Travelers and Books in India
Last night, we ate supper at the restaurant Cuba, located right on fantastic Palolem Beach at the edge of the Arabian Sea. The waves rolled in, knocking down the last of the eager swimmers as the sun set and the final rays of light vanished into black. Three mid-westerners had caught our attention at our beach hut and we’d been invited to dinner by the one who, in light of his amigos, seemed extremely cool. His two buddies, pre-determined douchebags, required that we concoct an emergency evacuation plan. “I have to go back and take a shit,” might not be the most original excuse in the book but for our purposes would have worked well enough.
We arrived at Cuba ready for travelers dinner conversation, wary that the two dudes might not be cool. It took mere seconds to verify that our predetermination had been correct. One of the first comments out of Douchebag #1’s mouth, on the topic of mistaken identities, was a comment directed to Dev, “They must mistake you for a convenience store owner.” I stared, mouth agape, waiting for a witty and disarming response that never came. (Today Dev told me that he didn’t hear him and had no idea why I was staring at him with the WTF look. I mean, I have no problem antagonizing retarded travelers- I attempted to expound on the virtues of Quebec to a traveling Albertan ex-union busting lawyer after our trio toured the Dharavi slums, and, needless to say, our traveling trio didn’t last very long after that.) Of the traveling buddies out our dinner table, the Hindi speaking, former Dharamsalavolunteering, Golden Gopher who had invited us in the first place earned his traveler badge when he relaxed during the debate over the awesomeness quotient of Nine Inch Nails vs Rage Against the Machine (both playing Lollapalooza this August).
After the name-the-capitol contest and the Thailand tips discussion the “Do you actually believe in the moon landing?” question arose. The original discussion-stopper scoffed, revealing that he’d never known that that was a point of contention until he’d hit the backpackers trail. Along with the various conspiracy theories involving Bush and Osama, he recognized an entirely different conceptualization of America, one he hadn’t learned from the US media or from his education at Michigan. (One might commend him for at least learning something.) Interestingly enough, ask an international dwelling individual living out of backpack about America and you’re bound to find out all sorts of information that the bubble of America filtered and you might have missed.
Now I’ll admit, our team is special. We’ve traveled deep. Our small band of travelers has stayed with friends and family and locals in homestays, been exposed to situations and lifestyles that the tourists don’t see when they check into guest houses. We’ve lived with farm families, learned languages in kitchens, gone on rescue missions with hotel owners, gotten (and given) love advice from (to) locals, drank local alcohols with their brew-masters. We’ve moved off of the beaten path, and then away from the not-so-beaten path and carved our own way through India, creating our own unique route through conversations. We’ve creating bonds with individuals with such information!
But when it all boils down, western traveler’s exposure to the “Other” remains limited to a tourist beat unless the local flavors are sought out with a vengeance. Without relating to the local culture on an even keel or with eyes open to learn instead of teach, the tourist only gets tepid props for venturing out of their polluted holes. Our urban tribe seeks out the unexplored and attempts to discuss other issues with locals instead of squabbling over the finer details of how the west rules the day. (I personally think that that time is over and Americans are just too dumb to realize it. But they’ll understand soon enough…)
It’s uncanny the wealth of information transferred through evening conversations with random people over beers. The exchange of hopes, dreams, dreaded pasts, unknown futures, secure jobs, past and present pursuits, in the two+ months of traveling, the conversations have spanned the limitless potential of topics. More than the question, “what’s your country,” and “what did you do there,” discussions can range from history, sociology, social organization, languages, the US vs Canada, the US vs the EU and the Euro, modern financial matters, the US vs Solar Energy, the Us vs International Education systems…
But between all the travelers, the Dutch, French, German, Spanish, Danish, Swede, Czech, Belorussians, Brits, Portuguese and every other variety we’ve run into- the most important conversations, the litmus test of traveler integrety, really comes down to books. The definition of every travel circuit can be found in the novels, passed hand to hand, throughout the traveling community. The books include only the very best specimen of published words available. With limited space, travelers hoard and trade their treasure with as much passion as they put into searching out their next fantastic meal. This round, I’ve been lucky enough to get my hands on two of the three required readings of India 2008. The novels, usually heavy as bricks, mashed together great stories and fantastic information on India, scrumptiously ingested like home made dal bhat eaten by hand. Traveling wanderers, with little space to spare for extravagance, lug these huge tomes with them, the sacred scrolls of their journey, to be studied and discussed at length with the great variety of transients met along the way.
