humans are funny

Author: laurenne

  • Day 3: Enlightenment thwarted by womanhood

    I make my way 9 hours north to Rishikesh. It’s a hippie’s paradise. You can learn yoga, renew your chakras, or get your aura inspected. It’s where the Beatles spent 9 months getting high with the Maharishi and writing the White Album. (the exact location of that Indian tryst is now home to beggars, stray cows, and strewn about trash..)

    I decide to get enlightened and begin knocking on doors of all the teachers in town. Turns out, it’s time for local Indians to make their yearly pilgrimage to the holy city. Hence, the foreigners leave. This means that all the teachers leave (sounded fishy to me too). I find one swami who is willing to show me the path to a higher level. Or something. He explains there will be 3 types of communication.

    1. First he will watch me do the yoga poses to see my body’s potential.

    2. Next he will communicate with me through touching.

    3. Then he will communicate with me just through thinking.

    BUT… he can only attempt such a feat if I am not menstruating.

    “After all,” he says. “I am a swami.”

    Where is he planning on touching me?, I think.

    THOUGHTS: It’s hot. I still do not trust anyone.

  • Day 2: I regret not eating more raisins.

    I stepped on one of the many scales on the sidewalks of Delhi put out by a beggar to make a quick rupee (2 cents US). I figured I should see how many kilos all this eating of foreign delights had put on me. Immediately, I was stuck in a swarm of curious men, women and children. This many people had not been on the sidewalk a second earlier. But as soon as a white woman wants to know her weight, they use an intricate system of communication that calls out to all Indians in droves. They pushed and pawed to get a look at my 58 kilos. And, in the middle of it all, I laughed. Not because of the lack of privacy in India. Because someone squeezed my ass.

    Not an hour after the scale event of the century, I dawdled by the entrance to the Red Fort. It’s where the old emperor lived back in the day. To be honest, I really don’t care where the old emperor lived. But it was in the guidebook and it was next to the best desert shop in the city.

    Anyway, a man in his sixties with perfect teeth and hennaed hair is suddenly in step with me.

    “It’s a shame foreigners have to pay 250 rupees and Indians only 10. Really not fair.”

    “Let me guess, you live in a village and your wife has had some disease for 50 years and so you’re still a virgin and if you could just take me to a travel agency and then have sex with me, your life would be perfect?”

    Ok, I didn’t really say that, but I thought it. I held onto my bag with fury.

    “Do you mind if I walk through the fort with you? I am a tourist as well.”

    Another one. Right. He happened to know all about the fort and which building was what. Tourist shmourist.

    Turns out this guy just wanted to get me to be his patient. He’s an ayurvedic doctor who can cure everything. “Including all those splotches on your face,” he said.

    We walked through the fort together. I bought him a tea. He bought me a jaleebi (You must try this. It‘s a funnel cake fried in a huge vat of oil and soaked in some fatty syrup.).

    Before we parted, he gave me a free prescription which would help me be “more womanly.”

    For this I should soak ten raisins overnight in a glass ¼ filled with water. He spent quite a long time describing how to ensure the glass was a quarter filled. Then, in the morning, I am supposed to eat each raisin one by one.

    “What do you mean more womanly?” I asked.

    He motioned to his chest and then made that curvy hourglass figure with his hands.

    “Are you saying I need bigger boobs, sir?”

    “Well, models are chosen as models because they have the bodies that everyone wants. And they all have curves.”

    “So, you are saying that I need bigger boobs then?”

    “Yes.”

    This is the one picture I took that day. The old man insisted we take a picture together, but I was convinced he knew every single Indian and had pre-planned for them to steal my camera. What? The first guy really revved up my paranoia.


    THOUGHTS: So this is the India everyone warned me about. SHIT! This is the India everyone warned me about!

  • Day 1: I am Bruce Willis. With more hair.

    I met a boy! A man. It wasn’t love at first sight, but after 11 hours together, it was surely love.
    Two tourists with nothing to do but see, we met early on a scorched Indian day and decided to tour Delhi together. Why not? What is so fun about seeing a Mughal tomb alone? It’s much better to marvel together at the shitting cows and the men simultaneously selling juice and spitting. Especially when your two cultures are so distinct. Then there are questions and answers to be had amongst gardens and palaces.

    He: from an Indian village in Rajasthan.
    I: from a little suburb of Chicago filled with hairy Italians and Greeks.
    He: What is it like not living with your whole family?
    I: How many times in one day does your mother go to the well to get water?
    He: Do people really have sex before marriage there?
    I: I’m supposed to eat this entirely with my hands?
    He: Do your nightclubs have a couples-only policy too?
    I: What is it that makes the cows so holy?
    He: What if someone gets pregnant and they are not married?
    I: What should I see while I’m in India, the most holy places?

