I shat my pants...

TLDR; I ate train food. I went to monkey temple in 48 degree heat. I shoved some men on a motorbike. I cried. I held a man's hand. I saw spiderman. I shat my pants. I went to hospital. They hooked me up to a drip. They took my temperature. They gave me medicine. They took my blood. They took my urine. They said he I was sodium/potassium deficient. They prescribed a coconut. They sold me chai. They gave me chai. They sold me chai. They gave me chai. They made me eat dhal. I felt grateful, I felt love. I felt judgemental. I felt one/many.

The combination that lead to my downfall in Jaipur is a complex one. I won't bore you with the details of my physical demise, but rather I will reflect on my spiritual Dark Night of the Soul. I came to India with the naive belief that I was capable of loving every being on this planet. This may be possible, but I experienced a lot of negative vibration toward my brothers and sisters of Indian culture, and I've become comfortable with the term hate. This is shocking to me.

My ego received a massive assault. I was faced with the apparent reality that nobody "got" me, and I really didn't want to accept that Indian people were how I perceived them.  After 6 weeks of travel in India and Nepal, I had grown beyond weary of fending off merchants, beggars and tuktuk drivers, staring down those sleazy boys who stared at Lauren, talking about Maxwell and Bailey who apparently play some perverted form of cricket, and turning down guides. Deep down I wanted to trust everyone and connect respectfully with real people without feeling like they are taking something from me.

After back to back long-haul train rides, the tickets for which we had to fight hard for, I was destroyed. When the mercury hit 48, I obliterated my breaking point. Lauren and I were foolishly taking our hosts advice of seeing the sights of Jaipur by Tuktuk. We would get 15 steps in to a temple, be confronted by young men who wanted "only talking, no money", and a large climb to get to the point of apparent interest. We had no interest. I started to snap. Some boys blocked our path, 3 of them on a motorbike to ask Lauren got a photo. Lauren yelled at them and they laughed. I gave one of them a hefty shove, almost tipping their bike over. They were younger boys seemingly taunting these tourists at their wits edge. I hurled the rest of my Sprite bottle off the cliff into the graveyard for plastic, known as any natural space in India. I despised this mess, but I felt helpless and infuriated. India had made me this. I was drinking soft-drink as I felt I needed sugar and couldn't trust that the fresh fruit juice would be clean. I trusted it would be anything but. This lashing out was foolish in that there were two of us, and potentially 1 billion Indians with phones who may be waiting at the entrance to the monkey temple.

Fortunately we made it back to the TukTuk in one piece, to find monkeys riding pigs and ramming our vehicle. That's India. We woke our driver and demanded that he take us to the cinema, where we could at least take respite in air conditioning. No temples. Please. I was feeling outrageously heat-struck and nauseous. I needed a release and I began to ball my eyes out, crying deep from within every fibre of my being. During this time of self-pity, I experienced a moment of unity, of empathy for the beings who were out on the street every day, covered in flies and faeces, diseased, disfigured and disempowered. I am them. Yet I receive mercy. They approach me with an open hand, and I turn away with disdain. I am wretched. A beggar. Yet I can escape. They cannot. The Injustice! I felt it, in a real way. It propelled me into mourning. I asked Lauren to pay the driver 100 more than his asking price, rather than the 100 less that we agreed upon. I was allowed to go in to the temple, aka the ritzy cinema, to collapse in a heap of sweat, tears and misery, sobbing into the couch. He got to go home to his rubbish pit. I deserved the floor, like the lowest caste on the train, dirty and disfigured, but I was taken by the hand to the gentlemens room to freshen up. I desperately wanted an Indian man to know why I am crying so wretchedly. That I finally get how it is for them. But they don't like to see a man like this. They offer me medicine. I decline.

