Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  I looked up to see a young Indian man wearing a light brown suit and a diplomatic lanyard.

  ‘Miss, did I hear you say that you needed to get to India urgently?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘That it was a matter of life and death?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘That you could not be held responsible for the political ramifications if a visa wasn’t granted to you as soon as possible?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think I can help you.’

  He told me quietly that if I paid a hundred dollar cash processing fee he could have my visa ready in three days. I had a feeling cash processing fees would be a regular occurrence in India. I parted with my hundred dollars and a sliver of self-respect, then left for the travel doctor. The customer service lady at their airport had strongly recommended I do this.

  Dr Zhang’s office was located above a noodle shop not far from the Lily Pad Hotel, which I would now have to book myself back into. I irritably flipped through the pages of a fitness magazine as I studied the people in the queue ahead of me. I scribbled in my travel diary:

  My skin itches. I wonder if there are any known cases of infectious diseases being passed through magazines in doctor’s offices.

  When I finally reached the examination room I found Dr Zhang to be a friendly, animated man in his late fifties. I was comforted by the boxes of latex gloves and the two-litre pump-top dispenser of disinfectant by the sink, which was itself pristine. Dr Zhang asked me where I was planning to visit.

  ‘India,’ I said. ‘Goa.’

  ‘Ah.’ He pulled a folder from a filing cabinet next to his desk. ‘In that case we have a busy afternoon ahead of us.’

  I swallowed and wondered if he’d sell me some of his gloves.

  ‘Have you had shots for tetanus and diphtheria?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded.

  ‘Polio?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Measles and Rubella?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Chicken pox?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ he smiled. ‘This makes things simpler. Tell me,’ he said, crossing his legs and looking at me with interest. ‘Are you currently on any other medication?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘No heart medication, no blood thinners?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Ventolin? Insulin?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What about the contraceptive pill?’

  I felt a little tug on my heart. I had stopped taking it after Christmas.

  ‘No, I haven’t needed it,’ I said with a slight crack in my voice.

  But Dr Zhang didn’t seem to notice. He recommended shots for influenza, Hep A, Hep B, rabies and cholera. He also told me I should take some oral typhoid pills.

  ‘Typhoid?’ I gulped.

  ‘India is a lovely country but you do not want to get sick there,’ he said as he merrily jabbed my arm. He also gave me anti-malaria pills that may cause nausea, and anti-nausea pills that would increase my skin’s photosensitivity. Then he directed me to ensure I was always wearing a broad spectrum sunscreen. For good measure, he threw in an extra can of mozzie spray with my Imodium tablets.

  ‘If you do get sick, they will plug you up,’ he smiled. ‘Oh! I almost forgot.’ He reached behind himself and located a tube of cream.

  ‘You might want to take this too. Those anti-nausea tablets have been known to cause yeast infections.’

  ‘Great, thanks,’ I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.

  The thing about Dr Zhang that unsettled me was that he seemed like a good and honest man who would be unlikely to sell me things I didn’t need. I really began to sweat when he showed me a bottle of anti-venom.

  ‘Snakes?’

  ‘Kraits,’ he said. ‘They are common in Goa. You risk stepping on one if you walk in the wilderness or through rice paddies.’

  The illustrated serpent on the bottle was black with sinister bands of yellow.

  There was a chemist downstairs where I could get the SPF 30-plus sunscreen the doctor had recommended and some re-hydration tablets he had prescribed. I left with two bags of anti-India products.

  On the way back to the Lily Pad Hotel (where I was able to get my old room back) I bought some dry biscuits, a kilo block of cheese and a two-litre bottle of Coke. At first I’d reached for the fresh squeezed orange juice until I remembered reading about a typhoid outbreak in upstate New York that was linked to a batch of juice spiked with Salmonella typhi. I chose the soft drink instead and took my loot home to my mini-fridge. I wanted to avoid going out again so I wouldn’t run the risk of eating any more mad fake cow. I climbed into bed with an India guidebook and devoted myself to being sullen.

