I'm hungry, get me out of here!

Thursday morning was a time to be consigned to the rubbish bin, and then, as in every Indian city, gallantly digested by the cows who manage the waste disposal bureau. Waking up at 5am with stomach cramps so severe I thought my oesophagus would get shorter at any moment I was having a rough time. This was perhaps a self inflicted predicament having, albeit in an inebriated mindset, rashly consumed several glasses of Indian H₂O two nights hither.

Laying on my back the pain would wallow like a shallow puddle on my stomach, twisting to my side and it would casually wash down my side like an acidic waterfall. Adding to the considerable pain, with an unreasonable potency, was the frustration of Man United’s 2-1 loss in Rome the night before: A result whose ramifications I am still unable to effectively judge.

As fitful sleep washed over me for several hours the clock was stumbling towards 10am; time to get up. Stepping into the glorious sun had an instant positive effect on me, burning off the layers of tiredness and replacing them with a dazed inquisitiveness to investigate the local waterfall. This didn’t last and within the hour I was back, face down, on my bed groaning.

In normal circumstances taking drugs to relieve pain doesn’t appeal to me, taking them because they are illegal and feel nice, well, that’s another story; a story predominantly consigned to the past I must add. However, on this morning Ibuprofen was required and after a couple more hours peaky sleep I felt better. After one month the infamous Delhi Belly came close to acquiring a hostage, some clever negotiation, of the sort a U.S. Foreign Affairs committee could use learning paid off, and within another hour I was a free man.

The free man proudly marched off in the direction, 3km east, of the waterfall, a sight alluded to by so many it was certainly worth a punt. It wasn’t! It was the most pathetic excuse for a waterfall I’ve ever been duped into seeing. It resembled a leprechaun pissing down the white cliffs of Dover; from 200m away I couldn’t even hear the splashes from plunge pool. Unable to rouse the sufficient level of excitement to smile and trigger any endorphin release I turned my back and marched to the ice cream stand. Chocolate iced cream never tasted so good.

Today I want to eat, I want to eat eat eat. Not having the appetite for bland Tibetan or poorly prepared Indian cuisine, also a nominee for my suffering means the choice of Italian or Chinese food. Normally both are fine but after a solid week of eating Itali-fucking-an food I want something new, something nice, something English. I’d love to kill one of the street cows myself and sizzle up a steak; they’re enough to go round. Whats that? An enquiry as to the culinary skills of the Chinese Chefs? I reckon this stuff is produced my a man with a similar disposition as myself; a high blood cholesterol, and he is taking revenge at every normal person by loading the Chow Mein with so much ghee it arrives on my lap looking more like a soup.

Yes, I’m sick of Dharamsala now. Thank I’m departing bound for Amritsar tomorrow.