Holding It

Adventures in India
Part II

Most people, on average, spend an hour and forty-two minutes each week in the bathroom. That’s ninety-two days over the course of a lifetime. Pretty bleak statistic, huh? And I’m sure my numbers will be even higher than that seeing as I have quite possibly the smallest bladder on the planet. Needless to say, I’m pretty familiar with bathrooms. I can tell you the locations of the bathrooms in pretty much every mall, airport, movie theatre, concert venue, bar, restaurant and grocery store I’ve ever been to. I can even tell you what to expect once you’re there. I know bathrooms. Now, as a frequent bathroom attendee, I have a few specific requirements about my bathrooms. I don’t expect to be blinded by the sparkling porcelain or be knocked out by the fumes of disinfectant. That would be nice, but in most cases, I know better than to hope for that. No, my expectations for a bathroom are pretty simple: 1) I expect privacy, and 2) I expect toilet paper. Privacy is usually a given, but toilet paper can be a little trickier. Still, I’m a stickler for the toilet paper. I’d rather ‘hold it’ and suffer than pee without paper. I don’t ‘drip dry.’ But that’s just me. (And if you think that’s too much information, you might want to stop reading here.)

Privacy and paper. Those are my only demands, but after two weeks in India, I discovered another item to add to the list: A toilet. Well, perhaps I should say, a ‘Western toilet.’ Now, I like to think of myself as pretty well-traveled, but until India, I had never seen (nor heard of) an Eastern toilet. It was our first morning in Delhi and our driver, Manoj, had dropped us at a Hindu temple. We left our shoes at the door and wandered around the various buildings in the complex, trying to figure out the true meaning of the swastika (a Hindu symbol long before the Germans claimed it), when suddenly, I felt nature calling. So after finishing our self-guided tour of the temple, we went to the exit and retrieved our shoes. The four of us headed to the temple gardens and I told the others to go on without me while I found the ladies room.

I found the facilities without issue, but stopped abruptly at the stall door. There was no toilet. In fact there was little more than a white hole in the ground. On either side of the hole was a kind of built in tread, a place to steady your feet while you squat over the hole, and next to the hole was a faucet, kind of like the ‘sprayer’ attached to your kitchen sink. I briefly wondered what it was for, but I didn’t stick around to ask questions (the lack of toilet paper or dispenser might have offered a clue). I slowly backed away. The Lonely Planet had failed to prepare me for this. I bumped into Darby on my way out.

“That bad huh?” she asked, reading my face.
“I think I’ll hold it,” I muttered.
“Gross?”
“It’s like…not even a toilet!”
Darby poked her head into the stall to see for herself. She quickly joined me outside.
“I can hold it too.”

I did not have the foresight to take a photo of the Eastern toilet. I found this photo online, but I assure you, it looks much nicer than any of the 'toilets' that I saw in India.


Now, generally I make an effort to embrace the culture of wherever I am. When in Rome, right? But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t! So it was with great relief, four hours later, that I sat down on the toilet in the Lodi gardens restaurant. I decided I would limit my peeing in India to hotels and touristy restaurants.

But that’s not entirely practical. Especially for a frequent pee-er such as myself. The very next day, at the Lotus temple, Darby and I found ourselves desperate to use the bathroom. We found the restrooms and opened the stall to find the standard hole in the ground. I moaned, trying to rate exactly how badly I needed to go. We were about to get on the road to Agra so it would be several hours before we stopped again. Could I wait? But Darby was desperate. She took a tissue from her purse (always the Girl Scout) before shoving the bag at me. “Hold this,” she muttered. “I’m going in.”

She emerged a minute later and said nothing. “Well?” I asked.
“I coped. It’s fine if you really need to go…”

And I did need to go, but I wasn’t so sure. I tried to picture how I would pull my pants down and squat without a) letting my pants fall in the pee that would inevitably be on the floor, or b) peeing on my own pants! I’m just not that coordinated. And of course my clothing wasn’t exactly optimal for squatting over a hole in the ground. I took one look at my flowy pants and gauzy black sweater and knew that I had no chance of using that would-be toilet without dragging my ensemble through the pee, or worse, I suddenly had a vision of my flip flops slipping out from under me as I attempted to stand from the squatting position. The image of me head first in an Eastern toilet was enough to confirm my decision. No thank you. How do these Indian women do it? Of course, it did occur to me that the Indian women might be disgusted at the prospect of a Western toilet. The idea of letting the bare skin on the back of your thighs touch a ‘seat’ shared with thousands of other women is kinda gross, I guess. It’s just what you’re used to, I suppose. Still, go ahead and call me prissy, but I’m just not used to a hole in the ground.

“I can hold it,” I muttered as I watched my brave sister wash her hands.

Much to my dismay, I ended up ‘holding it’ all over India. If not to avoid the Eastern toilet, then because I didn’t have the requisite ten Rupees in my pocket to give the ‘bathroom attendant’ (read: female beggar that guards the toilet and hovers over you until you give her money). I’ve never been so stressed about peeing in my life! But that’s travel for you – it’s not always comfortable. Sometimes it’s downright miserable, but it does make you appreciate the simple things.

Like toilets!

So now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the ladies room, for now that I’m back in South Africa, I don’t have to ‘hold it’ any longer.


I realize that it’s a bit ridiculous that after two weeks in India, this is the first thing I share. What can I say? I have no control over when and why I’m inspired. This week, it was bathrooms. Maybe next week I’ll have something more meaningful for you...

Why not?

Adventures in India

Part I

When I announced that I was planning a trip to India, more people said “Why?” than “Wow!” The ambivalence surprised me. At first, even my mother asked, “Why would you want to go there?” My answer: “Why not?”

