"So, what are you up to this summer?"

First off, let me tell you about a little marvel of the modern world known as inoculation.
I've been told about a scene in some gross horror movie where a torture victim is thrown into a pool full of hypodermic needles and has to swim his way out.
While that's a nice grisly image to hold with you, what I have been going through in order to safely travel to India is nowhere near that traumatic. It has, however, kept me well occupied in between figuring out which shots to get, when and from whom, and finally getting that gratifying stab. I also get to tell people that I'm taking psychosis-inducing malaria drugs, but more on that later.

The first paperwork hurdle any UO student going abroad must jump is the travel consultation through the University's health center, otherwise known as The Talk. This is so they can tell you about which vaccinations you should consider getting as well as warn you of what I call the three R's: Rape, Robbery, and the Runs. (Listed in order of increasing probability that they will happen to you when you least expect it.) In addition to these pearls of wisdom, they also give you some spare hypodermic needles, in case you miss being poked while abroad and want to do it when you're alone in your room at night swaddled in mosquito netting in your third-world country of choice.

Before I start complaining about needles and surreal clinics, however, I would just like to point out that every time I see one of those cute little bottles of dead virus being sucked into a syringe, I get a sick feeling of gratitude. Fifty years ago, I would not be able to put myself at the mercy of the three Rs in developing nations without contracting vile diseases. Thanks to technology, the long list of scary things I might contract in India is vastly diminished, and it still amazes me that we can prevent death or a lifetime of debilitation with such a simple procedure. Of course, I don't feel quite so thankful once the burning pain establishes itself in my arm, making me wonder why I couldn't have an adventure in, say, Canada.

Anyway, the upshot (haha, shot, get it?) of The Talk is this: I'll need vaccinations for Japanese encephalitis, polio, Hepatitis A, rabies and meningitis for my three months in a densely populated country infested with mosquitos. Unfortunately, thanks to the wise and all-knowing Invisible Hand of the Free Market, the drug companies that make the Japanese encephalitis and rabies shots are all out at the moment. Vaccinations are being rationed. I'm given a list of twenty clinics in the area to call and check with.

So here's where I begin officially logging "India-adventure" stories. Getting most of the shots from the UO was no problem, and after the fourth of fifth call, I find a clinic that says they "should" be able to provide me with the necessary three doses of the encephalitis vaccine. Nobody has the rabies one. (Must remember not to pet dogs that are foaming at the mouth.)
I set up a time with the doctor at the off-campus travel clinic and, after winding my way through about a mile of white corridors in the medical building, find the suite with its abundance of postcards, National Geographic Travel magazines, and little bottles of DEET (highly toxic, but effective, mosquito repellant that will become my new signature fragrance in a few weeks).

Two things disturb me slightly about this place:

1. The receptionist. Skeleton-like, with long, grey, unkempt hair, she speaks in an erethreal tone of voice that makes me wonder why she needs to type on her computer's keyboard instead of simply controlling it with her mind. Over the course of the three visits, she alternates between treating me as a highly valued client and the biggest annoyance of her day. Strange, because I would have assumed that the giant moonstone pendants around her neck would have brought her more peace than that.

2. The video. This is the point where I start feeling like Alice in Wonderland. The receptionist leads me down yet another sterile hallway into an exam room. There's a silver television in the corner, and she pushes a few buttons to start a DVD. "Watch the video," she murmurs before leaving me alone. A cheesy home movie starring a rotund, grey-beared doctor comes on. I'm instantly bored by what turns out to be a variation on The Talk, and take the opportunity to assess my surroundings. Taped to the television is a small, printed sign with two pieces of advice: "If things in the video seem funny, just ignore it" and "Don't look for the red or yellow buttons."
Umm, ok.
I pick up a travel magazine to help me ignore the video. The doctor pops out of the screen and appears next to me. "Please watch the video," he instructs. Actually, he walked through the door, but he looks exactly the same as his miniature version on the screen. We watch the rest of the video together. Nothing seems funny, and no mention is made of buttons, red or green. Too bad I spent so much time looking for them.

Despite the doctor's creepiness, I trust him more than the UO health center nurse, and the malaria-pill part of our discussion is actually useful. There are several options for preventing malaria, it turns out, one of which is NOT a vaccine (if one more ignorant person asks me this question I will probably cry; malaria kills three million people per year for a reason). Most travelers opt for doxycycline, a daily pill with high incidents of side effects including nausea, sun sensitivity and yeast infections, or the slightly more effective mefloquine, which has a lower overall risk of side effects but can induce nausea and "central nervous system effects". After talking over the nature of my trip and medical history, Doc seemed to think mefloquine was the better option. I would only need to take it once a week, I could try it out before I left to see how I reacted, and I wouldn't have to avoid being outside (tough on a farm) or deal with more stomach issues than necessary. "Ok," I tell him, "why not?"

I can't conclude anything about mefloquine yet, but I have to say I'm excited. Looking through the literature, it looks like I could experience anything from depression and anxiety to vivid dreams or nightmares and hallucinations (assuming I fall into the 14% of test subjects who experience any sort of psychological side effect). One girl who went to India told me about a travel buddy who was on a hike and stopped suddenly in her tracks, refusing to take another step "until all the slugs and leeches go away". Other articles describe life-changing visions or simply fascinating nighttime adventures.
I took my test pill on Tuesday. That night, I couldn't sleep out of pure anxiety over having bad dreams. Then my insomniac sister called and put my fears to rest by warning repeatedly of the "man sitting by your bed" (thanks, Tanja).
The next night was better, with no dreams at all. Spending my days reading books in the Oregon sunshine, writing, working a few hours and hanging out with my friends is not very depressing or anxious, so I'm not going to even try to keep track of that. Last night, I woke up from a bad dream, remembered the pill, and told myself to cut it out. Then I had a funny dream and woke up chuckling. Not bad.

So, sore-armed and not yet crazy, I look forward to the next three weeks, needle free, before my departure. Plan: narrow down thesis topic, find a professor to oversee my research, finish the eighty books I started, review Hindi and relax. If things start looking funny, I think I'll take the ol' doctor's advice and just ignore it.