  I stayed inside and read all day, studying the various ways India tries to kill tourists, including stampedes and kidnapping by dissidents in the disputed Kashmir region. This was on top of the diseases and predators Dr Zhang had warned me against. While I was in this state, flopped on the stale mattress, I became obsessed with checking my email. I would rush downstairs every half hour or so to log into my account. My blood pressure always rose a little as I waited for the pixelated hour-glass to check for new correspondence.

  For seventeen consecutive trips down to the computer, I got nothing. So it was a surprise, when on the eighteenth time I dragged myself downstairs, I was greeted with a little envelope icon. An email. From Chris Campbell.

  VY!! That is unbelievable!! I’m in Goa now. Drop me a line when you land! x

  My heart thundered. Chris wanted to see me in Goa.

  First thing next morning I rushed to the Indian Consulate to see if my visa had been processed. The clerk didn’t have it. He told me I would have to be patient. But it didn’t matter. Chris was waiting for me. He knew I was coming and he wanted to catch up! I felt energised. I took my biscuits and my vintage Global Maverick guide and went exploring.

  I caught the ferry across to Hong Kong Island and worked my way up the wide steps flanked by market stalls. From there I circled around looking for a jade temple but soon discovered every second attraction listed in my book had been replaced. Instead of a promised ornate pagoda, there was the shiny new headquarters of British American Tobacco. An exotic goldfish aquarium had been replaced with a McDonald’s. After trudging two kilometres up-hill in search of a dynastic museum and finding instead a podiatry college, I lost my temper.

  ‘You useless piece of junk,’ I shouted at the nineteen-year-old guidebook.

  I messaged Kym. She replied saying she would come and meet me.

  ‘There’s nothing to see,’ I whined as we hugged forty-five minutes later.

  ‘This guidebook is old enough to drive!’ said Kym. ‘Come on.’

  We went to a theatre where a small company was doing a performance of a Chinese opera. The set was bare, but the performers wore elaborate costumes and heavy, painted makeup, so that soon everything around them disappeared and I became enrapt. Although the songs were in Chinese, I found that I didn’t need to know what they were saying to follow along. The sorrow in the princess’s face, the look in the soldier’s eye when he held her and sang to her, told the story. I felt tears well up in my eyes when they finally met their tragic end.

  Afterwards we dined in a Chinese restaurant that served ginger dumplings and oolong, a pungent Chinese tea. It was a simple place above a shop, but the view was magnificent. The walls were made of glass panels that looked out onto the bay.

  ‘So tell me more about this guy,’ Kym propped her chin up with her hand. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘India.’

  ‘What’s he doing in India?’

  I shrugged. ‘Travelling. Exploring. Carpe-ing the diem.’

  Kym nodded.

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To India.’ Kym’s eyes bulged. ‘Really?’

  ‘I can’t sit around here waiting. I have to be the architect of my own future.’
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  A waiter came to remove our plates.

  ‘I totally get it,’ said Kym. ‘Only … you don’t seem very excited.’

  ‘I guess I’m scared.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘I don’t know. That things won’t go according to plan.’

  ‘Waiter,’ Kym said, ‘can you please bring us a bottle of champagne?’

  ‘We don’t need champagne.’

  ‘Define need,’ she said. The waiter showed Kym a list of the sparkling whites and champagnes they had available. She selected one of the most expensive bottles. ‘When I was growing up my mother was a great baker. She’d measure everything out on this giant old-fashioned scale she had in the kitchen. It was an antique from an old grocery store, you know the type – one side holds the weights, and on the other holds the flour and cocoa and nuts.’

  I nodded.

  ‘After the quake, Mum got really depressed. There was just too much sadness around her. For months she didn’t bake anything. Sometimes she wouldn’t even get out of bed. I remember thinking about that scale of hers and those heavy iron weights. They made me realise that life is always going to be marred by tragic things that are going to drag you down. You’ve got to make sure you fill it with as much sugar and cocoa and hazelnuts as possible to balance it out.’

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear about your mum,’ I said.

