So I am at a hospital in Alappuzha. What do you know. I came to India intent on examining the healthcare, but didn't really expect to get to see it from a patient's point of view.
Things don't always go as planned.
The much anticipated backwaters tour, let me tell you, turned out to be quite a trip...

When we get onto the boat I am very aware of not really feeling well, and proceed to go to the lower deck, where I eventually take the cushions off some of the couches to construct a makeshift mattress in a corner. For awhile things don't look all bad. Maybe I can lay low, take it easy and wait it out. Stabilize my condition again. But when we leave port the boat turns, the Sun finds its way in through the open sides, and I scramble from one location to another to avoid getting warmed up.
Things go from bad to worse pretty quickly. Within the hour, I have worked up a temperature for sure, and after about two hours I am getting really hot. The Sun is hammering the boat's metal hull, the temperature is climbing, and the place turns into an oven. By this point though, I am too weak to bother with moving around anymore, so I just lie there, getting warmer, and warmer, and warmer.

Things start getting really bad here - some of my classmates are taking note of my situation, and I have to tell you, by this point I was feeling as bad as I ever recall doing. I was burning up, and through the haze of a fever running amok, I start thinking of how the body loses its ability to regulate temperature once it starts climbing above 39°C.
In this place, I think, there can't be anything holding it back. I'm going to die from hyperthermia in the bowels of a riverboat out in the Indian jungle. My proteins are probably starting to boil by now, disintegrating and denaturing right under my skin. Or, maybe the temperature is just a side-effect brought on by something else. Maybe it's malaria. Yeah, maybe that's what it is, one of those lethal fever peaks that hit you at the onset of the disease. I've been here for more than two weeks now, just about the proper incubation time. Maybe this is what it comes down to, a stroke of bad luck and being stung by the wrong mosquito. Yeah, I bet it's malaria. I can almost feel my red blood cells, stretching and bursting, full of plasmodium parasites.

After this, I disappear into the fever and everything gets sort of blurry. I remember Julia, her hands on my brow and neck, saying we have to cool me down, and fixing me a pillow out of her towel. I remember Daniel showing up with ibuprofen and Martin with paracetamol. And I remember Barni, bless her, sitting by me, holding my hand, fanning me with a folded-up map and putting wet, almost-cold cloths on my forehead. What would I do without you.

Then, suddenly, the boat stops. Oh, no. The halt must have been organized due to my condition, I think, and start delivering (macho exhibit #1) a 'go-on-and-leave-me-here-and-finish-your-
trip-because-I'll-be-just-fine'-speech. Martin appears from out of nowhere, smiling and shaking his head, and explains that we have reached a water-lock, and with the water level being as low as it is, there will be hours before we can go on. Apparently, no one among the staff had thought about this, and furthermore, no one else on the boat was prepared to wait. All of a sudden furious Indian tourists are everywhere, charging off the boat and screaming in Malayalam. Land was close.
In retrospect, if I have ever had a stroke of good luck in my life; even though I wasn't aware at the time, I guess this was it.

Next thing I know, we are getting off as well. A taxi has arrived, waiting to take me to Alappuzha, and a hospital. I struggle to my feet. Someone is carrying my bags, and I figure that maybe I'll be ok after all. Upon getting off the boat though, there is a series of steps to climb in order to get onto the road. I am asked if I can walk by myself (macho exhibit #2), and reply along the lines of 'sure, no problem. I'm fine.'
Yeah, I'm fine. I take about two steps, see Daniel, Martin and Erik close in around me, and then my field of vision narrows abruptly. There are a lot of shimmering lights, and for the first time in my 24-year-old life, I pass out.

I come to lying on asphalt, someone holding my legs up in the air. So slow-motion. I can't believe I passed out. Come on. Did I really? Everyone's standing in a semi-circle, looking down at me. I see Ida-Maria and try to smile. Hello, she says, smiles, and takes my hand.

Friends like these, I'm telling you. I try to communicate that if I ever forget about this, someone had better remind me.