I’ll begin the list of Required Reading for any India 2008 adventure: Begin with Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance for a nice overview of the qualities of Indian life that are unique to the country and will look completely foreign to the untrained eye. Rich verse and fantastic literature, this read is all encompassing and a balanced joy.
The second edition that is a must is Gregory David Roberts’ wild fictionalized biographical adventure Shantaram. (Currently being made into a movie featuring none other than JONNY DEPP!! I hope it rocks because I couldn’t put the book down!!) Through Shantaram, a traveler will gain the glorious, gory knowledge of Bombay and it’s potential. Not to be missed. And it’s a great read!
These authors have unknowingly scripted the adventures of international bohemians. People who have quit jobs to adventure in the world and invariably have their noses stuffed inside the books they hold so dear, learning even as their physical selves change, adapt and find themselves in unknown circumstances and destinations. Traveling brains absorb the information jammed into the plethora of books passed and read and passed again along the journey. The body, mind and spirit, parched for the unknown when sedate and secure in the land of its forefathers, refuses to allow the torrential downpour of information inundating the banks of its neuropathways to flood, stubbornly swelling as needed and finding respite in intense discussions with perfect strangers and travel buddies.
So after inquiries over beers, judgements form based on simplistic responses to the question “What’s your top 5 books?.” If the two aforementioned book titles come up with at least 40% interest, the individual gets a pass. At dinner last night, after a fantastic meal, the reveal determined Dev’s preliminary prediction: The two Americans didn’t give even one hint of recognition. For the cool one, at least he’d heard of them.
Not Only Red White and Blue Jello
Party Night in Goa
It’s Saturday night at Palolem Beach. If you define paradise as beautiful, long sandy beaches, 50 meters to bath-warm water with frequent tumbling waves, a plethora of restaurants at which to eat succulent fish, beach huts with beds and a shanti shanti attitude with few tourists as the season is about to close, perfect sun and a ridiculously fantastic adventure novel to read, then yes, this is absolute paradise. There’s a band playing on the stage of downtown area, we’ll see how long the party lasts. I’ve heard they have a special 24 hour permit. Or else, like every other night, the music will be cut at 11pm. All thanks to a crazy British lady potentially with a drug problem and a young 14 year old who hadn’t cultivated her street sense.
The tragic events that changed the social cycle of Goa happened early this year. Without going into too much detail, a British woman took her 14 year old daughter out of school to tour India. They settled in Goa, fun town, land of beautiful beaches, 24 hour parties, drugs, alcohol and plenty of other ways to get into trouble. For some reason, and again I don’t really know all the details, the mom left her daughter with some sketchy dudes in Goa while she went off to tour the rest of India and the girl ended up quite violated and dead. Because of this story and a few less horrific others, rules have descended on this part of town. Rules tend to have an adverse effect in areas known for extravagant amounts of fun. So now there’s a sound law and a quiet time and I haven’t been solicited even once. I even did a tour through the town on my own just to see who might approach. It didn’t happen.
But tonight, old Goa is showing off. The end of the season, the monsoons are coming, perhaps there is a bash or two left in this beach town. Tomorrow I’m going to kayak to the little island sheltered in the bay and climb to the top of the mountain. And if I wake up early enough, I’ll do some yoga on the beach while listening to the waves crash against the sand.