After wetting my face and shoulders, I suddenly become an icicle. My body went in to shock. I was both hot and cold and shivering uncontrollably. Nothing was under my command that day. I felt it best to cry, to grieve and to distract myself from my physical condition, but I held it together for the sake of society. Lauren and I watched half of Spiderman 2 in 3D in Hindi, whilst giving our all to mediatation, energy channelling and basic distraction methods to control my shivering. I even employed laughter yoga techniques at inappropriate intervals. Suddenly, the film stopped, I laughed, and we left the room for intermission and some sunlight streaming from the window.

Upon commencement of part 2, I announced to my wonderful wife that I needed to go to the bathroom, and that perhaps I might need the toilet paper. She understandably pointed out that we were in the wealthiest facility that we had visited, and that they would have a supply. She was wrong. After this investigation, I decided that I would relieve my bladder at the urinal before doing recon for paper supplies. Whilst urinating, I noticed two things. The first thing was that my urine was still extremely dark. The second thing that I noticed was a curious warm feeling around the back of my thighs which indicated to me that I was not just pissing, I was also shitting uncontrollably. OH NO! NO, NO, NO! After a sub-standard cleaning attempt, I deposited my underwear and a handkerhief in the tiny waste bin under the vanity. Margaret Croft always told Gavin to carry two handkerchiefs with him at all times. I'm glad I took this on. Upon exiting the facility, I found Lauren and said "We've got to go". I loudly, and proudly exclaimed to any listening ears that "I SHAT MY PANTS". We laughed. We could do no other.

We quickly contacted our host who drove me to the best hospital in Jaipur, where I checked in to the Executive Premium Deluxe Suite and was administered a lovely IV drip, antibiotics and all the things that I have polarised against. It was an extremely humbling experience, for which I am grateful, but I hope it never happens to you, or to me again.

Lauren: wow. What a day. It was horrendously hot and humid and extra polluted day. When Daniel lost his shit, metaphorically initially, I wasn't surprised. But it was so extreme! He literally sobbed for about half an hour on the way to the cinema, and every bump in the road that the tuktuk bounced off only seemed to shake some me new heartache and accompanying tears into Daniel. He couldn't speak, not coherently anyway, and seemed to be in pain and could barely drink water. If I hadn't felt so nautious myself I probably could have offered more sympathy but as it was I managed to get the driver to go slowly over all the bumps and just hoped that some cool air would help Daniel settle. Instead, he got too cold, started shivering and sobbing more and freaked out a bunch of rich Indians who didn't know what to do with the hysterical, sick, upset white guy.  Spider man already didn't have much going for it but in Hindi, with no subtitles, in 3D, in a freezing cinema it was to much for Daniel's bowels. I was just starting to get into the film when it was paused for intermission and Daniel went to the toilet. When he walked out of the men's room he fist pumped the air like the star of a John Hughes 80s romance and exclaimed "I shat my pants" at the top of his lungs. Wow. What an announcement. I didn't know if I more disappointed at realising I would not be finding out whether Spidey would conquer the crazy electro guy, or that I was not going to get the other 2 hours of air con we had paid for. 

The hospital was amazing. Our host was amazing. And three days staying in beautiful air conditioning with room service was pretty fantastic too. I even had my own bed! 

The lesson for me - and all of you - this is the face of a man about to shit his pants. 

on India and Indians...

Hi Buddies. Daniel signing in for a post.

Its strange that we have been away for a month. Time has past both quickly and slowly. It seems forever ago that we were in Rishakesh rising before the sun, lying in the yoga hall listening to the howling wind coming off of the Himalayas while pigeons fought for their rightful position on the roof and we waited for our teacher to lead us into the class with a sleepy yet resounding Om, Shanti, Shanti, Shanti - we break our silence and our day begins. Later we would be sipping mint lemonades and planning businesses in amazing cafes overlooking the beautiful blue River Ganga while other seekers shared ideas or read Eckhart Tolle over their chai masala and cigarette. 

