XXVIII. Adventures in Healing, Part Three

Back in Dharamsala, at the Tibetan Medicine Clinic, I sat in a large, bare room along with two dozen sick Indians and exiled Tibetans, lined up on long wooden benches. I felt deathly ill, yet I was still compelled to try an exotic cure. After a reasonable wait, for India, I saw who I assumed to be the doctor. I saw no reason to ask for his credentials, I wouldn’t have been able to read them if he had them. Like the wizened Chinese healer before him, he examined my tongue, my eyes, and my pulse. He opened a drawer and pulled out a small manila envelope. It better not be Contac again, I thought. The envelope contained greenish-black spheres resembling rabbit pellets of varying sizes. I was told, through an elaborate series of hand to mouth gestures, that I was to take five of the small pills in the morning, three of the large in the afternoon, and again five small ones in the evening. I was reasonably certain that the doctor wanted me to chew them up thoroughly rather swallow them whole.

As I left, I noticed several patients examining the contents of their envelopes. We all had the same medicine. Western, left-brained suspicion raised its ugly head. We couldn’t all have the same disease. Just what were these pills? But I quickly brushed my doubts aside – I wanted to believe. It was an Eastern disease. Surely, the best treatment would be Eastern. Besides, the clinic was only charging me a dollar. I had nothing to lose.

I began my treatment that evening, dutifully chewing up five small orbs. They had a dry, pungent flavor, stirringly redolent of match heads and feces. This is the taste of you getting better, I told myself. I would say they finished well, but they wouldn’t finish. They stuck to my teeth, coating them with greenish-black slime. I spent the better part of the night trying to lick all the slime off. Of course, I could have just brushed my teeth and gotten rid of that horrible, lingering flavor, but that was not the way I was brought up. I always did what the doctor told me (whether I was certain he was a doctor or not, apparently).

After too many days of chewing and licking, the medicine was finished, but my affliction persisted. I felt it best to leave Dharamsala and return to the medicine of my people. I took the VIP bus to the big city. I usually traveled third class, convincing myself that I was a “live like the locals” kind of traveler (read: cheap), but I was sick. The inch of padding in the seats was worth the two extra dollars.

As soon as I stepped into the clean, air-conditioned lobby of the hospital, I felt a bit better. The kindly, English-fluent doctor, with his reassuring diplomas on the wall, gave me a thorough, and thoroughly modern, examination (He had a stethoscope! He took my blood pressure! He asked me my symptoms!). He gave me an injection and prescribed a course of antibiotics. Within a day, maybe two, the vomiting, diarrhea and sulfurous belching had ceased and my appetite returned. I felt alive again, energized. I celebrated with a luxurious and satisfying Indian Thali, at the end of which, I toasted the marvels of modern Western medicine with a cup of Marsala Chai.

I never found out exactly what my illness was or what was in those Tibetan rabbit shit pellets. But to be completely honest, I didn’t know what was in the injection the doctor gave me. Or what antibiotics really are. Or Contac, for that matter. When it comes to my health, my precious, precious health, I take an awful lot on faith.