  Kym smiled dimly. ‘Thanks. She’s doing better now.’

  Two days later I was back in line at the airport, this time with a visa. My tickets and passport were, again, in my hands at the ready. I was scared the staff would somehow find another reason to prevent me from meeting up with Chris. It was the same woman presiding over the check-in desk. I held my breath. But she didn’t recognise me, she just printed the ticket, grunted ‘Gate 24’ and through I went.

  The Air India plane was smaller than any aircraft I’d ever flown in before, not that I had much of a frame of reference. But I didn’t think I should be touching the women in the sari on my right and the businessman on my left at the same time. I was also getting a bird’s eye view of the dandruff on the head of man in front of me. He had already lowered his seat into the reclining position and his desiccated scalp was now practically in my lap.

  Despite my claim that I wasn’t afraid of flying, Air India seemed qualified to instil that fear in anyone. The engine whirred and the seats started to shake as we began our shunting journey down the runway. As we sped up, the engine noise grew louder and louder. I wasn’t sure if we were going to lift-off or explode. I felt like cheering when we left the ground and things seemed to smooth-out.

  I had pre-ordered a vegetarian meal, so while everybody else was being given little plastic dishes of curry and rice, I was presented with a box of six unidentifiable brown shapes that looked like they might be the components of a man’s shoe. I picked one up and smelled it. After my experience in Hong Kong I had vowed to get through the rest of my trip eating as little as possible.

  My neighbour in the sari had also chosen the vegetarian option and devoured her tray of shoe parts with such speed, I half expected to hear the words ‘Beam me up, Scotty’ as the morsels disappeared rapidly and magically. She turned to my tray, eyeing it hungrily, and said, ‘You eat?’

  I shoved one of the brown snacks into my mouth, then picked up another before she could suction it from my fingertips. The first was sweet, like a dense cake drenched in honey. The second tasted like rotten mango. I pushed the rest of the tray towards her.

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘you have it.’

  She nodded gratefully and teleported my lunch to her mouth.

  Six hours later we touched down in Goa. I’d heard the stories about India. That it was smelly, dangerous, crowded and corrupt. But this was amazing. It was a beautiful, idyllic paradise. The air was warm without being clammy, the sky was clear and I could smell the ocean.

  Outside the airport, a young boy was dashing about, calling, ‘This way, Miss! Yes! Miss! Come! Come, come! Miss, Sir! That one!’ He couldn’t have been more than twelve. He was pairing taxi drivers and passengers, taking the bags from the latter and tossing them at the former.

  ‘You, you-you, this one!’ He hollered at a boy in an oversized business shirt before dropping a case twice his size into his broomstick arms.

  Another boy who also looked about twelve was assigned to the task of driving my taxi. We travelled in silence for half an hour. I smiled as I watched the blue ocean roll pass the sea-side road. Palm trees bent over the road, as if they wanted to look at who was coming to visit their country. Within the bush sat colourful houses. The road was filled with smiling locals on motorbikes. They waved as we passed.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’

  My driver tootled his horn in reply. I sat back and let the sun warm my face as the car rocked me to a gentle snooze. This was heaven. Better still, in just a few hours I could be sharing it with my dream man.

  Chapter Eight

  After checking-in to the Mirage Palms I went straight to the computer in the lobby to see if Chris had replied to my email. Nothing. I sighed, balled my fists then told myself to relax. The hotel had a pool surrounded by banana lounges and a small bar in a tiki hut. It was aged and tired, but clean.

  I dropped my bag in my room and changed into my bathers, then took my diary to the pool and settled into a banana lounge. It wasn’t so bad. There was a folded towel on the end, and a menu on a glass table.

  As soon as I picked up the menu a waiter appeared at my side.

  ‘Yes, miss?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, um, Coca-Cola, no ice,’ I said, gratefully scanning the list of foods designed for European tourists. ‘And, um, I’ll have the vegetarian lasagne, please.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ He gave a curt bow, took the menu and disappeared.