I'm not sure if I succeed. I end up in the taxi though, half-walking, half-carried; and the 40-kilometer run to Alappuzha starts. A trip which would have taken us four more hours by boat, had we not stopped by the water-lock.
My eyelids are so heavy in the car. I'm leaned against Barni's shoulder, and Lena, Daniel and Martin are also there. I try to look, but I only catch glimpses of the road before my eyes close again, and every time there seems to be a bus or a truck headed straight for us. Death on express delivery. We're going fast. Really, really fast, zig-zagging between incoming traffic. Things must look bad. I hear Lena yell that we must slow down. The road goes on and on, and I'm not sure I'm conscious during all of the trip, but eventually we come into the bowels of a hospital. I am moved to a wheelchair and rolled away to have a chest x-ray done. I coughed on examination, and a doctor suspected pneumonia. Daniel is in here, too.

So in order to have the x-ray done, I need to stand up. It's only a matter of seconds, but as soon as I rise I know that things won't go well. There are shimmering lights again, and...
Well. Losing consciousness, I tell you, is not like falling asleep. Suddenly I was seeing myself, thousands of kilometers north of there, feeling a brisk, cool wind hit my face and looking out over the snow-capped Himalayas. I had traveled on, to the mountains, and I was really happy there.
Then, extremely far away, as if from another dimension, I hear Daniel's voice.
Alex! Alex!
He is shaking me.
And I come to again, all my senses fading in, making me realize I'm still at the hospital, still in the x-ray room. Holy hell, no.
"Lie down," I sputter. "I need to lie down." They put me on a bench, and a series of blood-pressure measurements start. And here, it seems, we approach the core of the problem.
I have never been a person with a particularly high blood-pressure. I average at around 110/70, so sometimes I rise slowly in the mornings. This time however, measurements showed my pressure dropping to 90/60 when sitting up - and I came close to fading out again here. I don't know what it dropped to when I stood, but I'm pretty sure it was a fair bit lower still.

Things are becoming clear now. I am asked about the last time I urinated, and as soon as I get the question I know I've messed up. It's been a long time, much too long. 12 hours, at least.
Medstudent, are we? 12 hours? You ought to know, as soon as you urinate more rarely and lesser quantities, it's a sure sign you're not drinking enough.
In my case, I didn't even have enough liquid in me to keep my blood-pressure steady. So, dehydration. After all this, it comes down to dehydration. Like a first-rate tenderfoot trying to hike across the Sahara. I would have preferred malaria.

Now, treatment starts. I get a sodium chloride solution fed to me intravenously, followed by Gatifloxacin wide-spectrum antibiotic in case I really have pneumonia, and more paracetamol for the temperature. I get my own room, and Daniel stays the night, forcing me to drink, again and again. I've never experienced so many bathroom runs during a night in my life, but it's working. Over the course of the night, I realize it's not so much of a strain to stand up anymore, and, ever so slowly, my strength is coming back.

So, this was two nights ago. I came to the next morning feeling a whole lot better. Although weak as a baby at first, Barni and Martin came by with some food as Daniel and Lena took off together for Cochin. Lena will be going back home soon, and time is running out. I'm getting better, and during Tuesday evening I manage a walk outside to take a look at the facilities. Would you believe that.

At the time of writing this, I am an hour or so away from being discharged, and I feel rather good. I've received two litres of NaCl-solution and one litre of Gatifloxacin intravenously, and been given the rest of the prespribed treatment as tablets. There is also a Losec-looking medicine with Omeprazol and Domperidone that I am instructed to take, as well as a vitamin B mix.
Clearly, they don't take any chances at this hospital. Then again though, I must have been a sorry sight for sure when I came in some 44 hours ago, with no fluid in my body and passing out as soon as I tried to stand.

No... as far as this (private) hospital goes, I can't really complain about anything. The doctors are brisk and come and go in a hurry, while the nurses giggle a lot, ask me what I'm reading, and just pace my room in general. Indian nurses, I tell you. In all, my stay here might not have been a bad one.

The final check for the treatment is coming out at Rs1400. With the Gatifloxacin, needles, Losec and NaCl purchased, that amounts to around 1800, about 300 Swedish crowns, or $40, if you will. Totally insane. Not even worth bothering my insurance company about when I get back home.
Pretty soon now, I'll be a free, healthy man again. Barni and Martin are coming to pick me up for lunch at their (allegedly luxurious) hotel, and then it's on to Kottayam, and Kumily... and the Periyar Tiger Reserve.