Screw-ed: Story of a Broken Ankle
Two weeks ago in Bali, on my 30th and last day in Indonesia, I was walking back to collect my backpack and head to the airport for a flight to Japan. On a pavement beside a narrow market street, I barely took a step to cross, when a speeding bike zipped out of nowhere and crashed into my leg. The bike fell and skidded down the road. I escaped a fall. At first, I could not feel my right foot. And then began the throbbing. Someone sat me down, got me water, that I poured over my bruised leg. The rider seemed okay; she asked me if I was. There was no time for blame-game, I just wanted my leg examined. I was helped onto (ironically) a bike taxi, and off I was, right shoe in one hand, the injured leg dangling, to the nearest hospital.
Several formalities and x-rays later, I lay waiting in the emergency room. I could not put the foot down and ardently wished it was just a sprain. Looking back, it feels silly to think I was still hopeful. I limped twice to the medical station, to remind them that I had a flight to catch, and if they could hurry up the results, please. While in my head, I did the math — hospital to hostel, hostel to airport, check-in 60 minutes prior, oh and account for the reduced mobility! I imagined how I would manage in Japan — quickly cure my foot in Tokyo, do less strenuous activities, perhaps postpone my trek (Mount Fuji was on the agenda). Hope is a funny thing!
The right foot was a balloon by now. The orthopaedic doctor showed up finally and put his phone in front of me. I stared at the black and white image of my bones, and he said, “you have at least two fractures in your ankle; oh, and this needs screws, you’ll need a surgery!” And so, miles away from home, in the middle of a two-month long trip, I broke my bones for the first time in life. A hospital emergency room can make you feel grateful in strange ways. During my hours of stay, I heard cries of pain and delirium from beds around me. As I lay wincing, my leg propped up, the constant thought in my head was, “it could have been worse!” Instead of brooding over weeks of cancelled travel, I saw myself thanking my stars for getting away with just a broken foot.
The hospital, strategically located close to Bali’s most touristy areas, was infamous for fleecing tourists who met with accidents (as I learnt later from a chatty cabbie). They quoted an exorbitant sum for the surgery. Meanwhile, my x-ray images reached doctors in India through folks back home (much thanks to WhatsApp). I was told over a remote consultation, “the diagnosis is correct; a surgery is essential; but you have up to a week to get it done; if you can, get yourself back!” With that leeway, and the fact that I was alone, limited to one functional leg, and would need extensive post-surgery care, I decided to promptly return to India. There were no direct flights back unfortunately. I managed to book a connecting Bali — Ho Chi Minh City — Delhi flight for the next afternoon. It was almost 2 AM when I left the hospital, armed with a crutch, my right foot in a makeshift cast.
My last month in Indonesia (spanning the islands of Java, Gili, Lombok, Flores and Bali) was among my most amazing trips. The people made a big difference — everywhere I was greeted with such warmth and friendliness — cheerful hostel staff who helped me get around, always a flurry of hellos from strangers in little neighbourhoods, bus drivers who excused the fare (no change, never mind), free family dinner invites by modest beach-shack owners, and what not. And this was no less after the injury — accommodating hostel owners, kind food delivery guys, helpful cabbies and all the airport wheelchair staff who patiently stopped by washrooms and food joints before dropping me at the gates.
The following day, I paid my last one million Rupiah as fine for overstaying and was off home. Never take your limbs for granted — times like these make you realise the privilege of walking on two feet. The one-legged journey back was exhausting. Airline (lack of) leg space adds to the woes! I got lucky on my first plane with three seats to myself. Though no aerobridge at Ho Chi Minh City meant I had to hop down a flight of stairs. It was mildly amusing to watch the airline attendant escort me, descending backwards with his arms stretched to catch me if I fell! The wheelchair bits were less gruelling, as I guiltily marched through all the special assistance no-queue gates, using my crutch to ward off potential collisions with my oh-so-sensitive foot. Two flights and an overnight cab ride later, I reached my hometown, Dehradun, after a 24-hour odyssey.
It has been a few days now since my surgery — the ankle has been successfully “screw-ed!” Confined to home, I have hours to kill. Messages from well-wishers have been encouraging — “spend good time with family; after months of travel, use this period to rest and reflect; catch up on movies and TV shows; read more; pick up a musical instrument; enjoy the seated baths and weird sleeping positions!”. I fully concur. So far, I have mostly been sleeping, a lot. But I hope to do more over the several weeks of my recovery. Some clichés are worth repeating (and executing!) — when life gives you lemons, make lemonade!
I decided to take a career break last September to travel and explore the world. There was no end-date. Time has flown by, and the last 10 months have been a beautiful experience. I will eventually get back to working, but there is still so much left to see and do. I take this mishap as a blip. The wanderings will resume soon, after this (hopefully) short interruption.
Penning down my travels has long been on my mind. I never found time to sit and write. It took ten and a half months, and a broken ankle to get me to write the first 1,000 words!
