Only a few lucky foreigners escape from a trip to India without a Delhi Belly story. I'd heard many gut-wrenching incarnations of it: a friend who spent half the day in wild, anguished dashes for the nearest loo, another who lived through a 10-hour train trip in fear of a liquid explosions from both ends, and other stories too gruesome to retell.
I - in my own conceited-world-traveller-way - was not going to allow any nasty bacteria to colonise my lower my intestine. My plan was simple: bottled water and a "veg" diet whilst my gut adjusted, and then I would ease my way into more adventurous options. The first week passed with no major incidents. So far, so good. Time to push the boat out.
I'd arrived late into Sholapur. The 200km+ train trip had worn me out, but I hadn't eaten since midday. Rather than turning in, I decided to fill my belly. The hotel restaurant was humming with locals, and a delicious smell of charring meat kebabs and rising naans met me at the door. I plopped myself into a wicker chair and ordered a cold Kingfisher, a chicken kebab from the tandoor, and a Peshwari naan. Life was good.
The food arrived swiftly. The chicken pieces lay in a neat row, struggling to free themselves from some sort of a yoghurt-herb concoction, whilst the naan stared up at me through a lurid red jam. I peered at them suspiciously, a wave of tiredness swept over me. But I resolved to struggle doggedly on. I stabbed the chicken with my fork and lifted it to my lips. It was soft and slightly rubbery, the consistency of Edam cheese. The naan was slightly damp and squishy. I forced myself to eat a few mouthfuls, and then called it a night before I retched.
If I'm honest, the meat was pinker than it should have been. And I knew from the start that it probably contained a small army of germs ready to attack my feeble Western stomach. They say that fortune favours the brave - what b*ll%cks! All I know is that, for me, the Ganges starts in Sholapur.
I - in my own conceited-world-traveller-way - was not going to allow any nasty bacteria to colonise my lower my intestine. My plan was simple: bottled water and a "veg" diet whilst my gut adjusted, and then I would ease my way into more adventurous options. The first week passed with no major incidents. So far, so good. Time to push the boat out.
I'd arrived late into Sholapur. The 200km+ train trip had worn me out, but I hadn't eaten since midday. Rather than turning in, I decided to fill my belly. The hotel restaurant was humming with locals, and a delicious smell of charring meat kebabs and rising naans met me at the door. I plopped myself into a wicker chair and ordered a cold Kingfisher, a chicken kebab from the tandoor, and a Peshwari naan. Life was good.
The food arrived swiftly. The chicken pieces lay in a neat row, struggling to free themselves from some sort of a yoghurt-herb concoction, whilst the naan stared up at me through a lurid red jam. I peered at them suspiciously, a wave of tiredness swept over me. But I resolved to struggle doggedly on. I stabbed the chicken with my fork and lifted it to my lips. It was soft and slightly rubbery, the consistency of Edam cheese. The naan was slightly damp and squishy. I forced myself to eat a few mouthfuls, and then called it a night before I retched.
If I'm honest, the meat was pinker than it should have been. And I knew from the start that it probably contained a small army of germs ready to attack my feeble Western stomach. They say that fortune favours the brave - what b*ll%cks! All I know is that, for me, the Ganges starts in Sholapur.
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