No Jellyfish Jello
Don’t Get Screwed by Crooked Cabbies and Tourist Scams
On the way from the Mumbai airport to my friend’s apartment, a cabbie tried to convince me that the fixed rate for our journey was 550 rupees.
Granted, I’m just getting off a plane, and my accent rats me out as a brown-skinned yankee without a clue about local prices in Mumbai. I know it, my cabbie knows it- I’m not on home turf. But I’m not going down without a fight.
First I tried to haggle with him.
I said “what!? that’s horribly expensive! I know this route (complete bullshit, I had no idea where I was, or where we were going) and I know it’s never more than 300 rupees”.
In Hindi he said “What? Nobody will go there for 300 rupees! You can’t do anything in this town for 300 rupees, no way. Final offer 500.”
“No deal no deal, that’s way too expensive. Okay, you’re a nice guy, I’ll give you 400, that’s my last offer, no higher than that.”
“No, 500, last price”.
At this point I stopped to think. I have no idea what things cost in and around Mumbai, but I realized that for less than the price he was asking for, I had gotten from Gangtok in Sikkim, all the way across the state of West Bengal to Kolkata. Something just wasn’t right. Even for a crooked cabbie, this had to be an absurd rip off. But without a basic knowledge of the pricing in Mumbai it was impossible for me to know how much was reasonable. So I resolved to ask some locals at our stop how much it should cost to get there from the airport. I told him to hang on, that I was looking for some change.
I got three responses, all under 200 rupees.
“You tried to cheat us!” I shouted. ”You said 550 just because you know we’re not from around here! You’re a CROOK!”
Meanwhile he’s just wobbling his head like an apologetic fool as his taxi cab brothers laugh at him for getting caught red-handed and at me, for making a scene and yelling at him in choppy Hinglish. I tossed him 125 rupees and marched off, triumphant. He grabbed my arm and said I owed him a few more, according to the meter, and since I didn’t want to get into a fight with this guy, (he grabbed me with some vigor) I shelled it out. In total I gave him 180,
I’ve heard of too many westerners getting caught up in scams and crooked deals that, more often than not, begin right outside the airport. A wide-eyed Westerner gets off the plane, ready for all the spiritual enlightenment he can soak up from whatever romantic ambitions he’s laid out for his journey to ultimate truth. He seeks to find himself, to wear flowy cotton kurtas and eat with his hands, to meditate on the merits of polytheism and tantric sex while sitting cross legged on the banks of the Ganges, musing on his newfound oneness with everythingness, communing with dread-locked sadhus while smoking hash mixed with dried cow feces and dead bugs. Oh yeah, these Westerners invent some pretty cute notions for themselves about the spiritual splendors awaiting them in the far far east.
But the second these wide-eyed little rabbits hit the pavement they just get worked over by a pack of jackals, all hungry and salivating. These jackals drive the cabs, offer guided tours, run guest houses that are always full, man innocent looking rickshaws, and send children to beg you for change as they put their hands near their mouths and rub their bellies and squeak in pitiful voices “food! hungry! food!”. These predators know what they’re up against. They’re fully versed in the products of circumstance, and they are not afraid to cold call you face to face, right there on the street. And as these poor rabbits watch their entrails get chewed to bits by a swarm of hungry, bloody mouths, the truth sets them free. So this is India.
You’re in the jungle now you pasty fuck! You better pull yourself together and come to grips with the facts. If you’re not doing the hunting, you’re getting hunted.
So, what can you do to protect yourself from getting screwed?
