Kathmandu to New Delhi, India
03/24/10
While in the shower, I realized I could probably make a great living as an actor who specialized in commercial that require a character that has immense difficulty performing simple tasks: At least, this was the case traveling. Guesthouse showers have been making people feel moderately stupid for at least 50 years.
I had no chocie but to enter the shower bent over like a hunchback and a lonely prisoner’s dream, but without the blonde wig on, although wearing one might have been fun. I could barely turn on the showerhead, the heat would not turn on and found shampooing my hair near impossible. Something had happened to me while sleeping.
There was a sharp pain in my back as if metal fists were drilling into the muscle through to my rib cage. Somehow, almost unknowingly and seemingly from nothing, my back infused with pain. It was the same confusion I had as a Grade 8 boy when something used to pop up for nothing at all. “Not again!” Ah memories. This often happens to backpackers - back pain, not having an erection in public, just to clarify - from sleeping in worn-out beds without any proper support. Throughout the trip, Boxie-boo and I often rolled into each other sleeping, as our weight on an old bed caused turned the mattress into a taco. The last time I felt this hurt was after I was hit by a drunk driver who was driving on the wrong side of the road in Canada who smashed into my buddy’s SUV, causing us to roll into a gas station. On this day, a slight bend or turn, even a degree of angle while flexing a sexy pose, sent me into debilitating shock. I usually don’t feel pain when I’m being sexy, just sexiness, so it was a strange morning, nevertheless. My Tiger Balm later became my savior…at least for a couple hours.
If you pictured me in the shower, please note, Boxie-boo made me trim my nipple hair, I often lather my whole body shampoo and I had the facial expression of a grumpy child – arms crossed to try to heat myself with my lips extremely tight and closed, my tactic to avoid taking in any of the water that could cause traveler’s diarrhea or something worse. My legs constantly twitched, while my entire body vibrated, shivering uncontrollably.
Within a minute the entire bathroom was flooded since the building had poor plumbing. The water would not heat at the Garuda Hotel, bringing no relief from my pain. I toughed it out, rubbing ice cold water on my body, bending as little as possible to avoid agony, showing a complete disregard for my Mr. Chubbs, who apparently, was in the process of disappearing. Had Boxie-boo walked in during this moment, she may have asked me what my gender was. Shivering, I washed as quickly as my feeble state would allow, occasionally kicking away the garbage can that floated into my ankles, moaning from the throbbing pain, trying not to slip on the flooded floor, all the while, managing to balance without a penis.
At the airport, our bags were checked four times before boarding our plane. The airport had separate lines for men and women. For every 30-or-so men, there was one woman, which meant Boxie-boo spent a majority of the afternoon waiting for me to pass each checkpoint. This was no surprise. It was not until December 2005 that the Supreme Court of Nepal ruled that women no longer needed their parents’ or husband’s permission to apply for a passport. Although the laws had changed, the culture had not. This means that Nepali men are far more likely to travel than women. I think Boxie-boo secretly enjoyed watching the security officials pat me down. They seemed to enjoy it themselves, although, they showed little amused when I winked and never joined in my girlish giggling. I talked briefly with a young father who had a baby and told him his child was cute. Until I realized he was on the same flight as me crying. I then decided his baby was stupid.
The third time I was padded down, the security officer figured out my terrorist plot - give the pilot a Tiger Balm back massage, relax him, then take over the plane and smash it into the Taj Mahal. Wa-hahahahaha!
“No take,” he said, with a stern face, as if I had just asked to take his daughter out to dinner and he knew I had no penis and therefore could not give him any grandchildren. I used my usual handy trick and began playing the role dumb foreigner or the pathetic person from a commercial: When he was talking to me, I nodded and then thought about other stuff. Walking away, he placed his hand on my shoulder. Bin Laden is supposedly dead, and as a result, my Tiger Balm was a serious threat to every soul on this plane.
“No take,” he said again, confusing me this time, because he gave me a comforting smile.
It was the only medicine I needed, so I fought back. “Are you serious? Tiger Balm? My watch is more dangerous.” Again, his response was “No take.” He then placed it on the table beside him, the only item confiscated. Meanwhile, a man in front of me walked by with a metal framed umbrella, another with a wooden cane used for style, as the young man was fit and walking without putting any weight on it. When the Tiger Balm wore out mid-flight, I spent the entire ride sitting with the best posture of my life, moving on my hands and my neck only to avoid the aching agony, listening to a crying, stupid baby.
The Delhi airport was very modern, organized and easy to navigate. Custom officials were friendly and quick, although my guy held me up for a bit as he said I looked nothing like my clean shaven, short-haired and suit wearing passport photo.
“He hasn’t shaved for a while,” Boxie-boo said, the guard looking at me peculiar, as if I was wearing a dress.
“I also don’t smell as good,” I joked. He squinted, as if trying to divide pie by the square root of this-guy-is-an-idiot.
“Okay,” he responded, handing me back my passport, and with that gesture, we had entered India, our eight country to date.
My back was still sore, so we wheeled our bags on the airport carts, later greeted by a man holding a sign with my name spelt incorrectly. After stressful landings in other countries, we aimed for the rest of the trip to use guesthouses and hostels that offer airport pickup. He drove like a 16-year-old boy, swerving through traffic constantly to maybe save us a couple minutes on the drive. Like other parts of Asia, the painted lines were meaningless, people honked constantly and there were no flying pigs in sight. At red lights, beggars came up, while young kids tried to sell us giant wooden pencils. An hour later, we arrived at the Ajanta Hotel, two nights free including airport transfer, thanks to our travel agent at STA Travel.
The hum of the air-conditioner. Another small guest house room with only enough floor space for a mattress. It was the early evening after another long day traveling, so we decided to relax.
We had not only a working T.V., but one with a couple English-speaking channels, including H to the flippin’ B to the O. We were stoked, as sad as that is to admit, as we both love movies and it was nice to take a break from the chaos of the third world for a night and simply do nothing. We were in the comfort zone. We even treated ourselves to room service, including butter and tandoori chicken, with a side of rice, another of cucumber. we high-fived at all these free comforts. I had eaten so much butter chicken that halfway through, I could not remember a time when I was not eating butter chicken. I did remember to ask Boxie-boo for a tip and she told me, “Be careful when you zip.”
Nothing could ruin our spirits. We laughed when the air-conditioner - the first one we had since Thailand - conked out, leaving behind the smell of elephant farts. We laughed when the power to our lights went out mid-meal, leaving us in darkness while grabbing for our meat like cavemen. And we laughed again, this time when the power went out to our television, right at the climax of the first movie we had watched since Chengdu, China. We had been through this all before and I felt prepared, even confident that the two of us were ready to take on India.
I had organized our itinerary to build up for this country, our halfway point, as if its reputation was true, the culture shock slaps you right in the face constantly. We had already walked outside and seen the poverty, been hit with aggressive salesmen and beggars. We had been through this in other countries, from Thailand and Cambodia, to parts of China and almost every street in Nepal. In India, the heat was hotter and the population was over 1.1 Billion. As confident as I was, looking back, I realize we had no idea what we were in for.
That’s all for now.
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