Grumblebum

The sun penetrated the thin, grubby curtains of my Beijing hostel room. My mind drifted out of a dream, and I became subtly aware of the here and now. I considered sitting up but didn't feel good, and an overwhelming lethargy held me in place. Through my ear plugs I could hear a clatter reverberate along the corridor outside. Hostel staff were cleaning the floors, banging their metal buckets as they went. It was late morning, and China had started the day without me.

I looked over to where Penelope normally slept, but she was gone. Probably off to find breakfast. Slowly, I swung my legs off the bed and put on some pants. What was the plan for today? Oh yes, go and see some caves or something. The last tour had already left so that was no longer an option. Just as well: my head was heavy and I felt unsteady on my feet.

The door opened and Penelope whooshed in. “Good morning!” she exclaimed with an unusually cheerful voice. "It’s a beautiful day outside. Very rare for these parts. Goodness, you look awful. Go have a shower or something!” I was not in the mood for such levity.

“Don’t speak so loud, I feel awful”. P just stared for a minute with paws on hips.

“Oh don’t be such a grumblebum. I am going out for a walk. You can join me if you like, or you can stay here and sleep it off. It’s up to you”. I was too weak to argue. But her attitude did raise my ire; she can be a very insensitive animal sometimes. It would be a disaster to have her around me today.

“Gei Gezunteheit,” Go with my blessing, I said in Yiddish.

“Suit yourself,” she responded, and pranced out the door.

I sat down on the bed. What to do? Staying in bed wouldn’t help. I needed to go out, distract myself from my cloudy mind. Turning on the shower I threw my head under the flowing water, hoping to jolt my brain into gear. It then took a good half hour before I was ready to leave the room, but finally I made it out of the hostel and tumbled onto the street.

People wandered about everywhere, doing doing everyday things, looking so busy. The world seemed to be moving at a much faster pace than my head was able to process.

I drank some water, but it didn’t help. I still felt dizzy. On the one hand I was glad P wasn’t with me, demanding that I be bright and cheerful. On the other hand I felt that as a friend she should have stuck around to make sure I was okay. No matter.

Across the road, a storefront sign bore a big red cross to signify that they were providing a medical service of some kind. The text on the sign was in Chinese, except for the English word “Adult”. A stern, butch looking woman dressed as a nurse stood with folded arms guarding the entrance. I wondered whether they were dispensing Viagra and horny goats weed or antivirals for herpes. Looking at the nurse, I suspected it was the latter.

I was not a newcomer to Chinese medicine. Years of reflexology and acupuncture had left their mark on me, in more ways than one. My Israeli acupuncturist was, in the bargain, a French trained medical doctor, naturopath, and rabbi with a Kabbalistic bent.

“Lie down and relax,” he once bade me. He inserted disposable pins under the surface of my skin, everywhere from my forehead to my naval, as well as in my wrists and arms.

I lay there on my back, immobile, like a voodoo doll.

The doctor spoke. “You are a lawyer, right? I have a question”. I prayed he didn’t want to set me up on a blind date with his daughter, which is the usual Jewish response on hearing my profession. “I have received a threatening letter from my neighbors. I would like your opinion. Thanks”. With that, he slid the letter between my fingers before leaving the room. I stared up at the ceiling trying to figure out what to do. My arms were by my side, and the letter was closer to my thighs that my eyes. I strained my neck and tried to raise my head, but the acupuncture pins popped out of my forehead. I was terrified the doctor would cast a spell on me if I dropped the letter, so I clutched it tightly, despite the fact that the pin in my wrist was starting to sting from the effort.

So much for Israel. Would practitioners of Chinese medicine be more impressive in China than in Israel? I thought of the Lonely Planet exhortation to avoid medical treatment in China at all costs and cross-referenced it in my mind with my Jerusalem experience.

Continuing aimlessly passed some hutongs, it was not too long before I came across a Chinese medicine clinic. This one looked legit, and with my head throbbing I decided to go in.  

I was greeted by a waiting room full of pamphlets and, on seeing me, a pleasant young lady looking at her nails jumped up and handed me an admissions form to fill out. A few meagre words in English, enclosed by parentheses, clarified the Chinese language form.

Name. That’s easy; Alan.
Birthing date. I chuckled. Some of this Chinese English is remarkably cheesy. I wrote down my date of birth.
Country. No problem there.
Way of well not. I scratched my head before reading it again. The words didn’t change.

Way of well not. It took a lot of brain power – which I was decidedly short on at the time - to realize that they wanted to know what was wrong with me.

I had just managed to complete the form when a short stocky man motioned for me to enter his treatment room. I followed him in and sat down as he read the form. God knows how; his English was non-existent. He pointed to the words Way of well not on the paper, as if to ask what my complaint was. I gesticulated in response: head heavy, dizzy, weak. He felt my pulse. Then, strapping a circular mirror to a bandana around his head, he looked first at my tongue and then examined my eyes. I know that iridology is very popular in these cultures and was glad to have come to a clinician trained as a “Masterful”, as indicated by the certificate on the wall. The expression on his face after examining me, however, did not please.

“Shu Dai Xiong!” he bellowed, so loudly that I almost had a heart attack. Two attendants raced in and joined us, observing. What the hell was going on?

“Wo Bu Ming Pai” I don’t understand, I called out. The clinician looked at me sternly and babbled something that seemed like a question. Odalia was the only word I understood. It means Australia. “Yes, yes, I am from Australia. Why?”  Having confirmed his suspicions, the clinician nodded his head. He then took some leaves from a bottle and crushed them into a powder. Suddenly I was scared. I didn’t want to ingest some unknown bush medicine.

“Shu Dai Xiong,” he repeated, “Koara”. He took the crushed leaves and fed them to some live beetles in a jar. Then he handed me a packet of antihistamines and sent me away.

So, he thinks I am allergic to koalas. At first I couldn't believe it, but on reflection...

The cloud in my head eventually lifted. My guess was that it was part of my monthly cycle – men have them too you know. I never told P about the clinician’s diagnosis. People often believe what they are told, and such things become self fulfilling prophesies. I was just glad that the clinician didn’t want me to eat the beetles in the jar. 

As I walked back to the hostel I passed some food stalls. Bags of fried beetles were being sold for only 10 RMB. The antihistamines suddenly didn’t look too bad after all.