Don’t believe anyone who advises you NOT to get second opinions. Anyone who says that all the guest houses in Delhi (or whereever) are full is lying to you. Any cabbie who says there’s no meter today, fixed price only, is lying to you. Any tour guide who says that all the trains are booked is lying to you. Don’t take it personally, just know what you’re getting into, there’s a billion people in India and if you’re from the west and have the ability to travel to India in the first place, you have more money at your disposal than 95% of everyone in the country, but without any of street smarts. Always ask someone else for a second opinion, or a third. I’d advise approaching locals and just asking them what they think about this deal, whatever it may be. NEVER get into a cab right out of the airport without having a fixed address and some landmarks that you know are close by to your address. This is crucial. You must know where you’re going from the airport, don’t give them a chance to take you to their crooked guest house operators so they can take a cut from you getting ripped off. Go somewhere specific, anywhere, but don’t just ask a cabbie to take you to a guest house. It’s a recipe for disaster.
I heard this one story about two 19 year old girls, fresh from Canada, who got off the plane in New Delhi in the middle of the night and got into a cab without knowing where they were going. They asked the driver to find them a guest house. He told them to wait in the car as he went in and checked for them at different hotels and hostels, saying that it wasn’t safe for them to be outside at night. Sure enough, the first guest house was full, then the second, then the third, then the fourth, then they realized that of course, all the guest houses/hotels in Delhi are full. They would logically have to go Aggra… Four hours away. Of course, all trains to Aggra were full, so they would naturally need to hire a private car to get them there. This con artist was able to convince these brainless Canadians to buy a cell phone and call him whenever they needed anything. They finally had to escape from this guy on a train, which I am told was not easy, after realizing that they were getting fucked over. This guy would not stop calling them for weeks after their escape, and they could not return to Delhi because they were afraid of being found.
Just be smart you crazy kids, know what you’re getting into. I love India and its people, but I would be careful about harboring any romantic notions that separate this place from the west in character. These people need to make a dime, and they’re going to turn to you cuz you look and sound like a sucker. Be polite, be friendly, but keep your wits and your wallet close at hand.
-Das
The Lepcha be dammed….
When I arrived in Gangtok, my first mission was to find the Hotel Potala, a dingy, poorly-lit mold farm on Tibet road that, though quite disgusting in its tastes and smells, is the only hotel of its kind that offers a hot shower (available occasionally), the treasure of cable television, and a room for up to 3 people for only 300 rupees a night. When I wasn’t walking around the city, I was smoking in my room and watching documentaries about bears on the National Geographic Channel, a real treat after spending so much time in rural areas. (did you know that the asiatic black bear is farmed in china for its bile? look, I’m telling the truth! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bile_bear)
On my way out to the bazaar, I kept seeing this demonstration of strikers, protesting the building of some dams on the Teesta River. Every time I’d walk to and from the hotel, I’d see some Buddhist monks or activists lying on a bed under a plastic tarp, taking strike shifts until the Sikkimese government halted operations on these dams. It was hard to really understand what was going on from their sloppy, hand painted propaganda, but the installation worked. No longer were bears running through my head during my free minutes. I had to know what this dam protest thing was all about, so I started asking questions and picked up some reading material. The more I learned, the more fucked up it got.
The people lying under the plastic tarp are hunger strikers. They’ve eliminated solid food from their diets since June, 2007! At first I found this a little hard to believe, but sure enough, some of these guys have iv’s in their noses, getting liquid nutrients pumped into their bodies to offshoot death from malnutrition for a few more months.
The protesters of this dam project have many faces, but it’s the Lepcha, an indigenous tribe of nature worshippers who were granted protected, “primitive tribe” status by the Indian government, who are making the most noise. They’re the ones leading the hunger strike charge, and the ones who will pay the most if these dams get built. Their cultural, religious, and economic holy land of Dzongu sits right on the Teesta river and the white collars of Gangtok hope to tap this unlimited flow of liquid power to meet the demands of New Delhi’s increasingly unmanageable power ambitions.
According to the Lepcha, these hydropower plants threaten to destroy the ecosystem on which the Lepcha Reserve depends for everything; farming, shelter, drinking water, the revenue from eco-tourism, it’s all going down the drain if the Teesta gets dammed in Dzongu. And aside from the practical problems, there’s also the issue of sacrilege, the Teesta being the Lepcha’s holy river, that ignites more and more anger among the indigents.
