Feeling Peaky in Peking

“Excuse me Sir, you are stay here?”, I turned slowly around, beads of sweat dripping feverishly from my brow. Somehow I’d wound up in the lobby of the imaginatively named, Beijing Hotel, a five star marbled metropolis catering for the rich and famous, and seemingly not the sick backpacker I currently portrayed. An hour earlier I had shunned the suggestion of Peking Duck to my Austrian friends – still with me since Mongolia – and admitted defeat to my impending sickness, under the watchful eye of Chairman Mao on Tiananmen Square and was attempting to find my way back to the hostel. Beijing Hotel was merely the stage to obtain some yuan to begin the long and shaky road home.

I explained my predicament to the snobs and made for the exit, muttering a colourful array of expletives, but gladly clutching a handful of yuan. I found a taxi to whizz me through the streets and ultimately – so it felt – to my death bed. Mr Wai tu Hai seeing an opportunity, doubled the fare before zig zagging his way through the cities Hutong district with obvious conspiracy. I knew he was conning me, but at just $4 the ironic thing was I’d of paid him double again to take me in a straight line. Eventually his torment stopped, and I stumbled onto the streets at the foot of the Beijing City Centre Youth Hostel to make the long journey up to the 4th floor haven I’d been dreaming of, as the elevator proudly sounded ‘ding’ my mouth bulged with vomit, the ashtray bin outside it’s steel fortress did well to hold the torrent. Each similar receptacle thereafter suffered the same fate, each time rendering me disconnected and trembling alone in the ever lengthening corridor.

My Austrian friends returned past midnight to hear my tale of woe, they’re medical students so thankfully I was in good hands. I hazily explained my symptoms – that with every sip of water, I would double the expulsion – they offered advice and eventually, after ignoring an incredible thirst I fell asleep, if not unconscious, awaking every hour to be reminded of my ailment. At one point I found myself lying in the corridor outside my room, revelling in the cooler air, only to be removed by staff believing I was drunk and treating my illness with a cauldron of laughter. They couldn’t understand my plight, nor my ongoing expletives, if only I could of mustered more bile.

Come morning the improvement was dramatic, but weakened by the experience I trembled another farewell to my Austrian supporters and lay my head back, waking periodically to sip water and take stock. I believe the episode was brought on from drinking the ‘boiled’ water from the train, letting it cool over hours to quench my healthy thirst. Whatever it’s origin, if you are planning a RTW trip and using TrailofAnts.com as a reference then I cannot stress enough the importance of your health, be that your medical kit or the way you look after yourself on the road you should make it your full time job while dragging your backpack over ditches and dunes. This is my third illness in a month, and in the heat of Asia I have learned some valuable lessons, not only of my health but of the kindness of others, inparticular the Austrians. I rarely suffer from illnesses, let alone of this frequency but they are all avoidable and simply required me to think a few steps ahead, I’ve just learned it the hard way and hopefully you’ll benefit from a healthy author portraying the vibrancy of this vast, colourful collage of continents.

Preceding this episode, I embarked on my final leg of the Trans-Siberian. My compartment shared with 2 elderly Danes intent on their own self-importance and a Mongolian lady whom at first was a picture of elegance but who hours later was dripping vodka from her berth down onto my bed, shouts of disdain meant nothing, and wouldn’t even if we shared a common tongue. She was heading to Beijing to see her son, upon disembarking the train she had returned to her original self and I couldn’t help wonder if he had ever been aware of this ugly side to his darling mother. Again, it seemed vodka – a residual evil of Russia’s hold on Mongolia – had claimed another innocent victim, and I was soberly suffering it’s consequences.

Rolling into Beijing Train Station, I felt like a borrower rolling through a Monopoly board contested by two heavy smokers; random clusters of high rises, clung together by a choking smog. My short expedition with the Austrians (who by now had been joined by a new friend, Ralph) took me by metro to Tiananmen Square, at 3pm I looked skyward to see the sun struggling to penetrate the pollution that lay overhead. Never have I seen pollution so apparent as in Beijing, and coupled with my illness it only accelerates my lust to head west into the country to enjoy the freshness I know this country holds. How the Olympic Committee ever saw this city fit to hold The Games, I’ll never know as all I can imagine is an Olympic Village adorned with athletes appearing as if they were enjoying a 60-a-day habit. The Forbidden City, The Temple of Heaven, The Summer Palace can wait; I’ll return when this city has cleaned up it’s act, and I’ll breath a fresh sigh of relief as I look skyward, hopefully sheltering my eyes from the glare of the sun while cherishing every mouthful of Peking Duck that tenaciously flirts with my taste buds.

Tagged as: Asia, Beijing, blogsherpa, China