I woke up in a completely unfamiliar state. I was cold. I was fucking freezing. What the hell? For almost two months now I'd barely been able to tolerate a sheet over me while sweating under the too-slow fans of various hotel rooms, and now I was cold? Screw this. I should've stayed in Rajasthan.
As I shivered myself awake, I realized that it wasn't just the temperature keeping me from comfort. I was lying in a sticky puddle of some kind, soaking my pants and shirt and the mattress below. Great, I thought. I must've had a sex dream. Wish I could remember it, 'cause judging from the size of the puddle it was quite a good one. I rolled over, thankful for the clean, dry, second mattress plunked up against the first to create the illusion of a double-bed. Then I glanced back.
My original mattress was stained a kind of ochre-yellow, the middle of the drippy puddle still a centimeter or two deep despite my body no longer creating a depression for it to collect in. Eww fucking eww. I'd actually shat the bed. I shat the fucking bed. I'm twenty-four years old and I just fucking took a shit in my bed.
I can't believe this.
As I stood up to lurch to the bathroom to grab some toilet paper, I realized that I was feeling incredibly shitty.
Figuratively, I mean. Physically. And literally.
On top of being wet and cold, my stomach felt like I was about to deliver that kid from Pakistan who was born with six legs who's been in the news a lot lately. I stumbled over my backpack, heaving and gasping, and fell onto the toilet just in time for a geyser to erupt from my rear. A second spurt threatened to lift me off the seat and slam my helpless body into the hot-water heater above my head. An unstoppable fury of yellowish liquid gushed from me in a godlike torrent, unrelenting and unceasing, heedless to my eventual desperate prayers and sobbing pleas.
This went on for about ten minutes. I could go on in great detail about the contents of what emptied themselves from me during that time, but I think I've gotten scatological enough for everyone by this point. Apologies for my obscenity. However, if it's painful to read about, rest assured that living through that particular layer of Hell was much, much worse. By the time the remains of my badly-digested foodstuffs had slowed to a mere trickle, the flesh around my asshole was raw and red and burned like someone was holding a lit pack of cigarettes to it. Wiping that sonofabitch left me whimpering like a beaten puppy. I turned on the shower to wash myself and screamed as I realized the hot water heater was merely decorative. I gently cleaned myself as best as I could, shivering, crying slightly and feeling pathetic and awful, before pulling on three layers of clothing and gingerly limping to the door, each step sending sharp pain into both my tummy and my nether orifice.
I needed warmth. Wincing and goose-stepping down the driveway and around the hill, I deliriously looked around. I was out of it. I could have sworn I'd just stepped onto the Isle of Wight, in England, where my mother lived. There were Indians walking around, sure, but on the whole they were much lighter-skinned than the general populace of Rajasthan or Uttar Pradesh, and plus, they were all wearing sweater-vests and carrying umbrellas. It was raining slightly, the nippy wind reddening my cheeks and tearing up my eyes. Was I sure I was still in India? Where are the cows? Those dogs over there, they're wearing collars. They look well-fed. Holy shit, that dude's even leaning down to pet them. And he's not doing it really hard, with a stick. Where am I?
Disoriented, each step burning my butt and gurgling my guts, I nearly got run over by a rickshaw. Oh good. I was still in India. Just down the street from my guest house, luckily enough, I found a little store selling long johns, gloves, scarves, undershirts and other little necessities for keeping oneself from freezing. I pulled on the additional layers in the toilet outside, took a deep breath, and tried to collect myself. I felt like I had to go to the loo again but I was terrified of the force of my excretions splattering all over the Indian-style squat toilet, so I clenched my perineum as best I could and walked, stiff-bodied and uncomfortable, back to my guest house, where I barely managed to fall back onto the toilet before another rumbling vibration of squelch exited me.
Fuck, I gotta do the laundry, I thought to myself. What the fuck? How could I even have anything left in my stomach to spew out? All I even put into it yesterday was, let's see, half of that shitty sandwich... was that it? Oh, yeah, I also had that really gross-looking lamb in Chandigarh. That shit was nasty. Probably the lamb.
And. And. Oh, right... I also had half a non-alcoholic beer when the bus stopped, and uh... a quarter-pint of whiskey. And a quarter-pint of rum.
That probably didn't help.
I wanted to check out Old Manali today, a twenty-minute walk or five-minute rickshaw ride. Despite my lack of well-being, I preferred the idea of walking even with my arse on fire. So I cleaned up, dressed warm, and set out. Manali was gorgeous. Huge pine trees made me feel at home; the path wound next to a beautiful river. Clouds danced through the peaks, clearing just enough now and then to glimpse the majestically towering white peaks of the classic glacier-capped Himalayan mountains above.