It’s a weird spot they’re in. While Lepcha organizers and religious leaders have been trying to raise a big fuss about this whole thing, the Sikkimese government simply approached the actual owners of the properties, who are largely illiterate, sustenance farmers, and offered gifts in exchange for land acquisition. These Lepcha landowners accept the immediate bribes and incentives held out right in front of them by the government, however meager they might be, and question why they would concern themselves with the ambiguous risk of ruin that would happen a whole 20 years from now. The Lepcha who are agreeing to give up their land or relocate stand to lose much more in the long run than they gain from the government incentives. They get persuaded with the immediate gratification from these bribes, but the ones really benefiting from this project are the engineers, politicians, business owners, etc. who are overseeing the project, almost all of whom live in Gangtok and almost none of whom belong to the Lepcha tribe.
I was lucky enough during my stay in Gangtok to spend some time with one of the engineers working on this water project. What a gentleman! He gave me a room for the night in his four story house, let me use his computer and his internet connection, fed me two meals, and let me watch movies on his dvd player, projected onto a white wall in my room. He didn’t express too many strong feelings on the Lepcha problem, he said they were upset because we were building dams on the “Jerusalem of the Lepcha”, and so of course they would be upset. But there’s only two real sources of income for Sikkim as a state, tourism and hydropower. He hopes that they can both have the right of way.
I also had the privelege of spending three nights in restricted Dzongu the last time I was in India. Because I was doing research, I was granted some pretty exclusive (and expensive) access to the Lepcha reserve. I’ve never seen any place so harmoniously in tune with nature. No cars, no plastics, no pavement, no uglniness really, just a lush permaculture farming community that keeps as much greenery around them as possible. Everything looked like it belonged there, and it was hard to tell where houses began and forests ended. Everywhere I walked I could hear the sound of flowing water, and not much else. I’m wondering what this place is going to look like after they bring in all that concrete.
See for yourself.
http://weepingsikkim.blogspot.com/
-Das
Holy Cow! It’s definitely chewy…
The guest house director/head waiter/cleaning staff/tour guide/19 year old ambassador of the one and only restaurant in Mangan, Northern Sikkim saunters over to our table wearing his best Britney Spears t-shirt and sweatpants. He tilts his head in the sideways nod that, in this particular situation, means he wants to know what my companion and I want to order. He also fills the quintessential position of sou chef and official bartender. How about chicken butter masala, egg curry, garlic prawns, plain rice, two beers and veg pakora (fried veggie patties that look like mini hockey pucks with green and orange slivers throughout the tan, fried deliciousness). The interaction includes lots of pointing to the menu. Again, the sideways head nod. With a slight smugness he reveals the current secret of the town and probably a big reason why the two of us were the only tourists in this tiny one street village: No fish. No chicken. No eggs. No beer. Tikk (fine)- veg pakora. I look at my friend. So what is there to eat after 90% of the presented menu instantly becomes unavailable? There’s bird flu in Sikkim. All the chickens and their unborn omelets have been slaughtered. It’s definitely time to get creative knowing full well that experimentation can only go so far when pork remains mostly off-limits due to a quasi-religious self-imposed dietary selection. And is also mostly unavailable.
Three days, two nights, one restaurant: So what’s your beef? Presenting the Top 5:
5. Beef momos
4. Beef chillie
3. Pork sizzler (if the adjoining party eats the pork and leaves the veggies and rice around it)
2. Beef curry
1. Beef roll
*************And now presenting the first goballsdeep survey!!!**************** (from someone who doesn’t eat lowly bottom feeders or cloven hooved beasts, except the occasional sice of baccon at breakfast or a juicy lobster at any opportunity while visiting family in New Brunswick)
Silly Question: Is pork, in fact, the other white meat? Or is that just false advertising? And as a follow up: If a person’s diet consists of only white meat and someone eats pork thinking that he is following the food rules which could go one way or the other depending on the outcome of question #1, can he sue? This is a serious conundrum.
