Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
me off from the highway, as well as from a trio of truck drivers lounging by the dirt access
road. That left forty-five degrees of exposure to the south, but with nobody in sight I liked
my odds.
4. CRAP.
Work quickly. This is no time for an e-mail check.
5.
In standard North American al fresco procedure, this step would be
FLEE.
But I am
introducing an additional, intermediate step:
PAUSE.
Pull up your pants, yes, but notice, as
you do, how your turd, mere seconds into its existence, has already attracted several flies.
Consider for a moment the miracle of this fact. That in the vast, hot, not particularly fly-in-
fested flatness of the province of Uttar Pradesh, three or four flies will find your shit within
in an instant and start laying eggs. That in the simple act of squatting behind a brick wall,
you have provided untold wealth for a generation of minuscule beings, who will make your
poop their home, getting born in it, burrowing through it, eating it, until one day, grown
up, they will spread their translucent wings and leave your now desiccated turd behind, to
search out new frontiers for their own children.
So, pause. You are walking with the holy men. Take a moment, and observe your
humble pile of feces, and remember that in Delhi they worship entire canals of this stuff,
and know that the wonders of the universe never cease.
6. FLEE.
At dusk, the teach-in went mobile. We emerged from our naps, the musicians among us
climbed into the pickup truck, and we set out en masse for the closest town.
It was a tiny village, modest to an extreme, a densely packed assemblage of brick and
earthen houses. A buffalo or goat twitched on every other stoop. With its total absence of
cars—and air-conditioners, and televisions, and electricity—the town must have represen-
ted the platonic ideal of small carbon footprint. But it was disorientingly poor. Not even
a day's drive away, I had seen Delhi's cosmopolitan set sipping twelve-dollar cocktails in
bars and lounges as chic as anything in Manhattan. Now we were here, on the other side of
the planet, in a world fueled with patties of dried cow dung. The gulf—in culture, in eco-
nomy, and above all, in class—was impossible to fathom.
I'll just say it.
India. Less tidy and homogenous than I'm used to.
We hit town at full
Hare,
equal parts spiritual revival, political rally, and Mardi Gras
parade. People came out onto their front steps to watch us churn down the narrow, muddy
road. The sadhus chanted and sang and hollered for all they were worth, going all-in with
every drum, loudspeaker, and cymbal they had.
