To Shit In India...

I'm off on another international trip - this time to India. I haven't been there before but, like most Brits, I enjoy Indian food so I'm kind of looking forward to trying the real thing. I say "kind of" because one of the side-effects of Indian food can be what is known in the trade as Delhi-belly, or the rampant shits. I don't have many preconceptions about India - experiences from colleagues vary from the man who went for two weeks and never had even a mildly bad gastric experience to the woman who spent the entire return journey in the bathroom on a 747, praying for death.

One of the problems for any international traveler with a regular digestive tract is that your normal process of taking a morning shit at, say, 6am is thrown off by the time difference so that you'll find yourself unaccountably wanting to curl one down right after lunch in Europe, or in the middle of dinner in China. This is the same time-dysphasia that causes men to get their morning stiffy later in the day, which is OK if you know what's happening but it can be slightly disturbing. You find yourself thinking "I've never reacted this way to stir-fried shrimp before - maybe I'm developing a seafood fetish..."

So, no problem - when you get the tortoise's head you just excuse yourself and take care of the situation, right? Wrong! If you're in China, or (I now understand) India, your last contact with a genuine flushing toilet was probably in the hotel that morning. I was eating dinner in a nice restaurant in an upscale mall in Pudong, China, when I decided to excuse myself for a waz. Unfortunately the restroom was outside the restaurant, a quarter of a mile away (or so it seemed) down a dirty corridor. I had been considering the possibility of a more substantial "transaction" but on entering the facility the first thing that hit me was the smell. I stumbled into a stall and, thankfully, checked for paper. None. Not just no paper, but no evidence that paper was ever intended to be present. Same in the next stall. Oh fucking hell! What diseased fucking lavatory experience was this supposed to be? I just had a waz and left.

Fortunately I had the choice; Indian food can leave you suddenly gripped by the knowledge that "the moment is now!" and you would sooner wipe your arse on your own tie than pass by the toilet. So I decided to do a little advance internet research on Indian toilets. My first find was a joyously instructive little guide on HOW TO USE AN INDIAN TOILET. The short version is as follows:

1. Squat over a hole in the ground. Try and shit, even though your body is just screaming "This Is Wrong!" Remember to remove your trousers first, so you don't shit in your own pocket and then watch your wallet fall down the hole.

2. Take a hosepipe and spray your arsehole to remove clags and clingons. God only knows how you're supposed to accomplish this - have you ever tried using a hosepipe to water a plant? Now imagine watering your own arsehole while squatting over a turd, in a business suit...

3. If there's no hosepipe, just use your left hand and a mug of water to....look, this is just too repulsive for words, alright?

The thing is, there are all these people posting comments about how wonderfully natural this process is, how it saves on toilet paper and how people have done this throughout history in developing countries. You want to know the difference between "developing" and "developed"? Here's one indicator - it's whether you have to shit in a hole and then pick the bits off by hand. And what about the practical realities - you can see in the pictures that not only is there nowhere to hang your trousers but the only way to take them off is to remove your shoes and stand in your socks in the middle of a piss-soaked floor. Tell me how that can possibly be construed as a good idea!

I think of myself as reasonably adventurous - I ate the dog penis soup, for fuck's sake - but you know what? I'm packing a bog roll. And if you think I'm using a squat toilet you can take your hosepipe and stick it - well - you know where...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison