Say Aaaaah

Life, it seems, takes some curious turns. Take last night for instance, it was cold. Much colder than I had anticipated when I rushed out for some last minute supplies before the shop shut for the night. I instantly regreted not taking a coat. Pulling my hoodie around me, I strode out in the hope that walking fast would warm me up. As I was walking along streets empty of all but last night’s kebabs and broken glass, the thought struck me; “what the hell am I doing in Leicester when I’m supposed to be in the Alps?”

The events of the past few days had passed by in such a blur that I had not had time to stop and catch up with the goings on in my life.

It had all started at 7am- and nothing good ever starts at 7am- with my realising that I was sick and tired of covering for the two rather lazy people I work with, and that, furthermore, I wasn’t prepared to work with either of them anymore. At 1pm I found myself and my trusty Berghaus rucksack at Geneva airport.

I had been feelling ill and tired for days and by now I could hardly think straight, and so was operating on autopilot. Being at an airport, bags packed, with no immediate plans and a small amount of operating capital is something that would normally open up a world of opportunity. However, I’m on a mission to walk across the Amazon so this is no time to jump on a plane to the beach and pick up work when I get there. I managed to get a flight for the following afternoon and amused myself by walking around the airport in a bit of a daze. I was aware that I had not eaten anything since the previous day but was too ill to eat.

On one of my zombie like tours of the airport, I found an internet cafe and emailed a friend from university who lives in Geneva. My luck was in. He was flying to Morrocco in the evening and would be at the airport at seven-thirty. We arranged to have a beer and he agreed to lend me his flat for the night.

By seven-thirty, bored of Geneva airport, I had purchased asprin which made me feel much better, but then, for reasons that I really can not explain, I bought a chicken kebab and that made me feel rotten again. At eight o’clock, Aran arrived. I could see him from the upper concourse, and watched on in bemusement as the guy at the check in desk gesticulated wildly at him. Aran, it transpired, did not have his passport so we rushed off to see the Police to see if they will give him a new one. They won’t. There are two choices: either he was pickpocketed on the train, or he left his passport in his jeans pocket when he got changed. His sister was on her way to his flat with the spare keys to see if she could find the passport, but, even if she could, Aran’s flat was a twenty minute taxi ride away and boarding closed in twenty minutes. To make life even more interesting, Aran’s sister had a dog with her- always useful when trying to get a taxi. Fifteen minutes and one big tip later, Sister, dog and passport arived, an event that was quickly followed by Aran running through the airport like a man possessed.

I’m afraid I didn’t make much use of the opportunity afforded by having a flat in the centre of Geneva for a day as, shortly after getting there, I was taken out of action by fever, lower back pain and bleeding gums. I wasn’t pleased but made the best of it by rolling around saying “ouch” and “ooh that hurts”, being unable to sleep, shivering, having a temprature and generally not feeling very good. By the time morning came around, I was thoroughly rotten and begining to worry in case something was seriously wrong. The combination of back ache and fever led me to think that I was having kidney problems. I am a serious believer that, no matter how bad a situation looks, it will be made better by a cup of tea, so I hobbled to the kitchen, put the kettle on and investigated the fridge for signs of milk. I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but in trying to unstick the carton of milk from the shelf in the fridge door, I somehow managed to pull the shelf completely off. The shelf itself stayed stuck to the milk carton, but the bottle of champagne next to it went crashing to the floor. To my mind, few things are better than the smell of Champagne in the morning. However, the pleasing effects of the heady aroma are somewhat spoilt when it accompanies activities such as mopping the floor, rather than lazing around and drinking the stuff. By this point, I had concluded that Aran’s milk was cursed and so drank my tea black before heading to the airport.

I was a tired, aching, shivery mess by the time I landed at East Midlands airport, so I decided to self medicate with the first good mug of English builders tea that I had had in ages and wait for Mrs Ditchmonkey to come and pick me up. When we finally got to her house, I was not in a good way at all and was put to bed. By the next morning, I was feeling very unwell indeed. I had a temprature and so little energy that despite being very thirsty it took about an hour to take a drink of water; a trip to the hospital was in order. I didn’t know whether to feel important or worried when I was ushered in through the door marked MAJORS in big red capital letters. After finding myself in a hospital gown getting pushed about the place on a bed and having numerous blood samples taken, I had firmly decided that it was best to feel important. This was certainly not a time to feel worried. I passed the next hour or so by talking to Mrs Ditchmonkey, laughing a bit too readily at her jokes and most definitely not being worried. The doctor eventually returned, gave me some paracetamol to reduce the fever and some antibiotics which she said would “cure me”. So what was wrong with me? My best guess is that I had not had enough rest after my operation (see previous articles) and my body had rebelled at being forced to continue in its state of exhaustion; so it had just given up for a bit.

In a way, I suppose this has been a valuable experience in as much as I now know how far I can push myself before getting ill. I have been past that point so I will know when to stop in the future. When out in the middle of the jungle, prevention must be better than cure. One thing that really worries me, though, is what will I do when I get ill. It’s all very well being too tired to reach for a glass of water that is by the bed, but what if that water has to be harvested and purified? Sounds like a test of will power.

Note to self – pack lots of paracetamol. And Mrs Ditchmonkey.