Posted on Wednesday, 27 May 2015

Any lengthy visit to India is sure to deliver certain experiences. Dazzling, exotic architecture. Colourful religious ceremonies and festivals. Delicious and varied local cuisine. And, following on from that last one, a dose of the notorious 'Delhi Belly'.

Before I left the UK, every India-veteran I met warned me: A dicky tummy is par for the course.

I wondered – not without a twinge of excitement – when would I get mine? What spicy comestible would harbour the microscopic undesirable that would bring my soft Western immune system to its knees – and me to mine? What breed of eye-popping tale would I be able to impress other travellers with?

I'd heard some good ones and I was a little envious.

In the event, that twinge of excitement was exceptionally misplaced.

Mumbai

The camel trek in the Thar Desert was well and truly over. Out of the sleeper bus window I glimpsed the vast sprawl of Mumbai, a red lollipop sun burning through the tropical morning haze.

All manner of dwellings rushed past: aging town houses, corrugated iron shacks, tenement blocks draped in flapping saris, ramshackle wooden huts indistinguishable from their neighbours. Despite the apparent hardship, from every address a satellite TV dish was angled skywards, eagerly capturing soap operas and Bollywood romances that were being beamed from machines orbiting high above the smog.

Mumbai, India (paul prescott/Bigstock.com.jpg)

Population 12 million, the guidebook said. And that was in 2001.

The bus dumped us – Englishman Stephen, German Sandra (a doctor) – on a non-descript urban road. The taxi drivers had been waiting patiently for us, it seemed.

Taxi in Mumbai, India (kaetana/Bigstock.com)

Weary after our overnight trip, we haggled passionlessly. For an inflated price a grinning man in a yellow-and-black Ambassador cab agreed to take us to Colaba, where the famous (or possibly infamous) Salvation Army Hostel was located.

The Salvation Army Hostel is the cheapest accommodation a backpacker can expect to find in Mumbai. Unlike most other cities, the capital of Maharashtra offers very few budget hotel options.

‘Red Shield House' was old and in need of serious refurbishment. Reports of fat bedbugs were accurate. Some staff members exhibited a barely concealed disdain for their innumerable international guests.

But on the plus side we had views of the famous Taj Mahal Hotel's domes. It also cost little more than £1 a night for a dormitory bed and included a free boiled egg, banana and cup of tea for breakfast.

Taj Mahal Hotel, Mumbai, India (saiko3p/Bigstock.com)

But it wasn't this daily meal that would be my undoing.

Next day the three of us took a ferry from India Gate to Elephanta Island, about two hours from Mumbai.

Gateway Of India, Mumbai, India (saiko3p/Bigstock.com)

I was impressed by the Elephanta Caves, in whose dank shadows mysterious Hindu god carvings lurked. Perhaps deluded by my brush with so many deities, I saw no harm in sampling an innocuous-looking fried delicacy from a harbour vendor.

Back on the boat and I could sense something was amiss. My usually robust and tranquil digestive system was unusually ‘chatty'. Some unwelcome guest had leapt out that Trojan horse samosa while my Killer T cells were dozing. I didn't realise food poisoning could take hold so quickly.

I made it back to the hostel just in time.

After a protracted engagement with the water closet – which the water closet lost – I lay on my lower bunk bed, staring up at the old slats. This sight would become very familiar.

For four days I lay there. Stephen brought me water; Sandra the doctor revealed a stash of medicaments and administered a selection.

Khaja sweet stall, Mumbai, India (nilanewsom/Bigstock.com)

I'd never felt so ill. I couldn't eat more than a mouthful of rice at a time, and even getting to the amenity in the hallway was completely exhausting; I began reading the small print of my travel insurance document.

Four days is a long time. It's so long you wonder if your immune system will ever get its act together.

Thankfully, it did. I hadn't left the fifth storey of Red Shield House for about 100 hours, and I was sick of it, as it were. I was sick of staring up at the wooden slats, and the smell of bedbug poison that succeeded only in making the room's human occupants feel like dying. The boredom was incredible, and yet I had been too ill to read, too nauseous to converse with any of my roommates for more than a few minutes.

At last, hobbling down the many stairs and out into the morning light, I was free again. I made my way slowly along the pavements of Colaba, my joints and guts still sore. The domes of the Taj Mahal Hotel rose hazily in the distance.

Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (saiko3p/Bigstock.com)

For the first time in four days I could eat. I settled on the cleanest looking restaurant I could find, and ordered a delicious South Indian puri breakfast.

Indian Puri Dish

As I chewed, I winced suspiciously at the street food vendors outside, bathed beautifully in the orange morning glow of a stirring Mumbai. Despite my ordeal, I was excited about the prospect of exploring this vast, legendary metropolis – but was determined to exercise a lot more caution at meal times.

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