    My new man really took that last question seriously. And he took it upon himself to help me plan the most awe-inspiring route. He didn’t even mind coming with me to the travel agency to ask about trains.

    “I want to build something this big for my wife one day,” he said as we sat near a picture of the Taj Mahal.

    Oh! His innocence was so charming. It made me want to corrupt him ever so gently. At first I wasn’t attracted to him. But I loved his dark skin. His dark lips blended in with his face save for two pink islands swimming in the chocolate of his mouth.

    We went to three government agencies and instead of information, they each tried to sell me expensive tours to Kashmir. But what made me most angry was that each agent ignored my new fiance outright.
    I must be witnessing the caste system in action, I thought. How could they know his caste just by looking? We’ll show them. We’ll build the biggest house in the village WITH electricity and running water. Then we’ll see who ignores who.

    Even though I refused to buy an expensive tour to Kashmir, we hired a car for the day and went together to explore the delicacies of Delhi. We sat in the shade near Ghandi’s ashes, and he asked me how many people I’d slept with.

    “Just one,” I answered honestly.

    Of course sex was his favorite topic since his culture frowns on partaking. He explained that most Indian men believe Western woman will have sex with anything at any time.

    “Only sorority girls from USC,” I told him.
    “Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this in front of Ghandi,” he said.

    Oh, he was funny. My mother would like him. The introduction would be a bit tricky, but me and my new beau– what was his name? Kumar. — me and Kumar would cross that bridge later. He invited me to his village, and after 11 hours together, we made plans to meet on a certain date close to Jaipur.

    “I’ll email you,” he said.
    “I thought you’d never seen a computer?”
    “Well, I’ll have my friend do it.”
    “Oh. Ok. Bye then. See you in Jaipur!”

    He didn’t offer his mobile number. Hmmm…
    I began to walk away. Then I turned to have one last glance, but he was gone. Ten steps over crushed plastic bottles and orange rinds and cigarette stubs, it all became so clear. I was suddenly Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense. I wasn’t dead, but I’d been had. Been cheated like an algebra test.

    Here are the clues that had been apparent for 11 hours:

    -A tourist, he just happened to know where all the travel agents were. COMMISSION

    -Caste system. Shmaste system. The travel agents already knew him, so of course they didn’t introduce themselves.

    -The breakfast and lunch at the same restaurant, the hiring of a car, the rides in the rickshaw… all COMMISSION.

    -Virgin! HA! I’ve since gotten this line a billion times.

    – “Oh no, you can’t take public buses. Indian men are so repressed like me. They will touch you. It’s much better to fly.” Or to buy the trips that my friends are trying to rip you off with!

    – “Oh no, I don t mind spending time with you in these agencies. I don’t have anything else to do today.” Because you are working right now!

    – I want to build something like the Taj Mahal for my wife one day! Why didn’t he just throw paneer at my face? (That’s Indian cheese.) What was I thinking?

    Swindled on my first day. I thought 6 months of travel had prepared me for such professionals. But he was SO GOOD. Not good enough to get me to buy a trip to Kashmir though. Sucka! Thanks ‘Lonely Planet’ for advising not to book a Kashmiri guesthouse sight unseen!
    At least I got to be in love for a few hours.

    THOUGHTS: So this is the India everyone warned me about. SHIT! This is the India everyone warned me about.

    Here’s the jerkwad in action. Doesn’t he look in love?

    He waited outside while I saw this monument. Something about his friend getting kicked out of here once. Sure it was your friend, Buster.

    At least I found out what happened to that bald Malaysian peacock.

  • Holy Cows! I’m in India.


  • Mamma say mamma sah ma ma koo sah

    It was a regular Indian morning just 2 hours ago when I finished my meditations and got out of bed. During this journey, I have become a voracious watcher of world news. I have been following the Iran election like it’s a story about my grandmother. Every time I delve deeper, I am more ashamed that we Americans didn’t have the balls to protest to such an extreme when Bush “won” the first election.

    Anyway, I ordered my breakfast to be delivered (one stuffed parantha and 2 cups of chai for about 50 cents), and sat down to devour the news. But the moment I saw the screen I jumped up and started screaming, tears already overflowing.

    I don’t know why I am so sad. I didn’t know Michael Jackson personally. I only have a few of his songs on my Ipod. But I am shocked. And really sad. And when I went into the hallways to share the news and get some sympathy, nobody really cared.

    “Yeah, we heard he died,” the Indians said.

    “WHAT!? It’s a tragedy. He was just making a comeback. It’s premature! I had his sparkley glove when I was little!”

    No reaction. They think I’m crazy. Am I crazy? Does anyone else feel an emptiness? Or am I just menstruating?