Since then we have been hot and hateful in the Himalayas and Varanasi. It has been an extremely testing time. It is easier to be loving, forgiving, to see the divine in the other brother, when I have rest, a shower, air conditioning, reliable electricity and WiFi. I have struggled to choose India and Nepal for exactly what it is and everything that it isn't. We have been extremely short with beggars, merchants, children and particularly guides and drivers, who want to rip you off most of the time. My rackets about these people, I hold on to tightly. I hope that in time I will remember in my heart all of the kindness that we received, because right now I am for the first time, feeling justifyably racist.

We have met many great travelers who will host us across Europe and Canada. I will tell you about some great Indian people.

In Rishakesh we met Happy, who used to work for the Indian Mafia, but he couldn't honour his parents and God in this work. He exposed the Dehli scam to us. He is a Siek but he has a Hindu goddess in his massage parlour. He explains that she is the Mother God, that God is One but has many faces and he likes that face. He says we pray to the Father but we must honour the Mother which to me means Earth. If all people thought this way, the cows here wouldn't be eating garbage and the river would flow cleanly even to Varanasi, where suewage and burnt corpses now dominate the Ganga. Things would be better in Australia too.

In Kathmandu we met a man named Milan, who is building a guesthouse in a small village for homestay purposes. He connected us with Deve and we stayed with this farmer whose future looks like president of the jungle conservation board and his village, a successful organic farmer, educator and community developer. His past was civil war, seeing his friend killed by the Maoists for doing social work, being forced to earn money so he could be taxed, working for a dollar a day in tourism restaurants and having his wife and daughter move to India because money is better there. His present is a simple room, one light bulb, a wonderful view if the fire ever stops and monsoon comes, climbing mountains, building his pig and goat farm and learning what your meant to do with these strange coffee trees that the Germans brought. He needs $150 for a male pig so he can breed pigs. He doesn't need a male goat. One takes ones goat herd to the jungle to get the job done. Its economical.

We stayed with another Deve in Varanasi, a Couch Surfing fanatic. When he arrived in Varanasi, he began to observe the silk and textile market that Varanasi is famous for. He watched tourists being taken advantage of by guides, who would take westerners to their friends' shops. We would pay 10x the market price for fake pashminas etc and the guide would get a nice commission. This would happen on boats, rickshaws, hotels, everything. He wanted to save tourists, and he found couch surfing. He took us to all of the must see spots in one day, had a saree made for Lauren and trousers and shirt tailored for me by an honest, passionate Muslim man for a wedding that were fortunate enough to be esteemed guests at. He has found all of the honest traders in town so his guests will not be exploited. I have seen that life is cheaper in the villages than it is in the cities, which is cheaper than Australia. The weavers in the villages receive a little, but all of Devs contacts are connected and have their needs met. Now, having hosted over 200 couch surfers, he has contacts all over the world. Soon he will begin to export silk, pashmina, textiles etc to his friends. Now he has Australian contacts too. You can check out his website. We would love to know which items you like (market research).www.facebook.com/zuranutancollections

Deve says that the love that Lauren and I have for each other inspired him to reunite with his Ukrainian girlfriend Zoryana. I think it's that we called him on his romantic bullshit and encouraged him to take action and communicate.

We left Varanasi to see the Taj Mahal. We chose an unairconditioned sleeper train overnight, having learnt our lesson in taking second class, where children of lower castes are made to sit on your feet with their mum and fat moustachioed men push you from all sides as your sweat coats your sweat again and again. Its brutal.


[I'd like to mention here that during said lesson, whilst being crushed by the weight of anti-birth control beliefs and the exploding Indian poplulation (not to mention the over population of the luggage hook in our faces), Lauren and I managed to have a romantic moment - sharing headphones, listening to I Can't Stand it by Wilco from their Summer Teeth Album, looking each other in the eyes and stealing a kiss, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all]

The trains stop for no reason, sometimes for hours. In the middle of the night on sleeper class, I woke up to realise that the train had a lot more Indians on it compared to when we first boarded and consequently it smelt like shit. Lauren was on a lower bunk, a mistake - she has to fight off the Indian boys who want to sit on a western girls bed because they think it will become a porno. At least that's what we've been told.

