If it's Good Enough For the Pope...

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A Shit in the Woods 18/01/08

On our final weekend in the camp, myself and Kristin leave for a weekend in Jaisalmer. This is the account of that bus journey, a anal apocalypse now. The horror, the horror....


My belly churns unbearably - every time the pains comes, it's as though a spicy Indian fist has reached into my guts and twisted. As the bus pulls into the stop, I know the option to wait it out is spent and so this is my only chance. There is a kicking baby within and I have to give it a clean birth.

Of course, this will not be pleasant. There is no toilet in India to which that adjective can be applied. But if I delay, then a torrent of filthy brown shit will force itself upon my trousers like a rapist, and the stains, both physical and mental, will never wash out.

Oh dignity, where art thou? At home, I must command privacy and often secrecy if I am to drop anchor successfully, without the horrible prickle of social discomfort. In some venues, the rattle of the handle of the door from another ship waiting to lay its cargo can send shockwaves of panic through my body, as though I've been discovered fucking my best friends wife. Now, I am asking my female companion for her toilet paper, our eyes meeting, sharing the moment as though I were a dead man walking.

Outside, I hurry up to the bus driver, holding my paper aloft to explain all. "I need to use the toilet" I state firmly. His reply is a smile. Although always up for a good joke, at this moment the prospect of soiling myself irretrievably is no laughing matter, so I repeat the statement with the gravity of a politician. "There is no toilet here". As I suspected, but not really a relevant answer. I will go - I only ask where out of politeness. He tells me it's only half an hour til we reach Jaisalmer. I explain that if he cannot find me a place to do my thing he will spend that half hour with the filthiest-smelling shit creature ever to crawl from the swamps occupying a prime seat on his bus.

His colleague smiles and tells me to come. "The bus will wait?" I ask weakly, not caring one bit. Let them drive on and leave me to worship my mound of feces in the desert. I'll tend it twice daily and dance round it on full moons, and soon my shrine will be famous, my rituals a festival, my wild howls the stuff of legend.

As I am led, the baby kicks again. This must happen in seconds or I'm done for as a regular member of society. I will have to do as the small boys do, and walk about naked from the waist down. If the villagers ask what it is between my legs, having never seen one so pink and clean, I'll tell them I built a temple to Ganesha and flap its ears and pull on its trunk, and they'll have no choice but to believe me.

My guide stops and points a finger. Apparently, we have arrived at our destination, the scene of my terrible crime. "You can go over there". I see trees and bushes. I nod - this is no problem. I will pick a real good one, with fresh air con, a pristine white seat and a midget with a tray of fresh soap and fine colognes.

At this point, let me describe the area. We are in the middle of the desert, as always, on the edge of one of the many run-down, shit-heel towns you pass through every 10km or so. I walk across piles of rubble and dust as I trek to my chosen shrub, selected simply for its size and the density of its branches. All around, there are cattle bones - gleaming white skulls with shit-eating grins. By the side of my toilet, I see a dead dog, and then another, and a third.

I reach the bush and I see that I am no Neil Armstrong - these furrows have been well ploughed, this land conquered before. There is human feces everywhere. Huge, long brown turds lying in the sand like welcome mats - come on in, take a seat. Thank you, don't mind if I do, hope it's okay if I squat on your floor and explode.

I step carefully, and very quickly. I am in a mine field with my own ticking bomb inside. Baby starts to cry. I find a spot, unbuckle, trousers down, water breaking, and it's tally ho and chocks away. She falls out of me, kicking and screaming. I take every precaution to avoid sending her spiraling back into my trousers or running down into my shoes. I hope there is no one out there that can see me, some goat herder or housewife doing her laundry, my cock waving like a flag, shit flowing like a river.

Fuck it, though. They can come and take pictures - I'll sign my name and write a song. Thank fuck for
Kristin and her toilet paper. Without it, I'd be commando for the rest of the day, and the desert would have my Calvin Kleins for its troubles.

As I walk back to the bus, now pulled up at the side of the road so that everyone on board can watch my walk of shame back from that brown river of Babylon, I wonder what the fuck the locals will think next time they use the facilities. My cup of plenty is only one garnished with paper - it sticks out like a sore and particularly septic thumb.

They'll know that a white man came through these parts. They'll know he was strong and virile and not too proud to shit like an Indian. They'll know that he has a squeaky clean asshole. They'll know he suffered a close shave. And they'll know exactly what he had for breakfast in the morning.

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Comments

[zo]

hilarious
absolutely hilarious..... u shuld get a pulitzer for this