The Thong Also Rises (9 page)

Oh well. I seemed to be the only one who found the pig's presence or behavior surprising and I still had to go. The girls looked at me expectantly. I waited for them to discreetly busy themselves elsewhere, but finally I realized they were planning to watch the whole process. I was not too keen on this idea, but I had no choice. I could not possibly hold it in for another hour. It's a natural function, I told myself. Everyone does it. Besides, they're little girls, not spiders.
Resigned, I stepped onto the newly rinsed porcelain footrests and pulled down my pants.

The pants. Bought in Hampi solely because my long skirts hindered a bicycle tour of the ruins, they were the most hideous article of clothing I could imagine—a baggy, elastic-waisted, narrow-ankled, multi-colored cotton nightmare that made me feel like a giant hackeysack. The shop owner had seemed to think I would be delighted to purchase a pair of “Indian” pants, but anyone with the gift of sight could see that no Indian woman, or even an Indian man, ever wore such a garment.Their saving grace was that they were comfortable, and that's why I had worn them on the bus trip. And now the hideousness of the pants would be highlighted as I pulled them down in front of two eagle-eyed little girls who were about to watch me go to the bathroom all wrong.

There is a correct way to squat, with your butt very close to the ground, your hamstrings pressed against your calves and your feet flat. Once you master this position, it's quite comfortable, but I could only achieve it sporadically. Weighing the embarrassment quotient of peeing incorrectly against peeing correctly but possibly falling into the toilet, I chose to pee wrong and stay clean. I squatted awkwardly, with my feet bent uncomfortably and my behind way too far up in the air. Under the rapt attention of my audience, curious as a couple of scientist kittens, I needed to find something else to focus my attention on. The most interesting thing in the room had to be the big, gray, shit-eating pig, so that's what I looked at.

Then two things happened simultaneously. One was that the pig finished her meal and started trotting towards me. Pigs are smart and this one obviously knew the area well. I didn't need Pavlov to tell me what she was hoping for.

The other thing was that a bus began honking its horn. I had no way of knowing if it was my bus or not, but it could have been. It must have been. Of course it was. The pig would knock me into the toilet and my bus would leave and I'd be stranded in the middle of India wearing hideous pee-soaked clown pants while the town's little girls gathered around to stare at me.

The pig came at me, her snout decorated with what looked like beads of chocolate milk. I was stuck; I couldn't escape. I peed frantically, trying to finish so I could flee, but I'd been saving it up for a long time and anyway, you can only pee so fast.

But then the girl who had cleaned off the toilet for me came to my rescue, shaking her water bottle at the pig. Surprisingly, and a bit anticlimactically, her tactic worked; the giant pig backed off under the threat of a small, empty, plastic bottle and trotted out the door.That was good. Then the bus stopped honking. That was not so good, at least, not if it was my bus and if the silence meant it had given up on me.

Finally I was finished. Pulling my clothes together, I raced for the exit. The older girl headed me off at the door and politely asked for two rupees. A small price to pay. I gave a rupee to each of the girls.Then I was outside, rounding the corner, searching out the spot where my bus had parked.

It was gone. Gone, with my non-ugly clothes and my journal and my camera and my chocolate-chip biscuits from Hospet and my Walkman and my mix tapes. I was stranded. I cursed the bicycle trip that had forced me to buy those wretched pants, now the only clothes I owned.

Then I saw my bus. Halfway out of the lot, engine running, windows bristling with a dozen frantically beckoning arms. I took a deep breath of relief and started to run for it, but a little boy blocked my way, running backwards and
chirping, “Hello, one rupee! Hello, one rupee!” over and over again like a mantra. He giggled and bounced like it was all a big game. But I had no time to play—clearly the bus was seconds away from leaving without me. Reaching the bus, I climbed the steps panting and embarrassed, but glad to see my seat with my little plastic bag of snacks on it and my backpack on the shelf above it.

“We waited for you,” said another passenger sternly as I passed him. I gave my best “gosh, I'm sorry, I'm such a goofy tourist, thanks for putting up with me” smile and said thanks, hurrying to plop down on the hard, dusty, semi-deluxe seat. I didn't want to fall over when the bus went tearing out of the lot trying to make up for the time I had cost everyone. I caught my breath and waited for the bus to take off, my only worry now where I would end up. We sat. My new friends stood under my window and waved to me. I waved back. We sat some more.The driver got off the bus and walked away. Weren't we supposed to be in a hurry?

After an interlude of bafflement on my part, the driver got on the bus and strode down the aisle toward me.

“Come,” he said.

Wondering what I had done wrong, I grabbed my bag and followed him off the bus and across the lot.The little boy went back to his imaginary soccer game in front of me. “One rupee! One rupee! Hello, one rupee!” Another boy, even smaller and cuter and higher pitched joined in.

The driver led me to another bus. “This bus will take you to Gokarna,” he said, gruffly but not unkindly. It was just as the station manager had promised—the driver would make sure I got to Gokarna. How could I ever have doubted it? I glanced around at the clamoring mill of people, the mingled woodsmoke and exhaust drifting past the green, red, and yellow busses.This must be Sirsi.

