind you. But if I happen to spot myself in a mirror while, say, on the way to the shower, I’m not averse to saying things to myself like…
“What the hell is that on my stomach?!?!?”
An odd, discolored patch with glossy white bumps.
That can’t be good.
“And what is that on my elbow?!?!”
A mysterious red blotch that looks like a bruise but isn’t.
This isn’t going to be good for anybody.
This is what happens when you get vaccinated against and are on active meds against various forms of hepatitis, typhoid, malaria, flu and random bacteriological vectors. You get overconfident and do reckless things. Like breathe in unavoidable clouds of putrid funk, or shower in water that you’re wise enough not to drink but foolish enough to think it can cleanse you. (I actively avoid thinking of where that water coming out of the hotel plumbing is sourced, what with us being so close to Little Ganges.)
But wait… there’s more.
Wednesday I had an episode on the toilet that was, shall we say, VERY relieving. Being someone who values preparation, I had done extensive research on the topic of traveler’s diarrhea before embarking and brought with me forms of medication to address this potentiality. (Incidentally this condition is also called “the Delhi Belly” in some circles. What manner of warped circle came up with this, I can only speculate, but I will bet dollars to Delhi Donuts that it was a therapy-based support circle composed mainly of defrocked clowns and failed comedians.) The description of this Indian ailment doesn’t quite fit my symptoms but I’m tempted to engage my supply of Cipro just in case. What stops me is that (a) I worry that I might exhaust my supply prematurely and then need it later, and (b) since I’m already on another antibiotic for a light sinus condition, I worry about the consequences of mixing the two.
Thursday the pattern continues. Now this isn’t the urgent, must go now or an international incident will hit the news kind of thing. Nor is it the kind of thing that makes me want to never be more than 20 meters from a relatively safe toilet (which is laughable anyway given where I’m at). It is not causing me physical pain, nor any of the other symptoms one sees on the CDC and WebMD sites.
So is it serious, or isn’t it?
I’m betting it is something new. Something never before encountered. And since this gives me the rights to name this malady, I’m thinking of calling it “the Bangalore Blasts.”
This, too, isn’t going to be good. Not for anybody.
Score: Bangalore 6, Scott 3.
Tonight I think I’ll start writing some goodbye letters.
Fortunately for us both, my fears of an early, messy death do not manifest after all so there need be no further mention of these mysterious symptoms. However, there’s another incident that happened this week contributing to my general paranoia that those considering taking trips similar to mine should know about, but that’s for the next chapter. I’ll give you a hint, though: “don’t drink the water” is easy enough guidance for a careful, paranoid guy to obey.
But the evils lurking in the water are tricky fellers, and it’s not just through the mouth that they can gain their beachhead.