I didn’t know it then, but “Why not?” is a very Indian attitude. I suspect it may be their stock answer when they don’t quite understand the question, but it seems to work for them. On our first morning in Delhi, Dave asked two men at the reception desk if we could get a couple bottles of water. One of the men answered (with the signature head waggle), “Why not?” Dave said “Great,” and waited for the water. The men behind the desk looked at each other then back at Dave, but neither man moved to get the water. Dave raised his eyebrows in question before one of the men shrugged and pointed towards the restaurant. Dave smiled and mumbled his own “Why not?” as he made his way to the restaurant. It became a sort of mantra for the trip. Should we trust the weird little man in a smelly sweater to show us around Fatehpur Sikri? Why not? Should we believe these carpets were hand knotted from the finest Himalayan goats? Why not? Should I try the funny looking cheese ball from the breakfast buffet? Why not? We came to rely upon the “Why not?” mantra becuase in a place like India, things don't always go exactly as planned.

It's true, India isn’t exactly a luxury vacation spot, but then again, that’s not always the point is it? I mentioned before I left that there is a distinction between travel and vacation. I spent a lot of time over the last two weeks trying to define that difference, and I think it boils down to this: You travel to broaden the mind, but you vacation to relax the spirit. It’s not impossible for the two to overlap – such as the three days we spent at a fancy hotel overlooking the beaches of Goa, or our night in a tiny Rajasthan village where we slept in luxurious “tents.” Those days felt more like vacation than say, the evening we walked through the Colaba market sidestepping goats and passing locals peddling produce and spices and live chickens, or the day we spent in a car going from Delhi to Agra – clutching our stomachs as the driver honked and swerved to avoid head on collisions with cars and yes, cows.

These memories are fresh enough to relay with accuracy, but I regret that I did not keep a journal during my travels. I fully intended to document my perceptions as they happened and contemplate how the experience was affecting me. I foolishly hoped that there in the land of the Dalai Lama and Buddha’s enlightenment that I would feel inspired to meditate on who I am and where I am and how I might become a better person. But it wasn’t exactly like that. Not only did I not keep a journal, but there was certainly no time for meditation. I did have quite a few conversations with my sister about where I am and where my life is going, but somehow I don’t think beer fueled self reflection between giggling sisters was exactly what the Dalai Lama had in mind. And as for how I might become a better person? Unfortunately, that was the last thing on my mind as I looked past countless children begging for money and turned my head from each homeless soul curled up on newspapers in the street. Between ignoring beggars and dodging con artists, I hardly had time to contemplate a spiritual transformation, though in retrospect, my response to both situations makes me realize that perhaps I need “enlightenment” even more than I realized.

I’ll be honest. The trip was exhausting. Exciting, yes. Mind opening, of course. But it wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be. Or maybe it was. It’s not like I hadn’t read about what to expect; the Lonely Planet was pretty accurate, I suppose. But there is a difference between reading about something that will happen and actually living it. Reading about the poverty and the constant begging is sad, but experiencing it right under your nose is heartbreaking. Hearing about the greedy guides and deceitful merchants puts you on the defensive, but experiencing it makes you question the human condition. Is there no good in this world? Is everyone simply out for a buck? That probably makes me sound like I’m up on my high horse, which isn’t where I want to be. Sure, it’s easy for me to condemn the con artists and pity the poor, but I’ve never been in their shoes. Then, of course, there is the guilt bred by the very fact that I haven’t been in their shoes. Seeing these starving people with nowhere to sleep or bathe or use a toilet – you can’t help but think about the random nature of this universe. How is it that I was born into a nice suburban American family and not some poor family in the slums of Mumbai? By what random twist of fate was I a child in a snuggly twin bed with a stuffed animal instead of a baby sleeping on a trash heap shared with the rats? Of course, the Hindus might say that I could have been that baby in another life, or maybe I will be in my next one. That thought terrifies me as well, because I’m not sure I could cope. I’m not sure I have it in me.

So, maybe there was a little self reflection in India after all, but that’s all I’ll torture you with at present. In the mean time, check out a few of my photos and perhaps next week, I’ll tell you about “The Curse of the Raw Chicken Breast,” or my hatred for Eastern toilets. And in a week or two, maybe I’ll be ready to share the humiliation of my “High Vis Massage,” or the triumph of the “All India Carrom Championship.” In fact, “Adventures in Africa” will be on hiatus for a few weeks while we give “Adventures in India” the attention it deserves…Why not?

Off she goes...

I don’t mind airplanes. I actually enjoy flying. Weird huh? I mean, sure my butt goes a little numb after four or five hours, and sometimes it’s tough to get comfortable enough to sleep, but overall – it’s not so bad. Watch a few movies. Read a book. I even like the food. And who doesn’t like to be offered a drink and a snack every three to four hours?

Tomorrow I board yet another plane (this flight an ‘easy’ nine hours as opposed to the twenty I spent on a plane last week). Roger and I are leaving to go to India where we will meet up with Darby and Dave. The four of us will spend two weeks exploring Mumbai, Delhi, Jaipur, Agra and Goa (and eating lots of curry along the way).

I’m not sure what to expect. A friend of mine went to India last year, and she said the trip made her realize that there is a strong distinction between “vacation” and “travel.” She proclaimed a trip to India to be the latter. Hmmm. It will be exciting, no doubt, but I have to admit – I’m a little nervous. Oh well, if nothing else, I’m sure I will have some new stories to tell, so hopefully, you won’t be subjected to any more insomnia fueled whine-fests (for awhile anyway).

But for now - I'm off.
Check back in a few weeks for "Adventures in India." (And hopefully they won't involve malaria, typhoid fever or 'Delhi Belly'...damn, I wonder if I should have gone for those shots after all.)