Halfway up the mountain, As I gauged it, I was stopped by a Nepali dude touting his new guest house. I liked the guy, the place was 200 rupees a night, in Old Manali where I wanted to go, so I promised to meet up with him in an hour. He told me that I wasn't even a quarter-way up the path to Old Manali yet. At that point, I was reaching the end of my comfort. I needed to eat something, put something solid and healthy in my poor stomach, so I about-faced and strolled back into New Manali.
That's when it happened. A shudder butterflied its way through my bowels, signifying dangerous tidings. Oh, please, no, I said to myself. I clenched my buttocks, to no avail. The shuddering buzzed lower, then lower still. And out.
I'd just shat three pairs of pants at once, in public. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I slowly turned and continued my walking-mummy impersonation back toward my guest house, repulsed at myself and at the drips running down my legs. I realized I had no idea how to get back. I hadn't thought to store that particular nugget of wisdom in my brain when setting off. I went down the only street I recognized and tread slowly up and down the same path over and over again. Fuck, I thought to myself. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Dead end. Different path. Different dead end. Fuck fuck fuck. I've been going up and down this same fucking street so long the shit on my legs is dry. Fuck fuck fuck. I squatted by a parked car and started crying. Why was this happening to me? Well, probably because I ate shitty food and washed it down with too much mixed liquor. But you know, like in a pathetic, woe-is-me kind of way, why was this happening to me? Why, God, why?
Eventually I found my way back again, washed again in cold water, and put on the last of my clean clothes. I really needed to do laundry, bad. I went to the reception desk of the hotel to see if they had a laundry service, but there was actually a sign up that said "Wash Clothes No Allowed," so that was useless. I found a pharmacy and picked up anti-diarrhea pills and soothing lotion for my raw ass flesh, and by that time it was already getting dark. I went to a Chinese food place and ordered nice, soothing soup and lemon-ginger-mint tea. I was feeling incredibly sorry for myself and lonely. I wanted friends. I wanted a hug. I wanted someone to bring me tea and tell me everything was going to be ok. I wanted to go home to my cold, dark hotel room with soiled sheets, curl up on the clean mattress, and have myself a damn good cry.
I went home and did exactly that.
As I shivered myself awake, I realized that it wasn't just the temperature keeping me from comfort. I was lying in a sticky puddle of some kind, soaking my pants and shirt and the mattress below. Great, I thought. I must've had a sex dream. Wish I could remember it, 'cause judging from the size of the puddle it was quite a good one. I rolled over, thankful for the clean, dry, second mattress plunked up against the first to create the illusion of a double-bed. Then I glanced back.
My original mattress was stained a kind of ochre-yellow, the middle of the drippy puddle still a centimeter or two deep despite my body no longer creating a depression for it to collect in. Eww fucking eww. I'd actually shat the bed. I shat the fucking bed. I'm twenty-four years old and I just fucking took a shit in my bed.
I can't believe this.
As I stood up to lurch to the bathroom to grab some toilet paper, I realized that I was feeling incredibly shitty.
Figuratively, I mean. Physically. And literally.
On top of being wet and cold, my stomach felt like I was about to deliver that kid from Pakistan who was born with six legs who's been in the news a lot lately. I stumbled over my backpack, heaving and gasping, and fell onto the toilet just in time for a geyser to erupt from my rear. A second spurt threatened to lift me off the seat and slam my helpless body into the hot-water heater above my head. An unstoppable fury of yellowish liquid gushed from me in a godlike torrent, unrelenting and unceasing, heedless to my eventual desperate prayers and sobbing pleas.
This went on for about ten minutes. I could go on in great detail about the contents of what emptied themselves from me during that time, but I think I've gotten scatological enough for everyone by this point. Apologies for my obscenity. However, if it's painful to read about, rest assured that living through that particular layer of Hell was much, much worse. By the time the remains of my badly-digested foodstuffs had slowed to a mere trickle, the flesh around my asshole was raw and red and burned like someone was holding a lit pack of cigarettes to it. Wiping that sonofabitch left me whimpering like a beaten puppy. I turned on the shower to wash myself and screamed as I realized the hot water heater was merely decorative. I gently cleaned myself as best as I could, shivering, crying slightly and feeling pathetic and awful, before pulling on three layers of clothing and gingerly limping to the door, each step sending sharp pain into both my tummy and my nether orifice.