  I smiled and stretched happily on my pool-side lounge. I was in a foreign country. I had just ordered a delicious sounding meal, and for the first time in what felt like months I wasn’t feeling nauseous.

  ‘Brave,’ a male voice shattered my moment of satisfaction.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The comment had come from two sunbeds down, where a shirtless guy in board shorts was reading a copy of Lolita. He wore sunglasses and a straw hat that disguised most of his face, a short, dark beard hid the rest.

  ‘I just said you’re brave.’ He grinned and returned to his dog-eared pages.

  Since he offered nothing else, I decided to ignore him. I took out my diary and began to write:

  Day 7. Poolside at a Goan resort. I described the scenery and my impressions so far. Just ordered lunch. Maybe dinner with Chris tonight?

  The waiter arrived with my Coke and a plate of spaghetti. The sauce was tomato with chunks of carrot. A sprig of lettuce sat on top and there were potato chips on the side.

  ‘Excuse me, this isn’t what I ordered,’ I called after the waiter. But he didn’t hear.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I stood up.

  ‘It is,’ said the man from the banana lounge.

  ‘I’m sorry, what was that?’ I looked at him.

  He put his book down and slowly stretched, like a cat in the sun. ‘I said …’ His thought was interrupted by a cavernous yawn. ‘That is what you ordered.’

  ‘No, it’s not, I ordered lasagne. Sheets of pasta interspersed with tomato sauce and cheese. A coating of béchamel sauce. Perhaps some parmesan.’

  The guy stood and scratched his side, then came and sat on the end of my sun bed. I tucked my legs up away from him, as if he might bite. He held the menu open in front of me.

  ‘Never order the chicken Kiev or the roast chicken breast. Both of them are a dry sort of schnitzel thing. The pastas are okay. But the lasagne is just plain spaghetti and the ravioli is spiral pasta and ground meat. Everything that says it comes with fries on the side actually comes with potato chips. Make sure you ask for plain flavour otherwise you’ll get masala.’ He reached over and took a chip from my plate then ate it thoughtfully. ‘Yep,’ he nodded.
‘Masala.’

  ‘What about vegetarian food?’

  The guy made a low whistling sound. ‘Anywhere else in India, it’d be no problem. But this place tries to cater to the tourist palate and almost everything has meat in it. I’d recommend eating at the restaurants on the main drag. You might be able to find a nice paneer dish or something. But they mostly do seafood.’

  ‘I eat fish,’ I volunteered.

  ‘That’ll help. It’s best to stick to the local cuisine. The sickest I’ve ever been in India is from a hamburger at a McDonald’s. They don’t like to eat beef here. The cows are sacred. Think they were punishing me with salmonella or something. Stick to the curries and you’ll be right. The local food is unbeatable.’

  ‘Is there anywhere I could get a decent cappuccino?’

  ‘Ha!’ His amused laugh made me bristle. ‘You haven’t travelled much before have you?’

  I straightened my back. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Hey, don’t get offended. It’s cool you decided to come.’

  ‘I’m not offended,’ I said in a pouty tone.

  ‘Okay,’ he smirked at me. ‘Look, I’m heading down to a place called The Rising Tide on the main road for dinner later. They do a great crab curry. Why don’t you join me?’ He peered at me over his sunglasses, a smile on his lips. I felt like he was laughing at me.

  ‘Actually I’m kind of meeting someone.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He looked around the empty resort and grinned. He was really starting to get on my nerves. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘I’ll be around if you want some company.’

  He pulled his hat off and leaped in to the pool splashing water all over me, and spraying droplets on my diary. I would have felt annoyed, but the water was refreshing. He began swimming a slow backstroke.

  I returned to the lobby to check my email. Nothing. I lingered over some news sites, keen to avoid the know-it-all pool guy, then went to inspect my room more closely. There was a single bed, a wicker chair, and a mini bar that had a basket of chip packets on top. The branding was familiar but the flavours were muddled. Instead of salt and vinegar, the pink packet was masala. Instead of chicken flavour, green was muttah; the yellow was saffron, not cheese and onion.