Sikkim is the only state in India, so far, where beef has been available to order. Indian cows walk unphased through the throngs of bikes, rickshaws, cars and trucks that clog the highways of New Delhi and Hindus risk their lives to save their four legged, milk-producing friends.
Sikkim, in the Eastern most part of India, happens to make sacred cow parts available for mastication. It is of poor quality, tough, presented as chewy morsels in various sauces and toppings. A wise man explains that Sikkimese cows work their whole lives pulling plows in the fields, using their muscles daily as opposed to slowly fattening up on quality green grass and feed (while hopefully escaping injections of BGH). Westerners, with a grandiose sense of entitlement, treat their cows specifically to gorge themselves on thick, juicy, fatty, delicious slices of tissue. In Sikkim, we travelers injest the three times daily Mangan diet of tough bovine protein as a blessing. At least there is something to eat.
beef jello - not available
Go Stealthily with a View
Feel that blissful satisfaction of all your weight in your rump, leaned back with the new Maxim magazine (man, that girl is hot!), the sun shining through the window illuminating you, on the pot, taking the perfect morning dump. …mmm… Now take away the book and the toilet and what’s left- a hole in the ground (sometimes porcelain) with two foot pads, a bucket and some sort of water procuring mechanism, usually a faucet. But you definitely still have to go. In this case, urgently, the body demands release. The strident internal clamor, the crushing abdominal pain won’t calm until- with perfect balance, knees bent into a crouch, bum hovering in position just over the hole- the duty is done. A productive session, pleasant, accomplished.
The case against using coloured toilet paper circulated in the ’90s and my family enjoys the white, two-ply, quilted variety. The post-grad youngish 20 year-olds enjoy the cheap kind while sometimes leaving the door open in order to continue an ardent discussion. After the hole, however, no fluffy or scratchy paper products are to be found. Enter in the faucet and bucket (or bucket/cup combination) from stage right… or stage left… And using *only* your left hand, either reach over or under and then fill the mug and splash splash splash. Oh yes, it’s wet down there. And clean. Which is nice because the water could be anywhere as one’s aim is a skill mastered over time and trial. But an effective alternative method of doing it. We all must. Daily feels best. Or more often if your dinner didn’t sit well, or at all, in your stomach.
Western style toilets exist, curiously, they are more often paired with the faucet, which doesn’t really make sense, because the position of the body and the toilet is off and everything just gets wet. Conversely, the hole in the ground with the paper is equally unappealing. Everywhere you go, it’s a surprise combination to be mastered.
Toilet situations can vary from dire to extremely pleasing. When the crazy bus with the broken windows and random iron pole jutting out from the side, (bobbing up and down with every bump threatening to decapitate whomever in its vicinity) pulls over to a random chia stop, one should avoid all giant puddles of “mud.” Hold your breath when you enter the dark chamber with rusty lock and your headlamp, if you remembered to take it out of your bag you left with your exhausted friends, will illuminate the little box in which you do your business. I’d estimate that about 40% of toilet visits are regular bathroom experiences with nice rooms, painted walls, art perhaps, a shower of some sort… But then I’d argue that the most enjoyable of Asian bathroom experiences have an aspect more magical than even the sexiest magazine might ever provide.
