Coughing through Durban

Durban is an Indian town on the Indian Ocean on the bottom of Africa. Last night four Plotniks watched the full moon rise off the ocean from deck chairs at their funkiest of backpacker hotels. The sound of the crashing waves was a lullaby all night long for Plotnik and Ducknik, and this morning they sat up in bed to see dolphins swimming with surfers in the green ocean below.

A cough that refuses to die and a throat that isn't sore but isn't not sore either is crimping Plotnik's style a bit. He has tried The Great FiveHead's grandmother's recipe of gargling apple cider vinegar, salt and hot water. He has tried The Great Ducknik's grandmother's antidote of drinking bourbon. He has tried The Great PunkyDunky's idea of filling up a sink with drops of tea tree oil and covering his head with a towel and inhaling it all in. The Indian man at the pharmacy sold him a cough medicine that smells like a gas lawn mower.

None of it works. The only remedy in the world is Mummy Plotnik's chicken soup plus a side of brisket and noodles. Only it. Nothing else. Keep your damned lawn mower syrup. Please. Back to Cape Town tomorrow night.