I needed warmth. Wincing and goose-stepping down the driveway and around the hill, I deliriously looked around. I was out of it. I could have sworn I'd just stepped onto the Isle of Wight, in England, where my mother lived. There were Indians walking around, sure, but on the whole they were much lighter-skinned than the general populace of Rajasthan or Uttar Pradesh, and plus, they were all wearing sweater-vests and carrying umbrellas. It was raining slightly, the nippy wind reddening my cheeks and tearing up my eyes. Was I sure I was still in India? Where are the cows? Those dogs over there, they're wearing collars. They look well-fed. Holy shit, that dude's even leaning down to pet them. And he's not doing it really hard, with a stick. Where am I?
Disoriented, each step burning my butt and gurgling my guts, I nearly got run over by a rickshaw. Oh good. I was still in India. Just down the street from my guest house, luckily enough, I found a little store selling long johns, gloves, scarves, undershirts and other little necessities for keeping oneself from freezing. I pulled on the additional layers in the toilet outside, took a deep breath, and tried to collect myself. I felt like I had to go to the loo again but I was terrified of the force of my excretions splattering all over the Indian-style squat toilet, so I clenched my perineum as best I could and walked, stiff-bodied and uncomfortable, back to my guest house, where I barely managed to fall back onto the toilet before another rumbling vibration of squelch exited me.
Fuck, I gotta do the laundry, I thought to myself. What the fuck? How could I even have anything left in my stomach to spew out? All I even put into it yesterday was, let's see, half of that shitty sandwich... was that it? Oh, yeah, I also had that really gross-looking lamb in Chandigarh. That shit was nasty. Probably the lamb.
And. And. Oh, right... I also had half a non-alcoholic beer when the bus stopped, and uh... a quarter-pint of whiskey. And a quarter-pint of rum.
That probably didn't help.
I wanted to check out Old Manali today, a twenty-minute walk or five-minute rickshaw ride. Despite my lack of well-being, I preferred the idea of walking even with my arse on fire. So I cleaned up, dressed warm, and set out. Manali was gorgeous. Huge pine trees made me feel at home; the path wound next to a beautiful river. Clouds danced through the peaks, clearing just enough now and then to glimpse the majestically towering white peaks of the classic glacier-capped Himalayan mountains above.
Halfway up the mountain, As I gauged it, I was stopped by a Nepali dude touting his new guest house. I liked the guy, the place was 200 rupees a night, in Old Manali where I wanted to go, so I promised to meet up with him in an hour. He told me that I wasn't even a quarter-way up the path to Old Manali yet. At that point, I was reaching the end of my comfort. I needed to eat something, put something solid and healthy in my poor stomach, so I about-faced and strolled back into New Manali.
That's when it happened. A shudder butterflied its way through my bowels, signifying dangerous tidings. Oh, please, no, I said to myself. I clenched my buttocks, to no avail. The shuddering buzzed lower, then lower still. And out.
I'd just shat three pairs of pants at once, in public. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I slowly turned and continued my walking-mummy impersonation back toward my guest house, repulsed at myself and at the drips running down my legs. I realized I had no idea how to get back. I hadn't thought to store that particular nugget of wisdom in my brain when setting off. I went down the only street I recognized and tread slowly up and down the same path over and over again. Fuck, I thought to myself. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Dead end. Different path. Different dead end. Fuck fuck fuck. I've been going up and down this same fucking street so long the shit on my legs is dry. Fuck fuck fuck. I squatted by a parked car and started crying. Why was this happening to me? Well, probably because I ate shitty food and washed it down with too much mixed liquor. But you know, like in a pathetic, woe-is-me kind of way, why was this happening to me? Why, God, why?
Eventually I found my way back again, washed again in cold water, and put on the last of my clean clothes. I really needed to do laundry, bad. I went to the reception desk of the hotel to see if they had a laundry service, but there was actually a sign up that said "Wash Clothes No Allowed," so that was useless. I found a pharmacy and picked up anti-diarrhea pills and soothing lotion for my raw ass flesh, and by that time it was already getting dark. I went to a Chinese food place and ordered nice, soothing soup and lemon-ginger-mint tea. I was feeling incredibly sorry for myself and lonely. I wanted friends. I wanted a hug. I wanted someone to bring me tea and tell me everything was going to be ok. I wanted to go home to my cold, dark hotel room with soiled sheets, curl up on the clean mattress, and have myself a damn good cry.
I went home and did exactly that.
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