strange but true anecdote this time, though as ever, not entirely free from embellishment.

 

The Causes.

Twin culprits raise their sinister heads. The Saturday before this tale takes place, a party of truly epic proportions took place. Under the banner of 'Extra Strong Mint', a squad of Westerners and locals had a carouse of Valhallan nature, and our hero returned to his bed after the sun had come up, carrying the seeds of a vile Scotch hangover. In a bizarre masochistic fit, two days later he went on to consume snake meat at a local bazaar.

The Effects.

That Tuesday night, our leading man felt his guts twisting and burning as if drenched in hot acid. For three days and nights he was wracked with cramps, and as Friday drew to a close, waves of hot and cold fought like maddened dogs for possession of his body. Free from exaggeration, he was quite literally shivering on the outside while roasting on the inside - witnesses claimed his lips were turning blue and can attest to the shivers. A Florence Nightingale with a cup of tea got him through his class that night, and in no great state, he shuffled off to find an apothecary.

The Wrong Turn.

Now, our man had intended only to procure for himself some painkillers and return to his bed, but in his fevered haste, forgot to visit the pharmacy near his school. Muttering and cursing through the pain, he located what looked like a similar potion-shop close to his home. The sigils on the window matched that on his Health Insurance card, and through the glass he could see rows of gourds and amphorae that looked to contain the medicine he sought. So he went in, and by the grace of a receptionist who spoke his tongue, was shown to a seat to await...what? Someone to mix the drug for him, perhaps, though that seemed strange, for surely ibuprofen should be readily available.

The Physician.

Shortly he found himself called to a room. A Taiwanese with the universal nature of doctors sat him down, and with broken English and mime, the two discussed our hero's symptoms. Then the healer asked him to display his arm. With first one then the other, he ran his fingers over our man's wrists as if he were playing the keys of a piano. This took several minutes, and the man seemed puzzled, perchance because his questing fingers detected our man's long-standing Thyroid disease, of which they had not spoken. Betimes he proclaimed with assured confidence 'You have a head cold.'

The Surprise.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but our hero could have told the quack that without the farce with his wrists. But progress seemed to be being made. Obeying the medicine man, he stood. He had spoken of a stomach complaint, mayhaps the chirurgeon would repeat his trick with the fingers.

And how.

Like a striking cobra, an index finger like a battering ram slammed into our hero's bread-basket. The breath was forcibly and audibly driven from his lungs. Perhaps an old student of the legendary Bruce Lee, was this doc unleashing the feared 'One-Inch Punch'? His vision exploded like New Year's fireworks. As the room swam back into focus, a faraway voice confirmed 'You have gastroenteritis.'

The Cure.

'The why did you hit me in the solar plexus?' One might have been tempted to ask. But our man was in no condition to remonstrate. Instead he was ushered out of the consulting room with the promise of three days medicine. Later, he removed his shirt, fully expecting to see if not a hole, then at least a mark to give evidence to the earlier violence. But there was nothing; indeed, after the agony of the blow had abated, he found that the stomach cramps had gone with them. Three days of taking probably the worst-tasting physick known to man later, all the 'bad airs' had been expunged from his body and head, leaving him feeling as well as ever he had.

Which leads him to wonder...

Could the West learn a trick or two from Chinese Traditional Herbal Medicine?