Arriving in India induces immediate sensory overload. Huge crowds, doorless rickshaws, burning trash, spicy foods, abject poverty, animals in traffic, incessant car horns, men holding pinky fingers — everything is different, and baffling, and that’s what’s amazing. By the time I made it to India I was ready for something different in life. So I went seeking new experiences, whatever they might be…not knowing just how big it would deliver.
India is a vast, monstrously populous, and diverse place, and I wanted to see it all. So despite feeling queasy from some questionable meals, today would be spent on a bus, traveling from Delhi up to Amritsar in the far north of India.
And there, two hours into an 11-hour bus ride, I literally and completely shit my pants.
And there, two hours into an 11-hour bus ride, I literally and completely shit my pants. In my adult clothes. On a packed, hot bus. With nine hours left in the halting, soggy trip. “Delhi Belly” had got the best of me, and what I thought was an innocent fart turned out to be the most wretched shit of my life. With wide-eyed surprise, my first thought was, “Holy shit – now THIS is a totally new experience.”
You can’t begin to comprehend how LONG those 9 hours felt. Every bump reminded me of how completely I had just shit myself, and how firmly I was past the age of being an adult. The road was already absurdly windy — like a Dr. Seuss cartoon — and the bus driver seemed to take every mountain curve as a challenge to see how far he could make me slide in my own shit. There was no AC to speak of, and the on-board entertainment was a looped recording of Miss Pooja’s latest Indi-pop song, which blared over and over non-stop for the entire trip.
Would anyone notice my dire stench? Would I get thrown off the bus in the middle of Punjab? Could I be arrested for this level of indecency?
I like to tell myself that no one noticed my condition, given the already significant scent of normal India, but there’s no way that’s true. For the remaining nine hours and countless more stops, not a single person tried to sit next to me. Flies materialized out of thin air to swarm around my seat. I was sure the conversations I could hear in Hindi, and Urdu, and Punjabi were all talking about the dude who just shat himself and couldn’t do anything about it. My only solace was a fresh newspaper, which I “borrowed” from the nice man sleeping across the aisle from me to sit on and absorb some of the squish. Since he was already snoring, I decided my ass had more immediate needs for the newspaper than his lap.
Baring threats to my personal safety, it really couldn’t get worse. For NINE HOURS I sat in it, upright and totally alert, giving in to a traveler’s rock bottom. And yet, being sick and fatigued, and wallowing in my own diarrhea was oddly freeing. When you’re reduced to such extremes there’s a weird process of letting go, of touching that void, and reexamining what you really are.
Certain things just aren’t as important once you’ve spent the equivalent of a work-day in your own dump.
When the bus came to its final stop I was free at last to step off into the fresh chaos of an Indian bus station. Luckily for me, I like the taste of motor coach exhaust and the warmth of crushing mobs, so this place was a welcome surprise. While taking in these surroundings I came to terms with my next realization: I was wearing my only pair of pants.
Being well beyond shock at this point, I made it to my hostel with cold, fixed resolve. I barely noticed how all the lights in the city were off, and thought only briefly about the poor soul to sit in the rickshaw after me. The lobby of my hostel was dark, like every other building in town, because Amritsar is prone to rolling power outages. Nevertheless, I made my way to my room to finally be relieved of my stink. After a long, tepid shower I prepared to do some good old-fashioned laundry-by-hand. This wasn’t one of those hotels that sets out a tiny set of soaps and towels either, so I’d be working with whatever was in my bag. So that night, huddled on my knees in the dark, I scrubbed diarrhea from my blue jeans with men’s shampoo and toilet paper squares.
In Fight Club they ask, “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?” I’d like to add, “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never shit your pants?” India will push you to your limits, and probably one soiled pair of blue jeans past them. But that’s a good thing.
We could all use a little crap in our pants to remind us we are human.
Obliterating your comfort zones can be rewarding, and India is full of these delightful new experiences.