This train arrived 5 hours late, a grand total of 18 hours travel and waiting time (which is used for men to try desperately to be bumped up, buy and spit tobacco while their teeth rot, and vendors to pimp their rubbish or maybe some yummy pakora or chai).

If it was 1982 and I was writting a letter by hand it may be in a different colour from here, as a few days have past since my first entry. I tell you this as much has happened and there may be a detectable change of mood and style.

Upon arrival at Agra Fort station (a train station built in to an old fort, but entirely uninteresting) we were confronted with the usual onslaught - an entourage of Tuk Tuk drivers all vieing to overcharge us for our services. Any western country with a monument as grand as the Taj Mahal would have official services (albeit overpriced) to connect the tourist to the destination. I've explained commission previously. We have become very distrustful of random dudes offering assistance. It's never free and rarely what you want. After much mucking around, we ended up at the Taj in 40 degree heat and Lauren was quite distressed. We were again met by guides who told us that we wanted them to pay them money to help us skip the queue. We had already paid 45X as much as the Indian vistors for a ticket ($14 each) and we weren't really interested. But we went with a man anyway. When in Rome...

At the gate, police men and women with big guns searched our bag and found *gasp* - condoms and a notebook! You can take a phone, camera, etc to the Taj but not a notebook. As for condoms... they call it the Monument of Love, right? I had to leave my medicine bag in an allegedly goverment authorised shop where I was asked what was in the bag. I loudly said Condoms, to the extreme pleasure of the 30 immature men standing around in the store. This is the second time in my life that I've had trouble getting condoms through security. Feel free to ask about the other time.

Meanwhile, Lauren was losing her shit in the most non-literal sense. This is an important clarification when traveling in India. She had burst in to tears because it was all too much, people were shouting, it really was too much. Indian men are really uncomfortable when someone cries. They want to make it stop. They let her keep the notebook but I'm sure you get that the notebook is of minor significance to her. 

Lauren:  on that afternoon the fight against the Indian rail system - 18 hour train ride, the fight against the weather - 45 degree heat, the fight against lack of sleep, the fight to find clean, safe water - probably dehydrated, not being able to remember my last shower, the fight against extortion - paying a stupid amount to see something because of the colour of our skin (it's cheaper if you just look Indian, you don't even have to be Indian), the fight against the constant seedy glares of sexually frustrated Indian boys and having to fight off every 'tour guide' in Agra were simmering away with a lid on, but when combined with the ridiculous request to abandon my notebook (which I still don't understand), after 6 pretty patient, tolerant, accepting weeks (I didn't develop the same racism as Daniel, although if I never eat Dahl or rice again I'll live), they refused to remain suppressed and I totally lost it. Seriously. I was sobbing! Freely, dramatically, crazily. For at least 2 minutes. It felt great.

To make a short story long, our guide settled down and as he is an unpaid Christian preacher, he managed to segway into asking us about faith. He was very excited to hear that my father is a pastor and Lauren is a worship leader. He enthusiastically invited us to his house for lunch/dinner/our first full meal for 24 hours. We ended up eating delicious chicken (which may have provided an entry to our next adventure), singing Give Me Oil in my Lamp and This is The Day until they offered us their only bed, a wooden board clad in upholstery, while the family slept on the floor. They wouldn't take no for an answer and Edwin, our guide come host, found it very difficult to accept money even for the tour.

The rest of our time in India deserves a dedicated expression, which will likely take form on our blog www.roamingstrelans.blogspot.in

Keep an eye out for a post titled I Shat My Pants - for my telltale confession of my darkest hour.

Much Love & Gratitude

Namaste

Daniel