Sometimes, while traveling in this part of the world, you look out the window of your commode and see a vast expanse of beautiful nature revealed without any visual interference. No buildings, or power lines, or garbage, just green lush mountains with tiered rice fields, pink and red rhododendron forests tumbling down the vast spaces in front of you. Lots of air. You look out into the abyss and down against the hillside, built up with buildings or farmed, or colourful prayer flags. Or the most clear view of Annapurna at dawn with the cauldron below its peek visible for the very first time. Just amazing views. From the bathroom! The best views are always in the bathroom. If you can keep your balance, aim correctly and manage not to drench yourself with water while cleaning off, that view can be yours to keep as an imprint in your memory while doing your business. Using all variations of facilities, the views are spectacular.
ooo jello
Premonition
I knew the cow would be born last night. We traveled by night bus, crossed a border, took a rickshaw, boarded a jeep, spent the night in a nasty hotel complete with dead cockroach in the corner, walked a mile and a half with all of our bags to the little room next to the pregnant cow who was due any day. I knew the cow would give birth that night. We had arrived just in time.
In India, cows coexist with the army, traffic insanity, they eat garbage, they have a special holiday where people dress and greet them and feed them holiday foods. They are worshiped and blessed. On the night of our arrival in Kalimpong, a cow was born. There was electricity in the air, and lightning. It was beshert, it was meant to be. Animals give birth at night during lightning. At least that’s how it happens in books. We awoke to a beautiful new day and an adorable new life.
jello
i threw up…
Okay, I’m sorry to whoever had to clean up the mess I made. Please allow me to explain myself.
Everything was going fine until the third day. First two days up, my walk was strong, I was chugging along at a good clip, enjoying the vistas of Himalayan splendor, everything was in its right place. But then, on that awful third day, the mountain gods sent some malicious bacteria to infect my stomach, probably through the vehicle of bad eggs, and my goose was cooked. First the fever hit me, then body ache, then nausea, then diarrhea. By the time i got to the last leg of the walk to gorepani, from where we would summit the next morning, I was working harder to keep my fluids inside me than i was to keep my pack up and my body going. Each stair became a summit of its own, and the diabolical nature of the mountain, constantly insinuating that my walk would be over soon and then revealing a dozen more stories to go, was turning my mind to soup.
But no microbial henchmen of the mountain deities could quash my relentless resolve, my unquenchable drive for personal bad-assness. i WOULD make it up, without question, and that was all there was to it.
I took it one step at a time, just one more step and then rest, and then again, just one more fucking step, and then relief. I paused to lean on a tree every now and again, my body was ready to hurl, my mouth even salivated in vomitory anticipation, but alas nothing came from my empty retching. I kept going until I got to the heart of town, where I asked a kind trekking guide where i could find the nearest bathroom. He paused to think. At this point my body let me know there was no time to think. Just find a place, any place, and let it go. I left the pondering trekking guy standing there, trying my hardest to keep it together. I found an inn that had a bathroom in it for certain, it’s an inn for god’s sake, there has to be a bathroom but to my astonishment, there was a lock on it. I knew that if I tried to move in any direction, i would explode. I asked a kid who was sweeping the floor to bring me the key at once. This was a smart kid, he could read my face, he knew that i was working very hard to keep it together, and he ran and got that key as fast as he could. I fumbled with the lock and and shoved the door open. But once I got in there, nothing could stop the force that was bubbling this entire time. I threw up all over that fucking bathroom. Each retch brought on a ghoulish shriek as my stomach pumped its contents out of me in these awful spurts. I tried my best to clean it up, but it was all over the place. The damage was done. When I got out of the bathroom, the whole room was staring. I just shot out of there like a thief on the run… my bad.
I don’t throw up often, but when i do, I almost always manage to do it somewhere bad. In this case at least i made it to the bathroom. I’ve thrown up in bed, on the couch, in my shower, in museums, at the opera, on the dentist chair, in veterinary clinics, hair salons, internet cafes, in line at starbucks, while sitting at the dinner table, the list goes on. Rarely do the contents of my stomach, when expelled, reach the toilet where they should probably go. But maybe that’s the point of throwing up, letting it all just flood out into a mess wherever, whenever. It’s not supposed to be pretty. Though i do always manage to produce an interesting palette of colors.
-Das