“Thank you,” I said simply, knowing I couldn't convey all that I was grateful for.That no matter how clueless I was, the people around me knew what they were doing. And no matter how mistrustful I was, they were willing to help me. I gave each of the little boys a rupee and got on the new bus, which was exactly like the old bus, except for the curly script above the windshield that proclaimed its destination to everyone but me. The passengers all nodded at me as I passed them. I sat down in my new seat and saw all the kids outside my new window, the girls from the bathroom with the older one holding the baby, and the two little soccer boys, all grouped family portrait style and smiling big beautiful smiles up at me. Genuine smiles.They waved at me and I waved back, and they kept waving as my bus pulled out of the lot and onto the road to Gokarna.

Firmly convinced that buses are the way to travel, Megan Lyles has talked her photographer boyfriend into traveling with her by bus from New York City to Antarctica and helping her document the trip. (The final leg will have to be done by boat but that's not her fault.) You can follow along at
www.meganlylcenter
.

The first day I entered a public restroom in China I faced the ultimate toilet challenge. I had memorized the Chinese character for “women” to help minimize my anxiety. I would have figured this one out anyway, as next to the Chinese characters there was a picture of a high-heeled shoe for women and a cigar for men! My initial amusement turned to horror as I walked in and saw two rows of doorless stalls on raised platforms. I walked down the hallway with increasing levels of fear. I was distressed by the fact that the white ceramic “squat pots” weren't there. In fact, in their place was a long cement-lined trench that ran right through the stalls, from first to last, on both sides. Fear and confusion overtook me as I walked down the center aisle, trying to formulate my plan of
attack. I knew I needed to squat, but the entire process was unclear to me. Do I straddle? What direction do I face? Why is there one long trench instead of individual bowls? What happens to the crap?

With trepidation, I pulled my pants down, placed one foot on either side of the trench and squatted, looking away from the hole. To my surprise, my neighbor's urine started flowing down the trench in my direction, headed for the hole beneath me! I quickly stood up, but of course I still needed to pee. I tried to squat and relax again, but the second I heard the sound of flushing from the toilet furthest “upstream,” the entire plumbing system became shockingly clear to me! I jumped back up and watched in disbelief as this gush of water carried a ghastly pile of crap past me to the hole below my squat spot. I then realized that traveling in China was going to be challenging, amusing, and always an adventure.

—Konnie Landis, M.D., “Chinese Toilets 101”

Close-quarter combat takes on new meaning to her highness.

M
E, AN ADVENTUROUS TRAVELER
? W
ELL, OF COURSE
I like to think so. Sure, maybe not the kind that kayaks, canoes, or cavorts with local villagers in Third World countries, but I
am
willing to give up mascara for a week. I have also radically redeemed my pack-aholic ways of battering airport baggage scales with bulging suitcases closed only by application of ample butt pressure.The daredevil in me trusts I will survive our next vacation, a Windjammer Caribbean cruise, on only the barest of fashion essentials. Goodbye evening-wear, daywear, and five-extra-outfits-just-in-case wear—I'm now a one flip-flop pair, low-maintenance kind of gal!

Windjammers proudly proclaim to be the anti-cruise cruise ships.They eschew the frivolities of luxury liners, with their chichi cappuccino bars and tuxedoed attendants. Aye, instead prospective travelers are hooked by a pirate-like, devil-may-care voyage upon small, historically renovated ships decked in teak and sailcloth. Passengers are invited to help hoist sails, sleep on deck underneath the stars, or drink
dinner away without ever slipping on the family jewels, or even a pair of shoes.

The glossy brochure guarantees that this is the trip for me:

Well, O.K., even though this description encompasses everyone in the free world who can shell out the price of a ticket, I'm convinced I am one of those interesting, motley folks willing to forfeit plump pillows and Pérnod in favor of a genuine seafaring adventure. Yo ho ho!

I admit, however, I cannot conceal my trepidation concerning our bedroom quarters, particularly when we booked late and were issued what the brochure describes as a below-deck “Standard Cabin.” I scan the description, believing I can make do without the in-room coffee maker, but am downright bewildered to learn the only accommodations worthy of mention are “upper and wider lower berths, private head and shower.”

I can do this. I am The Adventurer.

To demonstrate my newfound flexibility, I assure my husband—who annoyingly doesn't seem to need any assurance—that our bunk beds are really a clever convenience—why, we can use the upper berth for extra storage space! From the particular angle in the brochure picture, the lower bunk appears wide enough for both of us. Maybe not like queen size-with-goose-down-filled-comforter wide, but surely large enough to accommodate late night snuggles.

It will be romantic—I am fairly certain.

We are greeted at a small pier in Saint Maarten by the cutest little launch boat that sputters us across the bay to meet the
S. V. Polynesia.
The 248-foot schooner stands regally against the blue velvet of evening sea. The weather is warm, balmy, and luxurious. To my surprise, I temporarily forget the havoc the humidity will wreak upon my hair. Instead, I whip out my brightest bandana and tie it over my head, handkerchief style, like the fashionistas I had spied upon in South Beach. I silently congratulate myself on copying this chic, but oh so casual, just-protect-me-from-the-wind style for my New Adventure Look.